Blog sabbatical as I research and write my next book! See you soon!

Wishing For A Kinder Reality

           It’s 1963 and I am lost at Wheaton Plaza, an open-air shopping center in Suburban, Maryland. A curly-haired charmer with big green eyes and wanderlust, I recall the hazy image of an exterior walkway, the hems of grown-up dresses and the particular scents of Kresge’s stale popcorn, Hahn’s leather shoes and Fannie May’s mint meltaways. One moment my tiny fingers are clutched safely and a bit too tight inside my parent’s hand. Moments later, I’m tugging those fingers free. Hard to believe my highly over-protective mother let go long enough for me to toddle away, so maybe she didn’t?

One older sister said my father had sole charge of me that day as he shopped for winter coats; the other assures me no major decision such as a winter coat purchase would have been undertaken without my mother.

I was fifteen when Sheila and Katherine Lyon, aged twelve and ten, walked to my Wheaton Plaza on a spring break Tuesday. It was a day without pencils or teachers, a day for a jaunt to the mall. They were seen at the Orange Bowl eating pizza sometime midday and didn’t make it home for curfew, nor for evening television, Happy Days perhaps, or Good Times.

Both blonde and blue-eyed, younger sister Katherine had short hair and wore a red jacket, bell-bottom blue jeans and a bracelet with “Kate” spelled with black letters on white beads. Pigtailed Sheila wore round wire rims, a dark blue sweatshirt and wheat-colored corduroy pants. Their schoolgirl faces were plastered on flyers, network news and in The Washington Post for months afterward.

Our middle-class suburban world doled out taut leashes overnight. No more walks to Peoples Drug or roaming the creek behind Stoneybrook park. No more dashing out after breakfast and high-tailing it home in time for dinner. “Do you want to end up like those Lyon sisters?” my father would say.

As time passed, we’d occasionally ask, “Do you think we’ll ever find out who took those girls? Do you think they’re still alive?” And then we’d return to our lives, perhaps thinking about the sisters again when we read about other missing children, like Adam Walsh or Amber Hagerman, or Laura Lippman’s What the Dead Know, a novel inspired by the Lyon sisters’ story.

Sheila’s and Katherine’s bodies have never been recovered. I think about their hands, so little at the time, smooth and young, ring-less, perhaps. Maybe they’d painted glitter polish on their nails. Their parents are still living, still waiting. Their brother, fifteen when they disappeared, later became a police detective.

At the time, a witness reported seeing two bound girls in a station wagon. In February, 2014, NBC Washington, D.C. reported that police made a break in this forty-year-old case and identified a “person of interest,” a man currently in prison for multiple sex offenses. A ride operator at shopping center carnivals, Lloyd Lee Welch (aka Michael) was seen at Wheaton Plaza the day the Lyon girls went missing. A police sketch circulated at the time bears a remarkable likeness to him.

Last September, Huffington Post reported that another lead had surfaced. And in February, the publication reported the police were closer to solving the case. Police searched land in Virginia owned by a new suspect, the ride-operator’s uncle. Richard Allen Welch, Sr. was a former security guard at Wheaton Plaza. Turns out, the person who saw the girls in the back of the station wagon was carnie Michael Welch, who admits to riding in the car with them and later witnessing his uncle molesting one of the girls. If Sheila’s and Katherine’s bodies are found on that remote mountain land, I hope they scratched glittered nails across their abductor’s face.

When my own son began to walk, I clutched his hand though malls and stayed within ten feet of him on playgrounds. Protective, yes, but by then not considered overly so. As a parent, the possibility of outliving a child guts me, worse if at the hands of a stranger.

Whenever I see a toddler with no guardian in sight, I wait at the sidelines until an adult shows up, wary of possibly being considered suspect. Did an alert adult take my hand and lead me to safety in 1963? Did someone look the other way as an offender snatched the Lyon girls? Why them and not me? No doubt the same thought haunts others who once wandered unchaperoned through Wheaton Plaza that day. 

I’m quite enthralled with the idea of alternate timelines, a la Sliding Doors. I like to think the Lyon girls slipped into a kinder reality, where that evening they snuggled next to their parents for Happy Days and, years later, clutched tighter to their own children’s hands.

UPDATE: Closure for the Lyon family, in July Washington Post reported that Lloyd Lee Welch, sex-offender and former carnival worker, charged with Lyon sisters' murder. 

A woman named Joan

Crafts by the other Joan

Last year while sorting for a move, I opened a box of memories. Inside were two bulging scrapbooks, its unstuck film pages dropping dried daisies, wallet-sized school smiles, a surprise “Shhh, it’s a secret!” sixteenth-birthday invitation, and handwritten notes such as “evil green eyes” and “missing the beach.”  Under the scrapbooks were pictures of our drill team squad, red and gold event notices, ribbons and pom-pom fray, a smiling stuffed giraffe with eyelashes, a construction paper tasseled boot, encouraging poems from a woman named Joan.

Wheaton High drill team 1978

Many people dislike their own names, but I’ve always loved mine. There were no other Joans in any of my grade school classes as far as I’m aware and I didn’t know any in college. The famous Joans were gutsy or clever or fun or, in some cases, all three. Saintly badass d’Arc comes to mind, as do Plowright, Fontaine, Crawford, Rivers, Collins and Cusack. Joan Jett apparently rocked my high school, but before my time. And of course the brilliant Didion, whose prose I discovered late, which means there’s more for lucky me to read.

The mom of my dearest friend of forty years was gutsy and clever and fun. A transplanted New Yorker, she was coifed and on-the-go to Mahjong or Wednesday bowling with wine-colored lip liner, blue-shaded eyes and appliquéd jackets. During junior high and high school, it was this mom who buoyed me when my own high-strung and detached mother was unapproachable.

Parade day

She kissed me as if I were her own child, locked eyes when asking a question, nodded and smiled as she got the answer. She crafted spirit gifts long before today’s high school football and cheerleading moms were born, wrote poetry that gave us courage to march and shake to a 70’s beat while hundreds of our peers looked on, inspired my stubborn self to perform in 20-degree parades and remembered everything – birthdays, pom-pom routine songs, favorite candies.

She was a vibrant and caring role model for her three children, inspiring smiles and warm hearts, facing medical challenges with steadfast fortitude. She was a supportive wife to a man with whom she shared an infinite optimism and energy and devoted daughter to her mother (called Nana), whom she called every day without fail, and father, who at 77-years-old was among the hundred hostages in the 1977 B'nai B'rith headquarters takeover. When she became a nana, her joy multiplied—by seven.

Joan and Karen, captain and co-captain

Until dementia cruelly stole her memory, her health, her spirit. Last month the Joan with whom I shared a name passed away. I’ve been thinking about her a lot, about her voice, about her twinkling eyes, about her spirit, about what she meant to me and so many others. About the memory she left behind.

Sound claustrophobia

The sounds start harmless enough. Coughs, throat-clearing, nose-blowing, the crunching of apples. Later there will be a morning check-in with the wife and kids, and a quartet of blubbery sneezes, followed by harmonized giggles from a bookkeeping duo. In the afternoons, there’s a flurry of not-so-hushed personal calls and a heated talking-down from project leader to a team member who hasn’t delivered a deliverable. 

Japanese Gardens, Portland, Oregon, photo by Rick Mora

When I’m not writing, I hire out as a contract accountant. For the last year I’ve been working with a client on a long-term project, but this is the first time in my $%#*!!&? years that I’ve worked in a cubicle. Yes, I understand the cost savings of a footprint with cubes versus individual offices. But surely productivity has suffered. I’d like to see the numbers on that.

Most days my earphones are looped over my ears, blaring instrumentals such as the themes from Game of Thrones, Lord of the Rings or Last of the Mohicans on Pandora, but sometimes even those masterpieces don’t drown it all out. Lately, I’ve alternated between the soundtrack and live scores of Les Miz, but often this leaves me in a weepy mess as each note returns me, thunderstruck and emotional, to a stall in a London theater.
Such a noise fiasco would torture most introvert writers (aside from maybe Jane Austen, who apparently wrote in a noisy room, with siblings, nieces and nephews carrying on around her.) But being crushed by noise from all sides ignites in me a sort of sound claustrophobia. Sometimes I clap my hands over my earphones, nod my head on the desk, take deep breaths and think of Japanese Gardens, my peace on earth. 

But it’s not all gloom and noisy doom – I’m taking notes and culling idiosyncrasies. Sound brings life to the pages of a story and many of these characters will show up in a book one day.