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Curb Your Enthusiasm

These were too cute to pass up!

We call it curb cruising. Or trash-day intervention. Sometimes I also indulge in a little dumpster diving. Once, while I was bike riding around Tybee I spotted a great green metal locker sticking out the top of a dumpster at a house under construction. I pedalled back to my friends Ron and Leuveda’s, and got them to drive to the house in their van. Ron, who is tall, not to mention adventurous, climbed into the dumpster and fished out the locker, and it’s now a great addition to their garden area. A fan of mine refers to treasures mined this way as SORA–for Side Of Road Acquisition. Whatever you call it, it’s one of my favorite sports. Our neighborhood in Atlanta is renowned for its curb-cruising possibilities, because our town has such a generous trash policy–you can put virtually anything at the curb and our sanitation workers will pick it up and haul it away. When we put something with halfway decent potential on the curb at home, we’ll often make a game of sitting on the porch and watching to see how long it takes for somebody to drive or walk by and snag the object of their desire. My old office chair, which had finally lost its arm for good, went on the curb last Friday and it took only a matter of minutes for it to be re-possessed. I think Tybee must have the same liberal policy. This makes for excellent shopping possibilities. Locals are well aware that trash days are Mondays and Thursdays, so they make a point of “shopping” just ahead of the garbage trucks. In just the past couple of years I’ve picked up a pair of wicker armchairs (which I then painted and sold in my booth at Seaside Sisters), a wicker rocker, (awaiting rehab in our shed), a vintage oak dresser, (which actually once belonged to my Mermaid Cottage friend Diane, and which got returned to her), and yesterday, a pair of adorable homemade children’s Adirondack chairs. Mr. Mary Kay is not nearly as enthusiastic about this sport as I. In fact, he refuses to play, so usually I have to enlist a co-conspirator when the opportunity arises. Co-conspirators with vans or trucks are greatly prized! These little cutie-pie chairs are, admittedly, rotted. But right now, they look so sweet in the backyard at The Breeze Inn beside a couple of blooming azaleas. I’m going to accessorize them with some ferns and white flowers, and everytime I look out from the screened porch, I’ll remember that my friend Seaside Susan and I staged an intervention and brought them home. In fact, they’re so cute, I’m going to try to find somebody to copy them and make me a functioning pair for our granddaughter Molly to use. How about you? Got any good SORA stories?

Don’t Forget to Leave Me Your Email Addy!

I’ve run two blog contests recently where winners didn’t leave me their email addresses–which means I have no way to contact them to let them know THEY WON and to find out where to send their prize. So please, if you’ve left a comment for the current T-shirt contest, make sure you include your email address. This means you, Becky, with the sailor suit I would love to have! You are free to leave a second comment—with you EMAIL ADDRESS! Got it?

The Breeze Inn–in Better Homes & Gardens

Last August, on what seemed like the hottest weekend of the year, our whole family converged on our Tybee Island beach house, The Breeze Inn, for a photo session for Better Homes & Gardens. The shoot was photographed by the amazing Rob Brinson, styled by the fabulous Annette Joseph and her assistant Natalie Holt, and produced by my old buddy Lisa Mowry. Oh yeah, I even wrote the accompanying story. The feature is published in the June issue of Better Homes & Gardens, which is on newsstands now! I’m so proud that an All-Atlanta team produced this luscious piece, and how the gorgeous photographs show off our home to perfection. We’ve already received so many nice compliments about the house, which is really gratifying after all the hard work that went into remodelling and furnishing it. Not to mention the amazing transformation that took place as Annette and Natalie deftly cleared away my clutter, and worked their magic with a truckload of flowers, plants and colorful accessories. So, thanks, Rob, Annette, Nathalie, Lisa, and the wonderful Amy Panos, my crackerjack BHG editor for making our house look like it always did in my dreams. Summer and fall bookings at The Breeze Inn are filling up fast, but if you click over to Mermaid Cottages, our friend Diane may be able to squeeze you in. Thanks go, too, to the whole Mermaid Cottage team who so lovingly care for and manage our house. And in the meantime, it turns out that this is my 300th blog post, something else to celebrate. I love hearing from readers, so let’s have a giveaway. Leave me a comment–complete with your EMAIL and I’ll pick three winners at random to win one of my spiffy T-shirts. Deadline is Weds. May 26. Enjoy!

We Have Some Winners!

Thanks all for your sweet, charming, funny, bittersweet memories of your own best summer ever. If it were up to me, everybody would get a free copy of SUMMER AT TIFFANY. Unfortunately, almost nothing is up to me. However, J. Fishler and MamaD, you failed to leave me email addresses, so if you’re still out there, please send me your email address AND your snailmail addy at MaryKayAndrews@aol.com. You other three, I’ll contact you, and we’ll get your books out ASAP. Thanks for playing!

Book Giveaway Just in Time for Mother’s Day

Do you remember the best summer of your life? Marjorie Hart does. The year was 1945 and the war was still on, and she and her best friend, Marty were fresh from the Kappa house at The University of Iowa when they came up with the idea of travelling by train to New York to look for summer jobs at the leading department stores of the day. But when they failed to get jobs there, a serendipitous connection from back in Iowa landed them jobs as pages at Tiffany’s, where they become the first females ever to work on the sales floor. Outfitted in store-provided Tiffany-blue shirtwaist dresses from Bonwit-Teller, the plucky girls managed to live on their $20 weekly salaries by budgeting nickels for subway fares and quarters for automat sandwiches. At work, they brush shoulders with mobsters and celebrities like Marlene Dietrich and Judy Garland, and in their off hours they dance the night away at nightclubs with handsome midshipmen, and experience their first glimpse of the ocean at Jones Beach. And of course, they are living history, hearing of the combat deaths of loved ones from back home and the dropping of the first atomic bomb. They join the celebratory throngs celebrating V-J Day in Times Square and manage to glimpse General Eisenhower during his victory parade.

More than forty years later, now retired from a career as a professional cellist and college arts administrator living in San Diego, Marjorie Hart set out to write her memoir for her children and grandchildren. Serendipitously, she met an editor at a writer’s workshop who saw gold in Marjorie’s account of her diamond-studded summer of 1945. And at the age of 82, Marjorie saw her memoir, SUMMER AT TIFFANY, published.

A few years ago, my editor at HarperCollins sent me Marjorie Hart’s luscious little memoir called SUMMER AT TIFFANY. I read it, I adored it. I bought more copies and sent them to my friend Barb, in Ohio, and my dear little Aunt Alice, in Florida, and to others. And now, finally, Harper has brought SUMMER back out in trade paperback, just in time for Mother’s Day. And Marjorie Hart, who I think is now 86, has a New York Times bestseller on her hands. You don’t have to be a member of what Tom Brokaw calls “The Greatest Generation” to love this book. This is a story for every woman who’s ever dreamed of running away to the big city, of romance, and diamonds and pearls, and even heartache. Buy a copy for your mom, or grandmom, and then buy one to keep too.
Better yet, leave me a comment about the best summer of YOUR life, and I’ll draw five names at random to win FREE copies of SUMMER AT TIFFANY. And no, you don’t have to be a mom to win–no purchase, no strings, just a wonderful read to start off your summer. Your comment must include your email addy so that I can notify you of winners. Drawing closes midnight Sunday May 9.

Mum’s the Word

Moms and daughters are a subject I’ve written about often over the space of my 17 published novels. In my Callahan Garrity novels, which I wrote under my real name, which is Kathy Hogan Trocheck, Callahan lived with her mom, Edna Mae, who was named after my own grandmother, Edna May Rivers Waymire, and modeled after my own mom, who was, like Edna, a chain-smoking, ice tea-drinking, solitaire-playing take-no-prisoner type. Other mothers I’ve written about bear no resemblance to my own mom. There was the closet alcoholic (and terrible cook) Marian Foley, in SAVANNAH BLUES, SAVANNAH BREEZE AND BLUE CHRISTMAS. The mom in HISSY FIT was missing in action, and the mom in DEEP DISH left annoying voicemail messages for Regina Foxton. In THE FIXER UPPER, I created Dempsey Killebrew’s mom, Lynda, a free-spirited divorcee who makes jewelry from roadside detritus and insists that all of Dempsey’s problems could be solved with some highlights and a new pair of shoes.

My Mom, styling my hair on my wedding day

I love to write about mother-daughter relationships, both the good and the bad. I was blessed to have a wonderful relationship with my own mother, the late, great, Sue Waymire Hogan, who was larger-than-life. We were different in so many ways, but alike in the ways that count. If I’ve been successful at all as a wife, mother, and now, grandmother, it’s probably because of her influence. (And my Dad’s, but that’s a subject for Father’s Day). Mom believed I could do absolutely anything. No hare-brained nutty idea I had about my future as a writer was too far-fetched for her. She loved to give advice–to anybody who would listen. Some of her best advice over the years? Never order tuna salad in a hamburger joint. Always make a friend, if you have the chance. Never date a man who chases or hits. What’s the best advice your mom ever gave you?

Mom, fixing Katie’s hair

Speaking as a mother, and now a grandmother, I feel that I can write with some authority about what mothers DON’T WANT for Mother’s Day. Recently, for instance, Mr. Mary Kay passed along a helpful email ad from an outfit called Golfsmith, that was suggesting any mother would be dee-lighted with a Mother’s Day gift of monogrammed golf balls. Er, no. Hay-yull no! Ditto the idea of giving Mom a new vacuum cleaner, Crockpot or steam iron. Unless, of course, the mother in your life has been dropping major hints that her heart’s desire actually is a new Lady Maytag, or whatever.In that case, you might want to ask yourself why your mother still views herself as a household drone. Just sayin’…

If you are blessed enough to still have a mother or grandmother (or dear aunt or mom stand-in) I hope you’ll find something wonderful and thoughtful as a gift–including the gift of time. Failing that, what about a book? Hmm. Maybe a book by….wait on it…Mary Kay Andrews? Being the thoughtful Mom I am, I’d like to help out my readers by offering signed bookplates for all my fans. If you’d like to give an autographed copy of one of my books to your mother, daughter, or any other special woman in your life this Mother’s Day, send an e-nail to meg@marykayandrews.com, with MOTHER’S DAY BOOKPLATES in the subject line. In your message tell us the quantity you’d like to receive–(limit 5 per person) and the snail mail address where the bookplates should be mailed. The postage is my treat. Requests must be received by midnight, Sunday, May 2 so we can get them in the mail to you in time to turn your old favorite–or newly purchased MKA novel into signed copies.

California, by way of Ohio, Here I Come

I’ve got a busy few weeks coming up. There’s that pesky deadline thing, of course. And I’m writing, I really am. But I have some long-standing commitments to get to first. For instance, this weekend, I’m headed up to Yellow Springs, Ohio to help celebrate the 25th anniversary of the Antioch Writer’s Workshop.

Twenty years ago, I was a totally frustrated, pissed-off newspaper reporter. I wanted to write fiction, and be a stay-at-home mom to my two children. Katie was eight and Andrew was four. My husband was tired of hearing me bitch and moan about my mean editors. So I did something. I started writing a mystery. One night a week, I’d sneak back to the newspaper office and write on their computer, which was a big no-no, which made me want to do it even more. Subversive streak, you see? I finished that first mystery,and sent it out to thunderous silence. Then I saw an ad in the back of WRITER’S DIGEST magazine, for a writer’s workshop in a place I’d never heard of, Yellow Springs, in a state I’d never been to, Ohio. Sue Grafton, who was my total mystery author hero, was giving a class at the Antioch Writer’s Workshop. And for like, fifty bucks or something, you could have her critique your manuscript. I was so there!

In July of 1990, I used up all my frequent flyer miles and my last week of vacation, and flew up to Ohio. Antioch College, it turns out, was this hippy-dippy little liberal arts school, and Yellow Springs was the totally chill college town, where, instead of having a town drunk, they had a town stoner, sitting on the curb across the street from Weavers Supermarket. Coolest of all, though, was Sue Grafton, who gave a three or four hour workshop every night for a week. That workshop changed my life. I went in a wannabe and came out a WRITER. I had my manuscript conference with Sue, who was incredibly encouraging about my finished novel, telling me I was ready to find an agent and a publisher. Later that week, I read the first chapter of a new book I’d started to the workshop attendees, and afterwards, Sue told me that book would be published. Less than four months later, I had a book contract for EVERY CROOKED NANNY with HarperCollins Publishers.

In May of 1991, I gave my notice at the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, and in 1992, my first book was published. And I’ve never looked back. I’ve been back to the AWW several times since 1990, a couple of times to teach at the workshop, most memorably, in 2000, when Sue Grafton came back to teach, and I was on that same faculty, and again, to be the AWW keynote speaker, which was a huge honor. In the 20 years since I first travelled to that hippy-dippy college town, I’ve made lots of friends in the writing community there, including my dear junk buddy Barb, at whose home I stayed on my first trip back to AWW, and on every trip since. Oh, and I’ve also had 17 novels published.

I’ll fly up to Dayton with a half-empty suitcase early Friday, so that Barb, and my hometown friend Sue and I can have a whole day of Ohio junking before I give my talk at the AWW celebration. Have I mentioned how much I love Ohio junk? They have AWESOME junk in Ohio. I’m looking forward to seeing my book club and writer friends in Yellow Springs, and also to tip-toeing over to Young’s Jersey Dairy Barn for some of their home-churned ice cream.

I come home from Ohio on Sunday, and then on Tuesday, Mr. Mary Kay and I are flying to San Francisco, where he has a two-day meeting. Then it’s on to Sonoma, and some wine-sipping, and hopefully, more junking. Although my chick trip friends and I were just in Sonoma in November, there was no time for junking. This trip, it’s different. I have already warned MMK that there WILL BE junk stops. And I’d appreciate any junk tips anybody has to offer for junking in Northern California next weekend. I’m totally bummed that we have to fly home early Sunday, and I’ll miss the Alameda Point show, so, somebody give me the 411!

Grow–Dammit!

It’s spring, and hope springs eternal, especially in the garden. Yesterday Mr. Mary Kay and I spent an enjoyable couple of hours planting our annual crop of tomatoes, peppers, herbs and potted palms and annuals in our small suburban yard. With all the rain we’ve had this winter, and the early springlike weather, our hopes are high.

You must understand, though, that I did not come from a gardening people. My father was first generation Irish-American, and he grew up a city kid, on the Southside of Chicago. My mother was a city kid too, although there must have been some farmers somewhere in her middle-American background. Essentially, my people were talkers, dreamers, jokers, and bon vivants. Neither of my parents had much talent or interest in gardening, and it showed, since we generally had the raggediest yard in the neighborhood. My Dad could and did kill even the hardiest grass, and my mother just wanted to be in the air-conditioning with a good book and a glass of instant Nestea.

Mr. Mary Kay’s people, of East European extraction, were fishermen originally, although his parents were also city kids. His mother loved plants and had some success with roses, but his family yard wasn’t especially scenic, either.

Still, we’ve always piddled around with gardening. And by we, I mean, he. He is the one who toils endlessly over the lawn, fertilizing, seeding, re-seeding and aerating. I love the idea of gardening. I really do. But I seem to have some kind of magical attraction to bugs, who will fly hundreds of miles to bite me. And then my back hurts and I get big itchy welts and I say the hell with it and go back inside to a good book and some home-brewed iced tea. See? I have evolved a little.

My role in our gardening drama these days is to go to the garden shop, pick out some pretty plants, and sprinkle pink flowers around the landscape. I have had my occasional triumphs,though. There was the year our son and I double dug a perennial flowerbed in front of my little office cottage, and planted it with zinnias, cleome, cosmos, sunflowers and pentas, which all flourished that one, amazing summer. And we’ve always had an arbor with pink New Dawn roses clambering over it. Even my father could have probably grown New Dawns, they’re that easy. I usually manage to keep the geraniums and fern baskets on our front porch alive for the duration of summer too.

Yesterday,I planted four dozen little peat-pots with four different varieties of sunflower seeds. I love the poetry and optimism in the variety of flower names: “Mammoth” “Ebony and Gold” “Skyscraper” and “Evening Sun.” In my mind’s eye, I see a row of tall blooms, their bright happy faces turned skyward. I see our little Molly, barefoot, in a hand-smocked white linen dress, toddling amongst the blooms, like one of those Anne Geddes greeting cards.

The reality, I know, is that even if I get some of those seedlings to grow and flower, they will probably be just as raggedy-ass and scraggly as my father’s lawn in St. Pete. Molly, it must be said, is not yet walking, let alone toddling. And even if she were toddling, would we let her do that barefoot, in a backyard that’s essentially a dog-run for our two English Setters? And then there’s the matter of that hand-smocked white linen dress. So far, I don’t know how to smock, and there is very little likelihood that I will learn that much-admired skill, what with trying to write a new book and grow those sunflowers. Still, I have my hopes. And isn’t that what gardening is ultimately all about?

Hippity-Hoppity


I looked up and discovered that April had arrived–and along with it Easter. We spent the Easter weekend at Tybee, although not at the Breeze Inn, because by the time I realized Easter was coming up, our house was already rented! But the important thing was that we spent the weekend with our family, Katie, Mark and Molly, and Andy, otherwise known as Boomerang Boy. After a hard, cold winter on Tybee, we finally got a stretch of beautiful, sunny weather. The boys were able to get out on the boat and do a little fishing, and we all took long strolls and bike rides. Unfortunately, Molly, who is now 9 months old, was under the weather–cutting four teeth and with a nasty cold and cough that sounds like she’s been smoking Camels for years. So we didn’t get any beach time, because snot and drool really don’t mix well with sand. Today we had Easter lunch here at the cottage we were renting. Baked ham, Mr. Mary Kay’s fabulous lamb chops with cherry balsamic glaze, the Barefoot Contessa’s green, green spring vegetables, herbed new potatoes, and, of course, devilled eggs. Our friend Diane, of Mermaid Cottages, contributed not one, but two, desserts–apple cake with cream cheese frosting, and coconut cake. Our friends Ron and Leuveda joined us too, bringing a great goat cheese appetizer. And Jimmy and Susan took time off from running Seaside Sisters and Seaside Sweets, to stop by for lunch. The children left to drive back to Atlanta and Charlotte, and Mr. MK and I took a bike ride around the island. I even managed to sneak in a nap before heading over to the Kellehers for a second Easter meal. Yikes! Gotta take some brisk walks to work off some of these desserts. Hoping your Easter was as blessed with family, friends and food as ours was.

This ‘n That


We had a brief, glorious hint of spring in Atlanta last weekend, sunny with temperatures inching close to 70. Naturally, I spent a good amount of time Friday afternoon trolling the AJC classifieds and Craigslist to put together my proposed line-up. On Saturday morning, when I was downstairs pouring my Diet Coke, Mr. Mary Kay looked astonished to see me up that early. Have I mentioned that I am NOT a morning person? “What are you doing?” he asked, as though I’d come downstairs in a skydiving or spelunking outfit. “It’s the home opener,” I replied.
“Huh?” And to that, I replied, “Junking season starts today!” Then I was out the door–driving his ginormous Yukon, because you can fit a buttload of junk in that puppy. My regular junk posse members were out of pocket or out of town Saturday, so Katie stepped in as a junior posse member. Katie is of that generation that thinks Pottery Barn and Restoration Hardware stuff is absolute nirvana, but these days she is suddenly hot to trot for junk, because she and her husband (and Molly) will be moving into their recently-purchased new home in May. And that Pottery Barn particle-board crap is NOT cheap. Have I mentioned that they (and by they, I mean Molly) will be living within walking distance in the ‘dale? We actually did a scouting trip on Friday afternoon, to a couple of sales in Midtown Atlanta. At the first sale, Katie stayed in the car with Molly, while I climbed the incredibly steep front steps to check out the action. Seeing a couple of things I thought might be workable, I signalled her to come up. But after hiking all those steps with 8-month-old Molly in her frontpack, Katie turned up her delicate nose at the porch offerings. In all honesty, I must say I wasn’t really sold on anything. There seemed to be a LOT of cat feeding dishes around. At one point, the woman running the sale mentioned to a ponytail-sporting man that she had, like six cats. So they started cat-talking, and he volunteered that he MAKES his own cat food. At which point, being decidely dog people, we fled the scene. We cruised past a porch sale that was to start Saturday morning, but Katie, who is very finicky about these things, opined that she didn’t like the look of the place. Have I mentioned that I somehow managed to raise a child who is NOT down with pawing through mildewy basments and roach-ridden attics in search of priceless antiques? Sigh. Where did I go wrong? Anyway, we hit seven or eight sales Saturday morning. And the only place I scored was at an estate sale I hit accidentally. I picked up a chenille bedspread, an old pickle jug with a wire bale and wooden handle, a repro Coke button sign (for The Breeze Inn) and some other goodies. At one point, Katie requested to be dropped off at home, so I struck out on my own. Back to the porch sale in Midtown, where I spotted four great Chinese Chippendale faux bamboo chairs. Wood, heavy as all get-out, and a matching octagonal table–complete with a leaf! The tabletop is some kind of wood-grained formica stuff, but the rest is very heavy wood, probably early 60s vintage, very DOMINO magazine-esque. Katie had been talking about wanting a real dining room set for her new house, so quick like a bunny I emailed her cellphone pix, and she called in her approval. I managed to talk the anemic-looking guy running the sale down to $125, and then I ran to the ATM for the required cash, and home to get the pick-up truck, along with Katie’s husband and father to help move the furniture. When we got back with the men and the truck, imagine my surprise when anemic guy suddenly peps up and volunteers to do the heavy lifting! Anyway, Katie and Mark love their new furniture, which was Katie’s early birthday present. Watch for pix as they move into their house and furnish it with all our junk finds. On Sunday, I got up and drove down to Tybee and The Breeze Inn, to try to get in some writing. The work was going well today, but after four or five hours, my shoulders and neck were so knotted up with tension, I could hardly move. I booked a massage appointment, and on the way home, I was cruising around the island, when I spotted an antique chest of drawers on the curb. Since tomorrow is trash pick-up day, I declared a junk emergency and called my friend Diane. “Are you up for a mission?” I asked. I told her what I’d spotted, and where it was. “Oh my gosh,” she exclaimed. “I bet that’s my dresser. I used to manage that house for my sister, and we sold it furnished.” Five minutes later, she pulled up to the house. Sure enough, the dresser was an antique solid pine piece Diane bought years ago at the old Lakewood Antique Market. The new owners of her sister’s former cottage apparently had no regard for good old stuff and put it out for the trash collectors. But now, the chest has been happily reunited with Diane. Junk karma for sure. And don’t you just love happy endings?