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By Stuie

as narrated to Susan Fensten, Senior Publicist

I’m often understandably mistaken for a Pomeranian. We are cousins. I am a 4 year-old German Spitz Klein [small Spitz] and I was adopted by my human friend at BARC Shelter in Williamsburg. It was love at first sight.

But don’t let my silky fur and cute, little cookie face fool you, when it comes to reading I’m dead serious. Life is too short and there’s no time for fiction. I’m a true crime lover. There’s nothing better than curling up on my pillow spending hours lost in the fervor of a terrifying crime spree and its aftermath. The excitement, the fear, the victim/s, the suspect/s, the cops, the investigation, I love it. Then ultimately the trial and surprise verdict keeps me turning the pages.

Murder is the territory and the idle, filthy rich are the adventurers in this unique true crime story. Savage Grace: The True Story of Fatal Relations in a Rich and Famous American Family by Natalie Robins and Steven M.L. Aronson. Born into staggering wealth and privilege, Tony Baekland’s fate was sealed by the very elements which propelled him throughout his tragic life. His grandfather was the inventor of plastic, bakelite it was called, in its early form. A suffocating, beautiful mother, Barbara and a critical, distant and demanding father Brooks Baekland both lit the fuse that would later shock the world elite, the beautiful people. Poor unfortunate Tony. What could he do? Nothing, except to maybe put an end to all of the noise in his mind.

The book is told entirely through actual correspondence between family members and their wheel-heeled, well off friends. The Baeklands trundled aimlessly to the glamorous ports of the world, staying only for short spates before pushing on, writing mountains of letters, ever rambling. Chasing endless pursuits each more futile than the one before it. In their own words they express finely nuanced details about themselves as only the self can know. They reveal their insecurities, egos, their pettiness and pomposity, their dreams and crushing disappointments in themselves and in each other. It’s a jungle of madness and murder, letters and locations and dark secrets.

My adoring human friends are taking me to Maine next week and I cannot wait. We are going back to Stonington on Deer Island in Penobscot Bay. We went there last year. I loved the pines, the tide washed coves, the sharp-eyed fledglings and most of all, the lobster rolls! Seacoast Maine: People and Places by Martin Dibner with photographs by George E. Tice is the per

We just got back from Washington, D.C. and Williamsburg, Virginia. I really think the colonists had it easy compared to traveling in a mid size car with three kids in the middle of an August heat wave.

After a few hours of arguing, I began pointing out, “Look, see those nice families in the car next to us? They’re talking together and playing games with license plates and state capitals. Why can't we be normal like that?"

Philip interpreted this observation as a request to teach his younger sister the sound a teradactyl makes. Teradactyls used to be Philip’s favorite animal, back when he was seriously interested in dinosaurs. Emma, being a girl, missed that phase and was bored enough to make the screeching sounds along with her brother. (Christopher, amazingly, slept through this, though he was listening to his Ipod)

I forgot new batteries for the camera, so I handed Philip my phone and asked him to take pictures -- but he had to stop the teradactyl noises. We got some great shots this way:



That's the road we were on, or it might be The Baltimore Tunnel, and here's a bridge:



But at least the prehistoric screeching slowed down and we stopped arguing long enough to reach the hotel. They had a rooftop pool which the kids and I loved. Most of the people around us were speaking French or German and the kids were amazed that we were the only English speakers.

After the pool, while everyone was getting dressed, I decided to go down to the lobby to get some restaurant menus. I had on new clothes (no stains! no cat claw holes!) and I had just come from swimming, so I was feeling pretty cool in that elevator. I was thinking how we could pass for a normal, maybe even a civilized family. Elegant folks all dressed for dinner got on at each floor.

That’s when my phone rang. Except it didn’t ring: it screeched like a teradactyl. Right there, with all the international people in their evening wear, in a small, urban elevator, I heard Philip and Emma going ARRRRRRHCCCCCCCCARRRAGHHHGARRR or something like that. The sound came right from my new black purse that I had bought to go with the new clothes. I had forgotten how he liked to change his ring tone every ten minutes. I fumbled for the phone. No one said a word. They just got off the elevator and walked away. Actually, they walked a little fast…

Human Teradactyls:


Williamsburg was better. We had a bigger space which is always good for family harmony, and there was enough history and canons and things along those lines to interest everyone.

I did escape a demonstration on colonial weaving by sneaking off to this bookstore. Christopher got this shot as I broke free:


I really did want to buy some books and a lamp as souvenirs. I explained to Christopher the style I wanted to get, how it would look colonial, and we would have a reminder of the trip.

Christopher looked at me for a long minute. "Mom," he reminded me, "the colonists did not have lamps."

He thinks he's so smart.

Ah, it's that time of year again. Time to roll up my sleeves, pull out every cleaner known to man, and delve into the muck and grub that's accumulated over the last six months of wintry weather, as well as de-clutter.

Yes, it's time for Spring Cleaning. I never know when the mood will hit, or where. Neither does my family, which makes them a little jumpy this time of year, especially my daughters. They just don't ever know when I'm is going to come into their rooms with that gleam in my eye. The cleaning gleam. I've glanced myself at these moments, and gleam is, well, it's a little too kind. It looks more like an obssessed, bright green Hulkish glow. I'd be seeking out cover if I were a kid too.

The mood came on full force this weekend. There was a catalyst. It wasn't the frigid temps or the rain. It's the guests we have coming for the week. I get cleaning crazy when I have guests. As if somehow having a clean house will convince my guests I'm a decent person. Weird. Insane. Totally inherited, and yet I'm powerless to change it. So I clean. At times, I even contemplate painting entire rooms because of marks on the wall. Yeah, I know. Very OCD. I don't need an intervention yet. So far, my writing sort of keeps me in balance. Those WIPs sitting on my laptop whine and moan if they don't get enough attention, which keeps me away from the paintbrush. So far.

I started this weekend in the guest room doing the usual guests are coming routine - stripping the bed, cleaning out the closet - which is my only "throw it in here and hopefully forget about closet" - and the bathroom. My kids were relieved. No Spring Cleaning for them! Until I went into my eldest daughter's room to get the denim chair/sleepover bed for the littlest guest who is coming.

I pulled the chair back and...oiy! Pandemonium. Hide-it-quick Central.

A green haze came over me. My fingers began to itch. The next thing I remember, I was running downstairs to get a BIG black plastic bag. My daughter was running to take cover.

What is it with hiding stuff behind other stuff in a kid's room? I mean, why not throw it away? Why hide it? Because in the end, I end up throwing it away and they've completely forgotten they hid it in the first place. I found a whole panoply of oddities - bits of string woven together in a macrame that's supposed to be something but has been abandoned, the missing bottoms to her two-piece bathing suit, Valentine's Day candy, various started but unfinished drawings, love notes (acckk! I didn't throw these away of course, but my gosh, she's only 10, love notes???), clothes - worn, dirty and clean, and toys half-played with, half-cleaned up, and books. Okay, the books I don't mind. I just rearrange and organize. But the rest? Which got me to thinking as I sorted and cleaned: What is it with kids hoarding stuff?

Until I started to really sort through the stuff and saw some of what it was. Granted, there was a good deal of junk. But there were also some treasures in the trash - the Williamsburg day pass, the love note, and the Christmas picture from my youngest child made for her sister. Funny how it's the insignificant bits that warm the fondest memories. They are, to quote mastercard, priceless.

Despite the itch in my fingers to throw the whole lot away, I tread carefully amongst the memories. The leftover candy had to go, so did the dirty clothes, albeit into different piles. I think I can salvage the dirty clothes. The love note, well, it went back where I found it, behind the chair, safe. So did the day pass and the picture. One man's trash is another man's treasure. This was kid treasure.

My shout out today is to Spring Cleaning. Thanks to the cleaning craze, I got a walk down memory lane this weekend. A soft, gentle, warm one.