Nebby Nun: A book review of "Old Habits Die Hard"

Lone bird on a branch at sunset.
Outside "Fennel Farmhouse" at
"Fairfield" retirement center

Old Habits Die Hard

By Melissa Westemeier

265 pages.  Published 2025.

I loved this book!  In all her books, Ms. Westemeier knows how to create characters the reader can feel sympathetic toward, despite their foibles and failings (the characters, not the readers).  I find it hard to read a book with no sympathetic characters.

Sister Bernadette (“please call me Bernie”) is a nun, retired from teaching, and living in a retirement home located in the building that was formerly the school where she taught.  This woman knows how to tell a fib, or ten fibs if necessary.  She knows the best places to hide out for eavesdropping.  But that’s blessed behavior, because it’s all done to solve a mystery in service to humankind.  I like the portrayal of the police detectives, one of whom was Bernie’s student back in the day.  And loved the author’s clever way of naming one of the bad guys, to evoke a real-life bad guy.  

This is a murder mystery, but not too gruesome for me to read.  The good news for me is that this is Nun the Wiser Mysteries Book 1, the first in a series.  I know it might be a while, but I am looking forward to the next adventures of Bernie the retired teacher-nun.   I haven’t met the author in real life but have corresponded with her.  I feel that we are like sisters – not nun sisters, but soul sisters.

Like in Alexander McCall Smith’s books (of which I am also fond), this one includes some poignant observations about humanity and the world.  And also a brief but accurate description of how snorkeling can blow one’s mind.  

The setting reminded me very much of the retirement place where my parents and aunt lived.  To preserve anonymity I will call that place "Fairfield" on this blog.  To my knowledge there never has been a murder at the real-life Fairfield retirement center.  In Old Habits Die Hard,  the author expertly captures the pace of life, the way people interact, the daily events of a retirement center – all spot on, based on my visits to Fairfield.

The real-life Fairfield campus still has the original farm owner’s house, which I will call Fennel Farmhouse.  For many years, it was set up as a guest house with four guest rooms, and our whole extended family would stay there while visiting my Mom, Dad, and Auntie.  Fennel Farmhouse had a back staircase, with secret access to each of the guest rooms, and the creepiest basement in the universe.  There was a full kitchen with many sharp cooking implements.  The fancy living room and dining room provide ample space for elegant parties, or for Hercule Poirot to gather the suspects and reveal all.  There would be no better setting for a murder mystery.  

I mentioned to my brothers that I was reading a mystery set in a place very like Fairfield.  My brother wrote back: 

Carolyn,

I'll see your Murder-at-a-place-similar-to-Fairfield, and raise you

"Murder at Fennel Farmhouse".  I found it in a Little

Library today.  Sticker says 14.95 euros, and on sale for "buy one

get one at half price".

No idea if it's any good.

It won't be the first time I've read a dubious book purely because

the title resonates.

"Christmas is fast approaching when a dead stranger is found lodged

up the chimney of Fennel Farmhouse..."

The title to Melissa Westemeier’s book Old Habits Die Hard definitely resonates.  I found four books with that same title on the Storygraph app.  Ignore those other ones; read this one.

I highly recommend Old Habits Die Hard by Melissa Westemeier for a cozy murder mystery.  Well done, Melissa!

The John Grisham section in the library
at "Fairfield" retirement center.

How Do I Love Books? Let me Count the Ways.

The Common Household Husband forced me to look through these six boxes of books that have been sitting in our garage untouched since we moved to this house thirty years ago.  They smelled so musty that I will likely suffer the allergy effects for the next three days.  He thoughtfully put them on a card table in the basement so that I wouldn’t have to bend down while looking through them.

  

The first box had some old work papers I had written in the 1990s.  Look, folks, words and numbers printed on paper is how commodity research used to be disseminated!  How quaint!  These will all be consigned to the recycled paper bin.

The first box also had numerous tomes on the Soviet economy.  Let’s hope that is a topic for the permanent past.  All will be going to the dustbin of history.  

Love and grief came rushing in when I saw these two books that belonged to my mother when she was a girl:  The Bobbsey Twins and The Outdoor Girls.  There used to be a whole set of some of these.  These particular volumes were first published in 1917 and 1921, well before World War II.  What  I cherished about these books is finding the words “7 day” handwritten inside.  As a girl my mother loved to play library, which included forcing her younger sister (my aunt) to borrow the books for 7 days.   The books were in very poor condition, so off to the discard pile they went.

In another box there were more books about Russia.  There will definitely not be a next time I go to Russia - that one was easy to discard. 

One box, labeled “Good Literature” in my husband’s writing, included giant classics of Russian lit (some in English, some in Russian), plus some steamy paperbacks (not pictured).  We each have our idea of what is Good Literature.  The novels in Russian were purchased aspirationally but I never read them.

Another box had some really great children’s books. 

It was agony to get rid of these books.  The decision was made a little easier by the overwhelmingly musty odor.  Nevertheless, I chose to keep six books.  There is probably a one in a thousand chance that I will actually read these.

This blog post serves as proof to my adult children that I saved them from having to go through six boxes of dusty books.  I told the Common Household Husband to cart the six boxes away, and not to tell me what he did with them.  Any sane person would have snuck them into a dumpster somewhere,  but he took them to Goodwill.

I felt a sense of relief seeing the empty spot where the boxes had been.  When I went down to the basement the next day, the card table was refilled, with 8 more boxes of musty books to go through.  Sigh. 

Sonnet 43: How do I love thee?

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. 

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 

For the ends of being and ideal grace. 

I love thee to the level of every day’s 

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. 

I love thee freely, as men strive for right. 

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. 

I love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith. 

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 

With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, 

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death. 

Cri de Coeur

 

Art I created at the NextChurch conference in Baltimore, February 2018

We are fine here.  But we are not exactly fine.

I’m not even physically involved in moving my Mom from assisted living to skilled nursing care, and still I am exhausted.  I am emotionally worn out by trying to calm her down, at the same time as the world’s dread presses in on me.  It’s like 2016 all over again, except more fear-filled and more compressed. 

When I tell Mom that a worldwide virus pandemic has caused the governors of every state in which her children live to issue stay-at-home orders, and that’s why we can’t be there to help her make this move, she doesn’t believe me. She thinks we are staying away on purpose, as some kind of punishment.  Her suspicion of our motives is hard to take.

In tonight’s virtual church meeting, our devotional included the disciples in the boat during the storm (Mark 4:35-41).  The boat was unstable; the waves were exponential; the disciples were terrified.

In this household, we are privileged to have most everything we need.  Except for the ability to go hold the hand of our frightened, angry, confused elderly relatives and friends.  I know that lots of people are in this boat of fear and trembling with us.

Our devotional then had these words:

Do not fear, for I am with you,

    do not be afraid, for I am your God;

I will strengthen you, I will help you,

    I will uphold you with my victorious right hand.

§  Isaiah 41:10

Damn it, I WILL fear.  I am fearful.  Yes, Jesus, I have little faith. I am the disciple trembling in the boat that is filling with water.   It is those next words I need to hear, over and over.  “For I am with you.”

When the 2016 election was done, some people said, “Don’t worry.  It will be okay.”  No.  It has not been okay, and it is not okay.  Don’t tell me, right now, that it will be okay, or that we will make it through this, or that we are strong.  That may be true later on. But right now, I just need to hear, “I am with you.  It’s okay for you to feel this fear and anger.  It’s okay for you to grieve what is not to be.  This is indeed a terrible and sad time.”

I will cry and cry and cry, just like I did in November 2016.  I will cry for that leader who seems to have no capacity to cry, who seems to have no understanding of the suffering of others.  I will cry for those of our leaders who are too busy doing a good job leading in a horrible situation to be able to allow themselves to cry.  I will cry for my mother, who has no person who loves her to be with her as she moves to the necessary but difficult next stage of her life.  I will cry for those who lost their jobs and don’t know how to manage tomorrow.  I will cry for those who are endangering themselves to keep the rest of us alive.  I will cry for the homeless in a stay-at-home-order world.   I will cry for those who were lonely before all this began.  I will cry for my children, and all children.   I will cry for you.

I didn’t know it, in November 2016, but these are the things I was crying about, when I sobbed every day for three days straight.

Tomorrow I will stop crying and will get up and work and cook and eat and laugh and sing while I wash my hands and enjoy the company of the three who live here now.  We will be fine. But tonight I will cry my heart out.  For I am with you.

Love is a bit blurry at the moment, but
love is everywhere

Lift up your heads, fling wide the portals

Adorned with joy

There are trials that await me when I make a trip to visit my Mom and my Aunt.  But I must say, their trials are more difficult than what I deal with while I am there.  Both of them confront daily the war that is old age – loss of vision, hearing, muscle, friends, energy, motivation.   For one whole day during my recent visit, my Mom felt too awful from nausea to get out of bed.

When I visit, it’s easy for me to hang my head and see only the sadness and difficulty my dear ones face.  It’s easy for me to rage at the illogical world that exists within the confines of the retirement home.  Yes, I do need that glass of wine at the end of a day spent there.

There is a decent piano in the common area right outside my Mom’s room.  I had brought my hymn books, and so spent about an hour playing and singing Advent hymns and Christmas carols.

“Lift up your heads, ye mighty gates!” says the Advent hymn.  I’m not a mighty gate, but I would do well to lift up my head and notice the moments of joy.  

Lift up your heads, ye mighty gates,

Behold, the King of glory waits;

The King of kings is drawing near;

The Savior of the world is here!

At first my Mom wasn’t singing, but then I started to play Break Forth, O Beauteous Heavenly Light, and Mom said, “Oh, that’s my favorite!”  And we were off and singing together – joy!  

More joy: some cousins came to visit for a few hours, and we had a blast reminiscing about our ancestors.

Even more joy: My brother brought a small Christmas tree, a small tinsel garland, and some ornaments from our childhood.  My aunt has vision problems, so my Mom looked over the ornaments and selected which ones to put on the tree.  My Mom has problems lifting her arms up, so my aunt put the ornaments on the tree.  It was so good for these sisters to have a purpose and a task to work on together.  The ornaments sparked fond memories of family times spent together. 

Fling wide the portals of your heart;

Make it a temple, set apart

From earthly use for heaven’s employ,

Adorned with prayer and love, and joy.

Visiting the retirement home is crazy-making, and parts of it this time were the usual craziness, but I lift up my head and give thanks to God that some of our visit was adorned with prayer, love, and joy.

Just to finish out my hymnal's version of the Advent hymn:

Redeemer, come! I open wide

My heart to Thee, here, Lord, abide.

Let me Thy inner presence feel;

Thy grace and love in me reveal.

This Advent hymn is one of my favorites, and not just because it is based on Psalm 24, which my father read at our wedding.  I like it because it's got instructions for me.  I've got to open the portals of my heart, I've got to see the joy, and then turn it around and, with God's help, reveal grace and love.    

(For those not familiar with the Advent hymn Lift Up Your Heads, Ye Mighty Gates, here it is, sung by a large choir with a really impressive organist.

Jubilate with Cake

Going Gray by Elise Neill
On display at our township's
first ever Recyclable Art Show

In the third week of the eighth month, there shall be a celebration. And though it is not a celebration you particularly want, as you need no reminders that you are getting older, thus shall the Lord command:

Thou shalt eat of cake, provided by the Common Household Husband, and there shall be some cake saved for him, even as he is only meant to eat of jello in his current state. Thou shalt not bring him any bagels.

Thou shalt enjoy presents, possibly including sticky notes, and thou shalt wonder whether your daughter actually finished cleaning up her room yet, as you did really want that her to find that shirt that she bought from bell choir, where they make a joyous and very loud noise.

Thou shalt be thankful that you have the option of getting one year older, lo, as opposed to disintegrating into dust as your children often remind you you shall. Thou shalt remind thyself that the birthday celebration is as much for others as for thyself, as demonstrated by the male progeny returning to the house of his parents, for this birthday is just as much about allowing others to eat of cake as it is for thyself to eat of cake.

And lastly, thou shalt not regret not having time to make a pie. For having a husband in the hospital is hard enough, without having to think about baking anything for a while.

                                                                      -       The Book of Jubilations 9:1-14 

This ancient passage was revealed this week by Younger Daughter.  For my birthday she presented me with a twenty-page tome entitled The Common Household Bible.  This venerable volume consisted of my scripturish blog posts, interspersed with holy writings (newly revealed to Younger Daughter as she sat in her cave-room) pertaining to the Common Household, the passage above being just one example.

This is a work of love and I love it.  It provided much levity during a week which was difficult, not only for national news (which is always difficult these days), but also because of the Common Household Husband’s quite brief stay in the hospital.  (Please do not tell my mother he was in the hospital.)  He is out of the hospital and doing fine.

The cake was chocolate with chocolate frosting and raspberry filling.  And then there was another chocolate cake with chocolate frosting at book club. Jubilation!