The Cabins At Bear Lake

I pulled off the mountain road into the dirt driveway and shut the engine off. Sitting in my car, I stared at the row of cabins in front of me while faded memories from my childhood changed from lifeless gray to brilliant color. The row of ten cottages seemed smaller now that I was grown. Back in the sixties, each cabin seemed like a cozy little house. I loved exploring the area around Bear Lake Resort. The dark blue waters of the lake behind the quiet getaway attracted an array of vacationers and outdoor types.

My best friend, Jill Baker, and I were inseparable in those days. She lived with her mom, Trudy, in a rental just down the road from our farm. We rode the same school bus each day and hung out together after. Jill’s father had run off with some “floozy,” as Trudy liked to call the woman. Jill’s mom worked as a maid at the cabins, barely earning enough to keep herself and Jill in food and clothing. But the Bakers were fortunate in that the resort was less than a mile from where they lived. Whenever their beat up Rambler wouldn’t start, Trudy walked to work.

Jill and I turned sixteen during the summer of 1967. Mom held a party for us at our house since she knew Trudy couldn’t afford one for Jill. Our friends from school brought their favorite Beatles albums, and I played my 45s on my new portable record player. Dad set up some tables and chairs in the barn and we danced and sang until eleven that night.

Bobby Thomas showed up with his long hair. Dad said it looked like a mop. He so resembled Paul McCartney that he was in demand as a dance partner most of the night. I was only able to dance with him once, but Jill seemed to be his partner almost every other song. “Betsy, he’s so dreamy,” she said. We were both beginning to more than notice boys. However, Jill seemed much more curious than I, and somehow managed to get her hands on some steamy adult novels. I remember sneaking up to our hayloft in the barn and listening to Jill as she read excerpts from Tropic of Cancer. I didn’t completely understand what was going on in the story, but I couldn’t get enough of it.

One night after dinner, Jill was over and we were feeding the feral cats that lived in our barn. “Betsy, don’t feed those damn things,” my dad said, “they’ll lose their appetite for mice.” But there had been a litter of kittens born recently and we thought they were just the cutest things. We snuck a small saucer of milk out to the barn and fed it to the kitties. Afterward, Jill turned to me. “I’m sneaking off to the cabins tonight, want to come with?”

“Why?”

“I was over there yesterday waiting for mom to finish cleaning and I wound up talking with a couple of guys that were renting one of the cabins. They’re nineteen, drive motorcycles, and have beards.”

“So?”

Jill frowned. “So? So they’re cool and they said to come over tonight—they have some marijuana and something else to share. . . like DSL or something. Anyway, it’s supposed to be the greatest feeling—like a rocket to the moon! C’mon, Betsy, I don’t want to go alone.”

I thought about it and wondered about how much trouble I would be in if I got caught. My blouse starting sticking to my back as sweat oozed from my pores. “Uh, okay, I’ll meet you at your house after ten. But I’m just there to talk. No drugs.”

“Cool.”

By ten o’clock my father had been in bed for a couple of hours, and I heard mom turn off the radio and close the bedroom door. I gave it a few minutes and crept like a barn cat out the back door, making sure I eased the screen door shut so it wouldn’t bang against the frame. Minutes later I saw Jill waiting by her mailbox. “I must be crazy,” I said. “Are you sure this is safe?”

“Yeah, I told you I talked with them. They’re the coolest, man.”

Fifteen minutes later we knocked on the cabin door where they were staying. The door opened and a thin blonde haired guy wearing a dirty white undershirt stared at us with glazed eyes. “What?”

“It’s me, Jill. Remember, we talked yesterday?—you said to come over.”

He seemed to stare through us while he stroked his beard. “Oh, yeah, hey man, sorry. C’mon in.”

Jill beamed and grabbed my hand, pulling me with her. “This is my friend, Betsy.”

“Cool.” He went to the ashtray on a nearby table and picked up a burning cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he held his breath for what seemed like forever before blowing out the smoke.

We spotted an empty wicker chair and squeezed into it together. Someone else was lying on the couch, shirtless, smoking a hand rolled cigarette. The room was filled with smoke and a small transistor radio played “Purple Haze.”

“Hey, you chicks wanna get high?” asked the man.

“Uh . . .” I hesitated.

“Sure,” Jill blurted out.

The blonde one nodded and handed the partially smoked cigarette to Jill. “Here, take a hit.”

Jill put it to her lips and inhaled. The red tip glowed like lava as she drew in and held her breath while handing it back to the man. Suddenly she bent over and began coughing, expelling the smoke in a massive cloud.

The shirtless one on the couch laughed. “That bitch ain’t no pot smoker, Jimmy. Gimme that joint and let her try some acid.”

Pulling a pill from his too tight jeans, the man handed it to her. “Some Orange Sunshine for you, baby.”

Jill looked at me. I shook my head, but she ignored my unspoken warning. “Got something to wash it down with?”

Jimmy grabbed a bottle of Black Label and gave it to her. “This’ll work.”

As she took the pill and washed it down with the beer, I remember “Light My Fire” by The Doors began playing on the radio. Jimmy began gyrating to it as he lit a fresh joint. I stood and moved toward the door. “Jill, we should probably go.”

Quickly sitting in the spot I had vacated, Jimmy squeezed next to Jill and began stroking her hair. “Have another drink, baby, we’re just gettin’ started.”

I grabbed the door handle. “Jill, c’mon, we have to go.”

She took another drink from the bottle. “I think I’ll stay and listen to some music. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As I tried to decide what to do, I felt drips of perspiration roll down my ribs. I always sweat profusely when I’m stressed. My mom said it’s God’s way of telling me I’m making the wrong choice. Against my better judgment, I opened the door and stepped out. But before closing it I took one last look at Jill. “Come with me.”

She shook her head. I closed the door and breathed in the fresh mountain air. I worried about Jill as I walked home and sneaked back into the house. I tossed and turned that night, wondering if I had made the right decision to leave without my friend.

The next morning, the bus didn’t stop for Jill at her mailbox—she wasn’t out waiting. I watched as we drove by and thought I saw a police car down the long winding drive to the Baker house. Sometime during my third period class the principal came to get me. She brought me to the office where my parents and a deputy sheriff were waiting to talk to me.

*****

Getting out of my car, I walked over to the now vacant dilapidated cabins. I went to the one we had visited that awful night. The screen door was missing one hinge and hung off to the side. Someone had stolen the hardware and knob from the cabin door. I nudged it open with my foot and stepped inside. Even after all these years I could still smell the smoke that permeated the room that night. I closed my eyes and saw the two men and Jill, innocent and naïve little Jill, and cursed myself for having left without her.

The sheriff said she’d died of a drug overdose, probably LSD. They’d arrested a suspect trying to flee the cabin area on a motorcycle. He had LSD in his possession. Two years later I left for college and after graduation found a job in a nearby town. I tried to leave Bear Lake Resort behind, tried to erase it from my memory, but that line of cabins still haunts me to this day. I walked out of the cabin, my blouse sticking to my back. It was a poor choice to return to Bear Lake.

Sleep Deprivation and Cops–Here Are The Consequences

As a cop in Chicago I worked rotating shifts for several years – days, afternoons, and nights. Obviously, the day shift was the easiest because it was normal to work during the day and sleep at night. Day shift is a normal circadian rhythm (CR), which is how the body responds to light and darkness in our environment. Circadian rhythms are affected by light, turning on or off the genes controlling our internal clocks. So you can see how working nights can impact performance.

When working midnights, the biological night when our alertness is lowest, our internal clock is negatively impacted in a huge way. That shift disrupts our sleep pattern and interferes with the production of melatonin, a hormone that makes us sleepy. I recall working midnights and then going to go court in the morning with an arrestee, sometimes waiting for hours for my case to be called. By the time I got home, I was so exhausted all I wanted was to collapse in bed. However, sometimes life gets in the way. My spouse or children needed something, or perhaps there was a second job I had to work. Suffice it to say, there were many times when I was in a state of sleep deprivation.

Not getting enough sleep, or for that matter, not sleeping when our CR dictates sleep, has major repercussions. Those of you who travel frequently are familiar with jet lag, which happens when crossing different time zones. Whenever I travel from my home on the east coast to somewhere on the west coast, my CR goes haywire. I feel disoriented and groggy. The time change can take several days to adjust to, and then of course when I travel back home my CR is once again out of whack. Jet lag is related to circadian rhythms. Throw off your CR and you’ll feel just like you do when you suffer from jet lag.

It’s not unusual for cops to work overtime or even double shifts. A friend of mine on a small department in the Midwest frequently works midnights and then stays on for a day shift whenever manpower is low. His sleep is minimal.

So what’s the takeaway from someone who is sleep deprived due to increased work hours? Well, for a comparison I looked at health care providers whose work hours are similar to police officers. A study for the Harvard Work Hours, Health and Safety Group concluded that nurses who work a shift greater than

12.5 hours are at a significantly increased risk of experiencing decreased vigilance on the job, suffering an occupational injury, or making a medical error. Importantly, the weight of evidence strongly suggests that extended duration work shifts significantly increase fatigue and impair performance and safety.

A report on abcNEWS.com indicated sleep deprivation may affect up to 4 in 10 police officers. The report suggests the lack of sleep leads to higher rates of safety violations, anger toward suspects, falling asleep while driving, and other problems.

The report cited a published study in the Journal of the American Medical Association that surveyed nearly 5,000 police officers in North America. It found the 40% of officers who were sleep deprived were likely to have health and performance issues, which affect public safety. The study’s authors said, “Excessive sleepiness is common in police officers. This is despite police officers apparently recognizing the dangers associated with drowsy driving; in a survey of North American police officers, almost 90 percent regarded drowsy driving to be as dangerous as drunk driving.”

The study also followed the officers for two years of monthly follow-ups and found the officers had a higher rate of reporting serious administrative errors, making safety violations attributed to fatigue, exhibiting anger toward suspects, falling asleep while driving or during meetings, and absenteeism.

Sleep disorders can also lead to health problems such as diabetes, depression, hypertension, and cardiovascular disease. One of the most common problems the researchers discovered was obstructive sleep apnea, seen in more than 30% or the study’s participants.

At the Sleep Science Center at The University of Illinois, Dr. James Herdegen advised about the dangers of not getting enough sleep. “Awareness in general is important, whether this is with workers in public safety, transportation, oil or chemical plants, and manufacturing.” He suggests better scheduling my help avoid dangerous situations.

I say all well and good, doctor, but how does a police chief implement and staff three shifts, 24/7, and account for days off, light duty, injuries, and court? A rested cop is a good cop, but so many variables sometimes preclude the officers from getting the proper amount of sleep.

I’m afraid there’s no easy fix. The most obvious solution is additional personnel, but increasing the number of officers is easier said than done. Passing a budget that includes additional police salaries is anathema to most city council’s budgets.

Frankly, I don’t have a solution. I merely raise the topic about cops that are sleep deprived to illustrate a problem that affects 40% of us. In our vocation, staying alert is paramount for our safety and that of our colleagues.

Also published on Officer.com

Readers Are The Best People To Love

I recently read an article in “Elite Daily” titled, “Why Readers, Scientifically, Are The Best People To Fall In Love With.” That’s quite a statement, one that intrigued me. As I read the piece, I was taken with the cogent information the author offered. She wrote about the satisfaction that a reader receives from reading a book cover to cover, explaining that so much reading is now simply skimming. She suggested that readers are like people who leave voice mails and write cards, they’re becoming extinct.

Why is that development disturbing? She says, “. . . readers are proven to be nicer and smarter than the average human, and may be the only people worth falling in love with . . .” Her conclusion is backed by studies conducted in 2006 and 2009 by Raymond Mar, a psychologist at York University in Canada. The professor said those who read fiction are capable of holding opinions, beliefs, and interests apart from their own. Readers can entertain other ideas without rejecting them and still retain their own. Mar goes on to say, “. . .reading is something that molds you and adds to your character. Each triumph, lesson and pivotal moment of the protagonist becomes your own.”

What other advantages are there to being a reader? Anne E. Cunningham, UC Berkley, concluded in her study, “What Reading Does For The Mind,” that reading provides a vocabulary lesson that children could never attain by schooling. She found, “the bulk of vocabulary growth during a child’s lifetime occurs indirectly through language exposure rather than through direct teaching.” She says readers are more intelligent and have higher cognitive functions, thus communicating more thoroughly and effectively.

You can read this interesting article in its entirety here: Elite Daily. I’ve always felt that readers were a special breed. Now I have research that affirms my belief.

Charlie’s Rescue, A Christmas Story

The old woman locked the door to her apartment and turned toward the stairway. Elizabeth held the leash tightly with one hand and the railing with the other as she began her journey to the first floor. “C’mon, Charlie, let’s go to the butcher shop before the snow gets too deep. Ole Ralph promised to save a big ham bone for me.”

Since her husband died four years ago, Charlie had been her only companion. A mixed mutt, the two had become inseparable from the moment Elizabeth had seen the dog roaming the streets looking for food. Not that she had much food herself. Her social security barely paid the rent and utilities. The two had been sharing one meal a day for the past year.

She reached the vestibule and stopped to pull on her gloves and put up her collar. She looked out through the glass door. “My oh my, the snow is blowin’ like crazy.” She hesitated. “Well, I guess it’s not going to let up any time soon. If we want to have soup for Christmas tomorrow we’d better just go.”

She opened the door and stepped into a swirling wind that made the snow dance like a snow globe when it’s turned upside down. Once on the sidewalk, she slung her purse over her shoulder, put her head down, and then headed toward the butcher shop two blocks away. A few buildings into their journey, the dog signaled he needed a break. “Okay, boy.” She steered him to the curb where he quickly relieved himself and then they continued on.

As she moved back onto the sidewalk, she felt a strong tug on her purse. “Give it up, lady!” a tall figure shouted at her. She dropped the leash and held onto her purse with both hands. “Let go before I have to hurt you!” The man shoved her hard and Elizabeth fell to the ground struggling to keep her purse.

“There’s nothing you’d want—I’m poor. Please don’t take my purse.”

The man kicked her in the stomach. That ended Elizabeth’s attempt to hold on. As he bent down to remove the strap from her shoulder, Charlie sunk his teeth into the back of the thug’s leg.

“Damn dog . . . let go . . . ow . . . The robber spun around several times hoping to throw the dog off, but Charlie had a tenacious grip and hung on tightly. The man let go of the purse and reached around to grab the dog. He pulled at the dog as hard as he could, breaking Charlie’s grip on his leg. While still holding onto it, he flung the dog hard against the side of the building. Charlie let out a loud yelp and then lay still on the ground in a pile of snow.

“Charlie!” Elizabeth crawled over to her precious pet. “Oh, Charlie, are you okay?” She saw the dog’s stomach rise and fall. He’s alive. Charlie looked at her but was unable to move.

Thomas Wickham hated driving in the snow. Even though he was from the Midwest and had been through his share of harsh winters, he never felt comfortable driving this time of year. The east coast sometimes seemed worse, with its Nor’easters that crashed into the cities crushing them like an iron fist.

He slowed to stop for the red light and caught movement from the corner of his eye. The snow was relentless and his wipers fought a losing battle to clear the windshield. Thomas squinted to see . . . what . . . is that . . . no! He saw an old woman being pushed to the ground and a man trying to steal her purse.

Thomas threw his car in park and leaped out. “Get away from her! Leave her alone!” He ran toward the figure lying in the snow, as the man ran away with the woman’s purse. Leaning over her, he saw the dog in the snow bank. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

“It’s Charlie, he’s hurt,” she sobbed, tears streaking her weather-worn cheeks. “He saved me . . . he went after the guy who robbed me, but now he’s hurt.” Elizabeth laid her head on her friend’s body. “Don’t leave me, Charlie, I don’t want to be alone again.”

Thomas Wickham was a man of action. He always knew what to do in every situation. As much as he wanted to comfort the woman, one look at the dog told him it was crucial they get him to a vet. “Can you get up? My car’s right over there, let’s take Charlie to the vet.”

She sat up slowly. “My ribs are sore, but I just live down the block. If you could help get us home.”

“Nonsense. Your dog is hurt, he needs medical attention.”

Elizabeth shook her head and wiped her tears with her coat sleeve. “I don’t have any money for a vet. If you can carry Charlie to my apartment, I can nurse him there.”

“You don’t need money, c’mon, let’s get going.” Several minutes later they were in the car headed toward the west side of town. They parked in the lot of a glitzy building.

The woman looked around. “Mister, I, I, can’t afford anything around here. Please take me home.”

Without a word, Thomas scooped the dog up and in minutes they were in a veterinarian’s office where Charlie began receiving emergency care. Thomas and Elizabeth chatted while the vet examined and treated the dog. Thirty minutes later he came out and spoke to Elizabeth. “He has a concussion, and it looks like he lost a tooth somehow, but in a couple of weeks he’ll be just fine. I’d like to keep him overnight as a precaution.”

“Oh, no, I can’t afford that. In fact, I don’t know how I’m going to pay you at all.”

Thomas took the woman’s hand in his. “I’ll take care of everything, Elizabeth. In fact, I’ll make sure you’re both taken care of.”

“What? What do you mean.”

“Have you ever shopped at Wickham Food Stores?”

“Oh, no. I can’t afford those prices.”

The man laughed. “You won’t have to worry about that. I own the entire chain of Wickham stores up and down the east coast. I’ll make sure you shop for free at my stores for the rest of your life.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, dead serious. And I’m going to pay your rent and utilities as well.”

The old woman’s eyes welled with tears. “Thank you, Mr. Wickham. But why are doing this?”

“Because I can, and because it’s the right thing to do. You and Charlie came into my life at a time when I had begun to forget what’s really important. I was on my way to look at a property to purchase for another store when I saw what was happening to you. I’m convinced God brought us together today to show me that I need to give back and be grateful for what He’s given me. Let’s just say Christmas for the Wickham family is going to be quite different from now on. We’re going to be giving much more than we’re taking.”

Elizabeth wrapped her arms around Thomas. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. Merry Christmas to you and Charlie.”

New and exciting novel: River Spirits, available now!

A VISIT WITH AUTHOR, MARILYN MEREDITH

Avoiding the Jessica Fletcher Syndrome

In both my series, murder does happen in small towns. And yes, I’ve thought about the Jessica Fletcher syndrome.

In the Rocky Bluff P.D. series, the small town is near larger towns and the murders that happen seem possible —plus it’s a Southern California beach town.

Bear Creek, the small town in the Deputy Tempe Crabtree series, is more of a village than a town. However, the area Tempe patrols is large, taking in the mountains, campgrounds, and she’s often called to the nearby Bear Creek Indian Reservation.

In an earlier book, Calling the Dead, Tempe traveled to other towns in California to learn more about a suspect. In Kindred Spirits, she visited Crescent City to learn more about a victim, and Santa Barbara to find out about a suspect.

Because Tempe is a Tulare County deputy, once she was asked to help out with a murder that happened in a nearby city because the victim had ties to the reservation.

To be perfectly honest, Bear Creek is based on the area where I live, and the entire time I’ve lived here there have only been two murders. The nearby Indian reservation has had a few more.

In the latest, River Spirits, outsiders cause all the problems.

I have no idea what will happen in the next book, but it’s possible she may go elsewhere and help with a crime. It will depend upon what ideas pop into my head.

Since Jessica Fletcher was a writer who solved crimes and my heroine is in law enforcement, I don’t think I’ll have to worry about anyone thinking they may be in jeopardy if they know Tempe.

Marilyn

About the new novel, River Spirits:

While filming a movie on the Bear Creek Indian Reservation, the film crew trespasses on sacred ground, threats are made against the female stars, a the Hairy Man finds a missing woman, an actor is murdered, and Deputy Tempe Crabtree has no idea who is guilty. Once again, the elusive and legendary Hairy Man plays an important role in this newest Deputy Tempe Crabtree mystery.

About Marilyn:

Marilyn Meredith is the author of over thirty-five published novels, including the award winning Deputy Tempe Crabtree mystery series, the latest River Spirits from Mundania Press. Marilyn is a member of three chapters of Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, and on the board of the Public Safety Writers of America. She lives in the foothills of the Sierra. Visit her at http://fictionforyou.com and her blog at http://marilymeredith.blogspot.com/

Contest: The winner will be the person who comments on the most blog posts during the tour.

He or she can either have a character in my next book named after them, or choose an earlier book in the Deputy Tempe Crabtree series—either a paper book or e-book.

I’m heading over to P. J. Nunn’s to talk about promotion.

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