My first home in Galveston, Texas, is now designated “historic” for reasons likely having nothing to do with me. But, my true home is Iowa — “state of all the land.”

Please be aware that bright days are an anathema while clouds, rain, and snow invigorate me. So, my answer when you ask will usually be, “No, it’s not a nice day.”

There is a tombstone in my backyard and I have two three-legged cats and two with one eye. The others are lame and halt.

If you come bearing peaches or Fettuccine Alfredo, I will let you in. Unless you are mean. Or a hypocrite. Or don’t have a sense of humor. Or believe it’s God’s will to fight wars.

I hold that cats should have “people names” with both a first and a middle. And I’ve been permitted to live in my own home by these felines: Roy Gene, Rosebud Suanne, Wayne Dwayne, Wanda Fay, Sammy Ray, Shirley Mae, Tommy Dean, Walter Pete, Roger Lee, Charlene Fern, Eddie Lloyd, Ruby Lou, Stanley Earl, Edith Irene, Juanita Margarita, Darnell Glenn Gunder, and Fred C.

These cats were/are members of the Democratic Party and agree with me that our national anthem should be “America.”

My 8th Great-Grandfather was Richard Warren, Mayflower passenger and signer of the Compact — not a religious separatist but a London cloth merchant seeking commerce in the New World.

I feel strongly that the Beatles are the best band. The Stones are the best rock band. “Smells Like Teen Spirit” is the best rock song. Or is it “American Woman”?

My two phobias are seeing the sun come up and watching people eat salads on TV.

I worked on an Israeli archaeological dig at the foot of the Golan Heights. And climbed up to the Parthenon. And walked the streets of Ephesus. And rode in an open truck to Machu Picchu. And kissed a pig statue in Holland. And spent the night with my husband in a brothel in Calais, France. And bought a 45 RPM record at Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge in Nashville. And played and won bingo at the Annual McCallsburg Sweet Corn and Bologna Boil.

And typed up the fingerprints of two murderers, was resuscitated by firemen on Christmas Day after being overcome by fumes, and own stock in the Green Bay Packers.

I’m often mistaken for a clerk in small shops and greenhouses and I try to help out.

But my real job — all day, every day — is to research and write about historic Iowa homicides. And I can drive you straight to any unsolved murder scene in the state.