March!

My favorite – and least favorite – month of the year. The month when days are longer and warmer, akin to a bridge between ice and fire. And the month death surrounds me.

If you’re looking for an uplifting offering this month, hang tight. It may start as a downer but happiness is not far behind.

In my last blog post, I explained my life in terms of odd vs. even years. This month, before getting to the meat of all things personal and professional, I need to further explain my existence in terms of March. Specifically, March.

As a brief aside, I think we should stop with the “oh, the season changes on the twenty-first of the month” nonsense. I always have to look it up. When is it again? The 20^th? The 22^nd? I forget! Why not just have the seasons change the 1^st? March, June, September, December. Easy-peasy. Honestly – who makes these decisions? (Kidding. I know, I promise.)

Complaints aside, March 1^st always lifts my spirits. It’s the fulfillment to me of December 22^nd’s promise of longer days. Depending on where you live, hints of full-on spring are everywhere. Flower buds begin forming. Our heaters kick in fewer times per day. Dog owners walk their grateful pooches to parks no longer covered in snow. We ponder our wardrobes, consulting the forecast before deciding whether we need a jacket or if a sweater will do when going out for an evening’s festivities.

The only curb in my enthusiasm for my favored month of the year is, it seems most of the people I’ve loved and lost have died in March. The man I loved: 1988. My step-father: 1996. And now, within the coming few precious days, my best friend of forty years, who is as we speak under the care of Death with Dignity in Portland. Add to this some of the worst mistakes I’ve ever made (no kidding – in March), and one would think I’d be justified in taking to my bed each February 28^th (or 29^th, every four years) and not emerging until April Fool’s Day.

I have to believe that the sunlight itself is one reason my mood eventually reverts back to an annual yearning for my beloved March. Maybe that’s the consolation I have in my mourning. Perhaps if such sorrowed events happened in January, I’d have never recovered. I don’t know.

In any case, it’s here. With the obvious exception of losing part of my heart any minute now, I’m relieved. I’ll keep pace with my objectives even as I grieve. And rightfully so, as my friend told me days ago with her announcement of her situation:

“Keep writing my best friend. I love you. Always have. Always will. We still have our adventures but maybe on a different plane. Heather, please don’t push yourself so hard.”

One day, I’m going to share our story with the world. True stories of a dead iguana, limousines through drive-thrus, escargot in purses, a “borrowed” vehicle, phone book surname changes, drunken cat-naps (emphasis on cats), barefoot escapades through the streets of San Francisco, and years of laughter and tears.

For now, I can best honor her memory by focusing on the task at hand. And so, I shall.

I’ve fretted for months now over the lack of meaningful movement on the true crime book I’m writing – a book that, if you’ve read my previous posts – must be finished by the end of September. Because the cold case in question is over four-decades old, it’s no surprise that many witnesses and other people of interest are deceased. Many of those still alive have relocated. Others who remain are as tight-lipped as a soldered steel drum. I won’t rehash the peculiarities I’ve mentioned before. Suffice to say, little has changed.

And yet, some things have.

A couple of weeks ago, I was tracked down a minor but important witness who was temporarily (but notably) involved with one of the main suspects. It was a find I horde like gold. Though gruff and surly at first, he changed his mind about talking to me solely because his wife told him I was “a nice lady.” He did not reveal a great deal more during our 27-minute conversation than he’d shared publicly over the years, but he did give me some insight as to why he believes the suspect in question is credible. Plus, I got the name of my witness’ pig. Small things matter in a writer’s world. Adding color to detail is vital. He gave me that in spades.

This month, I have another coveted interview scheduled. This one is with another of my former classmates (to no one’s surprise, he doesn’t remember me). I won’t talk too much about that at this point, and will likely keep what I learn from him under wraps until publication. Suffice to say, no one else has really bothered to talk to him.

Overall, I’d have to say that, for all my stress over doing this story justice, things are coming together. I’m working with a couple of incredible citizen detectives who have traced and tracked this story for nearly two decades. Their ready knowledge and memory are invaluable to me. Some folks are slowly coming around. Others are revealing themselves as vital future contacts. And for those shutting doors in my face, I’m beginning to believe that, like the promise of March (for all its hope and despair), they too might come around in the end.

In any case, the hazy shade of winter is lifting. I can see clearly now – even with a tear in my eye.

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