My mother was not much of a disciplinarian. Most of my childhood memories are of her seated in an easy chair with a cigarette and a cup of coffee, reading her newest find from the public library.
Maybe seeing her consume all those murder mysteries was enough of a threat to keep us kids in line. Mom surely knew things about hiding bodies.
After working my way through Walter Farley’s Black Stallion series, and being profoundly influenced by Jean Craighead George’s My Side of the Mountain, I was running thin on reading materials.
What was so fascinating that Mom had to be torn away from her novel by clamoring, hungry kids?
First and foremost, Mom was an avid fan of Erma Bombeck, author of The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank (1976). Bombeck wrote non-fiction about suburban life with a wry sense of humor matching my mother’s.
Second in the lineup was the Dorothy Gilman Mrs. Pollifax series. There are fourteen books in the series, and I’m certain Mom read every one. Multiple times.
Emily Pollifax is a depressed empty-nester widow who desperately needs to find a purpose in her golden years. In a totally unlikely series of events, she ends up going on a courier mission for the CIA. Emily quickly proves her worth, and becomes an agent.
I realize the appeal now. Mom spent her twenties through forties saddled with a pack of unruly children (despite the implied threat of the tutorial from all those murder mysteries). I can’t say she ever had grand expectations for a life of adventure. Or even the desire. She seemed perfectly content to travel with Mrs. Pollifax to exotic locations from the comfort of her armchair.
I had to understand the mystique. So I picked up book one, The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax. And I was hooked. I’m not the only fan. Blogger and reviewer Mark Baker named his website Carstairs Considers after Mrs. Pollifax’s boss.
Blame Dorothy Gilman. I slowly delved into the world of mystery. Surprisingly, not spy novels. Mrs. Pollifax was my gateway drug to the cozy mystery world.
During a college literature class, I had the revelation that I did not want to make my life’s work studying and writing about other authors. I wanted to BE an author like Dorothy Gilman. I wanted to write cozy-flavored adventures.
The decision to not enter academia lead me down a path of blue-collar jobs. But some of that drudgery inspired future short stories (my Charles Jerome Harrison and Marlin Hammerbach factory-based stories appear in AHMM). I eventually had a nice career in environmental compliance. A regulatory paperwork sort of drudgery, but better paying than factory floor labor.
My brother took the Gilman influence in a different direction. He decided he wanted to be a spy. But the CIA wanted him to experience military service first. By this time, he was married and starting a family. Apparently, walking into CIA headquarters and offering your services didn’t work like it had for Mrs. Pollifax. He changed directions to become a lawyer.
Mom never did attempt to become a spy. Or an author. She was content to read about adventure, not pursue it. And that may be the greatest impact Dorothy Gilman had on me.
There is a world of readers who want to be entertained. Romance author Nancy Naigle describes that her writing career “all started with a desire to write one book to help one busy gal through one bad day.”
There is nobility and purpose in quietly living your life. I’m an author, but I take the same relief from life’s pressures in the enjoyment of other writers’ good tales. It doesn’t have to be deep. It doesn’t have to be long. Just take me on an adventure.
Trace Evidence 