The Beauty of Life Stories, Well Told

I love a well-written obit.

In fact, the obituary section may be why I still subscribe to several newsprint papers, which, unlike their digital cousins, invite me to really read, rather than skim. That’s important when we’re talking mini life stories. Friends, mere acquaintances, total strangers—it doesn’t matter. I want to know what they invented, who they loved, how they made a difference in the world.

As a journalism student I worked at the Boston Globe, initially as a newsroom clerk (we all were called copyboys, even though by the late 1970s some of us were female).

We wrote on these back in the day.

One of my duties was to write basic obits. When person died who was moderately famous (or infamous), at least locally, the city editor would assign whichever copyboy wasn’t otherwise occupied to gather information and write it up.

I wasn’t a reporter yet, but was striving to be, so I paid close attention to the newsroom veterans who wrote the feature obituaries. While theirs may not have been the most exciting beat, they were masters at the craft of condensing someone’s life into a respectful, sometimes funny, often poignant short story, usually on a tight deadline. I eavesdropped sometimes while they asked question after question, mining for the nugget of gold that would explain something essential about the subject’s life.

That’s where I learned the important lesson that I’ve carried over into my crime writing: detail illuminates character.

A memorable example of this is in the 2015 obituary of Leon Gorman, the grandson of L.L.Bean, who transformed that iconic Maine company from an outdoor gear store with fewer than 100 employees to a billion dollar business. His obituary talked about his business success, of course, but also about something he didn’t advertise. For a dozen years, Mr. Gorman was late to work every Wednesday because he spent the early-morning hours at Preble Street in Portland, helping to prepare and serve breakfast to hundreds of homeless folks. That telling detail has stayed with me for years.

A few weeks ago, I was moved by the obit for Bernice “Bunny” Sandler, known as the Godmother of Title IX.  After experiencing sex discrimination in the 1960s when she was told she wouldn’t be considered for a position in academia because she came on too strong for a woman, she became the driving force behind the 1972 law that barred discrimination by educational institutions that received federal funding. Title IX is most often talked about in terms of increasing opportunity for women and girls to play sports, but Bunny Sandler’s determination revolutionized the world of education on every level.

Last week, I read in the Globe about Betty Ballantine, who died at 99. Betty and her husband Ian are credited with introducing America to the paperback novel. Starting in 1939 when she was just 20 years old and he was 23, they began to import quality novels in paperback form—popular in Britain but not in the U.S.—and built the enormous market for which we writers remain grateful. Betty and Ian went on to found Bantam Books and Ballantine Books, both now part of Penguin Random House.

On my website I link to a site called Obit of the Day, an amazing compendium of stories about ordinary and extraordinary people. Readers who share my love for a good life story should hop over there and browse. An example of what you will find: On the day after Christmas in 2012, Fontella Bass, whose song Rescue Me has resonated since it first hit the charts in 1965, died after a lifetime making music. According to her obituary, it is a common misconception that Rescue Me was an Aretha Franklin song. Here’s a link to her obit, if you’d like the rest of that story and a link to the song as well: http://www.obitoftheday.com/post/39037775836/fontellabass

So here’s to the obituary writers, who manage to capture something of the essence of a person’s life in a few paragraphs, one of those thankless jobs that deserves a sincere salute.

Blog Readers: Do you read the obits? Why or why not? Please let us know in the comments.

Brenda Buchanan is the author of the Joe Gale Mystery Series, featuring a diehard Maine newspaper reporter who covers the crime and courts beat. Three books—QUICK PIVOT, COVER STORY and TRUTH BEAT—are available everywhere e-books are sold. She is writing a new series that has as its protagonist a Portland criminal defense lawyer willing to take on cases others won’t touch in a town to which she swore she would never return.

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Weekend Update: February 16-17 , 2019

Next week at Maine Crime Writers, there will be posts by Brenda Buchanan (Monday), Barb Ross (Tuesday) Kate Flora (Wednesday) Susan Vaughan (Thursday), and Sandra Neily (Friday).

In the news department, here’s what’s happening with some of us who blog regularly at Maine Crime Writers:

From Kaitlyn Dunnett: From February 14-18, the Kobo edition of Kilt at the Highland Games will be on sale for 99 cents. Look for more ebook offers in the next weekend update.

 

 

 

An invitation to readers of this blog: Do you have news relating to Maine, Crime, or Writing? We’d love to hear from you. Just comment below to share.

And a reminder: If your library, school, or organization is looking for a speaker, we are often available to talk about the writing process, research, where we get our ideas, and other mysteries of the business. Contact Kate Flora

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Deadline for New Novel, New Novel Coming Out, New Website & New Ideas

The snow is falling as I write this. It’s thick, wet and heavy. Somehow we’ve hit the midwinter blues. Nothing better to do than put on the coffee and settle into a writing routine. Or for you readers, settle with a good book.

The deadline for my new novel is fast pproaching and at this point I find myself in good shape. Writing under a strict deadline means that I’ve not gotten to read very many novels (sorry writer friends). But I’m feeling confident now. What started out as a worrisome piece of #£¥€ first draft has coalesced quite lnicely into a twisty psychological thriller. My only problem now is that I don’t yet have a name for my new book. Or, to be more precise, I have lots names for this novel but nothing that has struck a chord. Now I have to work with my publisher to pick out the best one.

On April 30th my new novel, PRAY FOR THE GIRL, comes out and I’m very excited for the world to meet Lucy Abbott, the gritty heroine of the novel. On the very next day I’m due to turn in my new, as-yet-to-be-named manuscript. Combine all that with the fact that I need to market the new book and set up readings and blogs, this spring should be a very busy time for this author.

I’m excited to announce my brand-spanking new website, josephsouza.net. Thanks Bob and Courissa. It’s been awhile in the making, but I’m very happy with the way it’s turned out. I’m hoping that people will sign up for my newsletter so that they can receive updates on new books and where I’ll be speaking. I promise to use this newsletter judiciously and not innundate subscribers with a barrage of useless information.

I’m just starting to develop some new ideas for novels. This process is fun but also daunting. So if you see me staring into space please know that I’m deep in thought trying to formulate the many twists and turns that make a good psychological thriller. And I’ll soon be getting back to reading all the books my writer friends have put out. Thanks for being patient, author friends. I promise I’ll get to them soon.

Meanwhile, PRAY FOR THE GIRL is on préstale and comes out April 30th. Make sure you pick up your copy today https://www.amazon.com/Pray-Girl-Joseph-Souza/dp/149671623X/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=.

USA Bestselling Author Steve Konkoly says of it, “PRAY FOR THE GIRL delivers one devilish twist after another, pulling you into the story and never letting go. A tightly paced suspense drawn with compellingly real characters, Souza’s newest domestic thriller is a genre defining tour-de-force.”

Happy winter, everyone! See you this spring. Now time to shovel.

Best,

Joe

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Make them talk

William Andrews: I find cute-grandchildren stories as boring as the next person, so a warning: this posting starts with my granddaughter. She’s 3, and obviously she’s cute. She’s discovered how much I enjoy making her animals (when did they become “stuffies?”) talk. She enjoys their tales as well and often presents one or more of them to me with the command: “Make them talk.” And so they do, telling stories of their adventures, asking her questions, speculating about what her parents are up to, and so forth. I don’t know how long this period of magic will last, but I love every minute of it. And it naturally got me thinking about what writers do all the time.

We make our characters talk. Of course we also make them do things, and we create a background upon which they both talk and act and a theme that underlies the whole. But fundamentally, at least for me, writing is about making them talk.

I can’t prove it, but based on my own experience and on conversations with other writers, the most common question we get asked at signings and readings is a variant on “Where did the story come from?” Every writer is different, some starting with the story, others with the characters, still others with a theme. But I think the most honest answer, at least for me, to the question of how the story started is that writers hear voices, or at a minimum that once the story is underway it’s the voices we hear that sustain it. My first mystery, Stealing History, began when I read a newspaper account of items stolen from New England historical societies. The plot came quickly into my head, but almost simultaneously I imagined the central character, Julie Williamson, and before I knew it I heard her voice, and the voices of her secretary, her trustees, visitors to the historical society where she works.

The voices are no doubt composites of voices I’ve heard—and in some cases still hear regularly. For example, Julie’s secretary, Mrs. Detweiller, is not at all like the several secretaries I had the pleasure of working with in my other career, but her voice combines qualities of a number of people I’ve known: accusatory, distracted, somewhat pompous, often talking more to herself than responding to others. Her voice defines Mrs. Detweiller and reflects the troubled relationship Julie has with her because of Julie’s being “from away.”

The voices I hear as I write raise an interesting question: are they talking, or am I making them talk? If you hear voices in your head you may be a candidate for therapy. Or you may be a writer. Or maybe both. Let’s assume you’re a writer and reasonably sane. As you make your characters talk you give them the power to move your story along, to act in ways that create tension and present conflicts to drive the narrative. And you let them develop their personalities, their habits, quirks, likes and dislikes. Who knew my Julie Williamson doesn’t like to cook but is fortunate to have a boyfriend who does? I didn’t know that when I first met her, but over time as she talked that part of her personality and her relationship with her partner helped define her for me. The way she talks about food—she loves it, and all the more when her friend cooks it—reflects her personality and helps explain her actions.

But back to my cute granddaughter. Two of her animals, twin badgers named Badger 1 and Badger 2, are frequent story tellers. I’m asked to make them talk, I’m sure my granddaughter knows, at some level, that I’m the one doing the talking. But note that she says make them talk. In other words, let the badgers have their say. When we write fiction, we always aim to let the characters use their own voices, while we also know we are making them talk. Are we talking or listening? That’s a mystery for mystery writers to ponder.

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Snippet

Dorothy Cannell: I was sitting at an airport waiting for my connecting flight when I Screen Shot 2019-02-10 at 1.13.07 PMheard the person in the seat beside me talking directly into my ear.  That’s how it sounded, although when I looked up I saw it was woman on her cell phone.  What she had said caught my attention.

“A five year old deciding whether he’d go to school or not.  A child of his age,” heroutraged voice shot up with each syllable, “staging that kind of rebellion and being allowed to get away with it!  A period of isolation was clearly in order!” A pause as whoever she was talking to replied.  Then a self-congratulatory grunt. “No, after that little trauma things went reasonably well.”

Had the book I was reading been David Copperfield or Oliver Twist I’d have wondered if I dozed momentarily and found myself in the world where mistreatment of children was rejoiced in as a righteous prerogative.  A period of isolation.  That sounded more like days locked into a room on bread and water rather than fifteen minutes in time out.

Screen Shot 2019-02-10 at 1.14.26 PMWho was this woman?  One of those TV reality series super nannies brought in to restore calm to the family home where the offspring swung from the light fixtures, flung themselves on the floor and beat their feet like drums, or drove the car out of the garage to make clear they really were running away from home?  I took a look at her harsh profile and decided she would never have acquired her Mary Poppins certificate.  A truant officer, fifty years overdue for retirement?  I settled on that – even a pack of Dobermans and a Condemned Notice attached to the house could not keep her out. The sort where discussions occur beforehand such as:

“I know she’s your mother, and you’re not to blame for that, but can’t you have a heart attack and die five minutes after she marches in?  Surely she’d take that as a hint this is not a good time.  Oh, hell!  That won’t work.  She’d stay to arrange the funeral and then never leave.

“Don’t ask me to be nice to your sister.  She’d decide I was currying favor out of a massive inferiority complex and bring in a psychiatrist, who’d go along with the insistence that I’m a danger to myself and others.

“Why don’t we pack up what we need, including the kids, in a couple of suitcase and run away to some deserted Pacific Island?  I know, dear, I hate endless sunshine, blue seas and sand, but anything is better than having her rant on about my not eating the raisins in my bran flakes and how if I were her husband I wouldn’t be allowed to go to work until I did.”

She reached down for her carry-on and marched purposefully out of eyesight when a boarding call was announced.  I was left wondering about a five-year-old boy who didn’t always want to go to school and as a result brought down the ire of that awful woman.  That’s how I thought of her, although if taken as a whole – instead of a snippet of overheard conversation – she could be a pleasant person who happened to be travel-fatigued and overstating what was on her mind.  But I would never know her or that little boy.  All I was borrowing from reality was a couple of lines of dialog, which is why I could let my imagination roam uncluttered.

What was her relationship to the child?

How would the memory of that incident impact him as an adult?

How far might he go in taking revenge?

I have already written a scene in which a man tells the police this story in hope they will view her as a suspect in the crime being investigated.

Happy reading,

Dorothy

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Weekend Update: February 9-10, 2019

Next week at Maine Crime Writers, there will be posts by Dorothy Cannell (Monday), William Andrews (Tuesday) Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson (Wednesday) Joe Souza (Thursday), and Vaughn Hardacker (Friday).

In the news department, here’s what’s happening with some of us who blog regularly at Maine Crime Writers:

 Bruce Coffin was too modest to add his own news last week. Beyond the Truth has been announced as a finalist in the best novel category for the Agatha Award. Winners will be announced at the Malice Domestic convention in May. Congrats, Bruce!

 

 

 

 

Kate Flora and her writing companions Katy Munger, Taffy Cannon, Gary Phillips, and Lise McClendon have a valentine present for you. From February 14-17, Beat, Slay, Love will be free! Here’s the link: https://www.amazon.com/Beat-Slay-Love-Delicious-Revenge-ebook/dp/B015BQUZCK/

Love a Chef

An invitation to readers of this blog: Do you have news relating to Maine, Crime, or Writing? We’d love to hear from you. Just comment below to share.

And if your library or organization is looking for a truly entertaining program, consider this:

Making a Mystery – a panel of crime writers and lots of audience interaction

The audience writes out index cards with names, weapons, settings, occupations, and motives, and then deposits the cards in paper bags. The panel then pulls the cards out of the bags and build a mystery “on the fly.” Along the way, the audience learns something about how a writer approaches the decisions made during the task of making a mystery. They also learn something about the mystery-thriller-suspense sub-genres.

Hilarity ensues. At least it has every time we’ve done it so far.

And a reminder: If your library, school, or organization is looking for a speaker, we are often available to talk about the writing process, research, where we get our ideas, and other mysteries of the business. Contact Kate Flora

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The Writing Cycle

Bruce Robert Coffin here, wishing you all a happy February. I’ve been thinking a lot about Punxsutawney Phil lately. In retrospect I guess that’s not entirely accurate. Actually, I’ve been thinking about Phil’s propensity to hide out underground throughout the long winter months, much like a writer.

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Writing a novel is akin to lumbering down into a dimly-lit cellar to build something only vaguely imagined. Only instead of constructing something delicate and easy to carry, writers must sort through every darkened corner of their cellar to build it. How long must they remain in the basement? Well, it takes most of them at least a year until they have something worth reading, sometimes even longer.

Then there is the reemergence of our writer. He or she ascends the stairs dragging their Frankenstein-like creation behind them. They pause at the landing to stand erect and stretch their aching spine, blinking as their eyes grow accustomed to the sunlit world around them. They smile wickedly, content in the knowledge that their labor of love will soon be unleashed—um—I mean shared with the world.

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Our writer bathes, dresses in something mildly respectable, usually involving comfortable footwear, and sets out on the tour circuit. Much like Paul Revere, or Johnny Appleseed, they spread the news of their latest novel far and wide. The “getting out in front of the people” phase of the writer’s life restores them, rejuvenates them. They are happy. Once again doing what they love. Discussing their books and the writing process with like-minded individuals and fans of the genre.

But then, gradually, something within them begins to change. They experience a craving that must be sated. Our writer longs for the comfortable and familiar surroundings of their dingy basement. They miss spending time inside their own heads. Whiling away the days scheming and plotting with imaginary friends. The voices and ideas that were the genesis for their last creation call to them once again, demanding their undivided attention.

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And as the touring season comes to a close, our writer grabs their trusty laptop, stocks up on coffee, dons a comfortable if somewhat shabby writing outfit, and retreats to the basement to begin work on the next monster.

Until next time, write on!

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Tea and Me

My name is Lea Wait, and I drink tea. That’s right. No coffee. No soda (although the protagonist in my Shadows mystery series is devoted to her Diet Pepsi). And since a hot drink seems an appropriate topic for a cold winter’s day, it seemed a good topic for today’s blog.

I probably inherited my love of tea from my grandmother. A Scot from Edinburgh through and through, despite the fact that she’d been born in Boston in 1890, her life had taken her back and forth to “the auld country” often as a child. For her, no afternoon was complete without tea. It didn’t necessarily have to include shortbread or scones … but sometimes it did. And since my grandparents lived with my parents and sisters and I for most of my childhood, I have warm memories of coming home from school and enjoying a cup of hot tea (with milk and a teaspoonful of sugar) with my grandmother.

Lea Wait

Lea Wait

And we had wonderful tea.  As a young child I knew that every Christmas we would get an unmarked carton of tea (in bags) from one of my grandmother’s brothers. I was a teenager before I understood that this was, indeed, “special tea.”  I have no idea what kind of black tea it was. It was a private blend, and it wasn’t marked.  You see, that great-uncle who sent us the tea each year had (yes, I’m telling the truth) invented the tea bag. Somewhere in my family files I have a copy of the patent, which I believe was dated in the 1930s. His name was William Patterson, should you want to check it out. And Uncle Bill had sold his patent to Lipton, who, as part of the deal, agreed to send him select tea each year for the rest of his life.

That annual tea supply in my house ended when my grandmother died … but her brother lived to be 98. That’s a lot of tea bags. And I’ll admit I was spoiled. I never got used to most brands (including Lipton) of “supermarket tea.”

In high school, sitting on the floor in candle-lit darkness and listening to Bob Dylan with my friends, we all drank coffee. Me included. But I sipped it slowly and suffered shortly after from stomach pains.  It was hard to be a rebel when you didn’t drink coffee, though, so I kept trying.

By the time I got to college I was a bit smarter, and had officially given up coffee experimentation. My drink was tea, although the water in Pittsburgh, where I went to school, tasted awful, so I added Diet Pepsi to my list of approved drinks for those four years.

When I started working at a corporation, coffee, again, was the politically acceptable drink. Water (hot or cold) or tea had not yet appeared in conference rooms. It was coffee. I was already obvious enough — I was usually the only woman in the room, and one of the few nonsmokers — so I filled my cup with plain water or milk, if it was available, and at meeting breaks (“coffee breaks,” of course) if there was time, I’d head  to the company cafeteria where they did have tea.

By the time I left the corporation, 30 years later, tea was always available at conferences and meetings, and, although there still weren’t too many of us drinking it, the biggest danger was putting a tea bag in a cup and then pouring hot coffee on top of it. Usually the carafe of hot water was unmarked. When I was at Bouchercon a few years back I did that again. A fellow tea drinker watched, sympathized … and offered to share his tea bag with me. (They were running low.) A truly generous soul!  But I carry my own now. Just in case.

Today, sitting in my study in Maine, I’ve expanded my tea preferences.  I begin my day with a cup of Red Rose. (For a couple of years I only drank green tea. Perhaps virtuous, but, especially in winter, I missed black tea.) Now my noon cup may either be green or black. Perhaps Earl Gray. Mid-afternoon calls for caffeine, so that cup is definitely black tea. But any caffeine after 4 p.m. ensures that I won’t sleep well that night, so after then I move to herb teas. “Sleepy time” or chamomile when I’m trying to relax.  Red or Lemon zinger if I’m still working. Or maybe another cup of green tea.  In the summer, of course, I brew my own iced tea:  a mixture of black and herb teas. And on a very cold winter’s afternoon, I’ve been known to add a touch of brandy to my mid-afternoon black tea.

Today others have discovered the joys of tea, and any supermarket has diverse and wonderful selections. Happily, studies have also shown that teas of all kinds have varying amounts of antioxidants, and might even help in weight loss.  I haven’t noticed any major differences … but, then, tea has always been a part of my life.

I suspect it always will be.

 

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Which would you pick??

John Clark wintering as well as one can when ice threatens to undo what physical therapy has rebuilt, and climbing snowbanks to restore visibility when backing out becomes a regular event. Today, I’m going to see how readers respond to a question I heard batted around on the Big Jab Morning Show a couple months ago.

Here goes: If you had to explain rock and roll to an alien visitor (that’s as in space, not a foreign country) by playing five songs, which ones would you pick? If you’re like me and grew up in the late 1950s-1960s, Rock probably had a strong influence on you. It certainly did for me. I remember my first ever concert during homecoming week at Arizona State University in the fall of 1966. It was the Fifth Dimension and I was mesmerized by the venue (Grady Gammage Auditorium) and the performance. That was followed over the next four years by many more, highlighted by Sweetwater stealing the show as opening act at a Doors concert, underground psychedelic shows in Phoenix and San Francisco, Santana, Crosby Stills & Nash, Jesse Colin Young, Led Zepplin, Creedence Chicago, Judy Collins, The Turtles, and the granddaddy of them all-Woodstock. In addition, I bought at least two LPs each week when I got paid, often by groups I’d never heard of, but was attracted by the album art.

All of that spoiled me and I probably changed favorite tunes and artists as frequently as I did t-shirts. For this exercise, I’m defining rock very loosely, so you can too. Out of my five, only the top two are forever cast in stone and I think that’s the nature of the beast.

Welcome aliens. I’d like to introduce you to one of the redeeming qualities of the human race, music, or more specifically rock music. I hope after hearing these (You can hear, I hope), you’ll have a decent understanding of why these are so great. Herewith are my five.

1-Light My Fire (long version) by the Doors. Every time I hear it come on the radio, I remember them playing it at the Phoenix Colosseum. Not long after seeing them, we had a fraternity party with a live band and the girl who played keyboards absolutely killed the long version.

2-Satisfaction by the Stones. I flash back to high school and enjoy the sensual energy that drove everyone onto the dance floor whenever this is played.

3-Wouldn’t It Be Nice by the Beach Boys. Has any song ever come close to the teen angst and emotion dripping from the lyrics? There are other Beach Boys greats (heck the whole Pet Sounds album is close to perfect), but this is their shining star.

4-Cherish by the Association. We got to see them in concert a few months ago in Orono and they were still damn good. Windy is also classic, but this one moves me more.

5-Amy by Pure Prairie League. It’s simple, happy and easy to sing along to, so I do whenever it comes on.

Those are my five, Please share yours.

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Where Do You Find Inspiration?

Kate Flora: I am just back from a vacation in Patagonia, where my fellow travelers, IMG_0620having learned that I’m a crime writer, kept asking if there was a plot emerging from the personalities and adventures on our trip. After years of toting my laptop along because of deadlines (and evil editors who sent manuscripts for revision just as I was about to leave), in the past year, I’ve vacationed without it. It’s part of an effort to be more present, or, in the words of Baba Ram Das, to “be here now.”

After twenty-five disciplined years in the writer’s chair, I sometimes have to heed the advice of Julia Cameron and go on an artist’s date. She says two hours. I say sometimes it helps to spend two weeks refilling the well of creativity.

Julia Cameron in her book “The Artist’s Way” describes an Artist’s Date as a key tool in recovering our creativity. Simply put an Artist’s Date “is a block of time, perhaps two hours weekly, especially set aside and committed to nurturing your creative consciousness, your inner artist. In its most primary form, the artist date is an excursion, a play date that you preplan and defend again all interlopers.” Artist’s Dates feed our creative well of images.

Although I didn’t take my computer, or take copious notes, being in different countries, among different people speaking different languages, and seeing different scenery serves as an important reminder to be observant. What is familiar to places in the U.S. in these dry, rolling hills? And what is very different? What’s it like to scan the roadsides and hillsides not for deer but for that first sighting of a guanaco or a rhea? To watch a pair of gray foxes playing outside the window during dinner. To go to a barbecue where the centerpiece is an entire roast lamb?

What are the different birds of prey that inhabit Argentina and Chile? What is it like to drive past a drab pond and then find the next pond has a hundred flamingoes? It is so exciting, and slightly jarring, find huge lakes the tempting color of the sea in the Caribbean, but so cold they contain giant, floating icebergs. How unlike everyday January to be standing near an enormous glacier that suddenly calves and dumps tons of ice into the lake with a roar or to crane my neck when someone on the bus shouts, “Condor!”

Even when things are familiar–a field of grass stirred by the wind or a mass of wild flowers–being on vacation supplies the leisure to actually stop and watch them, to feel the temperature of the wind, watch the grass wave, listen to the slap of wind-drive waves on the shore. (Patagonia, it turns out, it a very windy place.) There is time to watch the gaucho and his five dogs herding cattle across the road, or dozens of sheep running. Time to enjoy roadsides thick with the lupine we will enjoy in June.

From the vast windows of our amazing hotel, the peaks of Torres del Piney play hide and seek in the clouds, the snow, the fog, until we wonder if I will ever see them. Then, quite suddenly, everything lifts and there they are. Rugged. Massive. Towering over us. From the warm indoor pool, I can watch Rhea wandering past, their feathers perfectly blending the surrounding shrubbery.

Group tours are also useful for people-watching. How does the group interact? Who becomes friends? Who travels a lot and who is on a rare adventure? What parts of the country are these people drawn from and why have they chosen Patagonia? Where else have they been and was it great? What is it like for the sole young person on the trip to find himself with eighteen parents? As with police interviews, where it often takes more than one to get the story, people are revealed on hikes, at meals, in the bar, on the bus. Through good times and adversity, as the entire trip has to be rejiggered because the boat that will carry us through the Beagle Channel breaks down.

When I come home, and sit back down at the keyboard, I am reminded that I should be writing a narrative that locates you, that lets you see the people and places I am describing. That makes you wonder, as Thea is wondering, what all that commotion across the street is about. Makes you remember how much fun a trip to the hardware store can be. Makes you hungry for Rosie Florio’s cooking.

And of course, I can’t neglect to share this picture of my husband Ken’s tango lesson. I took one, too, but no photographs of the event exist.

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