Call It What you Will. . .

Menopause.  The Change of Life.  The Critical Period (or really lack thereof).  Whatever you want to call it, I've been ready for it since the day I gave birth to my last child.  No more children; no need for the uterus, the fallopians or ovaries.  I was ready to yank them out and donate them to an organ bank a long time ago.  My gynocologist, however, wasn't in agreement.  So, I toiled on until now.

I've had some symptoms for awhile.  Hot?  All the time (southerners call it "my own personal summer").  Itchy? Check.  But really, the bitchy and forgetful part haven't been so bad. I've been fairly open and ready to poke fun at myself when the sniping bitch rears her head and am quick to spin it back into position. In fact, I pride myself on quick thinking and innovative action.

Last week, a friend dropped by with little notice. I had enough time to pick up the dog toys, put the extra dirty dished in the oven and make a fresh pot of coffee.  And, we had a delightful visit, talking about, of all things, our experiences with The Change.  Her biggest complaint is her swiss cheese memory, which her children are quick to point out when it involves something they claim they have already told her.  You know, things like I'm having fifteen people over tonight, will you cook something?

That evening when Moondoggy came home, I told him of the visit, laughing at the funny stories my friend shared.  I preheated the oven for dinner, then continued the conversation, asking in a somber tone if I had been successful at not being overly moody or bitchy.  Moondoggy assured me, my bitch has been painless and sometimes downright funny.  I felt pretty darn proud of myself.

Proud, until I smelled melting plastic.  The dishes!  I had left them in the oven and forgotten.  My white plastic colander was dripping through the oven grates and pooling on the oven floor at a temperature of 375˚.  The stench overpowering.

I was stunned.  How could I forget?

Moondoggy grabbed his coat and brought me mine.  As he helped me put it on he said, "You know, you only asked about being bitchy, you didn't ask me about how your memory has been."

Never Say Never

Five years ago, I sat in the office of one of my bosses and told a story about a serial killer that stalked children in the city where I grew up in Michigan. I started with the abduction of Mark Stebbins in February 1976 and ended with Tim King’s death in March 22, 1977.  Tim was the youngest brother of a friend of mine and he was one of my own brother-in-law’s best friends.  

The monster that became known as the Oakland County Child Killer scarred the lives of all the people who lived in Oakland County, Michigan from those at “ground zero” to those who watched these horrors unfold on tv.  The killer was never found.

As I told this story out loud from the abductions to the theories, possible suspects and my own personal involvement, my boss leaned back in his chair and said, “I see a great piece of fiction to be written.”  I scoffed.  I was MAD.  No way, I said, could I ever turn this disturbing time of so many lives into fiction.  

Well, a few days ago, I published my next book, “No Such Thing”, a fictional story about child abduction and murder.  While not about the real killer or murders, it employs many of the same events and theories, weaving a story of what could have happened.  The real story takes remarkable twists and turns.  The book streamlines many of those twists into one story.

I would never attempt to diminish the lives of Mark Stebbins, Jill Robinson, Kristine Mihelich or Tim King; their lives were far more important.  Their deaths forever changed my life.  

With the blessing of Tim’s sister and brother, I wrote and published this novel and hope that when it finds its audience, it keeps these kids in the public eye until the real killer has been caught.

Currently available on Kindle and Nook and in paperback through my site www.judicoltman.com.  

More information available on the Resources page of my website.