Mother's Love of Somewhere Else

The one thing I always understood my parents didn't agree on was travel. He didn't care if he went anywhere. She didn't care; she would go anywhere. 

My father was a devout Catholic but my mother liked to say he wouldn't walk to the corner to see the Pope pass by. That was an exaggeration. He'd walk anywhere. It was getting him into other conveyances that posed the problem. 

She did manage to talk him into a car on occasion. I believe the longest vacation was to Cape Cod which I suspect she probably finessed by positioning the trip as a treat for their pre-teen daughter (me) who had a crush on the very cute President from Massachusetts (JFK). The longest add-on I recall was to Niagara Falls which she insisted was just around the corner when we dropped my brother off at Cornell. In her defense, it was only 165 miles from Ithaca to Niagara Falls. However, although there were interstate routes available, I don't recall being on any. Guess who was in charge of the map?

My father was a good sport about road trips. When they opened the Cape May-Lewes ferry, they were there within the week. When they opened the Chesapeake Tunnel/Bridge, they were there within the month. The voice in Field of Dreams that said, "If you build it they will come" was talking about my mother. But only if my father drove her. She never got a license.

She did fly with my father on the occasional business trip but, until my brother moved to Bermuda and sent my parents plane tickets, I don't think she ever got farther than Chicago or Boston. But I am sure she was happy to go to those cities. They were somewhere else. 

Not all business travel involved planes.  At one point my father's job required him to visit twenty-two small towns in eastern Pennsylvania. Scranton was the biggest. My father only had to start a sentence, "Would you like to take a ride to . . . ." She'd be in car. I rode along and she would make the day a special occasion. We were going to the best place on earth. Somewhere else.

My mother raised me to think travel was the most important thing in life. My only goals in life involved being somewhere else. Living in different cities. Traveling to different cities. I got to do both. Probably in excess. She did not.

Sometimes when business travel got exhausting, I would feel as if I was doing it for her. My mother's daughter would never spend a night at the Tokyo airport on a layover. No, I took the bus to the Imperial Hotel (she loved hotels) and got up early on a Sunday morning to spend a few hours touring Tokyo. When dragging myself through the Imperial Palace Gardens, I believe I actually spoke aloud when I said, "Can I go home now, Mother?" But the effort was worth it if for no other reason than when asked if I've been to Japan, I get to say "yes, but only for the day." 

My mother would have approved of my day trip to Tokyo. She might have been a bit jealous. We suspected she even envied my brother's Army deployment to Korea (not the tourist destination in the early sixties that it is now).

My sister actually came up with a solution to my parent's travel issue. For their 25th wedding  anniversary, "we" gave them a cruise to the Caribbean and South America. I think in the end, they both enjoyed it. She got to go to new places and he got to sit in a deck chair and read. I think if they had lived into retirement, cruises might have resolved their issue. Sadly, they didn't.

What I Learned from the Murder Channel 1

True crime is having a moment.  One could think of the assortment of true crime books, TV shows and podcasts as trash entertainment, and many do. But I think they can be viewed as educational. And, even though I make light of the topic, I am not kidding. (I am not going to discuss the comfort watching crimes getting solved can offer to those who suffered the consequences of criminal acts that have not be solved. That is far too serious a topic.)

For me, my affection for true crime stories started with books by Ann Rule, expanded into Discovery/Investigative ID television and landed in the world of true crime podcasts. Once I started writing crime novels, I viewed them as professional reading and viewing. Yes, consuming all the true crime media is one way to do research, but for me it also confirms that what I am writing is, sadly, not outlandish. People harbor secrets, put on facades and do horrible things. Which brings me to the educational aspect of true crime and thoughts of things I would have done differently after consuming all this media.

Back in the 1970s, I stopped to see a friend in Denver on a cross-country drive. I went along with her to a meeting of recently divorced men and women and accepted a date with one of the few male members who it later turned out had never been married. Unlike me, he had not accompanied a friend. Today, any viewer of what I like to call the Murder Channel would have seen that as a Red Flag. I wasn't worried. My friend didn't know the guy but others in the group did. It seemed like a safe decision. Not so safe that my friend didn't feel the need to get his fingerprints on something when he came to pick me up. We thought that was funny. 

I'd never been in a car with a gun rack in the back but I don't recall there being any rifles in it. I'm not sure I would have worried if there had been. I was an East Coast girl discovering life Out West.

We were in suburban Denver so going to a bar in a Holiday Inn that featured entertainment didn't seem that unusual.  The date actually went pretty well for a while. Until, as the cliche goes, it didn't. I don't think I had to ask to be taken home. He was happy to get rid of me.

I only remember one moment of the ride back to my friend's house. We stopped for a red light. It was the 1970s. There was nothing around. He pointed to a police car monitoring the intersection and said, "This is your last chance. You can jump out of the car and run over to get help you or," he changed the direction of his finger and pointed into blackness, "I'm going to drive you that road and murder you."

My response? "No, you're not." I stayed put.

Spoiler alert: he did not kill me. 

But, he could have. I know that now. Thanks to the murder shows.

A Little Background on Swoon '64

The Writing in Time Mysteries feature modern-day amateur detective Tracy Shaw looking into unsolved crimes from the past. I started the Writing in Time Mysteries because of a desire to record the times I grew up in. I might have called them Writing in My Time Mysteries. Maybe I should have. I wanted to set them in the city I grew up in and to tell the story against the backdrop of events—good or bad—that are part of Philadelphia’s social history. Picking the first topic wasn’t hard. Few events united the city like the saga of the 1964 Phillies.

I hoped to create a parallel between the story and the event. If the Phillies had a swoon, the characters needed to experience a swoon as well. Swoon ’64 is not a baseball novel but the action takes place during the fall of 1964, the end of the baseball season, the time of a record-breaking September swoon of the Philadelphia Phillies. 

Why swoon and not slump? From what I can gather, sports teams recover from a slump. But a swoon is terminal. The tournament, the competition, the season is coming to an end and there is no time for recovery. Such was the situation for the 1964 Phillies. Thus, it had to be the same for the characters.

No need for details but at the end of the season with twelve games to play, the Phillies needed one win to clinch the National League Pennant. (There were no playoffs back then.) They lost ten in a row and tied for second place.

Why did I pick this background event? 

I grew up in a family that loved baseball in a city that loved the Phillies.  Or, maybe Philadelphians loved to hate them. I don’t really know. I was too young to understand the intricacies of the relationship between a city and its team that, for several years in the late 1950s, had a lock on the basement spot in the National League. And, not only did they clinch last place for four years in a row, they did so in a spectacular fashion. In 1961 their record was 47-107-1 and, yes, that is the right order. Win-Loss-Tie.

The memory of the excitement of 1950’s Whiz Kids’ first-place finish was just that, a memory. The hope of revenge for their 4-0 World Series loss to the New York Yankees was fading.

So, I imagine that expectations started to rise when in 1962, after four straight years of finishing 8^th in an eight-team league, they climbed into seventh position—in the expanded ten-team league. Their win percentage climbed over 500. Okay, it was 503 but for the first time since 1953, the team posted more results in the win column than in the loss column. I can’t imagine that hope wasn’t high when in 1963, they finished the year in fourth place. For two years in a row their win percentage was over 500 and trending in the right direction.

And then came 1964. A year when it all went wrong. After a season of high hopes, sadness fell over the city. In Swoon ’64, the heartbreak of losing a pennant pales in comparison to the pain felt by the four local families affected by the murder of a twelve-year-old boy on the night of Game 10. The arc is the same for the characters and the Phillies. Swoon ’64 is a murder mystery. 

I like to write traditional mysteries with a puzzle to solve. The answer in this novel is found in the characters who have made critical mistakes, not on the ball-field but in life, and found themselves in a swoon.

Who might like to read Swoon '64? Fans of traditional mysteries anywhere. Philadelphians who like to read books set in their city. Folks from all over who might like to read about the town. Readers interested in life in the mid-1960s. People who like characters who add a little humor to a story. A narrator can entertain without ever forgetting the underlying tragedy. 

Who won't want to read Swoon '64? Anyone looking for blood and guts and violence.

If you think you’d like to read Swoon ’64, it is available on Amazon both in paperback and ebook format. Here is a shortcut: www.tinyurl.com/Swoon64

 

You Just Never Know

I don’t have an Oscar story but I do have a Dolby (then Kodak) theater story. 

I needed some fake Oscars for a party at SLA in 2002 or so.  Still in my business clothes from the conference, I  hopped on the subway to Hollywood and Highland, loaded up on fake statuettes and found I couldn’t get back to the subway. The sidewalk was blocked for an AFI Tribute to Tom Hanks. 

I knew I could cut through the theater lobby. So, looking as if I knew where I was going and had every right to go there, I walked along the side of the red carpet. The crowds awaiting stars' arrival had their backs to me. No one noticed me except a lovely young guy with a headset and a clip board. Instead of being displeased when I told him I was headed for the subway, he was thrilled and offered to escort me. 

I looked really important as he walked me through the theater.  He did that not because I was "someone" but because I rode the subway. He rode the subway too!

You just never know what will impress someone.

Random Memories

Kelly Henderson. You survived spending the day with me when you were somewhere around two. I put you in the backseat of  my VW convertible which I hope had a seatbelt and took you to visit a Montessori pre-school that a friend owned. You were a huge hit with all the kids. With my vast knowledge of children's behavior I didn't realize they saw you as a baby,  I asked my friend how everyone knew. Her answer: white shoes.

Rita Rookstool Kenefic. I shared the worst case of church laughing with you. I can still remember where we were sitting in St. Athanasius. You were in the row behind me. We were with our parents I think. I don't recall them trying to stop us. Knowing our fun-loving parents, I can believe they secretly loved it. 

© 2025 Jane Kelly

Jane Kelly, Psychic

I wrote an entire blog entry “Meeting Mr. Smith” that could be construed as referring to my alleged psychic abilities or could be written off to my being a good judge of character. I point that out to emphasize that I am open-minded and do not consider myself psychic. I accept that some people might be. True psychics have some control over the phenomenon. Weird stuff just happens to me sometime.

Weird experience 1

I once developed an office crush on a guy-let’s call him Hank— who liked to lead me on but only to a flirtatious level. He had a girlfriend who worked in the same place. Let me restate that. A girlfriend I knew about. One night I went to an event at the Philadelphia Museum of Art with a friend. We entered through the back and had to work our way through the galleries to the event on the plaza at the top of the recognizable steps (think Rocky).

I led the way. We stepped onto the patio and I headed directly to one of several bars set up for the event.  

“You’re walking like you have radar,” my friend observed.

When we reached the bar, I turned to her and said, “I have this irresistible urge to move to my left. If the man beside me doesn’t move, I’m going to go nuts.”

With that the man next me to me moved.

“Thank God. Now I can move to my left.”

I did and was standing next to Hank with a girlfriend who also worked at the hospital, but not the one I was knew. After that, my crush kind of faded.

Weird Experience 2

I worked with a man with whom I had a cordial but not friendly relationship. For a while, we lived not too far apart from each other on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I never saw him around the neighborhood. We stopped working together and I never thought about him at all except one rush hour when I was on the subway and he popped into my mind. No idea what I was thinking, but he was the subject of my internal monologue on the train and on the platform I used to catch the crosstown shuttle going east where I walked right into him. He had just gotten off the shuttle coming west. We had a cordial conversation. I never saw him again.

Weird Experience 3

I was disappointed when, in my early twenties, a somewhat erratic relationship ended. It would happened eventually but I would have preferred a bit more time. 

After we drifted apart,  I kept seeing him all over the place. A few examples out of many. I had lost a very good earring in his car. One day he made a left turn in front of me into a K-Mart parking lot. Without thinking I made a turn figuring I could look around while he was in the store. It took less than a minute to realize that was behavior of residents of crazy town. I hit the gas.

One day I was sitting in a shared beach house and I walked out on the porch for no particular reason. A friend came out in time to see him jog by. “Does he just jog up and down hopping you’ll come out?” He definitely wouldn’t do that. Maybe I hadn’t let go psychically.

I remember the last time I laid eyes on him. I was caught in a traffic jam on the East River Drive in Philadelphia. On the left, a steep incline with trees. Not a horrible view. On the right, a lovely view of boathouses and the Schuylkill River beyond. I had been staring out the left window when I thought how dumb that was. So, I turned to my right and, as if cued by the director, he came jogging by and out of my life.

I haven’t seen any of these people again and probably never will because this is not something I can do on demand. Because, I am not psychic.

For proof that I am in no way psychic, see my blog about my encounter with Christopher Reeve. 

© 2025 Jane Kelly

Introducing Betty Bacobb

I don’t recall when I first met Betty Bacobb. Nor do I remember where she got her name.  

I’m sure that if someone had asked me where her name came from, I would have said that was how she introduced herself—although at the age of four or five I might have simply said, “She told me.” And, I believed her. Why would I not? Of all your friends, the imaginary ones are the least likely to lie to you.

I now question if I might have pieced together her name from my grandmother’s friend, Mrs. Macobb, and, if I somehow heard that her friends called her Betty, Lauren Bacall. Although, I adored Betty White. I might have named my Betty after her.

I don’t remember a lot about Betty Bacobb. I want to say she had blond hair but, to tell you the truth, I can't get a clear picture of her in my mind. I couldn’t pick her out of a line-up. Even when I think about the one event concerning her that I recall best, I don’t see her. Of course, she wasn’t there that night. I don’t think about it often, but cool September evenings bring to mind a walk with my father when we decided to drop by and see Betty Bacobb.

The best scenario I can come up with is that it was a Friday and my father, who didn’t keep beer in the house but did enjoy a beer while watching the Friday Night Fights, walked to a place where you could buy quart bottles of beer. The state of Pennsylvania has tricky Liquor Control Board rules so I have no idea where that might have been. Also, I might be completely wrong about why we were out walking.

Digression 1

Friday night fights during that era was actually a long-running television show called the Gillette Cavalcade of Sports that featured fights from Madison Square Garden. I think the fights came on at 10pm. Watching them with my father (I had no bed-time) imbued me with an intense dislike of the sport. I didn’t last long in front of the TV. I probably never saw Round 2.

Anyway, one balmy autumn evening when walking with my father, I mentioned that Betty Bacobb lived in the house we were passing. My father suggested that maybe we should drop by and see her.

Digression 2

Dropping by was something that people back in the day did. Friends and acquaintances would simply show up at someone’s house and knock on the door. Then, the people who lived in the house would answer the door and invite the previously uninvited visitors in knowing that by doing so they were surrendering any hope of knowing if Perry Mason got his client acquitted.

Digression 2a

Bad example. With one exception, Perry Mason always got his client off.

Digression 2b

There was a possibility if people waited until summer and their show was popular enough it might warrant a rerun.

Anyway, I was all in for visiting Betty. I led my father up to the front door. We knocked and, as was the custom even after dark, the woman who lived there opened her door wide with no idea of who was standing on her doorstep. These days my father would more likely be viewed through a ring camera as a criminal type exploiting his minor child for his nefarious purposes. Back then? We were greeted with a warm smile.

I don’t recall how my father introduced us. I can imagine him behind me gesticulating wildly over my head in an effort to clarify what he was saying about the friend of his daughter who lived there. I don’t know the truth. After all, he was behind me and I was not much over three feet tall.

I do remember the women’s response. She leaned down to speak to me and, with an apologetic smile, said she was very sorry that Betty wasn’t home right then but she would be happy to tell her we called. (People said called in those days.) I guess I was disappointed that Betty wasn’t home but I was happy we stopped by. 

I don’t recall the last time I hung out with Betty. Eventually, we drifted apart. I suspect she may have ghosted me. I hope she wasn't angry that we dropped by.

© 2024 Jane Kelly