Dear Reader

Dear Reader Column - April 29, 2022

Dear Reader,

Today's column is continued from Thursday. If you missed yesterday's column and need to play catch-up, here's a link and a photo, click here.

All of Mom's friends were widowed too, and they insisted she needed a night out. So after a little coaxing, we were all on our way to the dance. 

The parking lot was full and buses were dropping off seniors near the front door. It was a huge dance hall, decorated with crepe paper and balloons and a sign on the way in reminded: "Get your name tag and sign up for door prizes!" We were lucky; we found a big round table near the front. The band had already started playing, but no one was dancing. I was thinking, 'This is pretty much like the beginning of every dance I've ever gone to. Who is going to be the first couple on the dance floor?' 

And two songs later, when the slow beat changed to a swing, the first couple, two women who must have been in their late 70s, braved the dance floor. Hands clasped together, not the least bit concerned--all eyes were on them--they held the dance floor alone, and when the song finished they stayed put, anticipating the next number. But when the music started again,  couples (mostly women dancing with women), flooded the dance floor and soon it was standing room only. "If you want to dance," one of my mother's friends advised, "you'd better not wait around for a man to ask, because there aren't enough of them to go around."

I noticed my mother tapping her foot and there was a remnant of a smile on her face when she leaned over and whispered to me, "May I please have this dance?"

Now it was a very strange thing, to be dancing with my mother. At first I just stood on the dance floor staring at the 5-foot woman, my dancing partner, my mother--who I'd never, ever, seen dance before. I was shocked. Her hips swaying side-to-side, shoulders loose, keeping time to the music. Just when did my mother learn how to do this? I had no idea how to do these dance moves, but it didn't matter. The next thing I knew my mother took me by the hand and I was twirling around the dance floor. On second glance, I could have sworn her dark brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was sporting white bobby socks and saddle shoes.

Breathless and a bit stunned, I started walking back to our table when the song was over, but instantly the music started again and so did my mother. We danced another dance, and another dance, and another dance after that--it was all kind of a blur, and finally when the music moseyed its way into a slow song, I was so thankful, thinking I'd finally get to sit one out.

But my mother stood her ground, forcefully grabbing my elbows, and then gently looking into my eyes, letting me know that for whatever reason she had to keep dancing. Then she slid her arm around my back, our hands came together, my mother closed her eyes and some of her sadness melted into a smile as we glided around the floor.

It was the most memorable dance of my life. 

Slow dancing with my mother.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - April 28, 2022

Dear Reader,

"May I please have this dance?"

Two months after my father died when I was home visiting my mother, some of her friends stopped by and invited us out to dinner. They were going to the Elmo Club, a local supper club, and afterwards they were heading to the big senior dance in Platteville to listen to the Busch's Swing Band.

My mother immediately declined, insisting it was too soon for her to be seen out in public. But I knew what the alternative was, the two of us sitting in the living room watching television and eating a liverwurst sandwich. So I coaxed Mom along, reminding her how much I loved to go to the Elmo Club. My parents used to take me there when I was a kid and my dad always ordered a kiddy cocktail for me.

"Couldn't we just go for an early dinner Mom, and then come right home?"

And she finally agreed.

At the Elmo club, I knew all of the women sitting around the table, most of them were moms of the kids I used to play with and if I didn't show up on time for dinner, my mother would call one of them looking for me. The 78-year-old woman sitting across from me was one of my teachers in high school. So it did feel a little strange at first--switching roles, but now here we were having dinner together, all talking on the same level as if it had always been this way.

The Elmo Club didn't disappoint me. The food was just as good as I remembered, though I didn't order my usual kiddy cocktail. Yes, it was a great idea going out to dinner. Mom looked a lot more relaxed, until someone mentioned the senior dance again. But before my mother could refuse, there was kind of a group intervention. All of Mom's friends were widowed too, and they insisted she needed a night out. So after a little coaxing, we were all on our way to the dance.

(I’ll continue my story tomorrow, or if you want to read it in advance, click here. 

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - April 27, 2022

Dear Reader,  

(A note from Suzanne... I was finally able to have my gallbladder surgery. Thank you for all the get-well wishes, I really appreciate it. I've been sharing some of my favorite funny columns, while I’m on the mend, because it’s true: Laughter is the best medicine!)

My toilet whistles at me. It's kind of a sly, little "Yoo hoo! Come hither!" sort of whistle. This is a new thing for me and my toilet. Our past propinquity has been the customary toilet/owner relationship. We keep each other clean and tidy.

Don't get me wrong--I always applaud creativity. So at first, a whistling toilet was actually quite amusing. I was even a little boastful, thinking I probably had the most entertaining toilet on the block. Why, my toilet whistles every time I flush! It even puckers up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. But this whistling thing is beginning to get a little irritating.

You know how a joke is hilarious the first time out, still funny the second go-around, but after three times, the punch line just doesn't do it for you anymore? Well, my toilet has whistled one too many tunes.

I asked friends if they had any ideas about how to solve the whistling toilet mystery, but they were only amused. "Why does your toilet whistle, Suzanne? Maybe it wants to play, 'Name That Tune?' Maybe it thinks you have a cute butt."

O.K., it's time to call a professional.

"Joe's Plumbing. Can I help you? Why does your toilet whistle? Well, maybe it thinks you've got a cute...."

Yeah, yeah, I've heard that one before.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

* Congratulations to the winners of The Lifeguards by Guest Author Amanda Eyre Ward: Dorothy P., Katrina W., Lisa M., Eileen M., and Karyn W.

And congratulations to the winners of Almost a Whisper by Guest Author Priscilla Masters: Janice D., Nancy R., and Sharon B.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - April 26, 2022

Dear Reader,

Today’s guest, Riley Black, is the author of The Last Days of the Dinosaurs, Skeleton Keys, and many other books about fossils. She is also a regular contributor to National Geographic, Scientific American, Slate, and other publications covering the latest and greatest fossil news. And when Riley isn’t writing about fossils, she volunteers with museum and university field crews on digs all around the American Southwest, as they search for traces of ancient life. Her new book, The Last Days of the Dinosaurs, is all about what happened in the second, the day, the week, the month, the year, and the million years after the asteroid impact that ended the Age of Dinosaurs--a story of the loss and recovery that shaped the world as we know it today.

You can reach out to Riley via, http://rileyblack.net/contact

Loving layers

"The Naming of Cats," T.S. Eliot once reminded us, "is a difficult matter." I should know. I've fostered more than 70 over the years, many of which required temporary titles before their adoption day. There was Beatrice and June, Eliza and Maddie, Tilde and Umlaut and Ampersand, and more. I always hoped that I picked something they liked, even if, as Eliot knew, I couldn't possibly guess their real name.

But it's one thing to offer a name to a squeaking little foster who might go home with a new family next weekend. It's another to name a purring kitten crouched in a crate on the way home from the county shelter.

She'd been dubbed Clover by the people who found her in a dumpster with her mother and a new litter of siblings. I admit, Clover wasn't a bad name--especially for a cat lucky enough to survive nearly a year in the city. But that moniker didn't quite feel comfortable in my mouth as I tried to reassure her that the drive would soon be over and she'd receive a warm welcome to a new forever home.

I tossed a few suggestions back and forth with Splash, my girlfriend. None were bad names--how can a name even be bad?--but none quite fit. I had hoped that there would be something about our kitten that would give me some direction, something about her personality that would offer some guidance. But I barely knew her.

Only a half hour before I had walked into the room where she had been kept to find that those shy eyes hiding behind a scratching post belonged to a warm ball of almost inexhaustible affection who purred, nuzzled, and cheek-rubbed as she crawled all over me. 

She had a beautiful coat, marked on the form as "tabby" but not quite like a classic tabby cat. She had fiery orange flecks along her back, a cream-colored stripe at the tip of her tail, and tortoiseshell toes, some combination of tabby, tortie, and calico that created soft stripes from behind her little pink nose to her tail. "Her markings remind me of rock layers...what are they called?" my girlfriend said as we approached a stop light. 

"Strata," I said, thinking of the great bands of colorful rock I had spent so much time stomping around every summer as I looked for tooth and claw of fossil creatures. There was something about that word...

"Strata," Splash echoed, turning the word over in her mouth like a pebble. "You know, I think I like that," I said. Splash agreed. We said we'd think on it a little more and offer up anything else that came to mind, but nothing did. Strata felt right. 

Of course, Strata is only one of her names. I call her "Little one," "baby," "small fry," and a half dozen other nicknames so often that I temporarily worried she'd get a little confused. But a month later, whether it's with a hint of annoyance over a misplaced claw or an affectionate coo, she perks her ears and meows back when I say "Strata," the name for a loving little fuzzball whose layers I'm only just beginning to uncover.

-- Riley Black

You can reach out to Riley via, http://rileyblack.net/contact

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

AUTHORBUZZ: Discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

DEAR DANA (NONFICTION) by Amy Weinland Daughters

Do you ever get the sinking feeling that we really are living in a culture of divisiveness that's beyond repair? If so--have you ever considered that the hope we all so desperately need may be sitting right next to us, or waiting across town, or even at the other end of a screen? This is a story of connecting, relationships, unity,
grief, and love--most of which was conducted via the U.S. Mail. Are you ready for an infusion of hope?

Click here to enter to win one of 5 FREE signed copies! Click on the link to Authorbuzz and the book jacket to enter.

Go to: http://authorbuzz.com/dearreader click on DEAR DANA to read more and to email authors Amy Weinland Daughters, you'll get a reply.

Dear Reader Column - April 25, 2022

Dear Reader,

(A note from Suzanne... I finally was able to have my gallbladder surgery, so I'm on the mend this week. I'm sharing some of my favorite funny columns. Laughter is the best medicine!)

I was on the phone talking with an author about his book, and hurriedly jotted down every word he said. But when I tried to read his quotes back to him, I was stumbling over the words in front of me. I couldn't read my own handwriting, or as my friend Hilda would call it, "chicken scratches".

Hilda is 95+ years old. She's a friend of mine, and when I went to the market the other day, she came along. When she pulled out her shopping list, I noticed it looked like it had been drafted in the middle of an earthquake. We were both laughing about it and simply decided that things can get a little shaky with age.

I told Hilda not to worry or feel one bit embarrassed about her handwriting, because it happens to me, too. Sometimes when I have an idea for a column, especially if I'm on the run, I grab whatever I can and quickly jot my thoughts down. It's always a relief to know that my idea is safely written down, so I let it wander out of my mind. But unfortunately, the next day when I try to type up my notes, it's all a mystery to me. I can only read about every third word. And some sentences are totally lost in translation, because my writing is as cryptic as Hilda's shopping list.

Assuming each line on the shopping list was a separate item, Hilda and I decided there were 20 words we needed to decode, so we started at the top.

"Okay, Hilda, this looks kind of like a p, doesn't it? And it appears to be a long word, so let's see, what do you think?"

"Pepper? Potatoes?" (No, her neighbor brought 6 potatoes over yesterday morning.)

"Popcorn? Hilda, do you think it's popcorn?"

Yes! That was it! One down! (Hilda remembered she ran out of popcorn Thursday night when she was watching her favorite TV show.)

And with the skill of two veteran "Wheel of Fortune" players, down the list we went, letter by letter, item by item. By the third entry on our list, the shoppers around us must have thought we had both lost our minds. Practically yelling back and forth--Hilda's a little hard of hearing--we'd go exchanging guesses.

"This one looks like it's eggs Hilda, but it starts with a d."

"Do you want to buy a vowel?"

"Gimme an e for $250, Pat. Spin that wheel for us Vanna."

A d and an e. Eggo waffles? No I bet it's a dozen eggs.

"Do you need a dozen eggs Hilda?"

I do believe it was the most entertaining shopping trip either of us had been on in a long time.

Now, if I could just decipher the "chicken scratches" in front of me. What did that author say again? It looks like it starts with a g, but it could be a p...maybe I need to buy a vowel, or call Hilda?

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

AUTHORBUZZ: Discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

NOTHING BUT INK (FICTION) by Carrie Ann Ryan

I love writing romance and these Montgomerys! I'm honestly thrilled to share Clay and Riggs's story. They are sweet, sexy, and everything I love about this world. Love is love is love is love, and these friends of the Montgomerys prove that.

Go to: http://authorbuzz.com/dearreader click on NOTHING BUT INK to read more and to email author Carrie Ann Ryan, you'll get a reply.

Dear Reader Column - April 22, 2022

Dear Reader,

(A note from Suzanne... I finally was able to have my gallbladder surgery, so I'm on the mend this week.  I'm sharing some of my favorite funny columns. Laughter is the best medicine!)

I was in the tub the other day, my cell phone rang, and the next thing I knew my husband was handing the phone to me. "Who is it?" I whispered.

My husband shook his head and mouthed, "I don't know." My dear husband is very uncomfortable lying to people, so he gets flustered when the phone rings and the caller asks for me. What's he to say? "Suzanne can't come to the phone, she's in the tub," or "Suzanne told me to tell anyone who calls that she's not here." The phone becomes a game of Hot Potato, my husband quickly handing it off and hoping it doesn't circle back around to him.

The woman on the other end of the line said, "Hello this is Christine and I'm calling from the church. I'd like to know if you want to get your picture taken for the directory." 

"No. Thank you very kindly, but I'll pass," I told her.

"Well, are you still a member?" she asked.

"Yes, I am."

"It doesn't cost anything to get your picture taken."

"I appreciate that, but I would really rather not. My life is kind of complicated right now."

"Well, okay, thanks anyway. Goodbye."

After I hung up the phone my first thought was, 'What have things come to? Why did I say that? I wonder what that woman is thinking now.' If I asked someone to do something and they told me, "No thank you, my life is kind of complicated right now," I would assume something awful--somebody died, someone was ill, or they were in the early stages of a nervous breakdown. But everything's A-okay in my life, so what's up? But before I could further analyze my mysterious reply, another thought popped into my head, one that was even more disturbing.

I started thinking about my old high school yearbook, and now I'm worried about what they'll print in the church directory. I can't remember exactly what the yearbook staff said the year Danny Coohn's picture was missing, but it went something like: "Danny's picture isn't here because he was expelled from school for two weeks, so he couldn't come on school grounds to get his picture taken."

Oh no! I can see it now, "Suzanne Beecher is not listed in this year's church directory because she was taking a bath when we called, and she told us her life was too complicated. We're all praying that her bath is successful and that her life uncomplicates very soon."

* I'm home recovering from my surgery and I'm ready to bake, so I'm looking for three volunteers to sample my chocolate chip cookies. Every month I bake for readers and today's the day to enter the drawing. Three lucky book club readers will receive a box of my chocolate chip cookies, delivered via FedEx, right to your front door.

To enter and see photos of last month’s winners, click here.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - April 21, 2022

Dear Reader,

Normally I bake cookies and give them away to folks--just because. There's no special reason for asking a delivery person, I've never seen before, "I baked today, would you like a bag of chocolate chip cookies?" (I've never been turned down.) Or when I stop by the vet to pick up a prescription for Mama Cat, I take along two bags of cookies. I've shared my cookies with the staff so many times, I don't even have to ask the question anymore.

Handing someone a "just because" bag of chocolate chip cookies can also lighten the mood, especially when you're talking to the surgeon who's going to remove your gallbladder in three days. I was nervous about the "meet and greet" appointment and the best medicine for me, and when I'm nervous, is to bake. So in the middle of our conversation, I reached in my bag, pulled out the cookies and said, "I love to bake. I brought you some chocolate chip cookies." 

Immediately I felt calmer, the surgeon was stunned and pleasantly surprised, and the rest of our conversation was much more relaxed. Even when he said "Hello" right before my surgery, there was another heartfelt, "Thank you for those cookies!"

I'm home recovering from my surgery and I'm ready to bake, so I'm looking for three volunteers to sample my chocolate chip cookies. Every month I bake for readers and today's the day to enter the drawing. Three lucky book club readers will receive a box of my chocolate chip cookies, delivered via FedEx, right to your front door. 

To enter and see photos of last month’s winners, go to:  http://www.emailbookclub.com/photo/Cookie-04-2022.html

Thanks for reading with me. It’s so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - April 20, 2022

Dear Reader,

(A note from Suzanne… I finally was able to have my gallbladder surgery. I’m on the mend this week, so I’m sharing some of my favorite funny columns. Laughter is the best medicine!)

I tried to write a normal column today about something going on in my world, but instead, I kept coming back to this topic--blowing my nose.

Mother said I should always tell the truth and perhaps today is one of those times when a little white lie would make for more respectable reading material. But I was sick for over two weeks with a horrible virus and truthfully, blowing my nose is still one of the major activities in my day. There's an art to it. I've become an expert and I feel a responsibility to pass on the things I've learned to others. Mother taught me to share, too.

Okay, so some readers are ready to hit the delete key, figuring I'm still ravaged with fever, sick, and out-of-my-mind. Others are flush with embarrassment, imagining the details I'd need to use to describe such a personal, possibly disgusting topic and some readers--are this very minute--looking around to see if anyone is reading over their shoulder--they're embarrassed--but intrigued.

It started out with a sniffle, a dainty event--my Grandmother's lace hankie would have sufficed. But mid-way through the virus, I had to pull out the big artillery; a man-sized tissue in one hand and the other hand firmly braced against a wall, a car, or the person next to me--whatever was handy at the moment. Because my nose blowing had now reached wind speeds high enough to be classified as a Category One Hurricane, according to the Saffir-Simpson Scale. 

Beauford (every hurricane has a name) was scary. The noise was deafening, long and loud hair-raising honks, grab another tissue, and come up for air. It was never ending. How could anyone produce such great quantities? A big blow from Beauford and my three cats and even my husband hid under the bed. When I ventured out to stock up on supplies, children screamed and ran from me in horror, but nevertheless, I needed to be prepared. 

Getting ready to tackle Beauford was a lot like getting ready for hurricane season here in Florida. The two have things in common.

SUZANNE'S HURRICANE BEAUFORD CHECKLIST

* Stock up on tissue and chicken soup (I'm not kidding, my doctor wrote on his prescription pad the name of a restaurant that had great take-out chicken soup with matzo-balls).

* Blow out gentle puffs, but cover your windows with sturdy 5/8 inch thick sheets of plywood, so you're ready if the big one comes.

* Keep your mouth slightly open when it's time for the big blow to prevent damage to your ear drums, and store loose items so they won't blow away.

* Secure valuables and remove your jewelry to avoidpossible damage and injury.

* Take a deep breath (through your mouth) before you blow your nose, so you don't black out.

* Put important documents in waterproof containers. 

* Use tissues--not washable handkerchiefs--and have plenty of big, sturdy, trash bags to haul away the man-sized debris.

* Have hand tools ready for after the "storm;" screwdrivers, a shovel and a pickaxe to loosen any tough clogs.

* When you hear the all clear siren, it's time to clean up--wipe your nose to make sure nothing else is hanging around.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - April 19, 2022

Dear Reader,

“The Fool Dies Last” is the first title in author Carol Miller’s new series, Fortune Telling Mysteries. Carol’s Murder and Moonshine from her Moonshine Mysteries, was named an Amazon Best Book of the Month and a Library Journal Starred Debut of the Month. Carol is an attorney, who lives in Virginia and she is today’s guest author. Please welcome her.

Email: [email protected]

 

Was It a Ghost?

Jack sensed her first. It must have been the part beagle in him. He stopped short and gave a pronounced sniff. The neighbors were away for the weekend, and I had cheerfully agreed to walk their two dogs. Having purchased the property only a few months earlier, I enjoyed exploring the densely wooded acreage. Jill, the part terrier, added a sharp yip, and that was when I saw the woman. She was standing in an overgrown clearing a short distance away, with long brown hair and a flowing blue dress. In her enthusiasm, Jill tangled herself around my legs. By the time I unwrapped the lead and looked up again, the woman had vanished.

When we reached the clearing, there was no sign of anyone having been there--no footprints or evidence of a path. I wondered if my eyes and the shadowy light through the trees had played a trick on me, until Jack lay down next to the gravestone. It was less than a foot in height, almost entirely covered by weeds. The top and sides were chipped, and the face was a weather-beaten gray that was too worn to make out more than a few letters of the inscription. I found several other stones nearby. They were flatter and wider, and based on their spacing, they appeared to be the foundation stones from what had once been a small building.

Curiosity preyed on me. Had it been a little house? A hunting cabin? And who was buried beside it? None of the long-settled neighbors had ever heard of a structure on the land. The county property maps and records showed nothing. Finally I visited the historical society. A

volunteer in his mid-nineties with a wry smile that belied his age pulled out a well-organized box of old photographs. And there it was in faded sepia: A single-room schoolhouse with its schoolmarm.

The discovery has sparked great local interest, and everyone has been eager to help with the research. So far we’ve learned that the schoolmarm’s name was Hannah (her surname is less certain), and she taught at the schoolhouse for several decades in the nineteenth century. By all accounts, Hannah never married or had children. Is it her gravestone? And who was the woman I saw there? A distant relative? A relative of a favorite pupil? The spirit of Hannah herself? While we wait to learn more, Jack and Jill and I have been taking many long walks in the woods, hoping to see her again. 

-- Carol Miller

Welcome Carol to the book club, email, Email: [email protected]

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - April 18, 2022

Dear Reader,

I was watching a talk show the other day and the host was interviewing a group of second graders. It was a cute piece. "Do you like school? Do you like your teacher?" And of course, the host asked the "What do you want to be when you grow up?" question.

Most of the answers were predictable. "I want to be an astronaut, a fireman, a ballerina." But one young boy quietly said, "I want to be normal."

I don't know, I think that young man should consider rethinking his career goal. Personally, I take pride in the fact that people find me a bit strange. But his serious answer did get me to thinking. Did I have such deep thoughts on my mind when I was in second grade?

I do recall telling people that I wanted to be a missionary when I grew up. But actually I spent most of my hours, in second grade, thinking about bigger issues--like how to impress Larry Harris, the boy whose desk was next to mine.

I knew for sure if Larry could just see me in my new light-green, chiffon dress--the one with the can-can slip underneath it--that he'd look my way. But my mother always said no when I asked if I could wear it to school, insisting that the dress was only for special occasions. (Obviously she didn't see Larry in the same way that I did.) So one morning I finally told my mother it was dress-up day at school--which was a lie--and in my mind killed any chances of becoming a missionary.

And look at what happened. I grew up to be one wacky writer. Maybe I should've wished for just a little bit of normal? 

To see photos of me being 'normal,' click here.http://www.emailbookclub.com/photo/normal.html 

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]