Living with Your Kids Is Murder - Mike Befeler I began this book with some reticence being close to geezer age myself (just reached the having a great-grandchild stage.) I mean who wants to read about the travails of an old guy. I was hooked after the first page.

This has to be one of the most unusual detective stories I have ever run across. The “hero” is an eighty-five-year-old geezer with short-term memory loss who is flying from Hawaii to live with his son in Denver (he has to write himself a note to understand why he is on the plane,) when his seatmate turns up dead after Paul has just given him a shove to get him off his shoulder.

My eyes opened in the dim light. Where the hell was I? I heard a background rattling hum and smelled a mixture of beer and stale pretzels. All I could imagine was a seedy bar. I blinked, trying to focus. I was wedged in an uncomfortable seat with a man’s head lolling on my shoulder. I squinted and recognized the uniform of a flight attendant, checking seatbelts. Shit. I was on an airplane. But where was I going? I couldn’t remember.

Paul’s penchant for intolerance of bullshit inevitably lands him in hot water from which he must extricate himself. His memory issues often make things worse. He can remember what happened during the day but his memory seems to reset at night so he is constantly writing down what happened during the day (at the suggestion of his delightful granddaughter) to which he can later refer. Ironically, the character was born in 1921 making him just about my dad’s age so his experience of moving into a retirement home (the first book) and then in with his son’s family somewhat mirror my own experience and one cannot help wonder what the experience must have been like.

A minor complaint is that occasionally I felt I was reading a YA novel (not that I have much experience with YA novels, so feel free to ignore my comment.)

I can only hope my kids will be as patient with me when I get to the drooling stage as Paul’s (was that his name) kids are in this book. Some people have complained with the language used, stating most people read mysteries to avoid sex, violence, and crude language. To which I say, espèce de charogne!. (See, curmudgeons can get away with almost anything.)