Searching for Christmas Past

RHYS BOWEN: Within the last week or so I finished next year’s Christmas book in the Molly Murphy series. It will be called The Ghost of Christmas Past. And also the paperback of last year’s book, Away in a Manger, has just been published (can you say stocking stuffer?) I love writing these books because they give me an excuse to go back to the past and experience the Christmas of long ago.

I suppose like many of us, I think back with nostalgia to the Christmases of my childhood. They weren’t nearly as grand as the country house party that Lady Georgie attends in my other book, The Twelve Clues of Christmas, but they were extremely satisfying because of all the small traditions and expectations, repeated each year. The week before Christmas we’d go carol singing around the village and be invited in for drinks and goodies. 

We would drive to my grandmother’s house on Christmas Eve, bringing with us the Christmas tree (trees were smaller in those days and I suppose we must have strapped it onto the roof of the car). We’d decorate it while my grandmother served hot punch and mince pies. We’d string paper chains around the house.  After supper we children would be put to bed, but of course we stayed awake, hoping for a glimpse of Father Christmas.  At midnight the grown-ups went to midnight mass at Bath Abbey. I couldn’t wait to be old enough to join them. It was magic sitting in that beautiful building, listening to the choir singing those wonderful hymns and then walking home through the frosty night, our breath coming out like dragon-fire.  At home we were greeted with more hot mince pies and sausage rolls.

                Our presents appeared in pillow cases at the foot of our beds. We opened them at first light, sitting up in bed surrounded by wrapping paper. I suspect we ate the sugar mice right then. I’ve been longing for another sugar mouse ever since!

The presents in my childhood were nothing like today’s gifts:  a sweater, a book, and in my teens a long playing record ( I guess that dates me horribly.)   The day itself was simple—highlighted by the turkey and the Christmas pudding, brought flaming to the table at lunch. Snooze afterward then the magnificent Christmas cake, frosted to look like a snow scene with little porcelain figures on it. And small presents had miraculously appeared on the tree and were handed out after tea. We children were required to put on some kind of entertainment—a pantomime or charades. Then a cold turkey supper and bed.  

It sounds almost boring now, but it was special because our lives were so much simpler the rest of the year. It was the only time in the year we ate turkey, or dates or saw tangerines in the stores.  Today when everything is available all the time and we have so much more, it’s hard to create the thrill of treats. We try hard—that’s why stores start blaring Christmas music at us in October.  We up the ante by requiring bigger and better presents—remember the ad to “put a Lexus under the tree?”  Right. We want that feeling of a special occasion but we don’t know where to find it.

                I’ve gone looking for it myself on several occasions—one year we rented a cabin in the snow with friends. We arrived to a picture perfect Christmas card scene. We awoke next morning to rain. It rained non-stop all week. No snow, no skiing, just bored children imprisoned in a cabin with no TV, playing endless games of cards and charades.

                One year we took a Christmas market cruise down the Danube, going around the markets in each small town. It was quite magical with the booths and the lights and the smell of sausage and cinnamon and hand carved toys. I loved it. John complained “How many more angels does anyone need to look at?”

And one year we decided to do away with commercialism and make handmade gifts.  I made dolls and quilts and others made candles and pillows and scarves. When we exchanged gifts on Christmas morning we tried to be thrilled and excited, realizing the supreme effort each one of us had made. But it’s really hard to get excited about a fleece pillow or a painted bottle. I was the first to crack. “Okay,” I said. “I did go to the store and bought these little extras.”

                “So did I,” one daughter said. “I did too,” said another. And laughing we handed out real, store-bought gifts. I guess we’re not Little house on the Prairie after all.

                So how about you? Do you still have nostalgia for long-ago holidays? Do you seek to recreate them?

Could You Succeed as a Private Detective?

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: There’s no question that writing a wonderful novel requires a lot of sitting down at your desk and just writing the darn thing. But there’s a lot more, especially when an author is devoted to the story.

I’m so enchanted by Susan Breen’s novel. I wouldn’t have predicted that I’d be drawn to something so…sweetly thoughtfully sensitive.  But Maggie Dove is a treasure.  And I am so delighted to hear the bravery and risk-taking that went into it!

And the self-awareness.

Today, Susan Breen shares her adventures! Could you be the main character in your own book? Susan decided to find out first hand. And see below for a wonderful giveaway!

AN AUTHOR’S EDUCATION

               By Susan Breen

When I finished writing my first mystery, Maggie Dove, I discovered, to my surprise, that I had ended the book with Maggie opening a detective agency. This seemed like a fabulous idea until I started writing the second book and realized I had no idea what being a private detective entailed, beyond having watched a significant number of Thin Man movies some time ago. It was a conundrum, especially because the book deadline was in six months.

I did the obvious thing. I googled private detective and came up with a lot of useful information, but what I really wanted to know was what it would be like for a normal person (using the word normal in the broadest sense of the word) to open a detective agency. So, I decided to become a detective myself, which it turns out you can do on line.

Every month or so, a brown-wrapped package shows up in my mailbox with readings on such topics as “Becoming a Process Server, “Conducting Marital Investigations,” and my favorite: “What are Gut Feelings?” Every session ends with a test. (I’m happy to report I’ve aced each test!) 

Best of all, each session includes a number of detective exercises. These included such things as how to go through your neighbor’s trash (which I refrained from doing) and how to conduct surveillance, which I did. Along the way, I’ve learned a number of intriguing things, about myself and about detectives.

1    

       

 First, and to my surprise, I discovered I am fabulous at surveillance. I spent an afternoon following various people around Times Square (because I work near there) and I can affirm that nobody noticed a thing. This is the great advantage of being a short middle-aged woman. Quite honestly, I think I could hurl myself at someone and they wouldn’t notice. 

           Less surprising, I discovered I am terrible at car surveillance. Somehow, turning on an ignition makes things more serious. The exercise was to follow someone in a car and take pictures, “when convenient.” I can tell you that it is never convenient to drive and take pictures. By the time I entered the password to turn on my phone, the “suspect” was long gone. However, I did put that experience to good use in Maggie Dove’s Detective Agency.

3        Maybe the most surprising thing I’ve learned is how much information is public. You would not believe what you can learn about yourself, or your relatives, or your boss. Just starting with the stuff that’s easy to find, and free, there are real estate records, title records, criminal records, divorce records. Things that you would cringe to have other people know are right there, and I’m leaving out the special PI data banks, that you have to pay for but give you access to even more.

4        Finally, I was surprised to discover how many opportunities there are for women in this field. I thought there would be a lot more physical intimidation involved (which is not an area in which I excel.) But most of being a private detective is about gathering information—interviewing people, phoning them, following them. In fact, the primary requirements seem to be intelligence, patience and creativity.

Perhaps my main take-away from all of this is how much I enjoy being a private detective. Should things go south with Maggie Dove, you may find me stalking you. But you won’t notice. So don’t worry.

Have you ever had to learn something weird in order to be able to do your job?

HANK:  Yes. Every day. And happily so.  How about you, Reds? And leave a comment to be entered for a copy of  MAGGIE DOVE'S DETECTIVE AGENCY! But Susan, I have to say, your personal story is hilarious. An on-line detective? Who'd have thought?

But Reds and readers, what’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever tried?  (Debs, peanut butter and mayonnaise doesn’t count…)

Susan Breen is the author of the Maggie Dove mystery series, published by the Alibi digital imprint of Penguin Random House. Her short stories have been published by a number of magazines, among them Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, American Literary Review and Best American Non-Required Reading. An upcoming Maggie Dove mystery story will be published by Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Susan teaches creative writing at Gotham Writers in Manhattan. She lives in a small village in the Hudson Valley with her husband, two dogs (cockapoos) and a cat. Her three grown children are flourishing elsewhere.

Like A Rolling Stone

RHYS BOWEN: During the past three days I have flown from Mexico where I was celebrating with our entire family to our condo in Arizona and then driven from Arizona back to our house in California. It sometimes seems that I spend my life planning what to wear in a certain place, packing, then unpacking and doing laundry. One thing is certain, I am always on the move. (Though maybe not as frequently as Hank!)

One of my great-great grandfathers was disinherited for running off and marrying a gypsy. My French great grandmother Josephine went out to Australia by ship in her eighties. I blame them for this desire to wander. It has certainly been with me all my life, ever since I waded out into the sea, wearing only my sunbonnet at the age of two and had to be rescued when the water rose up to my neck. I went across Europe on my own in my early teens. At fifteen I crossed Paris alone from one station to another to join family friends in the French Alps.

I always dreamed of going to Australia and put this plan into action when I was 24. I'd only just arrived there when I met a charming Englishman and married him. He was heading to California. We married and the rest is history. Luckily he was with an airline so we have traveled the world ever since. We've stayed in a houseboat on a lake in Kashmir. We drove in a jeep up to Ladakh. We have visited Uluru and Kakadu in the Australian Outback. And I can't see us slowing down any time soon.

Whenever I get home I swear that I will stay put for a while. I will put down roots and enjoy my surroundings. But within a week or two I spot a plane flying overhead and find myself wondering where it is headed and where I might be heading next. So it's definitely in the genes.

I've come to the conclusion that humans are divided into two types: rolling stones and moss gatherers. When I was young there were people in my village who had never been up to London. What's more they had no interest in traveling more than ten miles from their home. I suppose there are still people like that today.

There are advantages and disadvantages to being a rolling stone and moving from place to place. Life has been a succession of hellos and goodbyes. I have memories of coming out of customs at an airport and seeing a face light up when I arrive. And memories of standing on a platform, waving goodbye until the train disappears around a bend. I always seem to have people I'm missing and wish were closer to me. I spent most of my adult life on another continent from my parents and childhood friends. My parents only saw my children at the most once a year. They never had the warm satisfaction of running into Nana's house to tell the latest news the way my grandchildren do. I had to agonize when I got a phonecall to say my father was in hospital in England and then later in Australia. How serious was it this time? Did I try to farm out the children and catch the next plane? Would I regret it forever if I didn't go?

Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I'd stayed put in England and married the very suitable young man from Harrow and Oxford. Would I have been bored? Would I still have longed to travel? Would I have turned him into a traveler? Or would I have settled into the role of valuable village lady, running the women's institute and the flower show? (Somehow I can't picture this)

It is interesting that my fellow Jungle Reds all seem to do a lot of traveling too. We know that Hank is somewhere different almost every weekend, Debs is in England for part of the year. Lucy spends her winters in Key West, Julia spends most of her time driving her offspring these days but has lived in many parts of the world. So I'm wondering if the same inquiring mind that wants to see other places, other people, is what makes a good writer too? What do you think?

How about you, dear Readers? Are you rolling stones too?