Have you ever had one of those days when writing anything much less a mystery is beyond your ken?
That’s me. My inner workings are consumed by the loss of a massive, centuries old pine tree and my cat Blue’s determination to regain cat-dom.
A month ago, Blue had a stroke and went all bobble headed. He could not stand up, much less walk. I had to feed him at intervals throughout the day and night, holding his bowl so that he could eat. But he ate. Not enough, still … that was then, and this is now. I bought him a bowl that required him to stand up to eat hoping to get him on his feet. He stood. He eats like a pig, snuffling as he snarfs. I took him out each day, steading his body between my legs then, with my hands, showed him where his front feet went, hoping his back legs would follow. They did. I urged him to keep his head up as he walked. He does. Now.
He’s sixteen years old. A glorious, big Russian Blue and he has the heart of twelve others. Today was a big day, I moved the donut where he resides away from his food bowl and litter. The plan being he would have to walk and exercise his balance. His first outing to his food dish went well, though he had a hard time finding his way back to his newly moved donut. Still, he did.
After the stroke, I thought we would have to let him go. I thought wrong. He is a gamer. Sometimes, I wonder about his memory. He doesn’t seem to recognize his name. Hard to tell with a cat though. My husband and I kid about renaming him Roomba because he always returns to his donut. Still, he’s with us and progressing. I don’t think he will ever be the cat named Do-Do, left at the SPCA at a year-old, unadopted for two years until he saw my husband and wouldn’t let him go. Boys!
Speaking of whom, husband that is. He spent a full year trying to save the 112-foot Jack pine that dominated the view out our back slider. The wind blew in the pine bore beetles. The tree took the first onslaught and shook it off. Then a second wave hit it. The top died, though the lower branches clung to life. An arborist recommended fertilizer, my husband fertilized, watered, babied, talked to, prayed for, and fought for that tree. When Pacific Gas and Electric wanted to cut it down, claiming it could fall on wires over sixty feet away and uphill, he stood his ground. In the end, we negotiated with them to top it. They took 32-feet off it, and it still clung to its needles, sheltering crows, squirrels, woodpeckers, and even vultures.
Today it is gone, a skeleton lying down our hillside so far that the woodcutters had to take twelve feet off the top to pull its brittle bones onto our property. They can’t cut it up right now because the rest of their team and the truck they need are working a fire burning in the High Sierra. Meaning, until the National Fire Service releases the team from duty, we have the shattered remains of a once mighty tree to mourn.
About now you’re asking yourself, what does any of this have to do with reading or writing mysteries. This, I am struggling with the fifth book in my Wanee series. And all I can think of is them, a cat named Blue, and tree named Frank. Yes, Frank. And my husband.
Two fought to the end to overcome the ravages of climate change, the other perseveres, step by step, falls, then gets back up and takes another step. So, get with it, girl, word by word, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph, you will have a book. It is so hard, it’s easy.
One Horse Too Many, the third book in the Wanee Mysteries is now available. According to a couple of other Ladies of Mystery it is a “really strong entry into the series” and “another winner in a great series.”
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Life is good. It is filled with family, friends, and furry critters. There is yoga four times a week; I wish it could be more. That is, I know, a wish I could fulfill. 
That’s an interesting question. As a freelance journalist, I wrote on everything from intellectual property to the armoured truck industry to eel grass. Accuracy was paramount as was engagement. However, the most difficult piece I ever wrote was for “Lives Lived” in The Globe and Mail. It was a tribute to my mother following her death in 2020. It was so difficult to write because it was so personal. I had no perspective, and I feared I would not “get it right.” The only thing I know for sure: Mama, would have told me not to worry. And there would have been a hug.
My mother taught me to love language – and to respect it. She cared about words and getting the words right. She was my greatest influence.
Ladies of Mystery 
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