Where are the Grown-Ups?

Kate Winslet is on a roll. The Oscar, Emmy, and Golden Globes winner, recently added heroine to her list of triumphs when she literally carried a 90-year old woman to safety from a burning house. Perhaps even more impressive is Ms. Winslet's view on divorce and kids. Now, of course what is said in an interview isn't always a reflection of reality, but I sure hope so, because the twice-divorced mother of two said of her most recent split, "We're grown-ups at the end of the day, and however hard it's been for me, it's been equally hard for him. And we have a child together who we both love -- and raising him together, jointly and without any conflict, is absolutely key."

I've got no idea how crazy David Arquette, actor and current Dancing with the Stars contestant, can be. His history of addiction to alcohol and drugs is well-known. But again, it appears that he and Courtney Cox are determined to co-parent their young daughter despite their messy break-up. Ms. Cox and daughter Coco have been in the front row of the dance competition every week, cheering on the often-times flat-footed, but enthusiastic Arquette.

I love when parents understand that they are the adults in the family. Bravo to the divorced couple who is determined that their kids will never be used as weapons or become collateral damage. Children are entitled to their childhoods, regardless of the status of their parents' love lives. It's the same reason why I'm so strident against reality shows that feature young kids. The private lives of children should not be used as entertainment for the masses nor as a method of supporting their families.

In the last sixteen months, since the birth of my granddaughter Riley, I've been reintroduced to the enormous responsibility that parenting entails. When I babysit and Riley snuggles down, head on my shoulder, completely relaxed as she falls asleep, I recognize the complete trust she has that I'll take care of her, protect her, literally throw myself in front of the proverbial bus for her. That's the essence of parenting. It's what Riley's parents give her every day.

Every child deserves that. Every child deserves the chance to see the world through innocent eyes. Every child deserves to believe that her Mom and Dad are heroes – willing and able to protect her at all costs. I'm not suggesting that once your child is born you forfeit your right to happiness or ambition. But your priorities must change. Your decisions must be weighted by the impact on someone so completely dependent on you.

All of which explains why I can't read certain popular authors. It has nothing to do with their writing, which is extraordinary, and everything to do with the subject matter. I won't read a story where a child is murdered or abused. It's not that I don't recognize that sadly too many kids have faced that fate. But I read for enjoyment. I love mysteries because I love puzzles, but no matter how compelling or perplexing the puzzle in a mystery may be, if the case involves a child being hurt, I can't get past that fact to lose myself in the story.

This past weekend was Yom Kippur, the holiday that ends the Days of Awe, a time of reflection and redemption. I wish for every child and for each of you, a happy, healthy new year, full of love, joy, and peace.

Marian


Brianna Sullivan Mysteries - e-book series

I Try Not to Drive Past Cemeteries- Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
The Dog Days of Summer in Lottawatah- Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
The Holiday Spirit(s) of Lottawatah- Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Undying Love in Lottawatah- Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
A Haunting in Lottawatah - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Lottawatah Twister - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

The Monster under the Crepe Myrtle

When I was six years old my parents, younger brother, and I lived in a house next door to my grandparents in a neighborhood parked on the edge of a sleepy southern Oklahoma town. My brother and I had the run of both places, probably ten acres or more of hay pasture, vegetable gardens and flowerbeds to get lost in.

I look back on that summer before first grade as one big adventure. I had two friends my same age and gender who lived in houses off the same dusty road. And of course my brother was always three steps behind whether or not I wanted him to be. We played hard from early morning until the evening mosquitoes drove us inside.

Our favorite games were skits – Daniel Boone was popular on television that year. And we knew all the episodes by heart. We reenacted the battles, protected the fort, shared the genuine imitation coonskin cap owned by my brother, and of necessity, expanded the roles of the supporting characters (they got surly otherwise). Yes, I was usually directing the action and handing out lines to my cast. I loved making up stories.

My grandmother was a natural storyteller. I don't remember if her stories were particularly good or bad, but they certainly held our attention that summer. She'd take us fishing and while we watched the cork bob up and down, she'd tell us real, blood and guts stories. She wasn't afraid to kill off the main characters, leaving us in tears, or scare the you-know-what out of us with descriptions of creatures she had hiding behind every gnarly bush or plot twist. We took in every nuance of the yarns she told us and begged for more. No fairy tales for us, we wanted adventure and most of all mystery.

She also created and tended massive flowerbeds. Today, for most families, their whole yard isn't nearly as large as her flowerbeds. Ornamental trees, shrubs, honeysuckle, rose bushes, tiger lilies, massive hydrangeas, she planted them all together and created a true riot of color and smell. Even though we weren't supposed to, we played hide and seek in those flowerbeds, dodging honey bees, collecting horned toads, and finding the occasional turtle or two.

One hot summer morning I headed for my favorite hiding place – a hollowed out area under a massive crepe myrtle tree near the barbed wire fence separating the back of the flowerbed from the hay pasture. Running full out, bare feet flying, I dove under the heavy blooms and encountered my first real monster.

It was huge. At least three times my size. Bristly hair, stretched leathery skin, flat nose, and the smell … the smell was the worst thing I could have ever imagined. The gates of hell had surely been left open and something evil and vile had escaped. I screamed and scrambled backwards as fast as possible, catching skin and hair on rose thorns and barbed wire.

My location betrayed, my cohorts arrived posthaste and after a collective survey of my ragged condition, and with visible trepidation, they slowly advanced close enough to peer beneath the branches. While they stood with stunned disbelief etched across their faces, I went for help.

Okay – it wasn't a monster. It was a 200-pound hog that had escaped from the stockyard about a mile away which had died in that dark spot under the crepe myrtle. The hog was so bloated, so badly distorted, that a six year old would never recognize it for anything other than a monster.

My friends and I told and retold that adventure until it barely resembled the original event. I made up whole stories about that hog and why it ended up in my grandmother's flowerbed. In essence, I created my first murder mystery.

There was a real monster there with us that day, but we wouldn't know it for several months; childhood leukemia – a death sentence back in 1964. One of my friends never started first grade with us that fall, she was too ill. But I can still see her face when we retold that story– that look of real pleasure as we scared each other over and over.

So you see, I've loved mysteries for a long, long time.

Today, I'm on my way to Chicago to attend the Love Is Murder conference. I'm going to be on two panels – "We Killed" and "Cupid's Call." Stop by and chat about monsters, mysteries, or even hogs, if you're in the area.

Evelyn David