I was glancing at the morning newspaper when a large hulking shadow loomed.

Whoa.

I was home alone, flitting about in my nightgown, wondering if I was about to have company, and what type of company that might be.

I peeked out the window and saw our neighbor crossing our yard right in front of the windows.

Yo, dude, get out of our yard.

I cannot tell you the number of times I’ve been startled to find this man in our yard. I step out the door to walk the dog and there he is. Not every day, and not every time, in fact it is just infrequent enough that I have forgotten about this pattern until he says ‘hello’ and I jump out of my sneakers.

It’s not that he’s a stalker, no, the stalker is his cat.

The man likes to take his cat outside, leash-less, and let him wander about their yard, except the cat seems to prefer our yard. Yesterday he perched on the ledge by the office window, taunting the dog, which I’ve got to admit was pretty cute, if I hadn’t been on deadline and the dog wasn’t barking himself into a frenzy while this gorgeous cat wore an innocent expression of ‘what?’

I know I need to practice tolerance in this area, particularly since our dog has the far more obnoxious behavior: barking and leaving deposits. In my defense, the dog is on a leash and I do pick up after him, and we are unlikely to wander close to any windows and doors. Still, I can’t help but think of that Robert Frost poem, “Mending Wall,” where ‘Good Fences Make Good Neighbors.’

We were playing dominoes. And we were tired, very, very tired.

As I keep explaining to anyone who will listen, I'm fairly certain I lack the game-playing gene. Oh sure, once in a blue moon I can face a board game and have a lot of fun, but there's a limit to the frequency and duration of such events.

How someone plays a game speaks volumes about her/his personality. In this case, I learned that my sage sister (the eldest) plays a little fast and loose with the rules. Which is really out of character for her. At some point along the road of life, she discovered that a game is just a game, and if some of the rules don't work for you, it's okay to modify them. I have to admire that approach, even if it's confusing at times. Like when she and our mother continued placing their domino tiles on a 'single' play.

My sister and I rely on the same visual cues, the purle H, the blue 5's, whereas our mother is more of a stickler, counting the numbers, not really seeing the color and shape connections (right brain vs left brain approach).

We were on our third game, and my mother didn't want to have to draw for a new tile but couldn't play any of her remaining tiles. I had already finished my round and was looking to move the game along, so when my sister left the room I blindly switched one of my mother's tiles with one of my sister's.

There's more than one way to draw.

Oh how my mother laughed. Tears rolled down her face and she clutched her side. "You dickens!" Completely in character for her, never one for short-cuts, follows directions to a T, although capable of the occasional flash of brilliant playful spirit.

Neither of us said anything when my sister returned to the table and the game moved forward to a quick resolution. Then we told her about my creative strategy. Hey, if she, my role model, could get flexible with the rules, why couldn't I? Afterall, little sisters are obligated to be annoying now and then.

I’ve been keeping a sort of journal, listing the books I’ve read over the past few years. For whatever reasons, this listing started at the back of a small notebook and is working its way forward. Now, as I skim the most recent pages, I’m struck by the fact that I see books listed there that I barely recall having read.

Two of the novels dealt with characters I deemed so unlikeable that it’s a wonder I finished the books at all. One of the authors wrote well and provided an abundance of details and I wound up curious as to how the novel would end. The other book I hated with passion but felt compelled to see it through, this despite closing it twice and putting it in the pile for library returns prior to finishing it.

The dog on the cover beckoned me to Jacqueline Sheehan’s LOST & FOUND. The story was darker than I was expecting, focusing on the unusual grief and coping strategy of a psychologist whose husband dies suddenly. The characters were vivid, the struggles realistic, overall creating an effective portrayal of love and loss, renewal and connecting. At the end of the novel I discovered that the author is also a psychologist.

WHEN CRICKETS CRY, by Charles Martin, was a refreshing change from some of my usual reading. I selected the book at the library with my husband in mind, and he handed it to me after he read it, “I think you might like this.” And like it, I did. The prologue was a shaky start for me, I’m not fond of that style, emotional and reflective; it was too soon for me to feel any attachment to the character, much less his unknown dilemma. I was impatient: it’s a letter man, open it! But early in chapter one, introducing readers to a little girl who is wise beyond her years, I settled into the story. Martin dazzles readers with information about the human heart, exploring not only its anatomy and the impact of defects and disease, but the emotional layers as well. He is a Christian writer, but uses a light touch most of the time, not allowing the ideology to get in the way of the story.

I raced through Elinor Lipman's THE FAMILY MAN, like I was popping candy into my mouth, knowing that it would be finished too soon. A Lipman novel is something to be savored. Each word choice is succinct, the prose almost sparse yet satisfying. Protagonist Henry Archer finds himself in an awkward situation because of a kind gesture. He sent his ex-wife a condolence note after the death of her husband. Now the woman is calling and stopping by, cajoling Henry into helping her when he wants nothing futher to do with her. Still, there is the matter of some unresolved business. When they divorced Henry lost contact with the little girl he had cherished as a daughter. This is a charming New York tale about love and acceptance.

Jonathan Tropper took a few risks in his latest novel, THIS IS WHERE I LEAVE YOU. The premise deals with a family reunited in mourning the death of their father. His characters are wonderfully flawed and it was easy to picture the scenario as a film, but it was sometimes difficult to, well, like them, as them seemed like a group of petulant children, then again, maybe that’s a realistic depiction of most adults.

After reading a favorable review, I picked up Wade Rouse’s AT LEAST IN THE CITY SOMEONE WOULD HEAR ME SCREAM: Misadventures in Search of the Simple Life. He is one funny guy, but his book is more than that, it is a memoir about fleeing the country life to find himself and establish his identity as a gay man in the city, only to choose to live in a remote area of Michigan with his partner and reconnect with nature. Rouse is at his best when mocking himself, city boy trying to quit his shopping habit, comforting himself with cookie dough, freaking out over all of the unrelenting snow as he tries to overcome culture shock and writer’s block. He framed the book with excerpts from Thoreau’s ON WALDEN POND. I think I read Rouse’s CONFESSIONS OF A PREP SCHOOL MOMMY HANDLER, maybe it’s listed somewhere in my notebook.

Gaynor Arnold’s GIRL IN A BLUE DRESS offers a fictionalized account of the marriage of Charles Dickens from the perspective of his wife. The author shares that while she did a great deal of research, she has taken liberties to flesh out a story where information was lacking. I was hoping for some endnotes to help me distinguish between fiction and reality, but there were none. Still, I’ve got a pretty good idea which parts of the novel were more speculative and I came away from this novel with a greater understanding of the man, Charles Dickens, and how his life influenced his fiction.

Arnold drew from the fact that Catherine Dickens once asked that her husband’s letters to her be saved to ensure that ‘the world may know that he loved me once.’ It’s a fascinating study in how the early years shaped the man, how driven he was in his work, the tremendous pressures he must have felt, and his need to control everything and everyone around him. Arnold portrays his wife as a sheltered woman who adored her husband, despite an act which alienated her from her family and her position in society.

Next up, STITCHES, a graphic novel by David Small.

It was a beautiful day and I was ready for a break. As I wheeled my bike from the garage, my husband offered to raise the handlebars, something that had been on my to-do list for awhile.

We soon learned that I was already millimeters from the end of the post. We lined the handlebars back up in the vicinity of where they had been, my husband muttering, “Someday, we need to get you a real bike.”

What, and give up the basket, the bell, and the squeaky but comfy seat? I had a real bike back in college and I rarely used it. It intimidated me (not much of a gear girl) and that abyss between the seat and the handlebars felt like a stretch too far--this despite having been measured and fitted for the bike by some sadistic specialist who apparently didn’t note the fact that while I may have longish legs, I also have a short-ish torso.

My husband pumped some air into the tires of my bike, gathered up his gear and went into the house. I pushed the bike forward, annoyed to discover that the brakes on the front wheel were grabbing. I called after my mechanic and he adjusted the brakes while I offered the not particularly helpful diagnosis that perhaps the rim was bent.

And so, beautiful day, handlebars on edge, bent front wheel, freakishly grabbing front brakes, I set out on a little bike ride.

I stuck to the main road, not wanting to have to walk my bike too far in the event that I hit a bump and the handlebars fell off or the front brakes refused to release the wheel.

But once I got going, it just felt so good. I reached the top of a long, low hill and I was barely winded. Normally I’d turn and head for home, but just ahead, beyond a short, steep stretch of road, was a scenic loop that I’d never explored on two wheels.

I stopped three times to catch my breath.

I reached the bend in the road and discovered that the incline continued.

There was a good shoulder to the road and minimal traffic, which became sort of a mixed blessing once I reached the level part of road and realized that there was no one around.

I could ring that bell all I wanted, ain’t nobody gonna hear me, ‘cept maybe a coyote or some javelina.

The additional thought of some random crazy driving by with a van and a plan motivated me to peddle just a little bit faster.

I knew that I would need to descend the foothill at some point, but I had a leisurely route in mind, which I eventually found, after hurling downward at near screaming speeds, trying not to ride the brakes and hoping that nothing important bounced off the bike, including me.

That goofy little helmet only offers just so much protection.

I should have brought my cell phone along. And my husband. And I am never, ever, taking that route again. Even if my knees forgive me.

I’d been hearing about Branson, Missouri, for at least two decades. Some friends of my parents made several trips there to see various performers, including crooner Andy Williams and violinist Shoji Tabuchi.

My mother wanted to go to Branson, but my father was less inclined to travel in later years. Too bad, they would have loved it. They could have joined a bus tour and been delivered to the door of any one of many, many theatres (which I really, really want to spell as ‘theaters’).

My husband and I had discussed the possibility of a trip to Branson, but our visits to the Midwest were generally long enough to make us more than ready to return home without an additional side trip. The timing seemed to work out during a road trip last month, and now we have a better understanding of what the fuss is all about: family entertainment, God, and country.

Those three in every show, I’m pretty sure you can count on it.

We saw several variety shows, all hosted by a talented, personable performer: Jim Stafford, Shoji Tabuchi, and Yakov Smirnoff. In hindsight, we wished we had seen a really solid vocal act, like Lee Greenwood or maybe the Oak Ridge Boys. I also wished I had seen the Andy Williams show, but didn’t pursue it because I assumed he would do very little singing.

Jim Stafford, a comedian who performed on the Smothers Brothers television show, is also a talented guitarist who recorded a number of songs, including his big hit, “I Don’t Like Spiders and Snakes” (“and that ain’t what it takes to love me . . .”). He is one funny guy. He has a low key, wry sense of humor. He’s been doing two shows a day for twenty years. Oh my. No wonder his kids perform in the show, he needs a break. They’re talented kids, but they’re kids, ages 12 and 15, and sorry, but having them do 4-5 numbers felt like padding the show, but hey, it’s a family show and they’re family.

I wandered into the restroom before the Shoji Tabuchi show and was startled to see a huge floral display and women with cameras, taking pictures, in the restroom. I washed my hands, noting the lush orchids by the sink. Apparently his theatre has received awards for best restrooms, something he joked about in his show (the men’s room contains a pool table). The following day at the Yakov Smirnoff Theatre I discovered that the stalls in the women’s restroom display a painting of Yakov Smirnoff, by Yakov Smirnoff, with a velvet curtain to drape over it for the more modest.

The Shoji Tabuchi show offered a variety of music and a very fast-paced program containing many medleys, creative costumes and sets. His adult daughter performed in the show, singing two short solos, dancing and singing in small group numbers, and drumming in two other memorable numbers.

Yakov Smirnoff, comedian, artist, and immigrant, made me cry. Repeatedly. And he cried. He is such a likeable guy, and the Russian dancers were fantastic, but I got the sense that everybody was just so tired. That pace of two shows a day is grueling.

Smirnoff was an art professor when he emigrated to the U.S. with his parents. They didn’t speak English, they had no jobs, no place to stay, and a total of $50 dollars. It’s a very moving story. Then there’s the story of his reaction to the devastation of 9-11. He painted a picture to help the U.S. heal, then paid to have a banner of the painting hung near ground zero, requesting that it be done anonymously. The second half of his show was like an educational seminar on the power of love and laughter, something he feels very passionate about. Somewhere, somehow, between shows, Smirnoff managed to earn a master’s degree in Education.

The town of Branson is more than theatres and outlet malls; it’s a beautiful recreational area that reminded me of the Wisconsin Dells. After one tentative misstep, we found a couple of great restaurants that offered something other than the apparently popular chicken fried steak. We left town before dawn, encountering a prolonged rainstorm of biblical proportions, which might be responsible for me picturing Branson as a sort of Brigadoon, nestled in the hills, shielded from the outer world, where the music plays on and on.

The lyrics to the old song "Billy Boy" taunted me as I skimmed two recipes, “Can she make a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy,” and now we have our answer.

NO.

Well, maybe, if overall quality, taste and texture are neglible.

I followed the directions, sort of, which is where the trouble began. I saw the asterisk that offered the alternative of substituting tapioca for corn starch. What I didn’t see was the additional info about not using any cherry juice at all. None.

And so I stirred and stirred, and the mixture bubbled and didn’t thicken.

In desperation I added the corn starch, one tablespoon at a time.

I could have started this part over, I had more cherry juice, but no, I stubbornly continued.

To further complicate matters, I decided on a lattice top, despite the fact that I don’t know how to create a lattice top. At this point I was tired and cranky and so over the whole 'I think I'll make a cherry pie' thing. I refused to search my cookbooks for directions. I figured I’d wing it, afterall, I'd logged in more than my share of time playing with Playdoh.

My husband’s daughter made a beautiful cherry pie with a lattice top the last time we visited. She made it look easy, but then, she has a flair for cooking and has made more than one pie in her life.

I fully expected my pie to result in an inedible, gelatinous mass, but it smelled good while baking, and didn't look as bad as it could have.

I warned my husband that things didn't exactly go according to recipe. Optimist that he is, he thought the pie would still be good, even if it looked a bit goofy.

It wasn't half bad, although we both agreed the flavor seemed a bit off. I'm guessing tomorrow it will have the consistency of solid Jello.

It wasn’t my husband’s sort of novel, which, despite his generous and patient nature, led to the occasional plaintive whine, “Is anything ever going to happen in this book?”

We’d exhausted our other audio book options within the second hour of a six day road trip.

The first novel seemed to be an overly melodramatic tale of a plucky young woman facing many obstacles in her life. Orphaned! Insists on working her way through college! Drawn to a mysterious man! Protects people who make stupid choices! Ignores the signs that someone dangerous is stalking her! We both found it difficult to feel drawn into the story, so wished her good luck with a roll of our eyes and moved on to audio book option number two.

The second novel went on and on, and on, about a bunch of guys in Detroit, circa 1970s. The young man who hitch-hikes to work at his father’s diner, the young men who debate going to listen to another guy’s new stereo, then go listen to his stereo and debate how good the speakers are, while tensions mount and violence looms.

Next.

I, for one, welcomed Pat Conroy’s engaging South of Broad , which offered us an in depth look at the lives of a group of friends in Charleston during the 1960s and the 1980s.

Fifteen unabridged CDs of depth.

Conroy is a master storyteller in the laconic southern style. You will learn far more than you ever wanted to know about these characters, but you just need to relax and follow the story as though you were floating on an inner tube down a lazy river on a hot day, or maybe driving along I 40.

At the heart of the story we have Leo King, a seventeen year old who seems to be hitting his stride after a troubled childhood. There is a tragic mystery at the core of Leo’s life, the inexplicable suicide of his golden child older brother. The death of his brother fractures the King family and results in Leo spending his adolescence in alienated anguish.

The dominant storyline shifts between Leo’s interactions with nine new friends of differing backgrounds, and the events that unfold twenty years later when this group is reunited with a common goal.

The reader of the audio book version does an excellent job of portraying the various characters, most of whom are individualistic and flawed. Conroy writes of Charleston and its residents like a beloved friend, cherishing a rich history that also holds them captive.