Joan Mora
Occasional thoughts on the writing craft, great books, authors, links, and literary inspirations.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
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.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
A woman named Joan
Crafts by the other 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 |
Labels:
dementia,
Joan Mora,
memories,
pom-poms,
role models
Thursday, February 5, 2015
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.
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.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Monday, March 3, 2014
Art in Fiction
Today's memorable passages are inspired by my post on What Women Write, talking about capturing life in fiction.
“—if a painting really works down in your heart and changes the
way you see, and think, and feel, you don’t think, ‘oh, I love this picture
because it’s universal.’ ‘I love this painting because it speaks to all
mankind.’ That’s not the reason anyone loves a piece of art. It’s a secret
whisper from an alleyway. Psst, you. Hey kid. Yes you.”
“He
must have driven this way countless times, and yet he had no memory of the
scenery. He must have been so caught up in the day's agenda, and arriving
punctually at their destination, that the land beyond the car had been no more
than a wash of one green, and a backdrop of one hill. Life was very different
when you walked through it.”
Friday, February 14, 2014
Memorable passages
When I started reading e-books on my iPad, I noticed sentences
and paragraphs underlined in dots. An e-reader feature that confused me when I
first saw it, I learned those dots indicated passages that readers often highlighted. Passages
that perhaps defined a character or touched on the book's theme (or both). But also, passages that spoke directly to me, the reader, provoking two words to flash across my mind. Yes,
this.
So every once in a while, I’m going to share some of my
favorites. Hope the words seep into your world as they have mine. And to start, what better than a passage about words?
"There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic."
"There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic."
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