Temporarily Old

I wrote this the day before I reported for knee replacement surgery. 

Why surgery? I am not a world class athlete. I have not landed too many triple salchows. I have not skied too many moguls. What did I do?

I tend to think that driving hundreds of thousands of miles might have contributed. I found out knees are the most frequently needed joint replacements among truck drivers. Pushing all those pedals. Evidence in my case? I only drove about 100,000 miles in a stick shift car. My left knee is fine. For now. 

But the truth? What did I do? I aged. 

My hope is that with my right knee fixed, I will return to being normal. Actually, my hope is that my body will be thirty-five again, but I'll settle for what it was like seven years ago. You see, I've been temporarily old before.

I feel as if Covid catapulted me, and a lot of my friends, into old age. My customary somewhat active lifestyle was replaced with something more limited largely because the world had changed. Not specifically Amazon but the Amazon effect. I never actually had to move. No need to run errands. That I liked. Zoom. I could see friends without driving. That I didn't like. But shortly after the Covid restrictions were lifted, I discovered it no longer mattered what I liked.

During Covid, I would comment that there were people all over the country developing cancer because they were not going for routine checkups. Turns out I was one of those people.

Chemo made me old. Very old. I lay in bed all day staring at fifteen seasons of "Silent Witness" on the iPad my friend Susan sent that I attached to the gizmo (old word alert) that my friend Carolyn sent to suspend my iPad from the hospital bed that my friend Carole allowed me to keep in her living room for months. (Great friends.) 

I couldn't tolerate the entire chemotherapy course. After surgery I did better on chemo-lite, but no one would have described me as youthful. And then it was over. Well, after months of shaking off the last of the side effects that would actually go away. Despite some permanent damage, I felt great. Younger than I had in years. I had been temporarily old and learned being old was no fun. I wasn't eager to go back.

Subsequent events made me old again. First up was some wonder drug. The only wonder it produced in me was amazement at how a single drug could have such varied and extreme side effects in so many people. My symptom was a frozen neck that kept me old and unable to drive for close to a year.

Then, despite a series of infections related to antibiotic prescriptions for extreme dental work (chemo and my teeth were not a good match), I managed to feel not ancient again. I wouldn't say young but I fought off the old. Then I tripped myself. Broke my right wrist and got a compression fracture in my back. The wrist could be fixed surgically. I can write my name again. COMPLETELY OUT OF PLACE BLATANT SELF PROMOTIONAl INSERT: so come to a book event and I'll be happy to sign a copy. END INSERT. 

Then before the back pain stopped, the knee. 

I accept that I will have to work hard at keeping the old out, doing things I don't particularly want to do. But I tell myself I've done it before. I can do it again. And will probably have to do it again. And again. And again. 

The project begins tomorrow. They tell me just about as soon as you wake up from the anesthesia. I'm ready. 

© Jane Kelly 2026

At the Movies with the Parents

Lying about in ortho rehab, I find a lot of random thoughts running through my head. This is one of them. 

As I grow older and older and older, I realize that in many ways my upbringing was not standard. The realization hit me recently when I could only recall seeing one Disney movie. Not that I actually remember the movie. My memory is a badly distorted recollection of being terrified by a crocodile at the Philadelphia Zoo. I say distorted because I suspect they did not keep a croc in an unfenced two-foot deep cement hole three-feet in diameter that allowed visitors to walk right up to the edge. Safety standards were looser when I was a kid, but even back then zoo officials would have provided more protection for the animal if not the customers. At any rate, I recall trying to climb up my mother with images of Captain Hook crowding my brain. So, I must have seen "Peter Pan." And maybe "Lady and the Tramp." Or do I only remember the classic spaghetti scene that is part of popular culture?

My parents must have taken me to other kid movies but none of them made an impression. The only reason I think we did go is family lore that when asked if I wanted to see some film I replied, "Okay, but not if I have to watch 'Bear Country' again." Bear Country was a documentary short about, spoiler alert, bears in the country. 

What strikes me as unusual is the list of movies I did see with my parents in the theater, not accidentally on the early or late show. 

Love in the Afternoon 1957 

I think we saw this at Radio City Music Hall. The story involved an affair (implied - it was the fifties) between Gary Cooper and Audrey Hepburn. I have no idea what I thought was going on as a seven-year-old. I remember the ending clearly. Well I know there was a train. I don't think I ever saw the movie as an adult.

Girl on the Red Velvet Swing 1955

No idea where we saw this movie loosely based on a sensational crime of the early 1900s. Harry Thaw (Farley Granger) kills Sanford White (Ray Milland) over Evelyn Nesbit ( Joan Collins). I kind of remember Farley Granger looking nuts but basically what I took away from the movie was the need for an indoor swing in our home. It wasn't red velvet but a nice wooden one hung in our basement for years.

Funny Face 1957

I suspect in today's world this would be a G-rated romance. Not sure since I last saw it in 1957. What I took from this film was a love of shocking pink and a desire to move to Paris. It's probably the reason I started college as a French major. 

Rains of Ranchipur 1955

Sometimes I wonder if I only saw the coming attractions. They alone were enough to scare a five-year-old to death. An earthquake and flooding in India. All I remember is the flooding.

Also important are the movies they saw without me. I really only know of one for sure, a French mystery called "Diabolique" in which Simone Signore and an accomplice murder Simone's husband. My mother really loved that movie. Couldn't stop talking about it. I wonder what my father thought.

I was the baby in the family and my two teen-aged siblings were probably not into babysitting, so I got to do a lot of age inappropriate activities.  Ask me about my cocktail umbrella collection. 

Just a random memory while doing knee exercises. 

© Jane Kelly 2026

Collateral Damage

Saving my stories so I can recall them after my brain can't . . .

May, 1976. Monte Carlo. Tourist hotel.

The hotel was not fancy but it did have a restaurant, one with a maitre d'. A maitre d' who asked me if I wanted to share a table. In the midst of a solo trip across Europe with a Eurail pass, I was in the habit of chatting with strangers so I agreed.

I am not sure what I thought the maitre d's motives were. I probably did not think he had a motive. If I'd thought about it, I probably figured he was playing concierge or matchmatcher. It didn't take me long to figure out his game was fundraising. I was twenty-six and traveling with two outfits, so I can pretty much guess what I was wearing. I don't know what would have made him think I was a rich American, but maybe any American was seen as rich in those days. Even in Monte Carlo.

He led me to a table where I found a guy. Not a heartbreaker but he did have an interesting story. He was from Lebanon which was then in the throes of a civil war. He was living in the hotel and broadcasting back to Lebanon. He was on the Christian side. I enjoyed listening to his story all the while waiting for a request for a donation, which in the days of traveler's checks and no ATMs could not happen even if I wanted it to. It never came to that. A friend of his, newly arrived from Lebanon, joined us.

From then on, I was an eavesdropper on their conversation. I don't remember the entire story, but I do recall the gist of it.  My tablemate said he wanted to return to Lebanon. His visitor said that was impossible. And, this part I do remember very clearly. His visitor said, "If you come back, you'll never get out of the airport. They kill you as soon as you step off the plane."

Now I thought I only had one rule in life (never wearing white after Labor Day - well two if you count before Memorial Day separately), but I realized I did actually have another rule. Never eat dinner with someone marked for death by Arab terrorists, any terrorists actually. Since the situation hadn't come up often growing up in Philadelphia, avoiding dining with terrorists had never been a big problem in my life. I accepted that it could happen inadvertently, but from that day on I made it a rule. I finished my meal, excused myself, and returned to my room happy to be away from the man who was marked for death.

Back in my room, I settled in to read, happy to be away from the controversial duo. And then I heard them in the hallway. And then in the room next door. I spent the next hour or so conjuring images of my becoming collateral damage in the Lebanese Civil War. In the morning, I realized how silly that seemed. Worrying about being blown up just because I had the room next to a terrorist. Really. And then years later, I saw Munich.  I am not always paranoid.

© Jane Kelly 2026

Book Rush 2026 (Updated)

Update: As of March 24, 2026, all these books are available as paperbacks and ebooks via Amazon.

Throughout the first three months of 2026, I published books with alarming regularity. Alarming if I'd been writing these books with matching regularity. That is not the case. Some of these had been in the works for decades. 

Those three books (listed below in order of publication) have little in common besides their author, me.

NIGHTINGALE SONGS

I thought this book was a romance, but it turns out it doesn't adhere to the strict rules for novels categorized as romances. Nonetheless, NIGHTINGALE SONGS is romantic and, first and foremost, a love story. The question: two love stories or only one? The novel has a supernatural element, but I won't categorize it as paranormal. It has humor, but I wouldn't place it on the humor shelves. Maybe it's a Rom-Com. I think of it as NOTTING HILL meets SOMEWHERE IN TIME. In this case, 1944 intrudes on 1985.

A DEATH IN SCILLY

A traditional mystery that adheres to most cozy mystery rules--an amateur sleuth, no on-screen sex or violence, a small cast of characters--A DEATH IN SCILLY is set on an island with a permanent population under one hundred, a truly cozy setting. The reader has a couple of puzzles to solve. The plot is complex but not convoluted. The tone is more often light than dark, but it is a mystery so there is a murder. The setting on St Agnes, the smallest of the Isles of Scilly, during a night when a storm paralyzes the island adds to the suspense. It really is a dark and stormy night.

THE SECRET AUDIENCE

A historical mystery, THE SECRET AUDIENCE is set in the US Homeland during World War II. The heroine, a wise-beyond-her-years fifteen-year-old Philadelphian, is sent to live with extended family she doesn't know in a small town in Alabama where a camp for German POWs has been built. The events of 1944 serve as a backdrop for a murder mystery that unmasks not only the killer, but the societal barriers that divide us as well as the common humanity that unites us all.

All the novels can be read by young adult readers, but young readers might find THE SECRET AUDIENCE of most interest. 

© Jane Kelly 2026

Book Club Questions - A Death in Scilly

 1. Are you familiar with the Scilly Isles? If so, are any of your favorite spots mentioned? What other experiences do you think Fiona should experience in a follow-up book? 

2. Given the description of St Agnes, would you enjoy spending time there? How would you spend your day?

3. Modern technology has made living on an island a very different experience. Can you imagine what it was like pre-Internet? 

4. Living on an island offers many benefits. Can you see any downsides?

5. Did you spot any details that remind you of the book's setting i.e. Cornwall, England.

Being an Introvert

My latest Meg Daniels Mystery Weekender, LOST WEEKEND, was within days of being finished when I tripped myself and broke my dominant wrist. Thank heavens. Well, thank heavens only from the viewpoint that it put the novella on the shelf since I couldn't write. Literally--I couldn't type. By the time I could go back to typing, I had a new perspective on my amateur sleuth Meg Daniels's behavior. I realized I was holding her back.

Years ago when I took the Meyers Briggs personality test, my results were INTP. The "I" meant that I was an introvert. On the extrovert borderline but an introvert. Clearly, that was wrong. I was an extrovert. Anyone could see that. 

Okay, I didn't like to call attention to myself, but I was perfectly fine if I found myself the center of attention. I might not seek to dominate a conversation, but there were times I did. I worked as a trainer. An extroverted trainer. I came to understand that if I was the designated center of attention, I was comfortable. If I wasn't put in charge, I found it hard to speak. And, if I did? I worried, second-guessed what I said. Mulled it over. Brooded. Perhaps, I was more of an "I" than I thought.

That didn't mean my amateur sleuth had to be an introvert as well. I was once on a panel with thriller writer, Brad Parks. The theme of the panel was how we differed from our characters. We were encouraged to respond as our characters.  Brad had told a very funny story at the banquet the night before about singing a speech. As Meg, I sang (to the tune of "Maria") "Brad Parks. I'm sharing a stage with Brad Parks." I added that the difference between Meg and me was that I would never do that, but she would.

In LOST WEEKEND, Meg's fiancé, Andy, goes missing. It is perfectly reasonable for a thought to flit through her mind that, if there is a simple explanation for his absence, he might not be happy that his name and face are plastered all over town. Flit is the key word. Meg wouldn't let that stop her.

You learn a lot about your characters from readers. One told me what she liked about Meg was she never gave up. She wouldn't let introvert tendencies stop her. He's missing. Of course, she wants to call attention to her search for him. 

It took a broken wrist for me to figure that out. The search begins in January! Make that February!

Book Club Questions - NIGHTINGALE SONGS

1. There are two stories in Nightingale Songs. The live action is in 1985. The memories are from 1944. The characters are living in times with different moral codes. In what ways do the characters demonstrate the values of their time?

2. What values remain the same from 1944 to 1985 to today?

3. Cate is a skeptic regarding all things paranormal. Are you a skeptic? If so, have you ever had an experience that caused you to question your skepticism. If not a skeptic, what are the experiences that have made you a believer?

4. In what ways does Tom's life shape Jonathan's behavior?

5. Do you believe that Kitty has been with Cate through her entire life? What evidence would indicate she was?

6. The last of the World War II generation are approaching the end of their lives. Do their youthful experiences seem like ancient history?

My Backlist Project

My backlist project flies in the face of everything I was ever taught about publishing. I developed the project by trying to figure out why I write. Certainly, as the vast majority of authors would say, not to make money. Some authors experience fame and glory. Most do not. Yet, they labor tirelessly creating. Maybe they do it for the reason I do. I just like writing.

I am lucky enough to have a publisher that I enjoy working with. Plexus Publishing of Medford, NJ, publishes my traditional mysteries featuring amateur sleuth Meg Daniels. That is an ongoing relationship that focuses on Jersey Shore settings. Over the years, however, ideas have popped into my mind for books that fall outside their focus.

NIGHTINGALE SONGS - a story of cross-generational love with a touch of the supernatural

A DEATH IN SCILLY - a traditional mystery featuring an amateur sleuth visiting a scenic British Isle

THE SECRET AUDIENCE - a historical mystery set in the US World War II homeland

Conventional wisdom would be to find an agent who might be interested in these areas, who would then contact appropriate publishers.  Even at best, that could turn into a lengthy process. 

There are a few publishers who will accept unagented manuscripts. I have had a few great experiences (which did not lead to publication) with a couple of these publishers. If a book isn't what they are looking for, it doesn't matter how much praise they heap on it. If it doesn't fit their market niche, they won't publish it. 

All aspects of this process take time, and time is a luxury I no longer feel I have. I'm not breaking any bad news here. I am simply old. I am not about to launch into a lengthy effort to get these additional titles published. I would only want to submit to publishers that accept manuscripts directly, review them in a reasonable amount of time, do not require the completion of a lengthy questionnaire, and promise to respond. (See note below.) Depending on the publisher's focus, those numbers can vary--from zero to a few. Independent publishing gives authors--and readers--more options. And, it allows titles to become available much more quickly.

I like these books. I am proud of these books. They're not doing anyone any good lying around on my hard drive. I'll try to inform potential readers about them in case they might enjoy them. Maybe I'll even become proficient at more of the steps that independent publishing requires. If readers find these books and like them, I'll be very happy. And if they dont? Doesn't matter. I'll just keep writing.

NOTE: I hear many tales of authors waiting for responses on submissions they sent to either publishers or agents and receiving no response at all. Ever. Often, the recipients have noted that because of the volume of submissions they get, they might not respond to every submission. Most often, these manuscripts were required to be submitted through an electronic system. I wonder how limited an organization must be that it can't manage to include in its system a single button that generates a standard rejection letter--not to show appreciation for the writer's effort, God forbid--but for the practical reason that the author can move on. I know publishers hold all the marbles--and as long as people dream of being writers will continue to--but what's up with that? 

© Jane Kelly 2025

Maybe it's my attitude

If you don't define a social life as dating, I've always had a great social life. If you define having a social life as dating, not so much. 

I didn't usually bemoan this situation, but for some reason when I lived in New York, I reacted when the newspapers featured stories about a new anchorwoman who came to town. I read an article about how she was dating John Heard (the father in Home Alone). Now, I never had a thing for John Heard. I didn't want to date John Heard. Nonetheless, I mumbled to myself that I'd never meet John Heard. It was the principle that annoyed me. 

I put down the newspaper and headed to LaGuardia to catch the Eastern Shuttle to DC. I wasn't an early boarder but I could find an aisle seat about five rows back, my usual spot.  It was Sunday. The plane wasn't full. There were only two people in my row. Me in the aisle seat and, across the aisle, a man in the window seat. John Heard.

That was when I realized perhaps fate wasn't what was holding me back.

© Jane Kelly 2025

The Tilt-A-Whirl and Me

When I was in my early twenties, I spent quite a few summers at the Jersey Shore. My friends and I didn't often ride the amusements, so the times we did stand out. Especially one particular night, one of those nights you might want to forget but somehow you never can.

We were a fairly large group who shared a house in Sea Isle City. A large group with varied culinary skills. The night in question, one group cooked an African cuisine. Another group cooked something less exotic and less memorable but no less spicy. We all shared every dish. 

As soon as we finished dinner, we ran out of the house and jumped into the hearse that one girl's boyfriend drove-very cool at the time--and headed for the Wildwood Boardwalk to ride the "big rides."

You may see where this is going.

The first ride we ran to--and I recall we ran--was the Ferris wheel. Now, to call this amusement a Ferris wheel is a bit of a misnomer. Yes, it was a big wheel. And  yes, it had individual cars. However, the wheel tilted as it rotated and the cars, actually cages, spun and flipped. All at the same time. We bad no idea what was up and what was down. Today I cannot imagine the amount of money it would take to get me on that ride. But back then? We jumped on eagerly and got off feeling fine.  And ran to the Whip. 

Now, the Whip was an amusement that my mother deemed too rough for little me, possibly because she was aware of the concept of whiplash. However, I was no longer a little girl and my mother wasn't there that night. So, we leapt into a car and let the ride, without the benefit of seatbelts, jerk us around like crash test dummies testing the effects of forty-mile-an-hour car crashes. We loved it.

Thinking that we should take our riding down a notch for a break, we ran to what I thought of as the calmest, most soothing amusement: the Tilt-A-Whirl. There were no bright lights flooding the ride that sat on the edge of the pier with a lovely view of the ocean barely visible in the moonlight. Even though there was erratic spinning involved, the overall mood was calm. I leaned back, breathed in the sea air, and gazed out over the ocean. Everything changed in an instant. At least for my stomach. I'll get to the point. I threw up in my lap.

I was very considerate and had extraordinary aim. The car did not have to be hosed down. I, on the other hand, did. I won't paint a picture. I'll let you visualize a twenty-something woman being hosed down beside the Tilt-A-Whirl. The teen-aged operator didn't seem non-plussed. Apparently, it happened. 

I tried to find out if amusement parks still have hoses near rides. The answer I got was some do especially near particular rides. Want to guess the first ride on the list? The TILT-A-WHIRL! Now they tell me.

© Jane Kelly 2025

My Third Summer

A post I made on Facebook recalled that my mother refused to spend any more summers in a beach house saying, "Everyone else gets a vacation and I just move my job."

My family had been spending summers in Wildwood Crest for at least a dozen years by the time I was two and a half. Oddly enough, the rental house was paid for by my father's job. Every executive at his company got a summer house in Wildwood Crest. I don't know why. The only explanation I can offer is: it was the fifties. (Aside: At some point my father's perks included a car but I recall stories of my father taking the bus down from Philadelphia for weekends in the early years. Why give someone a house but not a car to get there? Maybe that's why they eventually threw in the car.)

Anyway, back to my third summer. That was not an easy summer for my mother, mainly because of me. I came close to death several times. Not sure why. I got something--no one is still alive that would know what-- got misdiagnosed, was medicated incorrectly, and lost the knack of breathing. Most of the time my father was at work in the city. My mother was alone at the shore without a car which in a way didn't matter because she couldn't have driven it anyway. 

The story of that summer was always told to me in a casual way. Nothing to see here. "Mother used your illness as an excuse to stop spending summers in a rented beach house." Decades later my brother apologized to me because he would get scared and hide. I swear he said under the bed. I think Rick was expecting too much of a twelve year old boy. Until he told me that, I had no idea of the impact my episodes might have on the rest of the family. 

I don't think I fully grasped the seriousness of the situation. The story was related as "Hey, remember when Janie almost died?" I knew a summer neighbor had driven my mother and me to Philadelphia. That was serious. But one story my sister told me when I was in my fifties made me understand.

Rosemary was old enough that summer to remember my mother scooping up a limp baby and running out of the house yelling, "Help me. Somebody help me. My baby's dying."

Wildwood Crest neighbors helped and, spoiler alert, I didn't die. 

As a kid, I was disappointed we no longer went to the shore for the summer, but hearing that story makes  me understand why my mother never wanted to be in that position again.

The silver lining was after we stopped going to the shore, I became a 'friend.' You know, the kid parents always took along on vacation to keep their own kid out of their hair. I was a 'friend' up and down the Jersey coast line. So, when it came time to write murder mysteries set at the Jersey Shore, I had fond memories of a wide variety of towns. This was important because it did not seem plausible that a body would wash up on the shore of let's say Ocean City on a regular basis.  

Ironically, the town I have fewest memories of is the town where I might have spent the most time. Recently I have been back. I don't expect to recover old memories but I might get to make some new ones.

© Jane Kelly 2025

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 all of 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 like me 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 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.

© Jane Kelly 2025

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

 © Jane Kelly 2025

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 knew about. 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

Keeping Secrets

Today I heard Elton John’s Crocodile Rock on the radio  and it brought back memories of a Friday night in 1973. I cannot recall the experience coming to mind for years, more likely decades.

I had gone out after work with a group of friends to a local bar that probably disappeared years ago in the redevelopment of the area. I have no recollection of the name of the place or the exact location. I don’t remember anything about the night except what happened in the parking lot as I was leaving.

For some reason, it fell to me to take a very drunk coworker home. I didn’t know him well, barely at all. He worked in a different section of my department. I thought of him as a kid. He might have been a couple years younger at a point in life where that a year or two felt like a big difference. I’ll call him Ted because I don’t think I ever knew a Ted and this is about keeping secrets. 

He had too much to drink that night. His inebriation made him quiet, almost comatose but left him capable of telling me where he had to go. I hoped. I never found out. As we approached my little VW bug, a big, seventies-style American car screeched to halt across from us. Not in a parking space, but straddling several spots. A woman jumped out of the passenger seat and ran across the parking lot yelling at Ted. 

I cannot describe what followed in any detail. I don’t think I ever fully grasped what was going on. It turned out the woman was his mother and she was hysterical. The man who followed her tried to exert a calming influence on his wife but failed. Miserably. I could say that Ted remained calm but I think he just withdrew. I had never witnessed any scene like that one outside of a movie theater. 

The last thing I remember was Ted’s mother screaming, running across the parking lot and throwing herself in the air. Like a pole vaulter she got her body into a position parallel to the macadam surface and dropped like a rock to the ground. 

I don’t recall leaving but I left. I am sure I was shaken then and months later when I heard Ted had died. I was no longer at that job or living in the area. I cannot remember who gave me the news. My memory says he died in a car crash. A one vehicle accident. Ted might have been drunk. It was at night, so I found it hard to believe he wasn’t. No one said it was suicide but I found it hard to believe it wasn’t.

His death was sad but that is not what breaks my heart when I think of Ted.

When I witnessed the domestic chaos that was his life, my mother had recently died and I was living in one of the largest counties in Pennsylvania, the fifth most populous state in the United States, with my father who had one of the most common surnames in the country. His first name began with R the 18th letter of the alphabet. 

What breaks my heart is remembering that when Ted reached me late on Saturday afternoon, he told me he had spent the day calling every Kelly in the Montgomery County phone book starting with the As. He begged me to keep what had happened to myself. He didn’t have to beg. I didn’t plan on telling anyone. And I didn’t. Not when it happened and not when he died.

Yes, I never told the story at work but keeping his secret was never a hard, or noble, effort. We never had mutual friends, only acquaintances. I am no longer in touch with anyone who knew Ted but I still wouldn’t use his real name.

I don’t recall talking about this incident but I worry that I ever said enough that someone could piece Ted’s identity together. Even now, fifty-one years after he died, I worry. 

I wonder if I did Ted’s memory a disservice by never explaining to those who probably saw him as a problematic kid just how hard his short life must have been. I couldn’t have witnessed the only chaos in his domestic situation. I knew of one close friend he had at work. He must have known what happened, what was going on. As for me, I didn’t volunteer the information and no one would have asked me. I was only part of his life for a few days.

I have not thought of him in years but today I can’t shake the sadness remembering and hoping that during the little time he had left, he trusted that his secret was safe with me.

Update: Shortly after I published this, I was driving and a friend was giving directions. I couldn't believe I recognized the triangular lot where the bar had stood. I didn't note what replaced it. It was a very different place but the location still brought to mind Ted and his sad end.

© Jane Kelly 2024

Three Bag Flight

Valdosta Georgia was in the news today. The reason is politics-related but my Valdosta experience has nothing to do with politics. 

I used to do a lot of business travel - up to eight flights a week. The trips blended together in my mind and were immediately forgotten which is, I believe, the way it should be.

And then, there was a rainy night in Georgia. Atlanta to Valdosta. Probably on American Eagle. Definitely on a small plane. It was, in fact, a dark and stormy night.  I knew how dark it was. I didn’t know how stormy it was. At least, my brain didn’t know. My stomach caught on quickly but did its best to hold on through the short flight.

We were getting close to Valdosta when I turned to the man across the aisle and asked if he would talk to me, just to distract me. He smiled, leaned on his armrest and said something like, “Sure I fly this route a lot.”

I replied. “Never mind. Too late.”

At my meeting the next day when people asked how my fight was, I answered that it was a three-bag flight. Only one exchange was a little different.

“When did you get in?”

“Last night.”

“Did you throw up?”

Looking back, I should have asked why were there three air-sickness bags in my seat pocket.

© 2024 Jane Kelly