He'll Turn Up

Here's a reprint of Robin Hathaway's Easter post from 2011. It's still fresh and good.

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When my children were small they were always losing things—a shoe, a toy, their homework (like I do now). And I would always chant absently, my familiar refrain, “Don’t worry, it’ll turn up.”

One Good Friday I was shopping with my youngest daughter, Anne. She was five or six at the time. And we passed a church. The door was open, lovely music was pouring out, and I thought piously, Anne should know that Easter isn’t just about bunnies and jellybeans. I decided to stop in for a few minutes, as you are allowed to do on Good Friday. After we had been in the pew, listening to the minister, for about ten minutes, I guess I looked a little depressed. (Good Friday tends to do that to me). Suddenly, Anne leaned over and whispered, “Don’t worry, Mommy, He’ll turn up.”

That night I called our minister, who was also an old friend, and told him the anecdote. He had a good chuckle.

On Easter Sunday as we approached our church all decked out in our Easter best, I glanced at the placard near the front door. The title of the sermon read, “He’ll Turn Up!”

On the way in, the minister’s wife took me aside and said, “He stayed up late last night revising his sermon.” Then she winked and said, “This one’s much better.”

Robin Hathaway

Remembering Robin

Robin Hathaway died a year ago today. What I’ve learned in the past year is that as a friend she is irreplaceable. When I try to write about her now I find that my words are at worst platitudinous and at best inadequate.

The blog post below is, for selfish reasons, one of my favorites. I am the friend that shared this “perfect day” with Robin. The day was fabulous and the post illustrates some of what everyone found so delightful about Robin.

Stephanie Patterson

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MONDAY, APRIL 23, 2012

A Perfect Day!

Last Friday I had what I consider a perfect day. In order to pull this off, you have to have balmy weather and a good friend who shares your love of books. Then you’re all set.

We started off at eleven a.m. after a leisurely breakfast over which we discussed the books we’d read since we’d last seen each other. As usual, our tastes agreed. We both love mysteries, from cozies to noir, as well as a vast variety of fiction and non-fiction – especially prime sources such as letters and diaries of our favorite authors. Some books we touched on were: The Uncommon Reader, by Alan Bennett, Lives of the Novelists, by John Sutherland, Case Histories by Kate Atkinson and Shoot the Piano Player by David Goodis.

Next, we headed out to Bookhaven, on Fairmount Ave., my idea of the perfect bookstore. When you open the door you’re assailed by the delicious scent of old books, a gray, striped cat is curled up on the counter, and the bookseller really knows her stock, from beginning to end. I asked for The Orations of Cicero, (for my husband), which she instantly produced, with the remark, “His letters are much livelier.” My friend and I moved on to the shelves that interested us. I came away with Short Stories by Wilkie Collins, Wartime Writings by Saint-Exupery, a Lescroart, The Second Chair, (and, of course, the Cicero).

For some reason, book browsing stimulates the appetite, so we found our way to a restaurant with outdoor tables. It was about 70 degrees with a light breeze. There, we had soup, salads, and a glass of white wine that we consumed amid more talk about books. From there we returned home to freshen up for the evening event – a celebration of David Goodis, local noir author extraordinaire. The program was held at the Free Library of Philadelphia. It began with a showing of “The Burglar,” starring Dan Duryea and Jayne Mansfield. This 1950 film was made from a Goodis novel by the same name. After the film, an editor from Library of America spoke about Goodis and read some passages from his novels. Lou Boxer, a director of Philadelphia’s NoirCon, did a power point presentation on Goodis’s life in Philadelphia and his career.

As we emerged from the Library to look for a cab, we realized that finding one at that hour and location was about as likely as a snow storm in July. As we prepared to spend the night curled up on the Library steps, we spied two friends — Deen Kogan and Greg Gillespie. Seeing our plight, they saved the day (rather — the night) by offering us a ride.

At home again, we broke out a chilled bottle of Chardonnay and — you guessed it — talked about books.

Don’t you agree this was a perfect day?

Robin Hathaway

How I Became A Woman of Mystery

“Oh, you’re being such a snob!”

I am a snob, but I always hate it when people catch me at it.

The judgment came from my friend, Jean Griffith, who had just announced to me that she read only mysteries. I sniffed a bit and allowed as how I never read them.

“Well, try this,” she said, brandishing a copy of Cover Her Face by P.D. James as if it was a sword.

Coles House

Jean and I lived at Coles House, then a residence for young ladies in Center City Philadelphia, so I returned to my tiny room and read most of the night. It changed my life (and I still remember whodunnit). Though I had studied and learned to revere contemporary fiction, I couldn’t deny the pull of a book that boasted a beginning, a middle and an end. The characters were well drawn and actually did things (like kill people); they didn’t just sit around displaying their exquisite sensibilities.

So I became quite the little mystery addict. My substance of choice was cheap (when I started reading mysteries they were a mere $2.50) and Jean, like any good supplier, was full of sage advice (“Try Ngaio Marsh. The books are only $2.25 and the print is REALLY small!”)

James Ellroy

Jean and I went to the 1989 Bouchercon. James Ellroy signed my copy of The Big Nowhere (“Stephanie—To the wooooo of your sensuality”), kissed my hand and suggested we might spend the afternoon discussing his books. Alas, the 150 people behind me in the book signing line had other ideas.

While that was a cheap thrill, it was not nearly as important as my introduction to Robin Hathaway. (Jean worked with Bob, Robin’s husband). Robin was not yet published and was at Bouchercon to learn from those who were. On the last day of the conference Jean and I came home with Robin and feasted on cheese, crackers and wine which if you are having them with good friends constitute life’s most perfect meal.

Unfortunately, Jean died in 1997 around the time that Robin was published. Robin and I subsequently became frequent mystery conference roomies going to many Bouchercons and Malice Domestics. (or is that Malices Domestic?)

Somewhere along the way Robin and I discovered that we liked a lot of the noir writers. I still remember the first time I read Cornell Woolrich’s Waltz into Darkness. It made me feel cheap and dirty. I couldn’t wait to feel that way again. Then Robin discovered Noircon, a mystery conference designed to honor David Goodis and other noir writers. Who knew that moral turpitude and depravity could be hilarious? I still remember the early Friday morning panel on erotic elements in noir novels. There was a lively discussion of bestiality with the exchanges like this:

“What’s the big deal about bestiality?”

“The animal can’t consent.”

Robin wrote furiously and pushed a piece of paper in front of me.

I looked down. “They don’t have these kinds of discussions at Malice,” she had written.

Yes, I really miss Robin and am delighted to have a spot on this blog.

In Memory of Robin

 Robin Hathaway wrote to vividly here of her remembrances, from childhood onward, of her time at the shore.  Many of our mystery writing colleagues are finding this blog an appropriate space to express their love of Robin and their regrets over her loss.  Here are musical and photographic inspirations of one of Robin's loves.  Click on the music and take a walk on the beach.

Remembering Robin

Robin Hathaway at Partners and Crime Booksellers,
April 8, 2008. Photo by Margaret Mendel

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Robin and I weren't "girl-friends". We were fellow warriors, in similar but different foxholes.

She followed her star, I followed mine, but we were able to trade strengths where needed.

Our stars were different, but compatible.

We recognized each other's toughness, and though our personal paths were different, we sensed we both fought many of the same wars.

Early on, I championed her doctor books in my reviews for Marilyn Henderson's LADY M.

I could always count on Robin to deliver the goods.

I believe she knew I'd deliver for her too.

On my first trembling initiation seat as a member of the MWA-NY Board, Robin was there to welcome me.

I returned the favor with my positive reviews of her books.

She was always a generous, willing mentor to the Mentor Committee. If we needed another volunteer, Robin was always there for us!

To show her my gratitude, I concocted a fancy dummy prize for the Deadly Ink DAVID prize and gave her a little party at Juliano's to showcase the strange huge creation in public, having invited another Smith English Major to show the flag to please her!

Always ready to help, Robin joined Marge Mendel and me in preparing food for our mutual friend, Bob Knightly, for his book party at my place and the table was laden with food for an army!

A fellow animal lover, Robin often had us in stitches with stories about the wild life on her place on the Jersey Shore. I can still see the ducks and cats following her!

Sophisticated, highly-educated, Robin was always a plain, simple person, a lady, but never haughty or mean, a worker, but never domineering, a fiercely strong soul, but outwardly gentle.

Not long ago, we lunched at the Lex on Lexington East 91st Street, where she interviewed me about what I'd seen as a kid in WW2, for her current WIP. She took careful notes on the Nazi boxes I'd found on the Norfolk beach, the boyish German soldiers, ferried and bound on the Norfolk Naval Base, the blackout curtains tacked up over our windows at night on Chesapeake Bay.

I knew this was a hard book to write, even for her.

Robin, I hope you completed it, but, if you didn't, I hope you'll finish it from way up there, where I know you'll have tons of time now to create your lovely stories…

We'll miss you, but I believe firmly that good people on planet Earth have a good time in Eternity!

God bless, and thank you for your gifts while you made this brief stop down here on our little planet…

Thelma Jacqueline Straw

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I met Robin Hathaway at the Mentor Program MWA put on at the Mystery Library on E. 47th St. years ago. She was on the dais as Poster Girl for the MWA Mentor Program, having had her novel, The Doctor Digs A Grave, bought by St. Martin’s as the Best First in the Contest. She always gave the credit to Eleanor Hyde, her Mentor, who stayed around and saw her through to publication. (Eleanor was always a very fine writer and generous friend.) Two of a kind.

But I remember Robin most from our infrequent face-to-face meetings in recent years. In 2011, I was invited to be on a mystery authors panel at the Mid-Atlantic Cultural Something-or-other Convention being held at a hotel in Philadelphia, Robin’s home town. My head turned by the high-sounding invitation, I mentioned it to Robin who offered me a bed in her home for the duration of my stay. I met her impressive, gracious husband, Dr. Bob Keisman.

As things panned out, the mystery authors made their excuses except for me so I was paired with three PhD adjunct Community College English teachers who all spoke on the potboiler novels of Mary Shelley. Well, actually they read their ‘papers’ to the audience of nine in a hotel room the size of a ‘studio’ with a hotplate in an SRO. Robin was there and taking notes (I swear). I’ll always remember that.

Bob Knightly

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Click here to see Robin's obituary on Philly.com.

Robin

Our own beloved Robin Hathaway passed away on Saturday after a moderately long illness. She was so sweet-natured that I never knew anybody who didn't like her. A kind and generous friend, devoted to her husband, daughters, and grandchildren, and devoted to writing, she wrote all her life long, though she didn't begin to get published until she won the St. Martin’s Malice Domestic Best Traditional First Mystery Competition for THE DOCTOR DIGS A GRAVE in 1997, at an age when most people are thinking of retiring. Her books are great fun.

Her posts for The Crime Writers' Chronicle were great fun too. Here's one of my favorites, the post from January 24, 2011, in which she passes the baton to the next generation.

Kate Gallison

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First Book Signing

Not mine. My seven-year-old grandson, Luke’s. Last spring he had written a “chapter book” for school, entitled “Iron Man.” It had nine chapters and was even illustrated. Some highlights — a trip to the “Iron Cream Store” to buy “iron cream cones” and a gift of a zebra who wasn’t “potty-trained.” I was so taken with his tale that I rashly promised to publish it.

Luke was thrilled and gave me his manuscript. Weeks went by, then months, until one day I received a polite email from his mother (my daughter) reminding me of my promise. It seems the author was getting restless. Chagrinned, I told his mother to tell Luke that it usually takes a year to publish a book, and got to work immediately.

I typed the manuscript in 14 pt type and added a dedication: “To Mom, Dad and Maddie (his sister) with love,” and an “About the Author” section at the back, describing Luke’s seven year life, plus a photo of him in his Little League uniform. Then I took his full-color illustrations to a copy-store to copy. Being mechanically challenged (I have probably destroyed millions of dollars worth of equipment in my life) I had to ask an employee to help me. With copies in hand I went home, got out my light table (a relic from a former stint in the graphic arts), scissors and rubber cement, and began the paste-up. (I know, I know, nobody does that anymore. But I don’t have a scanner, and even if I did, I probably wouldn’t know how to work it. I had to fall back on my ancient skills.)

Once the paste-up was done, I took it back to the copy-shop and told them I would like four volumes of the book printed and bound with hard covers. This posed a problem. A hardcover binding can’t be done with less than 1 ¼ inches of paper. Luke’s book was only one inch wide. Sensing my consternation, the young woman, whose name was Erika, suggested I allot a whole page to each illustration, instead of bundling them in with the text. “That might make up the difference,” she said.

Back to the light table. The next morning I took the revised paste-up to the store and told Erika I needed the bound volumes the next day. I was going to visit my daughter that weekend and Luke would be expecting his book. She promised they would be ready. But when I went to pick them up, there was a strange woman at the counter who couldn’t find my order and claimed she knew nothing about it. I panicked ! “Where is Erika?” I cried. The stranger said to come back in an hour, when Erika would be back from lunch. I spent a miserable hour in a coffee shop imagining Luke’s disappointment. He has large, expressive, dark eyes. I was back at the shop on the dot of the hour. Wonder of wonders, Erika was there, brandishing four bound volumes of “Iron Man”! They were beautiful.

Would you like an inscription, or just my signature?

The books were received with all the enthusiasm I had expected, and Luke announced, his dark eyes dancing, that he would have a signing after dinner. (He knew all about signings, having attended some of mine.) Various relations gathered in the living room and Luke obligingly signed the four books--one for his parents, one for each set of grandparents, and one for an aunt and uncle. He even held a question and answer session afterward. One relation asked the author if he outlined. With a puzzled expression, he said, “What’s an outline?”

Exactly my sentiments. He must be a chip off the old block.

Robin Hathaway

NoirCon!

Last March, Robin Hathaway urged everybody to sign up for NoirCon, the conference for writers of noir mysteries and their fans. Tomorrow is the first day of the conference – this is Noircon weekend – and in honor of that, we're reposting her thoughts on the festivities – Kate Gallison

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It’s a chilly, rainy day here in Philadelphia, a fitting day to contemplate the Noir genre. Noir is not everyone’s cup of tea. But then, cups of tea are for the cozy readers. Noir is for the straight Scotch at one gulp readers. I have tried to write Noir novels, to no avail. The last time I tried, a reviewer wrote, “Hathaway’s latest novel can be safely read by your teenage niece or the country vicar.” Since then, I’ve given up on writing Noir, but that doesn’t prevent me from reading it and enjoying it, or — from attending Noir conventions, such as NoirCon 2012 in Philadelphia, November 8th to 11th.

Deen Kogan and Lou Boxer are a great team that always put on a wonderful show. I’ve been to two of their productions, and there was never a dull moment. This year, Lawrence Block is the winner of the “David Goodis Award.” Goodis is one of our best Noir writers, from the 1940s and 50s. Library of America has just published a collection of his works.

At the last NoirCon, many of us tried to define, “Noir.” We said things like, “Well, er, it’s about losers with, er, no futures, stumbling into criminal activities, uh, making poor life choices, er, leading to self-destruction, uh….” Others claimed it was the setting that distinguishes noir novels. They are more atmospheric than other crime novels, set in gloomy night clubs featuring used-up torch singers surrounded by swirling smoke, or abandoned warehouses, or third-rate motels. After many attempts, we settled for the French translation of Noir, which is simply — black.

Ironically, despite all the gloom and doom, I’ve never been to a conference where there was more laughter than NoirCon. So, if you’re looking for a really good time, in a dark and depressing atmosphere, sign up for NoirCon 2012.

I’ll be there — laughing.

Robin Hathaway

Hurricane of August 1944 Redux

Here's Robin Hathaway's post from August of last year, where she reminisces about the Great Storm that hit Stone Harbor, carrying away their boardwalk, which was never replaced. I thought you might find it edifying this week – Kate Gallison

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MONDAY, AUGUST 29, 2011

Memories of a Hurricane Past
Stone Harbor, New Jersey, August, 1944.

The day began overcast and muggy. As the day wore on the air became more clammy and clingy and there was an eerie stillness. No leaf, flag, or skirt stirred. My brother and I were restless and excited. Our father was nervous, listening closely to the warnings on the radio. Our mother was oblivious, napping on the sofa.

Around four o’clock the sky took on a yellow stain. A little later, the wind and rain began. Our house was only a block and a half from the ocean. My brother and I took up our post on the stair landing, where there was a window from which we could see the boardwalk and the ocean. As we gleefully watched the storm gather strength our father banged doors and windows shut, and our mother slept peacefully on.

Suddenly, as we watched, the little pavilion on the boardwalk, with its bright green roof, was tossed in the air, as if part of a toy village, and disappeared. About this time, our father decided to evacuate us and return to Philadelphia. “Everyone put on your rain gear and grab your most precious possession,” he ordered. “We’re leaving.”

At this point the lights went out and my mother woke up. “What’s going on?” she asked, innocently. Immediately taking in the situation, she said, “John, don’t you think it’s a little late for that?”

But my father persisted and I found myself in my bedroom facing a difficult decision. On top of the bed lay my violin, newly purchased for the pursuit of a musical career. Under the bed was a pair of fuzzy, bunny, bedroom slippers. After a few seconds, I grabbed the slippers.

Finally gathered on the front porch, clutching our personal treasures, we watched the rushing torrent that had once been 86th Street. Although the water was over the hubcaps of our car, my father, led us bravely down the steps toward it. Just then a police car appeared, churning water right and left. The officer rolled down his window and waved us back. “Stay where you are,” he said. “Your house is on the highest point of land.” {Not all that reassuring since everyone knows, the Jersey Shore is flat.) He churned onward.

Back we trooped into the darkening house, to sit in gloom at the kitchen table eating cold cuts and sipping lemonade. (I think my parents had something stronger.)

Two hours later, the sun burst out in the form of a radiant sunset. The winds died down, the rivers receded, and the streets reappeared. It was one of the most tranquil evenings I can remember. Eagerly, my brother and I set out to see the damage. A strange scene met our eyes. The boardwalk that had stretched the length of the beach for almost a hundred years had vanished. All that remained were the pilings that looked as if they had been measured and sawed off at the exact same height by an unseen hand. At regular intervals along the sand, were neat piles of seashells – exotic conchs that had never graced the Jersey Shore before. An apartment house, a longtime fixture on the boardwalk, had been stripped of its seaward wall, and looked like the back of a giant doll’s house – all its rooms visible with their furnishings tumbled about.

Belatedly realizing that we might be in danger – of exposed electric wires, gaping chasms, etc., – our parents appeared and dragged us home. When I entered my room, the first thing I saw was my violin. Still snug in its case on the bed – a sad reminder of a musical career – lost forever.

Robin Hathaway

My First Library

It was really just a room in our school. It had big windows on two sides and shelves on the other two. The shelves were low so people less than 4 feet could reach them easily. It was called “The Little Library" to differentiate it from the big library where all the older kids went. In the middle of the room were three round tables with small chairs tucked around them. This is where we sat to read our books. You could go in there anytime you had free time, before school, if you came early, after school if your mother was late picking you up. Or, after lunch, during recess, etc. It was a hideout, a shelter, a sanctuary.

One day I was in the library during lunch. I had found a wonderful book. It had a battered orange cover and the illustrations were all in black and white silhouettes. It was called The Railway Children. Suddenly the door opened and Miss Harper, my Third Grade teacher, looked in.

“There you are!” We were looking all over for you.” She came over to see what I was reading and her expression softened. “Oh, that was one of my favorite books,” she said. And she showed me how to sign the book out so I could take it home with me.

All the way home I kept wondering: Why would Miss Harper have wanted to read a children’s book?

Robin Hathaway

My First Bookstore

My first bookstore was “The Frigate” (There is no frigate like a book…” It was housed in a Colonial building at the end of our street. It had a bright red door and the sign that hung outside bore a picture of a sailing ship and the lettering was very ornate and old-fashioned.

The door was open from nine to five on weekdays and ten to six on Saturdays. Closed on Sundays. The proprietor’s name was Polly.

When we first moved to this neighborhood I was too young to cross the big street alone. It was a major thoroughfare with trolleys and trucks. I would have to wait for my mother to take me. But on my tenth birthday, she decided I was old enough to go by myself. Clutching my hard-saved allowance and birthday money in my hand, ($2) I set off.

Since I arrived on the dot of nine, there was no one else in the store. Just me. It was as quiet as the library except for the soft tap tapping of a typewriter in a back room. I hesitated for a minute, then took the plunge and began browsing among the shelves, inhaling the heady aroma of new paper and fresh ink, the smell of newly printed books. I don’t know how long I prowled there, but after awhile the little bell over the door rang and another customer came in. At this point, Polly emerged from the backroom, and seeing me first, said, “Can I help you?”

“No,” was my resolute response. I didn’t want any help. This book was to be my choice and mine alone.

She smiled and moved on to the other customer. A tall woman who looked like a schoolteacher, she gave me a disapproving glance, probably wondering why such a young person was in a bookshop alone. I clutched my money tighter and continued to study the brightly colored spines of the books.

Unfortunately, I don’t remember what book I finally picked, but knowing my taste at that time, it was probably the latest Nancy Drew mystery.

Robin Hathaway

Summer Reading List

Here are a few books I’ve enjoyed this summer that I’d like to share with you.

THE UNCOMMON READER by Alan Bennett.
The perfect book to read during the year of the Diamond Jubilee!

MRS. PALFREY AT THE CLAREMONT by Elizabeth Taylor.

I had read Elizabeth Taylor’s short stories in the New Yorker and liked them, but I had never read any of her novels. This one is charming. The author understands what growing old is all about and portrays the process in many shades of gray with great sympathy. I want to read more by this author

ANY MRS. MALORY MYSTERIES by Hazel Holt.

This writer got me through the heat wave. She is like a cool bath or a glass of cold lemonade, not too sweet. Tart.

MARY OLIVER/POETRY.

I’m not big on modern poetry, mainly because I usually don’t understand it. But this poet is very understandable, and her poems are like a cold drink of water,

That’s it! If you have any books you' d like to share, I'd love to hear about them.

Robin Hathaway

Summer Slump

Recently I have been overcome with lethargy. At first I blamed it on the heat, but it got cooler and I am still a sloth. All I want to do is lie around, read mysteries, and take naps. Occasionally I eat or drink something to keep going, but nothing that requires any effort or imagination. Soup and a sandwich, iced tea (the powdered kind) or lemonade (the bottle kind). And ice cream. Plenty of that.

This is no way to live. Nothing gets accomplished. You fall behind in everything—paying bills, writing thank you notes, cleaning, blogging… and you know you will suffer the consequences of having to catch up later. You get fat. (Fatter?) and an unfinished manuscript languishes on my desk.

I long for fall. I love those brisk autumn breezes and pungent scents that wake me up and act like a cattle prod to get me going. But autumn is more than two months away! Meanwhile, how can I motivate myself? Any suggestions are welcome.

Robin Hathaway

Don't Touch That Book!

Recently I was complaining to a friend about the hazards of having too many books. She said, “Why don’t you have an appraiser come in and tell you which ones are valuable? Keep those, and get rid of the rest?”

Logical, right?

Wrong. Because my idea of valuable and the appraisers may not agree. He’ll be talking monetary value; I’ll be talking sentimental value.

How could I ever get rid of that scuffed volume of “A Child’s Garden of Verses,” illustrated by Nathaniel Wyeth and Jesse Wilcox Smith? The one with the picture of a duck drawn in crayon on the inside back cover, by my mother when she was four years old.

Or… that set of Edgar Allan Poe with the black crinkly binding and silk ribbon bookmarks. Or…the tattered complete set of Dick Francis in paperback, that I know I’ll reread again and again.

Or… all of Dorothy Sayres, Margery Allingham, and Josephine Tey? Or… ”The Long Goodbye,” by Raymond Chandler in which I marked the passage where the hero goes into a hotel bar early and describes the making of a martini as if he were in church watching the priest perform his sacred rituals. Or… the battered copy of “Rebecca” with all the suspense passages marked to be read to my class in mystery writing. Or… I could go on and on.

The trouble is—these books are my friends. And when I go to sleep at night it is a comfort to be surrounded by them.How can I think of getting rid of even one of them?
It’s hopeless.

Robin Hathaway

In Other Words —

Not long ago I came across a copy of Johnson’s Dictionary at a flea market. While rummaging through the dusty tome, I found some wonderful words that are no longer in use. I would love to bring them back to life. For example:

AFTERWISE, Wise too late.
(What a wonderful word to describe the whole process of bringing up children. Why had it fallen into disuse?)

DISHCLOUT, the cloth with which one washed dishes long ago, (or broke them).

FLAPDRAGON, a game in which the players catch raisins out of burning brandy. (Sounds like fun to me!)

FLESHQUAKE, a tremor of the body. (How much more exciting than the feeble shivers and shudders we have today.)

FLITTERMOUSE, the bat. (What a beautiful name for such an unsavory critter, eh, Bob?)

GRUMLY, sullenly, morosely. (the way this heat wave makes me feel!)

GUTTLE, to feed luxuriously, gourmetize, a low word. (To pig out, is the modern substitue.)

MOIL, to labor in the mire.

RANTIPOLE, to run about wildly (like my two-year-old grandson.)

STAR-PROOF, impervious to starlight. (Most of the proofs we have today are good proofs--fire-proof, water-proof, moth-proof. But “star-proof”! What an awful thing to be. As I sat pondering this at the window, the first star of evening appeared. I gazed at it a little longer than usual.

Robin Hathaway

Moving With Books

Don’t. Leave them behind. Sell them. Give them away. But don’t move with them. Especially don’t ask your friends and relatives to help you move them. That is, if you want to continue to have friends and relatives. If you don’t want to spend the rest of your life as a hermit. (Of course, you could get a lot of reading done.)

If you insist on moving with books, do it yourself. The whole operation — packing the boxes, loading the boxes in the van, unloading the boxes from the van, unpacking the boxes, putting the books on the shelves. That is the only safe way to avoid being shunned, dropped, avoided, sued for back injuries, etc.

Recently we closed up our New York apartment and moved all our stuff to Philadelphia. I don’t know how we managed to crowd so much stuff into two rooms. Of course, the “stuff” was mostly MY books. Five bookcases full. I put a lot down in the Laundry Room for anyone to take. But that didn’t even make a dent in the amount. We still have to make one more car trip back to New York to collect the BIG books — the ones that wouldn’t fit in the boxes.

Now the Philadelphia house resembles a book warehouse, because it was full of books before we moved the new ones in. I can barely squeeze between the boxes to reach our bed. And I don’t know how much longer I can sleep with a box of books for a pillow. It will take us weeks to unpack and get things back to normal. Normal? What’s that? Oh, yeah, taking books out of the library and then returning them.

I could open a used bookstore tomorrow, if I so desired. The trouble is — I’d rather read than sell them. My fate is sealed. I’m an incurable bookaholic.

Future generations won’t have this problem. When they move, they’ll just tuck their Kindle or Nook or Whatever, under their arm and their library will be ready to go on moving day. They won’t even have to dust their precious volumes.

Robin Hathaway

The Sherlock Birthday Party: Pictures

Here are some photos from the Sherlock Holmes party I described in my post of the week before last.

Himself

Preparing the clues: Diana Dander, Sarah Sahara, and Farmer Fred.

Detective team led by Sherlock puzzling over clues.

Lots of crime tape for decorations.

Africa! The game's afoot!

Many of the kids said it was the "best party they had ever been to!"

Robin Hathaway

Sounds That Once Set My Heart Racing…

…now set my teeth grinding. For example:

The Ice Cream Cart Jingle
When I was a child and heard that tune, I would rush out with my nickel or dime full of anticipation. Today, that repetitive melody sends me rushing to shut the windows and a desire to hire a sniper to pick off the driver.

Fire Engine Sirens…
…used to send me racing to the window to see if there was smoke on our street. If there was, I would run out to join in the excitement. Now I plug up my ears until the noise dies away and I can go about my business.

A Telephone Ringing…
…once had me tearing to the phone to answer it. Maybe it was a girlfriend, or even--a BOYFRIEND! Now the sound merely irritates me. I know it will be either a telemarketer or someone asking for a donation to some cause I have no interest in, or, worse yet, someone doing a survey.

The Thump of the Mail Hitting the Floor of the Vestibule…
…would bring me panting to see if that boy I met at summer camp had finally written to me. Or, when I was younger, if Grandma had sent a present or a card with a dollar bill enclosed. Today I know the mail will be nothing but bills, advertisements, and catalogs selling wart-removal ointment, back braces, and lotions to prevent receding hair.

The Clink and Clank of Pots and Pans in the Kitchen…
…once signaled my grandmother was baking cookies or my mother was preparing a delicious dinner. Now it’s probably the cat threading her way through the pots on the stove looking for a stray morsel or my husband making a pot of fresh coffee.

A Shrill Whistle…
…from a boy wearing a Phillies baseball cap and had a chip out of his front tooth, would send me careening onto the sidewalk to play stick ball, roller skate, or dig fox holes in the back woods. Today that same whistle would send me to the sidewalk again, to see how that cute guy turned out.

Robin Hathaway

Knowing Thyself at Nine

My grandson, Luke, was nine last month. His mother asked him what theme he would like for his birthday party. He quickly said, “Sherlock Holmes.” (I like to think I had some influence there.)

“Fine,” said his mother, and promptly found him a pipe and a magnifying glass. But I provided the topper. I remembered a Deerstalker hat from some long ago Halloween, and after a brief search I found it on the floor of a closet. A bit dusty and moth-eaten but I brushed it off and sent it to Virginia via priority mail.

According to my sources, Luke put the hat on his head the minute it arrived and wore it until bedtime. When his mother insisted he take it off until the next day, Luke said, “It fits me perfectly.”

At that point, his father came in the room and said, “I thought it was a little big.”

“No, no. I don’t mean the size! I mean my personality.”

Robin Hathaway

Keep That First Draft!

My father was an artist and he also taught History of Art.

He always urged his students to not only look at the artist’s finished masterpiece, but to find and study the preliminary sketches of the work. He believed that those early sketches often had a vitality and spontaneity that got lost or refined away in the finished painting.

The same can be said of a novel. Too much polishing and refining can erase the early energy and excitement of the first draft. It’s important to reread that first telling of your story before you send out your manuscript. Although the first draft is rough, in terms of vocabulary and structure, it may have an electric quality that you want to maintain. Make sure the original spark is still there and that the early energy hasn’t been diluted.

If it has – put it back again.

Robin Hathaway

Overheard at a Writer’s Conference

Definition of a writer: “A shrinking violet wrapped around an egomaniac.”

“How long does it take you to finish a novel?”
“As Paul Valery said, ‘A novel is never finished, it is simply abandoned.'”

“How did she ever get published?”

“My books are always hidden behind somebody else’s!”

Successful author: “I hate giving talks and being on panels.”
Unpublished writer: “Oh, come on, you know you love it.”

“Are you coming to the next conference?”
“Over my dead body!”

Robin Hathaway