The Wednesday chapter of AN AGREEABLE MAN will be updated on Friday, August 4.

A few years ago, I was commissioned as a researcher/writer to write an article for a Nashville publication for a very nice sum of money. The publication asked me to tie together the services of several local providers to the needs of local seniors, and asked that I personalize it – “humanize” it – by adding in some real-life stories. From first hand experience, my husband and I had had to deal with the failing health of our mothers during the past few years. Between their two very different situations, we had run the gamut of problems (and solutions) inherent in many senior care issues. And so, I began by interviewing the heads of the service providers that the magazine wanted me to publicize, got background statistics about  the Senior Care industry, and mixed it all together with our family-based “real-life” experience. Then I felt I was ready to write.

When I turned in the article, I received a nice letter and a check for $1500! However, as I read the letter, I became very upset! The president of the magazine who had assigned me the article told me that they were paying me for the “background information” I had written. But they couldn’t use it as an article because it was not believable – ! I called the president and told him that not only was every written word true, but also I had left out the truly bad parts. As he talked on, I realized he had no concept of what “elder care” involved.  

“Sir, how old are you?” I asked. “Thirty-five,” he answered. “Do you have a plan for your parents when they need your care?” “Uh, no,”, he said, “but they are relatively young and I won’t have to face that situation for a long time…” 

Oh, my…

That’s when I told him I had torn up his check and would mail it back to him that day. I also reminded him that I now retained all rights to this submitted-but-not-published article, and that I would encourage him to get a researcher of his choice to look up the problems inherent in caring for family members and see how “unbelievable” my article was in comparison.

Here is Part One of the article I submitted, which was never published…until today.

Like most problems in life, the topic of making healthcare decisions for one’s parents seems a benign issue – until it happens to you.  Suddenly, or gradually, you will be called on to make life-changing decisions that will affect not only the lives of your parents, but also your own personal and family life. Trying to do the “right thing” for either group puts you squarely in the middle, and can rob you personally of your success as a family member and a business person, not to mention your own health and well-being. That is, unless you have an understanding partner and some resources that can help you every step of the way in making informed and wise decisions.

Many of us are planners: we like to peer into the future and choose options for dealing with what we think the future holds so that we can be prepared when it comes. If we don’t plan ahead, the default plan is crisis management. Senior care issues are often precipitated by one or more crises, few of which lend themselves to neat solutions unless we have taken the time to inform ourselves beforehand.

Take, for example, the situation of my husband’s mom. After her husband’s death, Mom lived alone for 20+ years in a three-bedroom house that was centrally located to her church, her grocery store, and her hairdresser. She was able to drive to these places and manage her own affairs well into her late 80s. When Mom broke her ankle while planting flowers in her front yard, she had to have home health care for six months, and really bonded with her “visitors.” She loved the company!  On one visit, she introduced us to her “vampire,” eyes twinkling, referring to the nurse who drew blood to check her vital signs. Eventually, she needed more care, and went to stay with her daughter and son-in-law in another state. Soon other decisions had to be made because both of them were working full-time.

Fortunately, Mom’s retirement income allowed her the option of moving to a step-down facility since she was capable, at that time, of independent living. (This was comparable to living in a hotel: there was maid service, meals taken in a nice dining room, activities to do with people she came to know and get along with. And there was a schedule to her days, and people to talk with.) She lived in a one-bedroom apartment with a living room, a small kitchenette and a little balcony. Although she used a walker, she managed to perform most daily activities without assistance.

Mom was incredibly healthy. She bore her two children in a hospital 50-60 years ago, and managed to stay out of the hospital until she broke her ankle late in life. When she went into the independent living facility, her blood pressure, cholesterol, triglycerides and weight were all normal. She never had smoked, and lived the moderate lifestyle of a stay-at-home wife and mother who cooked three meals a day from scratch and supported her family members in all their activities with her love, help and presence.

Eventually, her mental abilities began to decline, and she was moved to the assisted living side of the facility with the same apartment set-up but with more care. She was checked on at more frequent intervals and escorted to meals and other activities. Finally, she was moved to another floor whose tenants were in various stages of dementia and Alzheimer’s. She was 93.

During all of this, my husband and his sister had to make some major decisions. What should they do with their mother’s house – which had been vacant for a couple of years – and with her things? They agreed to get the house ready to sell, but when they began looking for the title to her house, they were in for a surprise. While still driving and apparently mentally competent, Mom had gone to her bank and emptied out the safe deposit box and had taken everything home “for safekeeping.” Many sentimental items were lost.

(Incredibly, we had just been down for a visit with her and had gone to the bank to make a list of the things in her safe deposit box at her request. She was looking for the names of her husband’s pallbearers.) Documents had to be recreated through the legal system before work could be started on her house to get it ready to sell, and her pre-paid burial policy had to be re-created as well. Both my husband and his sister got Durable Power of Attorney so that they could act on her behalf. Fortunately, Mom had made a will years ago, as well as a Living Will.

My husband and his sister tried to split the burdens that having someone’s life imposed on your own presents. Mom’s house was in one state; my husband’s sister and her husband lived in another state; and we lived in a third state. We made many trips back to Mom’s house, dealing with contractors and suppliers to get Mom’s house in shape to sell. After a couple of bad experiences, we hired an excellent realtor. Whatever money the house brought would go toward her care because Medicare paid nothing for Assisted Living care. Mom’s daughter saw to her day-to-day finances and needs, and came by often to visit.

However, when my husband’s sister had major surgery requiring many months of recuperation, and her husband had a heart attack, they did not get to visit Mom for several months, and Mom’s condition quickly deteriorated. On one of our house renovation visits we brought Mom’s brother for a visit. She did not recognize him. On another renovation visit, we were reminiscing with Mom about when my husband – her son – was a small child.  She laughed delightedly and clapped her hands. “You mean I have a son?” she asked. Chills went over me and my husband. “Yes, Mom, I’m your son.” They hugged and then sat back down. “Now, tell me,” she asked my husband, as if on a new topic, “how do you fit into the picture?” She had forgotten the concept of what a “son” was.

Below are some of the “real-life experiences” that I left out of the original article.

Our visits were always unsettling. Here we thought that Mom was being well taken care of, but a combination of events made her every day life miserable. Early on when she went to the dementia wing, she still had enough presence of mind to follow us to the elevator when we got ready to leave. “You know the way home,” she said, and she tried to get in the elevator with us. “No, Mom, this is your home now.” She looked very confused and uncertain, and we were heartbroken. One of the nurses took her back to her room.

Another incident made me so angry. We couldn’t find her when we dropped in for a visit a few months later.  Her room was just a couple of doors down from the nurses station, and the hallway was filled with an extremely high volume of loud music.  When we asked where Mom was and commented on the music, they said she liked it loud.  They unlocked her door – ! – and sure enough it was her TV turned up so loud that my ears hurt.  Mom lay on the bed, immobile. Honestly, I thought she might be dead. She wasn’t, but their assessment of her as “liking” the loud noise, and locking her room so that she had no escape from the noise, was mind boggling. The solution to that problem was to leave the door unlocked, and to keep the TV off, as she no longer could process the programming.

Another time, our visit was over about noon and the nurses told her she could come to lunch. She told me that she really would rather not eat, if she had to sit at a table with crazy people. No wonder she lost weight during her last months there. So many more incidents like this have come to the surface in the writing of this blog.

I am crying as I write this! I just have to file these memories away for the time being, but I must tell you this: I took copious notes of Mom’s comments and our observations during our visits, just as I did with my Mother’s decline into institutionalism, and someday they will emerge in a book. I am staring my future in the face and if my husband and I don’t help our children plan for our care, who knows what is ahead for us?

Watch this blog Thursday for the next part of this series on Senior/Elder Care, in which my (now-deceased) mother’s institutional experiences will be presented as well as those of her sister, who is still living in an assisted living facility – and loving it!

I do not understand how any writer can have writer’s block as long as he/she can read the daily news. You can’t make this stuff up! Just become a people watcher/news reader and problem solved! Truth IS stranger than fiction…

Japanese Police Arrest Haiku Poet After Five Killings

This headline appeared in last weeks news and instantly attracted my attention.  I knew that words could kill, but those must have been some strong words to kill five people! As I looked into it, I found that “Japanese police … arrested a man when he disappeared after five people were murdered in a tiny mountain village.” Police officers found three corpses inside two burned-out houses and then uncovered two more bodies in separate homes. The five victims, who all appeared to have been battered to death, were in their 70s or 80s and represented a third of the population of the hamlet.  When Kosei Homi, 63, was found in nearby mountains, he was dressed only in his underwear. Police found a haiku stuck to the window of Homi’s house which read: “Setting a fire – smoke gives delight – to a country fellow.”

The article included a definition of Haiku: “The haiku is a traditional Japanese form, a three-line verse of 17 syllables in a five-seven-five (syllable) arrangement. It customarily evokes natural phenomena and usually involves a reference to the seasons.”

Here are some examples of my Haiku-style poetry … with a  twist:

I LOVE YOU

Fan in hand

I ponder how to say

“I love you”

in Haiku;

No words…

DREAMING

I wake to find

A precious hour

Spent!

No time to dream…

Late for class.

HUNGER

Thoughts of hot food 

Make me tremble

With hunger.

Reaching, I clutch…

old rolls.

MOONSHINE

The moon, bright pumpkin,

Intrudes on lovers

Estranged…

Garlic for supper.

My computer problems have resolved (fingers crossed!), and let me tell you what I did.  I went back into the earliest AN AGREEABLE MAN posts and introduced and expanded  Merlie’s and Jack’s friends.  There will be other additions (and possible deletions) as the plot thickens, and as more characters are introduced or fleshed out or deleted. Meanwhile, The Schedule rules, with poetry & short writing pieces on Mondays and Fridays; Tuesdays and Thursdays will host fact & opinion pieces; and Wednesdays will be devoted to continue writing AN AGREEABLE MAN, as the plots & characters unfold.

Today’s poems are short, but sweet!

BARGAIN HUNTERS

We need four girls…

One with a good car,

One with a parking card,

One with a fun attitude

and

One with a brain – !

With these four things

We can go anywhere

And do anything…

Until they catch us!

We are the Coupon Ladies!

The Bargain Hunters!

We love to get

More for Less…

While looking good

And having fun!

YOU RULE MY WORLD

I would let pork chops burn

In my cast iron skillet…

If you wanted

A hug.

I would wake up early

Or stay up late

For one of your

Slow, sweet kisses!

I would put off bathing,

Or bathe twice a day,

Just to be in your arms

And hear you say

“I like the way you smell – !

Well, I am so frustrated I could scream…Computer problems are beyond me.  I tried all day to solve them, but the solutions are not forthcoming!  So I will try again tomorrow to post the Wednesday segment of AN AGREEABLE MAN.

In the meantime, here is one way I have found to relieve frustration of any kind.  I am going outside to submerge myself in Nature!

THE COUNTRY

Come with me to the country and let’s just walk around.

Get out of your truck and start looking,

Start smelling,

Start melting into the whole scene.

The grass and the trees

and the rocks …and the bees…

Oh, yes! Nature can be dangerous!

You might get stung,

You might get bitten,

You might get poison ivy – but

You might get hooked!

Look…

Take a good, long look.

360 degrees, if you can.

Where do you fit into the picture?

All the green, green grass,

All the puffy white clouds,

In the glorious blue sky!

Birds singing and flying,

butterflies, and yes,

The bees!

Still flying around,

Still pollenating, still doing their thing,

(and they will sting, you know – it is their thing!)

No artist could adequately paint these colors

because

These colors come with emotions built in.

Each hue creates a memory,

Each scent ties you to certain flowers

(remember the honeysuckle?)

And they will evoke this afternoon

When we remember it.

And the sunshine!

My God! How soft and warm it feels,

Like a kiss from the Creator,

or an arm around our shoulders!

You asked me once if I were a religious person;

I am not very “religious”.

I have not yet found God in any church I have visited.

My God is so much bigger than a building!

And God is here!

Not a personage, but the God that is Beauty,

and Peace,

and Order,

and Purpose,

and Hope,

and Forgiveness,

and Love…

Most of all

Love.

That God is here

Don’t you feel it?

It is as if God came down one day

and had a passionate affair

with flirtatious Earth!

And the result is all this beauty and glory!

A true Love Child…

The Earth hums and shimmers

And sighs and cries and dies and is reborn

As Life unfolds before her, within her,

every Day and every Night,

Over and over again.

Too soon,

It’s time to go.

Take one last breath,

Stay one last minute,

Close your eyes and feel

All this around you!

Smell the Earth!

Take off your shoes and

Wiggle your feet in the soil.

Feel the warm air on the hairs

of your arms!

Drink it all in…

Listen…

After a while, you wil swear

That the Earth is talking to you

Because you can almost hear

Her sweet whispers in your ears…

Her message?

‘Come back soon!

I’m not done with you, and you

Are not done with me…’

She whispers enticingly

‘Come back to the country

And lose yourself,

And find yourself,

at the same time…’

What does She mean?

She means that you need to hear the message

She is passing on to you.

The message that you can’t hear

at home, at work, in the world you live in,

because of all the noise…

So, above all,

Listen.

There is a message here just for you.

It has your name on it.

It is yours for the taking.

Write it down if you have to,

because you will need to remember it,

Especially when you go back

Into the Jungle…

Today I am sharing three poems with you.  They are short and they don’t rhyme but I consider them word poems and I chose each word carefully.  Enjoy!

COOKIE MONSTER

I set a cookie in my heart for you.

Yes, I said to the Powers That Be,

I will receive any message

That you want to send me.

I will accept any terms and conditions

Relating to this cookie,

Because your message is important to me.

And I know how you love cookies!

So how can I deny you mine?

And now, we’ll see.

Are you a good cookie, soft and sweet?

Or are you a real cookie monster?

THE SCREEN DOOR 

Whenever I come to see you

We have to talk

Through the screen door.

There’s a lock on your side – the inside –

And no one comes in

Unless you say so.

We can talk through the screen door,

And I can see you,

But I can’t touch you.

And that makes me sad…

I want to come in

And stand close to you,

And feel the warmth of your body

As we stand together

With nothing between us.

I want to come in

And touch your shoulder or

Move a curl of your hair

Out of your eyes.

I want to come in

And look into your eyes,

And see what I could not see

Behind the screen door.

Let me come in…please?

WANNA NECK?

Horses stand together

In a field

Close to each other.

One moves to another

And just stands,

Side by side.

Nostrils flare, gently…

Hooves paw the ground, softly…

It is a peaceful moment.

They are observing their world,

Just looking around,

Just being horses.

Occasionally,

One horse will lay its neck

Flat against another horse’s neck

And gently rub

And make little noises…

Wanna Neck?

Ah, Love!

It ain’t what it used to be…

The impression I get of today’s love relationships is that they are chosen by chance (Internet dating), nourished through opinions of our peers (people who serve as soundboards about how we should feel), evaluated through the cloud of mood elevators, all through a short term lens. We feel that we can return everything to square one if things don’t work out to our liking. We “love” for the entertainment value of it; the truth of love requires long-term commitment to find out who we are through the eyes of another.

Very moderne, and very 1920’s at the same time.

We have not been trained in how to create, deepen, grow and manage long-term relationships. Our pattern for relationships tends to be what’s on TV or on Broadway or in Hollywood. But our emotions didn’t get the memo that we are so strong that we are unable to feel pain.  We soldier on, damaged by emotional encounters.  We have no universal guidebook for how to recover from rejection, how to re-define our own very personal parameters or – for that matter – how to enjoy those few “perfect” moments that we only realize are perfect in retrospect.

Maybe you elicit the behavior – you are dominant, he/she is submissive. And not in a “fun” way…) Maybe one of you is childish; the other is an old soul.  One of you is the introvert; the other an extrovert. Opposites may attract, but very seldom is it the “glue” that sticks us together.

The ability to step back and view a relationship objectively helps us to see if we will be  able to grow into our own skin with this person or if we are just repeating the same pattern, which inhibits growth, or if we will have to be less of ourselves and more of them.  We don’t know how to discuss – and so we argue. Instead of working things out, one draws a (metaphorical) line in the sand and dares the other to step over it. We have no resources with which to deal with conflict, no way to effect conflict resolution.

In my marriage, I have been through more stages than you can imagine; my husband has more or less remained “himself”.  This huge dichotomy within our marriage is what enables me to relate to many situations and enjoy many different types of people. Yet at our collective hearts, we have the same values. We come from the same social and educational and family backgrounds. And so, we understand each other. And together we make a whole person. And if I have issues, I write them out.

And so, here are three poems.

WE

We’ll get through this, you used to say.

And we would.

It might be tough, but we faced it together.

And we won.

We would hold hands, facing each other,

Hearing with our eyes what our hearts were saying.

“There is nothing we can’t do – together.”

“There is no obstacle we can’t overcome – together.”

Well, now we aren’t together…

I can’t get through this by myself!

It is so tough!

It hurts!

I can’t do this … alone.

I look in the mirror and see a broken person.

A hopeless, helpless, sad, angry, desperate person.

And so I cry…

And then I rage!

I want to die…

Or kill…

What if I come back?

What if I say I’m sorry?

What if I tell you I will do anything – be anyone – endure any trial – try anything new…?

Will that be enough?

Will you forgive me?

Will you take me back?

Can we be together again?

Because I can’t do this alone…

YOU CAN’T TAKE IT BACK

You can’t take back Love!

Love can grow

or

Love can die.

But it can’t be taken back.

You can care for it and nurture it,

or

You can rip it from the ground, roots hanging.

But it can’t be taken back.

You said “When I told you ‘I love you’,

I didn’t really mean

I LOVE YOU.

So,

I take it back.”

But you can’t do that.

Love has all the tenacity of an unborn fetus.

And it will cling to the wall of the heart

until,

allowed to grow,

something awesome is born!

or

It will cling to the lining of the heart

until

some deadly device sucks the life out of it.

But you can’t take it back.

MY NEWBORN HEART

I am forever marked by you…

Your look, your smile, your touch!

I never knew I could begin anew –

Never knew Life could mean so much!

I am newly born, brand new!

The “me” I always knew I could be

Is here, right now, on cue!

Through my brand new heart, I see

That so many things were untrue.

Not lies, so much as ignorance.

I’ve learned so much because of you

By Divine Design, not through chance…

I am male or female, any shape, any age –

Where once I was boxed in!

I now can write a book, or craft a page –

I’ve learned to worship… and to sin.

These are my thoughts, my feelings, too.

But now I think you should know this:

Let me adventure into the real You

I want to give you my virginal kiss…

Reach out and wrap me in your arms

Use me to rejuvenate, unwind!

Show me your passion – I know your charms…

See the real Me with your mind!

We don’t have the luxury of Time

Circumstance will force us to part.

Love me now and please be kind

With me, and my newborn heart…

I must tell you that, as a reader, I would be disappointed at this point in the storyline of An Agreeable Man. The characters don’t add up to a full deck, so how will the game play out? We have an idea of what Merlie is like, and almost of what she looks like (overweight? thin?), but frankly I see the dog Lucky Charm more fully drawn than Merlie is.  We know there is a nosey take-charge neighbor but we don’t know her name or what she looks like, and we certainly don’t know who Merlie’s friends are, or if she even has friends. Remember, Jack is a very controlling man, and he has total control over a very timid wife. They don’t have children of their own, although we will learn that Jack worked with and donated money to children’s programs in town. We get the impression that Jack is a wealthy man, but Merlie seems almost dirt poor. She’s a prisoner in their house, can’t go anywhere or do anything unless Jack says so or takes her. Jack has a job – he goes to work every weekday. Jack has friends; he goes hunting and fishing with them. Who are they? What are they like? What do they look like? There are collateral characters. Mr. Simmons, owner of Simmons Fine Furnishings, and the minister, nameless and a bit boring.

So…When do we introduce and develop these characters?

One reader suggested that the after-funeral gathering at Merlie’s house would have been a great time to let us know who the circle of friends are. And the minister’s eulogy at Jack’s funeral would have told us a lot of specific information about Jack. Comments made to Merlie at church, the actual burial site, and at Merlie’s home would have widened the plot possibilities even more.

Now I, as the writer, know how the storyline develops. I know the characters and the conflict among the characters. I know the resolution of that conflict. So from now until next Wednesday, I will be writing these down and inserting them into the storyline, but I want you to be thinking about the possibilities that come to your mind.

Remember: this book is based on a true story, and I will keep to the facts of that story until I plot the end of the book.

Okay!  Here’s a poem I wrote many years ago, and I think on some level it sums up how Merlie must be feeling upon reflection of her changed status.

I Hate Being Poor

All my life I’ve had to count pennies, and I’m tired of it.

Sometimes it amuses me when I think of how mismatched is my talent for spending with my small budget.

At other times, I am bitter.

I look around and see other people with bigger houses, more furniture, pets, habits which require money like boats, several cars, exotic vacations, elegant clothes.

I covet possessions!

I want things!

I even envy people their parents, their hometowns, the kids they grew up with.

The things I loved innocently were taken away from me when I was very young.

First my daddy, then our home, then my mother.

We moved around, and for years I lived in other people’s houses,

wore hand-me-down clothes,

took and made use of things other people threw away,

ate food other people selected and cooked.

Consequently, I developed no sense of taste or style.

Why dream of,

or plan for,

things I might want,

when I knew I would take what was given to me?

It doesn’t bother me so much now.

For I m daring to want again,

daring to select and go after the things I want,

and the people I want,

and make them mine.

Being poor doesn’t have to impoverish.

I intend to be rich in the things that mean more than wealth to me.

So I give  you warning:

I see riches in you I will possess,

For I hate being poor.

I live near Lebanon, TN, the Mecca of the Cracker Barrel organization. With over 600 stores in 42 states, this is no small chain of comfort food stores, but it is unique in that its customers come back again and again for the home-cooked food, the service, reasonable prices, the country store,  the come-on-in-and-set-awhile ambience – and something else.  That something else is the bond between the people who work in the restaurant and the shop and the people who keep coming back as customers.

I love our local Cracker Barrel for all these reasons and for one more very important reason – it’s a place where I can write.

Sure, it can be noisy there, but that makes me focus on my writing.  Or it can be having a short lull – which gives me the opportunity to look around and see the salt-of-the-Earth people that come in. Cracker Barrel stores were originally built to serve the highway/interstate transient population, and I think it was a bit of a surprise when it became THE place for the locals to come, some every day, to visit with friends (meet me at the Cracker Barrel!), try out a new dish (the Chicken Pot Pie is incredible!), talk business (I’ve heard many an interview that went well because the Cracker Barrel is a very comfortable place to be) and form relationships with the servers and the people who work in the store.

In fact, one of the servers actually encouraged me to publish the myriad of poems I had written at the Cracker Barrel.  Every time I went in, purse and notebook in tow, she would ask me how the book was coming along. Gentle pressure, but I knew she cared, and I figured if she cared, others might care, too.

Most of the servers have been there awhile, so I get to enjoy their company, and sometimes their comments.  But they are among the most focussed-on-service people you will ever meet!  Each customer’s needs are anticipated and the goal is to get the product to the customer almost before they know what they want!   I have told my husband more than once that I think the tables are bugged because all I have to do is say “Ya know, I could use a refill of coffee/iced tea…” and my server will be setting the cup/glass down before me.  The service really is remarkable…

You will love the celebrations going on in the shop as the seasons are highlighted!  Even though they do put up their Christmas trees a bit early for me, it sure makes you feel warm and happy when you come in the store!  My very favorite time to go to Cracker Barrel is not a holiday but a season.  I truly love Winter there because the huge fireplace is filled with real wood, which is lighted early and is kept glowing through the late evening.  I always ask for (and will wait for) a table closest to the fireplace, and maybe this most recent poem will show you why.

FIRE

I watch the fire go from new logs,

with flames spitting blue and yellow,

To the dull red and gold

of pulsating embers…

Someone stirs the new logs,

repositioning them for maximum burn,

and the flames

perform a lively dance!

Later,

as the fire dies down,

and burning bits of wood drop into the ashes,

I watch

the constant irregularity of it,

and I am fascinated…

And now

I am watching the embers glow

less brightly,

still pulsating,

still full of fire,

their impact diminished only by Time…

Long ago, someone came

And moved me

So that I could

Burn properly.

Then you came,

Not so long ago,

And stirred me

So that flames leaped up,

like so…

And bits of fire

Filled with the hotness of desire,

Fell down into the ashes

of my first love…

And now I pulsate

And I glow

 Remembering the fire

And the desire

That you both

stirred in me.

I like to have a schedule to do almost everything – except when I write! I do need certain things to be in place when I write, such as special “mood” music, and a large beaker of sweet ice tea with lemon that I will sip on until a refill is needed. And I go into an almost hypnotic state where what and whom I am writing about are more real to me than being at the computer in my home. But for your sake, according to your feedback (“Now just what day do you post to your blog?”), I will be featuring poetry and short pieces of writing on Mondays and Fridays, and on Wednesdays I will be asking you to TRULY “watch me write” An Agreeable Man, my latest work-in-progress.

I have mentioned this book as being the one that I got so much help with from that third writers’ group. I will need help from you as well, so read with a critical eye and let me have your feedback.

First, though, a little background. I was moved to write this book several years ago after reading a particularly shocking news story which became the subject of several television news programs. I knew what I wanted to say about the subject matter and I could see the end as well as the beginning of the book. The characters just popped out to me, fully formed.  I knew who they were, inside and out. So, as usual, I did my research on the key topics I would be dealing with and I sat down to write. After repeated attempts failed, (and I am never at a loss for words!) I sat back and said out loud: “What do you want me to write?” And I got directions, almost at the level of a whisper, but more like an understanding of the minds. I swear to you, I felt the presence of this woman behind my right shoulder who assumed the persona of Merlie, my main character. From this vantage point, she alternately scolded me (“I would never say THAT!”) and praised me, putting both her hands on my upper arms as she rejoiced that I had “finally got it right!” She was not scary, just THERE, and when I argued with her, things would happen to my computer or my phone would begin to ring incessantly or someone would email me – and I couldn’t progress until I wrote it HER way. So I guess this is a collaboration of a sort. It is certainly NOT the way I have begun my other 11 books!

My plan is to begin writing, using the three rough drafts that I have, and add in bits of information as I find them (remember those pieces of paper I write notes on?). There are a few plot lines I have not yet developed and you will see how I do that. I already know that this is a story based on fact that I have fictionalized because this is my writing modus operandi, my M.O. – it’s how I do it. In order to let the early writing introduce the emotional maturity – or lack thereof – of my main characters, this first writing will be very simplistic in nature, almost childish. As the plot thickens and more characters are introduced, the chapters will be longer than the Introductory Chapter 1.

So here we go!

Meet Merle Evans, wife of AN AGREEABLE MAN, Chapter 1.

On the way home from the funeral, Merle Evans stopped by the pet store and bought a dog. He was a Scottie puppy, no more than eight inches from his jet black nose to his tiny little tail. The pet store owner said he had papers, but that his long ears would make him unsuitable for show to prospective owners.

“Unsuitable for show – indeed!” thought Merle. She loved his long ears, and the way his hair parted down the middle of his back, and the way his beady little black eyes stared straight at her, as if awaiting orders.

The clerk packed up the dog bed and the puppy food and toys while Merle held the puppy. She handed the clerk a credit card (which Mr. Evans would not have approved of), shifting the sleeping ball of fur to her left arm while she signed the credit slip with her right hand.

As the clerk loaded the packages into her car, she wondered what she would tell the relatives and friends at home. She couldn’t tell them she had bought a dog; that seemed callous, even to her. The truth was, she had grown tired of sitting on the couch at the funeral home before the service while people filed by her, making remarks intended to be kind, but which came off as kind of banal. She didn’t relish the thought of sitting on her own couch at home and hearing the same kind of remarks, while trying to remember who made them. She was in no mood to think of Mr. Evans’ death right now. She would do that later, when she was in a better frame of mind.

She needed something to cheer her up, to make her happy, to take her mind off of Mr. Evans’ death. It was then that she thought of the puppy. Yesterday, she had passed the pet shop on her way to the funeral home to finalize arrangements and saw him in the window. He had cocked his head to one side and put his chin on his paws, sphinx-like, and looked calmly at her, as if he knew she would come back to get him. But she was just as surprised as anything to hear herself say, just as the funeral was over, “Why wait until tomorrow?”

The funeral had been grim. First of all, while she was used to going to church on Sundays, she had never attended a funeral in all her life.  Jack went to those with his friends, Tom Watkins, Dan Newsome and Bob Roberts. Those four went everywhere together – hunting, fishing, golfing, ball games – and each supported the other when their various charities had events. 

Jack was a banker, a founding member and one of the senior employees in the bank. Tom was in insurance – the one-stop-insurance agent, he liked to say. Dan was in alumni relations for the local college and traveled a lot. Bob was the president of a small company that had international ties to China. He traveled as well. But they were all here today to honor their friend Jack. 

Bob had been chosen to represent the three friends and he was to speak to the assembled crowd that overflowed into the church’s outer rooms, where the attendees would watch the service on closed caption TV.  It had taken 63 cars to bring them all to the church and the Highway Patrol was out in full force for the trip to the burial plot.

Merle had been seated at the front and felt the full force aura of the assembled crowd. It pulsated down from the back rows to the front pews and broke over her like crashing waves at a surfboarding event. It numbed her. If only she could close her eyes and sleep through it…

But no. Bob got up with a few papers in his hands and laid them on the pulpit. 

“Hi. My name is Bob Roberts and…I have been asked to say a few words on behalf of my friend Jack Evans who died last Saturday.  Suddenly.” At this point, the suave world traveler gulped for breath and tried to regain his composure.

“I’m sorry. I really don’t know where to begin to tell you what Jack meant to me as my best friend…” He trailed off again, looking down at his notes.

“This is hard. Honestly, I don’t know how to tell you how intertwined our lives were. Like, you know, that cartoon character – a rabbit, I think or maybe the Roadrunner – you know how his long ears wound around each other until it looked like one big tall rabbit ear..?” Now the tears started and his face screwed up in a grimace.

He grabbed his notes and said “I can’t do this! Tom, you and Dan will have to take over.”

And he sat down, face in his handkerchief, shoulders heaving.

Tom stood up and walked purposefully to the podium. He had no pages in his hand. He faced the packed worship hall. “Jack Evans was my best friend. And I’ll bet you will hear that over and over today. Because if Jack took you as a friend, you became like family. Jack had a lot of friends. And there was nothing that Jack wouldn’t do for any one of us. He was loyal to a fault. He was the type of man who would give to those less fortunate than he was without even thinking about it. He always counted his blessings, and encouraged us to look at what we had going for us instead of what we lacked. He changed me from a borderline depressed person into an optimistic person who now tries to find the positive in every person and every situation.  Thank you, Jack.”

He walked back to his seat, grim-faced.

Dan got up and slowly walked to the podium. Tall, lanky, with a burst of reddish hair that looked like it had been slept on, he turned to face the crowd. “Well, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Thank you all for coming to honor our friend, Jack Evans. Jack would probably be embarrassed.  I loved a good crowd when I played basketball, and later when the joints began to act up a bit, the four of us would play “touch” basketball. I remember the first time we played. What should have been an easy win for me, being a foot taller than Jack, turned into the hardest game of my life. He was determined to give me a run for my money!  Jack was never afraid to go after what he wanted no matter how hard he had to work for it. I racked up the most points, but Jack taught me how to win in the Game of Life.” 

He started to say something else, but thought better of it and silently ambled back to his seat.

Then it was the minister’s turn to talk about Jack. How he contributed to so many charities – not only money but volunteer work, inspiring others to volunteer as well. How he helped build the new hospital, and a kitchen/sleep wing in the Family Activities section of the church to feed and care for the homeless; and how you could always count on Jack Evans for advice, money, people or whatever was needed to enrich the town he so loved.

Merle was not mentioned once.  For all the world knew, Jack Evans was a bachelor.

She did not recognize the man whose funeral she had attended by the words she had heard spoken.  Could there have been two funerals at the same time for two men named Jack Evans? I am losing my mind, she thought. That would have given her cause to panic, if she hadn’t been so very tired.  She needed to get out of here before the crush of people came over to her to offer condolences. But since she had not even been acknowledged as Jack’s wife in the funeral eulogies, why should she stay?

It made perfect sense to her to stand up at the end of the funeral and walk out, announcing to no one in particular “Go on to the house – I’ll be there shortly.” Everyone nodded and whispered “Poor thing, it’s just beginning to sink in…” and “She needs to grieve in private…” and “Some fresh air is just what she needs…” (Actually, it never occurred to her that she should be grieving. She felt a cautious sense of freedom, as if a prison door had been carelessly left open. Should she make a run for it? Hurry, before they come back and close the door!)

So, now what? Here she was, back from who knows where, with a puppy in her arms. How would she smuggle the puppy into the house? She had to think, to make a plan. Mr. Evans usually made all the plans, but he wasn’t here now, was he? It was up to her to work this out.

End of Chapter 1.

COMMENT ADDED OCTOBER 2016

The book was finally published in 2016 and is available at AMAZON:

If you like Murder Mysteries, this book will take you on some amazing twists and turns and really surprise you with where the story goes!