Saturday, December 26, 2020




Here’s what I told a friend-


There’s lots of good news about buying books directly from me!


First, all my books are ten dollars(except the writing book, “Damn the rejections”) which is $5 with your choice of colors-orange, green, aqua, purple)

Second, every book is always autographed.

Third, I use a priority envelope which cost $7.35 and gets there fast.

Fourth, I can fit two books in one priority envelope, two books for one shipping price. $7.75

         Buyers can just send me an email Maralys@cox.net with a return address—and I trust people to send me a check. Amazon is slower and gives authors practically nothing.

Direct to me has every advantage—and I love to hear from readers personally. Plus Amazon never tells me which books have been sold.—an  important feature’ if you’re a much- published writer.



Oceans of love, Maralys


Saturday, November 7, 2020




“I’m Jill Biden’s husband.” The start to a presidential acceptance speech? Nah! That first line endeared Joe Biden to every wife in the country.

If I’d been his advisor, I’d consider myself a genius. Well, how great we got the president we wanted.

Joe Biden may be the world's most gracious leader

Saturday, March 28, 2020



Nobody would have predicted it--that my daughter’s 61st birthday would turn us all into magicians. And manage, somehow, to create memories that will last forever.

How different it was last year, when eight family members flew to Tahiti to celebrate Tracy’s big milestone and for nearly three weeks cruised back to the states.  And how glad we are (we veteran cruisers), that this was a no-cruise year.

Still, a large party was planned for Tracy—until it turned out the whole state of California was under decree to hunker down.  “Shelter in place”  did not mean that the state, or even a tiny fraction thereof, was supposed to shelter in Tracy’s family room for food and games.

Instead, a large group of friends took individual videos of themselves dancing and cheering, sent them to a clever friend, who spliced the videos onto a single tape, and forwarded them to our daughter as a token of enduring friendship.

Which still left hours for an electric bike ride to the beach for Tracy and Paul and a friend over bike paths they described as so serene, so wild and rustic, they resemble a countryside that most non-bikers aren’t aware exists—at least not within a few miles of Newport Beach.

And still . . . what about dinner?  With that, the story gets complicated. Tracy invited Chris and Betty-Jo, Dane and Zhanina, and Rob and me over for a special chez Paul created  dinner. I asked my son if he and Betty-Jo were going.

“No,” Chris said sternly, “and you and Rob shouldn’t go either.” He was adamant. Thanks to his doctor colleagues and a lot of private medical communications, he knows better than any of us the dangers that lie in wait for people our ages. “Countries with more ventilators per capita than in the U.S. have to make choices about who to give them to—and you know which group never gets them. ”

With that, Rob and I decided to stay home.  But later Tracy called. “We can pull this off,” she said. “But it’s cold outside. Be sure and wear heavy jackets.” 

Later Dane called. “Don’t come through the house, Grandma,” he said. “Use the side gate and go straight to the patio. And oh . . . ” he paused, “it’s really cold out.” 

Another change of direction. Rob found his huge leather jacket and a leather top hat, and I wriggled into two layers of fleece, and we both drew on blue plastic gloves, and off we went to Paul and Tracy’s – and on through their gate. I envisioned the scenario. The two of us would eat inside and the four of them outside on the patio. To me, the “cold” warnings were about getting there.  

All wrong.

Once there, we were told to get comfortable on the patio. And never mind the lowest evening temperature we’ve seen in weeks and a nasty wind blowing off the nearest snow pack.

Tracy opened the closest dinette window.  “The food will be there in a minute,”  she offered. Then she took another look at me. “You look cold, Mom,” she said. “I’ll bring you a blanket.” Soon she was out the door, wearing gloves and an N95 mask. First she tossed me a furry white blanket, then from behind, jammed a cap down over my head. “I love Dad’s hat!” she said.  

Minutes later, she and Paul, both wearing masks, slid a seafood jumbo down the long wooden table, followed by plates of excellent steak, asparagus, and mashed potatoes. Meanwhile, the dinette windows remained open.  Soon the four of them—inside--sat down to eat.

The whole scenario was eerie. We were “with” them, yet we weren’t. We were at least 18 feet away. Through the open windows we could hear each other perfectly—while observing that they were all trying not to make it obvious that the same breeze which was chilling us wasn’t exactly kind to them. We all pretended otherwise. The dialogue flowed back and forth semi-normally, though I noticed we didn’t stay on one topic long. 

In spite of all those donated extra layers, I was not in a stay-here-long mood. Yes, the backyard was beautiful. And the setup was ingenious, kind of funny, probably safe.  But my thoughts lay in telling Chris how cleverly (and, how freezingly),  it all worked out.  I wanted to brag about Tracy and Paul’s ingenuity and their great food and how remarkably we kept the virus at bay.   

Pulling the blanket tighter, I told a few stories I suspect I’ve told before. From inside they rewarded me with laughter. Then Tracy read her birthday cards—especially poignant from Dane and Z.  Still, dessert couldn’t come fast enough . . . brownies and ice cream. As we all finished, Dane stood, and from inside he took pictures of the family. Happily, they included all of us—but Rob and I were distant spectres, almost ghosts lurking somewhere in the background, barely in view. Most remarkable of all was Rob’s hat.

By then, I couldn’t wait to get into our car’s seat heaters. And besides, I had to go to the bathroom. As it turned out, so did Rob. Clearly, after all that effort, we couldn’t enter the house, and the bushes were no option.

We thanked Paul, Tracy, Dane, and Z profusely—which they deserved. We sent them all fake hugs and hurried away.  It had been a birthday party like no other. 

THE NEXT DAY, WE noticed the new neighbors across the street were entertaining friends—all outside on the front lawn.  Among them were lots of paper cups, some small children, and some older folks. “I hope you’re staying six feet apart,” I called through the car window.

They laughed.  “These are our parents,” they said.  “So yes, we are.”

I PREDICT THAT NINE months from now there will be a lot of babies born to couples who are currently not working, who live together—and who see no reason to remain six feet apart.


Wednesday, March 18, 2020



Of course it’s a crazy world—we all know it. 

But it’s even crazier if you’re a senior in a category of maximum virus vulnerability . . . and suddenly you have no water.

It all began so innocently, thanks in part to my having a superior sense of smell.  (It’s nice, these days, to have a superior sense of anything!)  One day, as I stood near the kitchen sink, I began smelling that musty, give-away odor of something having been wet. With that, I began exploring under the sink. No, our new reverse-osmosis machine  was not leaking. The floor beneath it was dry.

I searched through nearby cupboards. Dry everywhere. Was I imagining the smell? “Are you catching that odor, Rob?”  But he wasn’t. In time I gave up my fruitless search. Yet the kitchen sink kept emanating impolite messages.

A week went by. And then I heard it—somewhere in the house, water was running. A lot of water. I stood and listened. “You can’t hear that noise, Rob?” He tried to accommodate me. “Maybe the soft water tank is recycling. Could you be hearing that, Babe, out in the garage?” He double-checked the garage, our sprinklers, the outside hoses. Nothing. Yet I was adamant. My ears were not deceiving me. When there’s an outpouring of liquid within a house, it doesn’t sound like a faraway concert, or a distant air hammer, it sounds like water.

Sunday night we called Chris, told him our concerns. “I’ll be home tomorrow,” he said. “Can’t help from here.” Mid-afternoon Monday he was standing in our kitchen, ear to the floor. He searched a little further. “It’s under the house,” he said, “and it’s running pretty good.”  It was now the witching hour for doctors and plumbers—5 p.m.

Immediately I called a plumber—but even their emergency number wouldn’t pick up. No recourse but to call the expensive plumber, the one whose bills were a down payment on a car. They must have needed the business.  “We’ll be there tomorrow at nine.”

Meanwhile, Chris went outside and turned off the house water.  The inside taps stopped flowing . . . . . except I hadn’t thought to fill up any containers.  He was home again when I asked if I could stop by and fill a few bottles.  “Just go outside, Mom, and turn on the water briefly—long enough to get what you need.”  Rob was home sick—by now out of action.

“But it’s dark,” I said, “and it’s raining, and the turn-on is deep in wet bushes—if I can even find it.”  He sighed. “So come on up,” he said at last.  He didn’t have to say it. They’ve lived there more than half a century—yet Mom doesn’t even know how you turn off the water.

So okay, I argued silently.  In our house, men have always dealt with spigots.  

The next day, the silver-jeweled plumber confirmed what Chris already knew—for $170 (per crawl), he crawled under the house and reported back that our two-day flood had produced a two-inch swimming pool—under all 4,000 feet of raised foundation. Before anything could be done, we’d need the services of the platinum-jeweled EMERGENCY PLUMBERS, who, after more crawling brought us a contract—this time for a down payment on a condo. Furthermore, his second deep-mud crawl revealed that the house turnoff did not stop the actual below-decks shooting stream. It seems our house turnoff is now so old it has all the strength of a centurion sumo wrestler. Only Tustin’s Water Company could accomplish anything noticeable. More phone calls, more delays.

So here’s where we stand: no water, but excessive noise from two dry-out-the-water outside fans. “They’re really loud,” the installer admitted.  “Loud” is an understatement.  They practically rattle the house. The noise goes way beyond annoying.    

No hand washing, no dish washing.  To flush a potty, Rob brings in one of his precious buckets of collected rain water . . . or we heat it on the stove to rinse the occasional dish. "This is like an overnight in the woods," Rob said. "I never did like camping." To bathe, we gather shampoos and razors and drive to Chris and Betty-Jo's. At home, every other minute I’m searching for some way to rinse my hands. Do I use rainwater, or nothing?  I called a drugstore. Purell, a hand disinfectant--not available anywhere. 

But even this craziness has its good moments.  Besides the huge helpfulness of our nearby kids (who’ve each offered us a bedroom—but we prefer sleeping at home) . . . was today’s incident at our bank. Still in pajamas, Rob drove me there.  As I sat six feet back from the teller, I eyed the container of Purell sitting on the counter.  First time I’ve ever thought of robbing a bank.  Finally I spoke up.  “At home we have no water. Can I buy one of your bottles of hand sanitizer?”

The tellers looked surprised. (Days ago, they’d called us offering extra help).  One lady made a quick decision—she jumped up and opened a cupboard, brought back the priceless jar. “Here,” she said, and wouldn’t accept payment.

I thanked her profusely, then said to the other teller, “Usually I eye your candy. Today, not at all.”  With that, she reached into an undercounter jar and handed me a fistful of wrapped Easter chocolates. 

Back at the car, I startled the heck out of Rob.  “Look what the bank gave me!”  To me, at least, the Purell was suddenly more precious than money.  Still sitting there, we each had a chocolate.  Which proves there’s magic in even the smallest bit of kindness.

Monday, March 9, 2020



Like everyone, I’m alarmed—at times terrified—of the Corona virus. As great-grandparents, Rob and I are in the worst possible category . . . where for once, wisdom and probable lifelong imunities are no life-saving barrier. 

Making the scenario even worse, since this is a virus and not a bacterium, the CDC and NIH know that antibiotics are useless—as they are for the virus-driven common cold.

Which brings up a point.  Years ago, scientist Linus Pauling found that extra-large doses of Vitamin C, if taken early, are often effective against the virus-driven cold. In fact, we’ve got a highly-respected lawyer friend (a judge), who believes in this “cure” so ardently, that part of her regular routine involves taking a daily dose of Vitamin C—and a bigger dose if she feels ill. Now past ninety, she says, “In my whole life, I’ve never been sick longer than one day.”

With that information, I have stopped many a cold in its tracks—which requires big, early doses of the vitamin—1000 mg. per hour for a few hours--plus a total avoidance of sugar. The good news is that we’ve had confirmed independently by several doctors, that Vitamin C in large doses, (unlike some other vitamins), presents no risk of toxicity.  The kidneys merely excrete the excess—while hopefully, the extra dose does its job.  

Suddenly I’m thinking, If Vitamin C works against the virus-driven “cold” why not against the world’s sudden onslaught of the Corona virus?  Is it possible that a quick end to the risk from exposure might result from a massive dose of Vitamin C?  (And no sugar)?

I’m no doctor, nor pretend to be more than a logical, persistent German who’s had years of first-hand evidence that for me, at least (and a few of my friends and relatives), the Vitamin C “cure” works against one kind of virus--the common cold. Whether it works against this more virulent enemy is open to question.  I’m simply throwing this “out there” as a possibility.

Meanwhile, instead of shopping at Costco and stocking up on toilet paper, I intend to stock up on Vitamin C—the kind in which sugar is not an ingredient.

An Important P.S.  Those very high Vitamin "C" doses are only intended for the first onset of symptoms--way lower for normal, every-day use. 

Tuesday, January 28, 2020



Way back in  1800, (according to Monday’s Los Angeles Times), Thomas Jefferson and Aaron Burr, both running for president, were tied—amazingly--in Electoral College votes.  One house of Congress was forced to decide between them.

As it developed, the political party making the decision did not feel either man represented their beliefs, but decided that Aaron Burr would be much easier to control, that he would bend to their wishes. Ready to cast their votes for Burr, they were stopped by an incensed Alexander Hamilton, who stepped in to dissuade them.  Noting that Burr was a man he knew well from New York political and legal circles, he said Burr was “deficient in honesty”  and “one of the most unprincipled men in the UStates.” 

Hamilton also said, “When a man unprincipled in private life, desperate in his fortune, bold in his temper; possessed of considerable talents” . . . “having the advantage of military habits—despotic in his ordinary demeanor—known to have scoffed in private at the principles of liberty—when such a man is seen to mount the hobbyhorse of popularity—to join in the cry of danger to liberty—to take every opportunity of embarrassing the General Government and bringing it under suspicion—to flatter and fall in with all the nonsense of the zealots of the day—it may justly be suspected that his object is to throw things into confusion that he may ‘ride the storm and direct the whirlwind.’”    

Still, the deciding party had already observed that Jefferson’s principles, as Secretary of State, did not please them.  Yet Alexander Hamilton persisted in his arguments. If Burr was made president, Hamilton said, “he will disturb our institutions,” and “disgrace our Country abroad.”  He would “listen to no monitor but his ambition,”  and further, he was (to quote the Times) governed by a singular position—“to get power by any means and keep it by all means.”

Though Hamilton knew Jefferson did not please the deciding party, he would not give up his clamor against Aaron Burr.  At least, he said in one of his dozen letters to Congress, Jefferson was a man devoted to the Constitution. 

In today’s impeachment conflicts, Adam Schiff has become our Alexander Hamilton, quoting this astute distant scholar for the benefit of the American public—noting how much Burr and Trump have in common. 

But it was the Los Angeles Times that made this point: “In a striking echo to the impeachment charges against Trump, Hamilton further noted that if Burr ever reached the White House, there was a risk that, for the purpose of self-benefit, he would undertake  “a bargain and sale with some foreign power, or combinations  with public agents in projects of gain by means of the public monies.” 

The dismissal of Burr’s candidacy did not come easily: It took 36 ballots to achieve the presidency in Thomas Jefferson’s favor.  As we look back at Aaron Burr—this earlier version of Donald Trump—some of us wonder whether our country and our constitution would have survived under the dishonesty and political ambitions of Aaron Burr.  Would he, too, have lied to the public some 4000 times? 

How often has Trump bragged that he could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue in  New York City and “my voters would still support me.” 

Well, the irony is, years ago, that exact scenario occurred: In a duel that should have been stopped, Aaron Burr killed Alexander Hamilton.  And ever since, everyone who has read a history book has come to despise the name of Aaron Burr. 

Friday, January 10, 2020




It all began in Amsterdam.  Our granddaughter and her husband, in Holland, needed a larger house.  As in California, homes are expensive, so they were barely able to afford an older, two-story,  owned for years by a woman who was born and, in her old age, died there.  But after the late-year deal was closed, they made an astonishing discovery: their two-story home was actually three stories, with a never-revealed full basement.

And how did they know?  As a contractor began renovations,  he discovered a trap door, leading to a ladder.  Of all places, the trap door was in the bathroom, hidden UNDER the linoleum. Meaning the house was now a third more valuable than anyone had suspected. Even the ladder was a mystery, descending into a basement filled to the brim with sand.  

But what was the purpose of the mysterious trap door?  And since when were trap doors located in bathrooms? 

Nobody knows, but speculations are rampant. Perhaps during WW II, the basement was used to sequester and protect a family of Jews.  Or perhaps the sand is hiding a treasure of Dutch art work from marauding Nazis in 1940,  such as paintings or statuary.  Until the sand is removed, the house and its secrets will not be revealed.  Extensive renovation permissions in Holland are slow.  Until then, the larger family holds its breath. 

Soon after, our daughter’s two children and their significant others spent Christmas in Tracy’s Tustin home.  On Christmas Eve, grandson Dane was awakened by a one a.m. alarm on his phone:  Since he runs a video business, he was able to see a man running through his company, with computers under his arms . . . and also that a glass door was shattered.  Dane woke Tracy’s Paul, and together the two arrived at two a.m., called the police, and found that three computers had been stolen.  And there was blood on the floor.  The police offered no reasonable solutions.

Two nights later it happened again.  Same thief. Two more computers gone, including Tracy’s. And a photo of the thief on house video.  Now Tracy got involved. After the police said they had more important jobs than solving property crimes, Tracy called an old friend, the mayor of Santa Ana.  (As a once four-year mayor herself, she had a good relationship with Miguel Polido.)  Polido was eager to help.

Not one to let thieves disrupt a family business,  Tracy scouted the neighborhood and nearby found a homeless tent encampment—and possibly a view of the oft-filmed crook. A few days later, three pickle ball friends gave themselves a new title, Crime Fighters, and joined Tracy in secretly scouting the tents.  What they found were three bums in a raging argument with a Uber driver. After they all drove away, Tracy’s posse followed them in a jeep—a long drive through the streets of Santa Ana, with Tracy continuously on the phone to Police Dispatch,  keeping them informed of their location.  When the Uber stopped in front of a bank, so did the police.

Within minutes all three men, including the video burglar, were handcuffed.  Two had outstanding warrants. Later that day, Santa Ana police sent Dane an email message.  “We just want to thank you for your friends, who so determinedly ran down two crooks.”  Tracy told us with a laugh, “They never knew that one of the “friends” was his mother.” 

Last, in celebration of Rob’s and my 71st anniversary, January 3,  we were invited to our son Chris and Betty-Jo’s Tustin home for dinner.  Of course significant family members had celebrated the year before, including our son Ken and his wife from Virginia.  So we knew this year only the locals would be there.  Still, when Rob and I were directed to Betty-Jo’s living room couch and handed a drink,  after a couple of minutes we heard a distinctive voice, somewhere behind us, say, “Can’t a guy get a decent meal around here?”  Instantly, I recognized the voice as our son, Ken . . . and I thought, Where did they get this audio tape? Unlike me, Rob knew it wasn’t a tape.  The voice was practically in his ear.    

Suddenly, Ken jumped out from behind the couch—easily one of the greatest surprises I’ve had in decades. Once again, Rob and I reveled in our family’s recognition of our long marriage.  And the family’s determination to make Ken’s visit a huge moment.

Except for the house in Amsterdam,  we expect the craziness of this year’s Christmas season is now over.