Missing the Magic

Marty Ann Dee
(my nom de plume)

I used to be a writer. I'd published a mediocre novel and I was working on a good one—a spy novel set in Vienna in 1933, between the World Wars. Based on a true story Dee uncovered while writing a biography, we had actual letters, journals, newspaper clippings and telegrams that described a suspicious death that was never resolved.

Letters describing a possible murder.

We'd read them all, and together we'd figured out what could have happened.

Old Viennese documents

A year ago we were in Vienna, researching settings. I have two notebooks full of descriptions: cafes, streets, courtyards, foods, smells, landmarks.

Erwin Sarkoti passed secrets in this cafe.

I'd written such detailed back stories for my characters that I think about them now, and wonder how they're doing, even though they're just imaginary friends.

Clara wore dirndls like these.

Their cars, their hairstyles, their outfits, the way they took their tea, how they walked and talked—it's all neatly stored in computer folders, filed under "My Book."

In those days I wrote blog posts about writing, taught Write Stuff Workshops, and poured over books like Make a Scene, The Plot Whisperer, and Write is a Verb.

Writing isn't so much a verb for me now—it's a noun. It's a pile of papers I packed away in February—for later. Sometimes I miss my writer self.

"When you're writing, you're creating something out of nothing ...
A successful piece of writing is like doing a successful piece of magic."
—Susanna Clarke

Is there something you love doing that you've set aside?
I'd love to hear your thoughts.

My Heart-Felt Response

Yesterday I mentioned my defective heart, and I've had a bunch of worried emails wondering if it's still beating. It is. But it's murmuring, too. Here's the whole story:

I had an echo cardiogram in December to see if my heart was OK in case I had to have surgery for adrenal cancer (which it turned out I don't have.) In the echo cardiogram they discovered I have a heart murmur. This was not too alarming because I've ALWAYS had a heart murmur, but I was sent to a cardiologist who wanted to know why I have a heart murmur.

Another echo cardiogram revealed that I have a thick heart and the blood doesn't leave the left ventricle efficiently. The cardiologist wondered if I had symptoms, like feeling breathless (yes, if I run, or climb too many stairs,) lightheadedness (yes, when I get up from laying down,) pain (no,) palpitations/awareness of my heart beating (yes, always.) These are conditions I've had all my life, so I've considered them normal.

He diagnosed my murmur as hypertrophic cardiomyopathy which is a genetic heart defect. (My mom had a heart murmur, too, and so does one of my daughters and one of my sons.) Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy is the heart disease that makes young, healthy athletes drop dead suddenly on the basketball floor when they're 18. "Often the first symptom is sudden death," he said. Yikes!

"The fact that you haven't already died of sudden death is a good sign," the doc said. Sometimes they put in a pacemaker, or a newer device that revs up the heart in case it misses a beat. Or they do some procedure where they put raw alcohol through a catheter and actually burn away some of the thick heart muscle, or they do open heart surgery and cut away the extra tissue.

Or they just watch and wait, and tell you not to worry. He patted my arm. "There's no reason to be stressed about this," he consoled me. Right.

In order to decide my particular treatment I had to have a cardiac MRI, which was a miserable, claustrophobic event, and I go back next week to hear the news. I already know I want to do the watch and wait and die a sudden death when I develop Alzheimer's.

Now I wish I'd never gone to the doctor. I went because I hadn't been for a few years and thought I should have a check up. After 2 MRIs, 2 echocardiograms, 21 blood tests, and an eye exam, I've been told I should diet and exercise, and use Visine for dry eyes. I feel like Naman, that guy in the Bible who went to Elisha to get cured of leprosy and was told to just bathe himself in the River Jordan. It seemed too simple to actually work and Naman was unimpressed. I wanted a more exciting Rx than diet and exercise. But I have to say, it sounds better than rib-splitting surgery.

So there's the whole story—thanks for asking. I'll keep you posted.
Your concern warms my heart!

My Maturation Program

Marty about 12

The biggest thing that happened in 5th grade was the Maturation Program. We all knew it was coming, and even though we acted nonchalant or even disinterested, we could hardly wait. The secrets of womanhood would be revealed and finally, we would be knowing. In my day, the boys stayed in class and did subtraction or something equally boring, and we came back with our Kotex booklets hidden in our skirts, giggling, wiping cookie crumbs from our mouths. We were now wise, and yes ... mature.

Marty, Olympus High School Senior Year

An advanced maturation program took place in my college dorm. We were all virgins (or at least pretended to be) but by then older sisters and former roommates were getting married, sharing details of what doing it was like. In the time-honored way of women, the uninitiated were prepared for the big moment.



A couple of years later I was in a room full of the well-initiated. Twenty pregnant mamas-to-be shuddered as we watched a movie of a woman in labor, and sobbed as we watched her give birth. We'd matured for six months, and attending the labor and delivery class was a privilege of the third trimester. We toured the hospital, learned all the signs and symptoms, and practiced our breathing techniques. We were ready.

Chase, Mack, Hannah,

After that, the conversation shifted. In preschool parking lots and ballet class waiting rooms we discussed our children's maturation instead of ours. Crawling, walking, talking, reading—"When did your kid start?" In Little League bleachers and parent-teacher conferences we worried and wondered if they were on schedule to become all they could become.

Halverson Heroes 1980

Back then I watched my kids get older by the second, but I planned to stay the same. Lancome and L'Oreal promised I could, so I bought eye cream and went to aerobics, hoping to catch the aging process in time. Forty came and went, and although I joked about hot flashes and reading glasses, I knew deep down that I was still pretty cute. Middle-age wasn't so bad. I'd wisely avoided the problems the old ladies at the mall seemed to have. I was through being pregnant and through being fat. Months of chicken breasts and hard-boiled eggs had me trim and youthful, and the fact that I wasn't supporting a developing or nursing baby for the first time in 11 years contributed a wonderful feeling of vitality. I lost 30 lbs in 5 months and was back to my fighting weight, healthy.

Mom and Dad, 1997

About that time my mom started to complain about her hair, her joints, her eyesight, her feet, her stomach, her taste-buds ... I tuned her out. She really didn't complain that much—just enough to bug me. "Hey, Mom! I thought we were talking about me!" (She was starting to sound like my grandma.) Then she died. I was only 48, still in denial about my own impending dotage. Getting old was for the uninformed, I thought. It was actually surprising to me that my own mother had let it happen.

Now I wish I'd paid attention to her ailments. In spite of all my plans, I'm getting old. As crazy as it seems, I'm married to a sixty-five year old Opa! And the girl who does my hair paid me this compliment the other day: "You are so darling! You remind me of my grandma!" (With compliments like that, who needs tips?)

I had an MRI on my heart this week to follow up on a problem the doc detected on an echo cardiogram. "The good news is you're 62. You've lived a good, long life with a defective heart. I'm not worried about you at all." It was good news, of course, but when someone refers to my very unfinished existence with "you've lived a good, long life" it's a reminder that I'm on the downhill slide. I'm in the third trimester, but I don't want to go to the movie and see what happens next.

Aged seems to be another normal stage of life, but nobody's interested in having the aging discussion. I would be. If they passed out booklets and cookies and punch, I'd love to head over to the gym with the class of '67 for a maturation class. Maybe they'd talk about whiskers, (on girls) and forgetting where I put all six pairs of glasses. I'd ask if anybody's feet feel like they're walking on knives first thing in the morning. The guys would come this time (even they are mature by now) and discuss the demise of the prostate, and we'd realize we've circled back to a time when doing it is a big deal again.

Even though my crowd has men and women who lift weights, do yoga, run the treadmill, swim laps and bike the canyons, there's no way around it—we're old. (It's better than being dead, which is the alternative.) I'd love to go someplace where someone acknowledges that getting old is normal, so I can stop feeling guilty about not trying hard enough. Should I have been vegan? Should I have thrown out my salt shaker? Should I have given up coke? I don't really want to know the answer to that question.

Ballou, Robinson Kid's Chorus

I wonder why we marvel that a child goes from a newborn, to a toddler, to a kindergartener who plays violin and piano, to a cub scout, building fires and water skiing, to a 5'6" young track star but we're shocked to notice our bodies have changed, too, in that same ten years.

I need a maturation program where I learn the secrets of this knew stage of life. All about the advantages, stuff to look forward to, tricks to overcome the challenges. And I want to see the folks who've made it to elder statesmen. The ones who are oozing with experience and dying to share it with someone who is interested.

If you hear of a maturation program for the young at heart
(defective hearts welcome) let me know.
I'd love to know how to put a twinkle in my wrinkle!

*P.S. You guys put a twinkle in my wrinkle! Every comment and email is read, gets a smile or a giggle, and a tender thought for what you mean to me! I can't answer them all, because I get carried away and don't have time to eat or sleep or go to the bathroom, get dressed, brush my teeth or bathe. In order to keep myself somewhat pleasant to be around, I read your comments, visit your blogs, and respond by writing my posts. You folks keep my heart beating happily!

Love Language

"To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about,

but the inner music the words make."
—Truman Capote

Mrs. Wagstaff, my 9th grade English teacher, made us memorize poems and recite them every Monday. I hated it. But, I still remember them, and they continue to touch my heart with their inner music. Here are some of the words that taught me to love words:

Evangeline
"Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of Heaven,
Blossom the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels."
—Longfellow

Annabelle Lee
"She was a child, and I was a child, in this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabelle Lee.
We loved with a love that the winged seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me."
—Edgar Allan Poe



Hiawatha
"By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis,
Daughter of the moon Nokomis ...
And the little Hiawatha."
—Longfellow




Vespers
"Little boy kneels at the foot of his bed,
Drooped on his little hands, little gold head.
Hush! Hush! Whisper—who dares?
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers."
—A. A. Milne



Touch of the Master's Hand
"Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile."
—Myra Brooks Welch



Little Orphant Annie
"Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
To wash the cups and saucers, and brush the crumbs away."
—James Whitcomb Riley



Casey at the Bat
"There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat."
—Ernest Lawrence Thayer



Wynken, Blynken and Nod
"Wynken, Blynken and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe—"
—Eugene Field



What Does the Train Say
"What does the train say? Jiggle joggle, jiggle joggle.
What does the train say? Jiggle joggle jee."
—Laura E. Richards



Jerusalem
"And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountain green?
And was the holy lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?"
—Milton



Invictus
"It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul."
—William Ernest Henley



The Road Not Taken
"I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."
—Robert Frost


Thank you, Mrs. Wagstaff!
You made a difference.

My Dad Jiggs

Me and my dad, 1971

"How did you learn to play the piano," I asked. "Did you take lessons?"

"Are you kidding?" he answered. "We didn't have any money.

"It was actually a blessing," Dad went on. "I learned to work. We were always in deep money trouble when I was a kid, and all of us did any old thing to help make ends meet."

Gerald Hawley Bagley was born January 18, 1922 in Montpelier, Idaho, the second of five kids. He was nick-named Jiggs, after a comic strip. His parents, Adelila and Hawley, moved to Salt Lake City when he was three, into a home full of love, laughter, music, and furniture bought on credit.

"One day some men drove up in a big truck and started hauling out our beds, dressers, chairs and tables," Dad said. "It was great! We kids put on socks and ice-skated around the big, empty rooms on the hard-wood floors, wondering why Mom was sitting on the porch, crying. They had repossessed all her furniture." There was a moral to the story. "Never buy everything from the same store."

Every penny counted in the Bagley household. As a little boy Dad picked strawberries and cherries for 25¢ a case. "The summer I was nine I picked worms. Somebody had a huge dew-berry patch, and the owners came through the neighborhood in a truck to pick us kids up. I took a bucket, a pair of gloves and a hat. For two dollars a day, I filled my bucket with great big green worms, two or three inches long, then dumped them all on a fire of burning oil. It was a long, hot summer."

Jiggs 1932

"When I was about ten, I had a make-shift incubator. I raised 200 baby chicks until they were five weeks old, and then nailed a sign on a telephone pole and sold them five-for-a-dollar. Saturday mornings I went with my mother to a poultry farm where she plucked chickens—my job was to wring their necks. We got paid with a chicken for Sunday dinner.

"A neighbor had 30 cows that I herded when I was 15. I just walked along the road slowly all day long, stopped to eat, and then at 4 o'clock I'd start them back. It was extremely boring.

"After I turned twelve I'd try to get a 'loop' at the golf course on Saturdays and holidays. All the rich guys played at the country club, and they hired kids to carry their clubs. It took an hour to walk there, and caddying a round took four hours. It was a big deal to get a 10¢ tip. With that dime I could buy a hamburger and a coke, and still have a buck to take home after a six-hour day."

There were perks to being a young working man. "I had a huge paper route and my dad had to drive me around at 4:30 every morning. When I was 13 he told me I could drive myself. I had a lot of fun growing up, but I worked for everything—I bought my first over-coat when I graduated from high school. Just having a coat gave me a huge burst of confidence."

This under-privileged childhood produced a man who spent three years as a soldier, then put himself through college (straight A's) and became an optometrist. Later he got into real estate, developed a few subdivisions and an industrial park, bought a tennis club, built Jeremy Ranch golf course, and owned the Utah Jazz long enough to make sure the team stayed in Utah. He wrote a book, worked in the state legislature, coached championship baseball and basketball teams, employed dozens of people and supported his parents. He sang in barbershop quartets, choirs and backyards, remembered stats from every World Series game, could tabulate the grocery bill in his head and played a mean piano.

I wonder if he'd have done better if his summers had been filled with lessons?

My Story

Where did you come from?

I came from Jiggs and June, Hawley and Ad, Axel and Agnes.

From carpenters, farmers, lumberjacks and miners,
New Brunswick, Boston, Sweden, and Idaho.

I came from thinnies, lutefisk, peaches and corn,
home-grown beef and homemade noodles,
butter and salt and eggnogs.

I came from ukuleles, hand-made violins,
"In the Mood," "The Teddy Bear Song,"
and "A Bicycle Built for Two."

I came from coffee and Sanka and bottles of coke,
No smoking, or coffee or tea.
Ward teachers, roadshows, mission farewells,
and Mormon pioneers.

I came from golf, baseball and basketball courts,
From sewing, quilting, violets and books;
From an old black Dodge, a red station wagon,
A Fury, a Valiant and a yellow Mustang.

I came from FDR, General McArthur,
Eisenhower and Heber J. Grant;
from Depression survivors, the GI Bill, Optometry school
and a carport.

I came from David and Ricky, Karen and Cubby,
Brett and Bart, and Lukas McCain.
From Neil Sedaka, The Beach Boys,
Peter Paul and Mary, and Mama Cass.

From Sassoon hair and Twiggy eyes,
and Weejuns without socks.
From JFK to RFK to MLK to Watergate.

From Sherman, William Penn, Holladay,
OJH, Olympus and BYU,
and Salzburg, Austria,
Where I went from being Marty
to being Marty and Dee.
And another story started.