Crying at the movies: a memoir.

Last night, after my birthday movie, I came home to find myself tagged in this post on my son's wall:

"It turns out the lady was your mom." I will pause so that you may reflect.

Well, I do have a long and storied career as a movie cryer. Here are a few movies I have sobbed like a motherless child at:

• The Way We Were
• Terms of Endearment
• Stepmom
• The Notebook
• Marley & Me
• Titanic, obv.
• uh, every single Harry Potter movie, probably. More on this later.

I have also cried like crazy at indie movies, such as:

• Summer Hours
• Friends with Money
• Whalerider
• Into the West
• Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
• Things You Can Tell By Looking At Her
• Blue Valentine
• Bright Star
• The Fall

and probably a whole bunch more that I may or may not care to mention. The Sex and the City movie, for instance, after Mr. Big stands Carrie up, sort of, at their wedding and she looks so miserable. Or, like, parts of Superbad, which the relevant youngest son pointed out to me wasn't remotely poignant to him. Or Into the Wild, with director Sean Penn pulling the cry-now strings like mad.

My kids like to say that I cried at a Rugrats movie, and maybe at a Pokemon movie. I don't know. I'd like to see their evidence--we all know from about a billion Law & Orders that eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable. But I will not deny that if a movie tugs at my heartstrings, I am generally happy to oblige, although sometimes if movies are trying to work me, I resist. I'm not that easy. Okay, I am. But sometimes the weep machinery is just too much, and in those circumstances, I stay dry-eyed.

Usually, though, I cry. And I don't particularly care. So what? Why bother to think of sports? I used to cry a lot about life-y things, and sometimes I still do. But these days, I just don't like it--it makes me feel bad, and my eyes get puffy, and it's all just too tragic. At a movie, though: crying at a movie lets you release feelings that need to be released (see: catharsis), but mostly in a limited, self-contained way. I don't usually cry too much (except for at Marley & Me, and Stepmom, and Terms of Endearment--I wept so much in those movies I had to take to my bed afterward to recover. And if one of them comes on on cable--forgetaboutit.), but frankly, it feels a little bit cleansing.

Anyway. In July, a bunch of people, including my daughters and me, went to see the most recent Harry Potter, I pretty much full-on sobbed when (seriously? you haven't seen/read it yet? what is wrong with you? spoiler alert) Snape died. After the movie ended, my daughter with the wicked wit said, "Are you okay?"

Yep. Just fine. Now leave me alone, I'm fishing for my Kleenex.

Today

was my birthday, so I

• acknowledged to myself that I am old(er) with a small but private and very limitedly miserable sulk, then
• opened birthday presents from the historian,
• wept over a sweet note from my oldest friend and a sweet note from my dad, after which I
• ate a birthday custard,
• took a quick birthday trip to Target (what. That's totally a thing.), and
• took a birthday trip to work that lasted a lot of hours, where I
• had a birthday interview with a student candidate for the editor of the literary/arts mag, then
• received a phone call wherein my grandson sang me "Happy Birthday," whereupon I
• spent a birthday hour in the Student Writing Center, whence I gave birthday help to a student, after which I
• fretted over a birthday lesson plan and a birthday grammar & style activity, and then
• taught, after the birthday fretting, a great birthday grammar & style class! I then
• ate my birthday sandwich and birthday potato chips, and drank my birthday Dr. Pepper, with my friend, while concurrently
• doing my birthday office hours online; then I
• went home before having a
• birthday taco and watching a
• birthday movie with the historian.

In conclusion, birthday birthday birthday! BIRTHDAY, oh yeah.

As Monday abolishes the weekend.

This weekend we saw Our Idiot Brother, which was charming and delightful. We enjoyed it very much. We bought peaches and tomatoes and onions and eggs and bread and beans and squash and grapes at the market. I ate a lot of watermelon. I just can't get enough watermelon. We also bought the most beautiful berry threesome: a basket each of blueberries, raspberries and strawberries. We went down to Utah Valley for a family gathering. I finished my Swedish thriller. I read a manuscript for the press I'm on the editorial board of (nice prepositional ending, eh?). Took Bruiser for several walks. Commented on the initial posts in my online classes. Watched two episodes of the old Adult Swim show Home Movies (streaming now on Netflix, highly recommended). Talked with running son, who jumped back into Utah life this past Thursday, surprising me in my office with a bag of Lays Classic Potato Chips. Read the New York Times sitting at the table under the cherry tree. Listened to a big cracking thunder and lightning storm last night.

Today, I have been in my office interviewing editorial candidates for Folio. And while I confess I wish the unstructured, wander-where-you-will qualities of summer, which often eluded me during the actual time I was off work, would last a bit longer, it's been kind of nice to listen to these potential editors talk about their ideas, their plans, their enthusiasms. The show-up-on-time qualities of fall are pretty good, too.

The last day of summer, technically: an FAQ.

Q: How's that prep coming?

A: Oh, swell, thanks for asking.

Q: Seriously.

A: None of your business.

Q: What'd you do today, the last day before school meetings start tomorrow morning?

A: Would you like that in a paragraph, or a bulleted list?

Q: Bulleted list, please.

A: Excellent choice:

• picked up one grandson from his house at 9 a.m.
• picked up other grandson from his house at 9:25 a.m.
• drove directly to Target, where we purchased 2 varieties of Spiderman (Arctic Attack Spiderman and Spider Sense Spiderman), various snacks including Kung Fu Panda Fruit Roll Ups, and a pair of shoes for me (I really needed them!).
• drove home, where we engaged in long bouts of Spiderman play, interspersed with discussions in which we parsed the various features of the two Spidermen.
• had Happy Meals for lunch. Bruiser finished off the last chicken nugget neatly, when it was left unattended and, one can safely assume, therefore unwanted. Except by a dog.
• watched Iron Giant. Our viewing was enhanced by a video chat with an auntie in Scotland, and discussions about whether the giant was a good guy or a bad guy.
• resumed Spiderman play.
• built a Spiderman garage with blocks.
• took Bruiser for a very short walk.
• had a snack.
• had a little rest with some Wonder Pets to amuse and inspire us.

Why, what'd you do?

Q: How on earth will you be ready when classes start on Wednesday? Don't you have long meetings tomorrow?

A: What's a long meeting and a laptop for?

Weekend stats.

Peaches: 16, from two vendors.

Nectarines: 3 exorbitantly priced ones, from our fruit guy, who has a very high opinion of his fruit in general, and his nectarines in specific.

Movies: 1, unless you count watching A Few Good Men on AMC for the zillionth time, in which case: 2. Wait! also significant portions of The Misfits on TCM, because it was Montgomery Clift day, which we watched while laying around this afternoon and also reading portions of a Swedish mystery novel.

Pants purchased on sale at the Gap: 4 pair, cute if I do say so myself.

Successful technology challenge sorted: new charger for my Macbook Pro, which was (I bet you can guess this:) failing to charge.

Dollars spent to sort technology challenge: 0. That is "zero." That's because of the brilliant Apple Store Genius, Tomasi, who figured out, I guess, that my charger was still warrantied, or something? Anyway, Tomasi was awesome. Tomasi is a solutions provider.

Syllabi finished, worked on, or started: 0. That is also "zero." I have no further comment to make on this point.

Fantastic culinary adventures: 1. I made harissa, to go with roasted potatoes omg it was aMAzing. It was for my poetry group.

Birthday girls who ate pancakes with us: 2. At Dee's! --a brief panegyric on Dee's: unpretentious; full of cheerful folk but still with a table to be had, without any waiting whatsoever; with the best hash browns I've had in quite some time, and, judging from the several bits I stole from one birthday girl's chocolate chip pancakes, with an excellent chocolate chip pancake.

Rating, on a scale of 1-10, with 1 being "hideous" and 10 being "stellar," of the weekend overall, thus far: pretty much perfect.

Dear Movie Studios of America,

It was certainly our own fault that we chose One Day as our Friday night movie option. However, having now viewed this film, we have the following constructive criticisms to make, in the spirit of better movies for everyone:

1. You should hire somebody who can tell you how to make a movie better, because pretty much any fool could have told you what you should have done to make One Day a better movie.

2. No amount of bad haircuts, Doc Martens, and wire-rimmed glasses will make Anne Hathaway the "plain" girl. Also, sorry and no offense, but Anne Hathaway's accent sucked. Shoulda hired a British actress.

Sincerely,

htms.

Let us review.

I think it is healthy, salutary, to pause at the end of something to assess what one has accomplished. What one has learned, if you will. And it is in this spirit of self-assessment that I offer firstly a consideration of what I thought I might accomplish this summer; secondly an enumeration of what I did indeed accomplish this summer; and thirdly, a reflection upon what the two data sets, compared, might reveal.

Firstly. I said I would make movies, write poems, revise a couple of manuscripts. I said I would "Gather my wits and be the happy genius of my house" and that I would lay "hands upon a will, a desire to start again, an urge from which I will not be diverted." I also had ancillary plans to organize and order my house.

SECONDLY. What follows is a detailed but not complete listing of my accomplishments since I turned in my grades in May:

1. I organized the footage for exactly one video, as yet incomplete.
2. I did a radical and far-reaching inventory of my poems, both manuscripts, to better understand what my poetic project is and what my poetic means are.
3. I did a revision of one of my manuscripts, but that was before item 2 above. So I don't know what I think of this revision. Also, the version of this manuscript that prompted the revision--it had had, to a very recent point, seemed to have absolutely no traction--no one was interested in it. Yesterday, I heard from a competition--this no-traction ms was a finalist. God. This possibly leads one to wonder what revision even means.
4. I traveled hither and yon, here and there, far and wide. L.A., NoCal, Idaho, the wilds of Nevada.
5. I spent lots of time with my daughter who has since departed for Louisiana. I did not anticipate that she would spend quite a bit of time here this summer, as she moved out of her apartment in anticipation of the big move. We also took two of my grandsons (her nephews) to Idaho in advance of their parents' arrival.
6. I saw a fair number of trashy movies, and some of them twice. One of them three times.
7. I read a pile of police procedurals and some other books, even some good ones.
8. We got a new roof.
9. I have not yet lain hands upon a will, a desire to start again, an urge from which I will not be diverted. At least not consistently.
10. I recently wrecked our car.
11. I have written no new poems. None. Whatsoever.

finally....

I have found the recurrent cycling in and out of my house of my youngest two children to be more of an emotional event than I would have predicted. Or maybe that's not true. Maybe I really expected it, but it has still hit me hard. I miss them, and I know that missing them is no tragedy, rather a necessary step that comes before whatever's next. Still.

Even so, one of the great pleasures for me--and one of the most meaningful--was to have spent that time with my daughter. I did not expect it, but I will remember this summer as the summer my daughter left, and before she did, she lived here, we talked every day, we ate together, we watched endless episodes of Criminal Minds because it is her current favorite show. I loved that. I am still watching it, because it makes me feel connected to her.

I am still finding my way back to writing--the act of writing. My friend Renaissance Girl says that everything, for a writer, is writing--walking out in the green world, thinking about things, mourning them. And I think she is right. I would like, though, to be back at making the things. This last week, I have been collecting notes for a couple new poems. I think they are poems. I'm going to try to make them into poems. We'll see.

The lack of blog in the last several months--the paucity of posts, certainly, but also a failure of delight in making them--is indicative of something, and I want to see if I can do something about it.

One day--the day after I had finally articulated my own depletion to myself--I said, aloud, to myself whilst walking the dog, Just be happy. Why not just be happy? And this sort of seemed like an answer. For awhile, anyway. I just want to assert my words, my little words, into the world. Just let them have their say, let them work their way to the surface, let them become these statements, poems, whatever. I want to keep trying.

No art.

Tomorrow morning, my daughter is leaving.

She had to find a home for her bunny.

This summer we've had colts in the back field.

We had a party to see her off.

And on the Sabbath day,

I made jam, because it was apricot day at the market yesterday. It might be apricot day again next week, but you can never tell, really, so it's good to seize the day.

I like to use citrus instead of commercial pectin. It makes the fruit taste more like itself, and also like sunshine. I am not kidding.

It's half a lug of apricots, about 2 c. of sugar, juice of 2 oranges and 3 lemons. Bubbling away.

Sharpies were made to label jam jars. True story.

So this is about 2 half pints and 10 little quarter pint jars. I might give one to you if I really like you.

After the jamming--which will continue into tomorrow after I buy more lids and rings and probably more jars--I had plenty of apricots left to make a blackberry apricot galette. The blackberries were because yesterday, it was also blackberry day at the market.

Magical household.

My washing machine did heal itself. Apparently, it just needed a little break from its job, much like the rest of us do. Shortly after I posted yesterday, and after I had tentatively switched a few breakers on and off like I knew what I was doing, which I patently did not, the washing machine drained itself and went into the rinse-and-spin cycles. Like the champ that it is.

Now, if my household would just

• vacuum its own rugs,
• clean out its own refrigerator,
• hang up its own clothes,
• sort its own excess,
• clear the kitchen table of its mail and books and whatnot, and
• do the thinking for me about my poetic project, so that I can
• revise my manuscript into the winner I know it can be,

then I would

• solve the debt ceiling crisis.

I don't think that's too much to ask.

Mundane update.

Today, a day mostly at home, I washed clothes until I (apparently) broke my washing machine; washed dishes; made bread; made dinner; contemplated my own poetic project as well as my poetic means until I felt a little dizzy; walked the Bruiser; felt just fine.

A day mostly at home is pretty swell. But I wish my washing machine would spontaneously heal itself.

After a long walk, we arrive at the water's edge.

Early in the evening.

Fields of wildflowers on the mountain.

Awhile ago, when my daughter decided what day would be her very last day of work as a manager of sandwich artists, we planned a trip to Idaho, her last before pressing the eject button on her Utah life, landing in Louisiana for her shiny new full-of-possibilities life. I checked to see if the other kids and grandkids could come, too. They could, but a day or two later than her possible dates.

Then a brilliant thought occurred to me: what if she and I drove up a day or two early with the oldest two grandsons? Then their parents and the historian could join us, after we'd had this small adventure. All agreed to this splendid plan.

So this morning, my daughter and I scurried around: she cleaned out her rabbit's quarters. I wrapped a birthday gift for a soon-to-be seven-year-old who lives in Scotland. I packed, she went to buy rabbit food and mail the package. I gathered together a bunch of comestibles. We picked up one grandson. His mother affixed his car seat into our car; we stashed his little suitcase and plush puppy. We drove to the other grandson's house across the valley. Car seat, back pack, Spiderman action figure. A quick trip through the Wendy's drive-thru, then we were on our way.

The boys chatted back and forth to one another, occasionally exchanging toys (good sharing, boys!). We talked about where we were going and what we would do there. Along the way we pointed out horses, cows, farms, motorcycles, trucks, lakes (reservoirs), the huge sprinkler pipes in the fields. We stopped in Malad for a bathroom-and-snack break. In Ashton we bought some sundry groceries to add to the mountains of food in the trunk. In the grocery store, the boys made a break for it after hours in the car; we raced after their shrieks, collected them and had our only stern--brief--moment of the day.

When we arrived, I showed the boys how to turn the water to the cabin on. We took out the store of antique toys to play with. We ate dinner, we walked over to the park, we gave the swings a whirl. My daughter and I served as regulators of the teeter totter.

When it was time for bed, we took the boys upstairs. They hadn't slept all day, and they were both tired. With the smallest of protests, each nestled into his bed. The younger, Will, said, "I want my mom and dad." I told him that for tonight, it would be just us--his aunt, his grandma, his cousin, and himself--and in about a minute, his breath slowed, evened. Asleep with the plush puppy in his arms.

The good things.

Having my daughter home for a few weeks before she launches into a big brand-new adventure.

Cherries in the fridge. Iced tea morning noon and night. Lemonade. Toast.

AC in the afternoon. The breeze sifting through the trees in the morning. Windchimes. Sitting on the patio for an hour or two, writing.

A beautiful, big, wonderful dog who wants to go on a walk, morning noon and night, and who greets us at the door with a whole-body wag.

Realizing that I have the doldrums every single summer at the exact same time, a realization which allows me to mitigate it, even if a little, even just by writing a list of the good things.

Writing, always. Always.

An old friend, a new friend, the oldest friend.

Daughters and sons, hither and yon.

The beautiful, loyal, funny and smart historian, who is always on my side.

Open letter to my depletion.

Dear My Depletion,

Did you happen to know that I lost my agenda when we got back from Idaho? --by "agenda", I mean my actual, physical calendar, but now that you mention it, the word could refer to the figurative thing as well.

This past week was crowded: with dinners and breakfasts and lunches, LMS trainings, focus group meeting, writing group, date nights and family Harry Potter, shopping and movies. All of these appointments and their various delights I kept in the agenda of my brain, because the actual calendar was gone. Often, My Depletion, the calendar and its busy agenda are harbinger, the very symbol of you. This week, however, you hummed in the background of all these events and reminded me:

you are not writing

summer is almost over

you are not writing

something is so very wrong with you

I literally hate your song, My Depletion. But I have not been able to come up with a substitute.

I have notes on slips of paper, that say things like "Monday: house stuff! film." or "T: write 500 words." And who knows? Maybe Monday or Tuesday--maybe Monday and Tuesday--will be the days I hop out of bed and take Bruiser for a walk when the morning is still cool, and say pish to the internet, whip out my sewing machine or catalog my film clips or even write 500 words! I can see, theoretically, that this is possible. Saying so, maybe, makes it more likely to be so.

But nothing like this will occur unless--it must be said, My Depletion--you stop humming that goddamned song. It is getting on my last nerve.

Sincerely,

htms

Lazy, a little bit. Or a lot.

Well,

After getting back from Idaho on Saturday, and on Monday having the Fourth of July barbecue at my daughter's (fun!), and on Tuesday, having a haircut and a meeting and some hours writing a little bit strenuously and sweatily and not very attractively, I'm telling you, and then seeing a movie and meeting with my book group (fun!),

I have settled into the following routine:

• wake up not very early.
• loll around until later than that.
• make breakfast, or
• possibly whine about the fact that there is no bread for toast.
• take Bruiser for a walk when it's less cool than it would have been if I'd taken him earlier, when I was still (a) waking up not very early, or (b) lolling around until later than that, or (c) making breakfast, or (d) possibly whining about no bread, or (e) all of the above.
• take a shower.
• look at who knows what on the internet while
• contemplating what else I could/should be doing.

It's not very productive, I am forced to admit. I am "writing" and "making a film," but the measurable outcome is infinitessimal. Like, for instance, if someone were making a documentary of my summer writing/filmmaking, and they did time-lapse photography, maybe over the course of several days you might see a half of a haiku emerge.

Not really. It's more like a big messy spill of bleah, out of which might be excavated a haiku. But no one really wants to see time-lapse photography of that, do they? Or do they? I wish, maybe, I could make that movie.

Or not.

Actually, I am reasonably happy making the movie I'm making. It has lots of parts to it, and many pieces of footage, and decisions to make about what goes where, and what I should say in my voiceover, and so forth. So away I go, to look at the footage some more and take a few more notes and maybe write the other half of that metaphorical haiku. Or maybe just a half of the other half. I don't want to rush it.

In case you're interested, I am making salad for dinner. And toast. Because now there is bread, which around here, we like to call "progress."

Fine, Fourth of July.

More evidence that I am a holiday-hating crank: ugh, fireworks. Unless I can watch them without any effort on my part, to wit: driving to a giant park; parking in a giant parking lot; hanging out with the humanity while we wait FOREVER for the fireworks to start; watching the fireworks (the good part, for sure--I totally concede this); gathering up your damp blanket and your whatnot and surging, slowly, with the humanity toward the exits; finding your car; getting into your car and burning up fossil fuel FOREVER while everyone else exits before you; getting home exhausted.

Go ahead, judge me. I can hear you from here: (A), take the train, why don't you? (TWO), what about freedom? and independence? and so forth? (c), grouch. (I respond: (A), good idea! why don't YOU take the train?, (TWO) freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose (or something like that), (c), don't I know it.)

The best recent fireworks happened up in Idaho the last couple of years, where we basically drove two minutes down the road, sat on a blanket on top of sagebrush while the owners of the Grub Stake Market put on a swell fireworks show across Highway 20. There was no "Proud to be an American" hoo-ha, just lots of light and gunpowder drift and so forth, oohing and aaahing from both sides of the road, and when it was over, we drove two minutes back home. It was awesome. Basically, all the good parts and almost none of the grouchy parts.

But hey! We're having a BBQ at my daughter's house, so that will be great. And here's a photo of the Idaho fireworks from last year:

And here's a little mix of relevant America songs, courtesy of Scotland daughter's mixing talents:

And in conclusion, some American things I love: the Gettysburg Address; Frederick Douglass's autobiography; the Declaration of Independence; blueberries; watermelon; ice cream; Title IX; basketball; the movies; hot dogs (don't get me started); Target; Yellowstone; the great rivers of the West; the Idaho bluebird and the Western tanager; community colleges (for real); my whole dang family; and the persistent hope, however slim, of the electoral process.

Happy Fourth, everyone, however you celebrate.

Fauna (with no pictures).

At the end of the day, in Yellowstone:

The historian: (steering the Camry of Power into a pullout, so a speedster can pass us) I don't think I should be going much faster than this, do you?

Me: No. I was just reading (brandishing the ample documentation, newsletters, maps, warning leaflets, and whatnot that they give you when you drive into the park) that every year, 200 large mammals are killed on the road. Because of speeding. So 45 is perfect. Those guys are assholes.

The historian: ...and speaking of that,

Me: A WOLF! (which is sauntering down the middle of the road. It glances back at us, then crosses to the shoulder and down into a meadow.)

The historian: Think that's a wolf? Probably a coyote.

Me: Awwwwwwwww, let's say it's a wolf. (wrestling with my camera and its long lens, trying to point in the right direction, as we drive slowly by)

The historian: No, maybe it is a wolf. Looks too big to be a coyote.

Me: A WOLF. (failing failing failing to get the wolf into the frame)

The historian: Do you want me to stop?

Me: No. . . I missed it. I didn't get it. (camera all bulky and not really my friend yet, acting like it's a little too good for me in my fumbly hands.)

The historian: You sure? We can stop.

Me: No. Let the wolf be. (All of a sudden, wise in the ways of nature. Philosophical. Zen-like. Turning to The historian:) The WOLF.

The end.

This week, I've read the final novel in several detective/police series. I just finished The Troubled Man, Henning Mankell's final novel in the Kurt Wallander series; I also read the last novels in Robert B. Parker's Spenser and Jesse Stone series. On hand, I also have a new novel by Ian Rankin, whose final Inspector Rebus novel I read a while ago. I'm thinking about these final gestures--the final novels of the Rankin and Mankell series were decisions by the writers, who had, I'm guessing, come to feel these characters and the constraints surrounding their stories as a burden; Parker died last year, so these books were the last ones in the pipeline, (although I guess there's another Spenser novel that is "finished by" an assistant or something).

I found the experience of reading the Mankell novel to be unexpectedly upsetting, moving and sad, but also disturbing. I hope I'm not giving anything away when I say that Ian Rankin's Inspector Rebus simply retired from police work in the final novel, but the fate of Wallander is not as straightforward (no spoilers here). I had to stop reading The Troubled Man for a little while this afternoon, because I realized that while I wanted to experience the resolution of the plot--what, after all, did become of the missing man, and who was he really?--I was not ready to say goodbye to Wallander, even though I found him to be a fairly frustrating character.

In the case of the Parker novels, and the character of Spenser specifically, I experienced something else again. I began reading his novels at another part of my life entirely, twenty-five years ago now. I always got around to reading the new novels as they appeared in my local library. After awhile, I knew that none of them would blow my mind, but the books were reliable in this sense: Spenser's voice was consistent, always; Parker knew and loved the great oeuvre of American hard-boiled; and he had a set of ideas to work through, about masculinity, about loyalty, about love, even. There was enough interest for me--and evidently for a lot of people, since he wrote dozens of books--that it felt like a small, if limited, delight to revisit the character, his scenes, his associations.

When I read that Parker had died, I felt a loss, personally. I read the last Spenser novel in the spirit of elegy, and in that regard, the experience of reading it was enhanced, or at least affected. (If you want to get a sense of how other crime fiction writers regarded Parker, read here and here.)

I am interested to know what my fellow Mankell-reading compatriots think of the final Wallander novel. It put me in mind of a wonderful B-movie-ish movie directed by George Romero, The Dark Half. (I loved that movie so much I bought it--in VHS!--but I did just discover in the course of my internet "research" on The Dark Half that both Siskel and Ebert could not recommend it. Tragic.) In the film, a writer who publishes literary fiction under his own name, but pulp novels under a pseudonym, writes what he hopes will be his very last pulp novel, then ceremoniously, and publicly, conducts a mock funeral for his pseudonymous "other half." It will not surprise you to know that, since the original story is written by Stephen King, the other half does not stay buried, and havoc--non-literary havoc--ensues.

I wonder, I wonder: will Mankell miss Wallander? Will the writer be sorry, finally, that his relationship with this long-time character, perhaps his other, has ended?