Thank goodness for bathrooms.

That’s almost always the first place you head in the morning, once you’ve gotten out of bed. And, come to think of it, thank goodness for beds. What would you do without a comfortable place to stretch out and snooze?

You’re grateful for your kitchen, too, because that’s the second place you go in the morning. You can’t live without your microwave, stove or fridge.

So how did those things come to be essential in a home?  Find out by reading “If Walls Could Talk,” a new book by Lucy Worsley.

For the earliest part of human history, there were no bathrooms – or bedrooms, or kitchens, for that matter. Our ancestors slept, ate, procreated, and entertained, all in one big room. Residents of those early domiciles included extended family and, sometimes, others from the village. Great care was made by the latter group to be good guests and not make too many nocturnal noises or smells.

But smells were everywhere, and were hard to avoid. Pregnant women, in particular, were “confined” so that they wouldn’t be affected by “bad airs,” which were thought to be dangerous. Confinement often lasted seven weeks, post-partum and in a darkened room, which had to have been pretty bad in itself.

Perhaps because commoners didn’t have scads of new outfits to wear, few homes had clothes closets. Royalty had wardrobes for their clothing, and a vast staff of trusted people to look after the royal knickers. Closets were generally of the water sort, and one never dressed in a water closet.

Those very early potties were, naturally, expressly for kings and queens. Such a place may have a “closed stool” covered in velvet and, possibly, portraits of the royal spouse upon which one could gaze while tending to the, um, bottom line. And if you think your job is bad, check this: closed stools and their poorer cousins, the chamber pots, were emptied by women who were hired specifically for that task.

Other surprises in the history of the home: cooking was once the exclusive domain of men. Washing one’s hair was never advised during cold months. Cleaning material for the “nether end” was once cloth, and was re-used. And no matter in which century you lived, there was always another government tax…

Bouncing from doorway to dormer, “If Walls Could Talk” is one fun-to-read book, filled with delightful digressions that lead you around the rooms and into the corners of the average home or apartment. Like any good curator, author Lucy Worsley stops at several points in each space, giving us the history of various items and their uses, as well as fascinating word origins, the roots of customs, and some unsavory things that will make you do the “eeeuuuwww” face.

I loved this book. I wanted it to last and last.

If you read in bed or bath, or if you must have a book by your favorite easy chair, then this is the book to have. “If Walls Could Talk” has a lot to say.

May’s supermoon even outshined the annual Eta Aquarid meteor shower. While some of you may have caught glimpses of fireballs, the Moon in all its glory casts so much light in the night sky that most other light won’t be visible.

History is full of stories that involve our beloved full moon. It is said that hospital admissions increase, crime increases and people just behave strangely. It’s no wonder that the Latin word for lunacy is “lunar.” I can attest that the full moon definitely has an effect on people. It also has a significant effect on our ocean’s tides. It is believed that more natural disasters occur on Earth during certain planetary alignments as well as during full moons.

It seems the Moon holds a lot of secrets. I’ve read countless stories about alien bases on the dark side of the Moon, and a handful of astronauts have been brave enough to speak up about what they really witnessed. Edgar Mitchell and Buzz Aldrin have both gone on record stating that there are many strange things on the Moon that NASA would prefer we don’t know. Since we can never actually see the dark side of the Moon, even by satellite, I suppose anything is possible. Maybe there’s some truth to the “Man in the Moon” tale after all.

We covered the usual general topics for discussion. First was dating. Rather, we lamented the nonexistence of this animal; in fact, we both may very well believe this concept is merely a notion if not downright extinct. It’s not the lack of men as much as it is the lack of time to explore this option. See calendar issues above.

Next, we covered parenting. This was obviously a one-sided conversation as I am neither qualified nor planning to become one of these any time soon. I don’t even mother myself. It’s a good thing I had an egg timer at the table. Most parents will claim that while raising les enfants can be terrible, the years go by quickly while the days are slow. Listening to someone else talk about braces, soccer and drumming sessions (in the house) reminds me that during the three allotted minutes I have to listen to this monologue, I am losing patience with children who are not mine and time that I will never get back.

But I love my friend, so I listen. Kind of.

But then she shares some news that actually thrills me, which I can wrap my head around because I understand it. She’s been working on a book during the past few months when she didn’t have a minute to spare to get together. That’s the real reason she has been so busy. Other than her agent, she hasn’t shared this with anybody. Until now. Her idea is not only timely, but also brilliant. It has bestseller and hit movie written all over it.

Suddenly, I want to adopt her children. Someone will have to write about them, n’est-ce pas?

112 pages, includes index

For as long as you can remember, you’ve had a big dream.

It started with a musical toy and ended with the iPod you carry everywhere. At some point in between, you sang along with your parents’ music (which you loved), found your own songs, and now you want to perform onstage someday, just like your favorite music stars.

Nobody does air-guitar like you, in fact, but imagine a world without the zing of the string. As you’ll see in the new book “Les Paul: Guitar Wizard” by Bob Jacobson, if it wasn’t for one boy’s curiosity, electric guitars might never have been invented.

Almost from the time he was able to walk, young Lester Polsfuss was a curious kid. He was also very close to his mother, who indulged him by playing her beloved German songs for him, and by allowing him to take things apart. By the time he was 10 years old, little Les would easily destroy things (like radios and pianos) and then put them back together again, just so he could see how they worked. This fed his two greatest interests: music and electronics.

When he was 11 years old, Les got his first guitar. It cost less than five dollars, and he quickly taught himself to play it. He then devised a wire hanger to hold his harmonica so he could play both, and he started performing under the name of “Red Hot Red” (because of his red hair).  At age 13, he had his first paid gig.

But his hometown of Waukesha, Wisconsin, couldn’t hold Les’s dreams and neither could his cheap guitar. He began experimenting with electricity to make a guitar sound bolder. At that time, guitars were quiet instruments, the sounds of which were often drowned out by drums and trumpets.

By age 15, all his guitar practice paid off. Les got an offer to play with a band in another state, and his mother gave him permission to go. From there, he changed his name to Les Paul, started his own band, and eventually moved to New York, Chicago, then California. He also continued to try to mix electricity with a guitar.

He was sure it could be done.  Like every other challenge he’d ever had, he just had to figure it out…

Got a little music fan in the house, or maybe a future rock star?  Then you’ll want to give him this book, no strings attached.

Author Bob Jacobson gives kids a clear idea of the unique and unusual childhood that Les Paul enjoyed, which allowed him to grow up to do what he did. Jacobson also offers a good sense of what it was like to be a musician in the mid-twentieth century which, considering today’s bodyguards and mega-security, may surprise young readers.

Though this book is meant for older grade-school children, I think it would also please a grown-up guitar aficionado. If you’re looking for a book for either one, then, don’t fret. “Les Paul: Guitar Wizard” will be a big hit.

This ‘60s-inspired event at the Flagler Museum in Palm Beach was appropriately titled “Palm Beach MODness!” Guests took a trip down memory lane by decking themselves out in retro wear, complete with go-go boots, bell-sleeved dresses and much more haute hippie attire.

Invitees were greeted at the door by lovely Pan Am stewardesses. Bacardi USA, Inc. supplied custom cocktails to the Mod era, including martinis and highballs. Gallivanting around the reception were impersonators of legends such as Andy Warhol, The Beatles and Twiggy – even the shaggadelic Austin Powers made an appearance. Yeah, baby!

After dinner, the Miami City Ballet performers swept the stage for a one-night-only show. To add to this excitement, the dinner/dance included drawings for some seriously sweet swag. Among the packages up for grabs was a day cruise complete with libations and lively surroundings on the cruise liner Silversea, along with a $1,200 gift certificate to Edward Beauty Salon, and other packages honoring Palm Beach County’s arts centers.

This fabulous fundraiser was backed by the MOD Squad Gala Committee, consisting of a group of generous donors such as: Nick and Marion Albergo, Caroline Collings, Alfred Fiandaca, Vicki Halmos, Mimi Kahn, Lora Schultz, Chris & Vicki Kellogg, and David & Elizabeth Wetherell.

Co-chairwomen of the event were Cheryl Gowdy and Adelaida Muňiz-Iscoe, two ladies that devote a great amount of time to the Miami City Ballet. This year’s season will celebrate “the world’s greatest choreographers” with productions like Giselle and Coppélia.

To find out more about the Miami City Ballet, visit www.miamicityballet.org or call (877) 929-7010 for ticket information.

No matter what you do, you couldn’t seem to sit still.

First, your foot started bouncing and your head joined it. Wasn’t long before your shoulders were wiggling like they weren’t attached to your spine and then you were on your feet, shaking your back-end in time with the music.

The tunes you grew up with can do that to you. But you can blame it on the beat, as you’ll see in the new book “The One: The Life and Music of James Brown” by RJ Smith.

James Brown was never supposed to live.

For most of his life, he bragged that when he entered the world in May, 1933, he was born dead but his Aunt Minnie blew into his lungs and brought him back to life. That, and the abandonment of his mother were two of his most-repeated stories – although the latter was only partially true.

Though he was born in North Carolina, Brown’s father moved the family to Augusta, Georgia, in the late 1930s, in search of a better life. They settled in The Terry, which was shorthand for “The Negro Territory,” where black-owned businesses thrived. One of the businesses was a cathouse run by Brown’s “Aunt Honey.” She gave the boy a roof over his head, but she beat him regularly, too.

Violence was, in fact, a way of life for James Brown. His parents fought often and, growing up, Brown considered himself a thug. He was known for his fearlessness and fast fists (he was briefly a boxer), and for his love of firearms. In later years, Rev. Al Sharpton recalled that Brown often carried a gun.

Despite his tough streak, though, Brown was known to be gracious and people loved him. He was a savvy womanizer who knew how to play an audience, whether it was one or one hundred thousand. He knew that theatre was what people wanted, and he gave it to them – but there was more to James Brown than capes and curls.

He was very politically active, and counted presidents among his friends. He worked hard on matters of civil rights, and once “saved” a city from being ruined by riots. Generous even in his last days, he was helping charity organizations when he died in December, 2006.

How much more than music is there to a man?  “The One” (so-titled for James Brown’s beat-count) tells us, and it’s a good story.

Author RJ Smith brings his readers a sweeping and grand biography of the Godfather of Soul, and he lets us see the good and the bad in that life. Though this book can be a little longish at times, I really liked the behind-the-scenes tales of the James Brown that younger fans might not know. Smith shows that there was a deeper Brown than what’s seen on old video clips, and that made me smile.

If you’re up for a bio that will make you hum along, then “The One” is the one you want. Read this book and you’ll feel good!

I recently saw my mother for the first time in 20 months. My mom has Alzheimer’s disease. While she is in otherwise general good health for 84 years of age, her mind has been robbed by this awful illness and all we can do is witness its toll and her decline. Documenting my thoughts, observations and feelings is my way of dealing with it. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to paint my way through or out of it as Max has done.

Seeing the woman who raised me as a shell of herself saddens me beyond measure. Hearing the same questions being asked only moments apart and having to answer them over and over again as if I am responding for the first time is challenging. I humor myself by making up colorful answers. Watching my mother walk like a toddler makes me want to baby her. Seeing her walk into my mirror and catching herself by surprise when she witnesses her own reflection makes me feel guilty for giggling when all I really want to do is cry.

Her fingers are bonier and somehow much longer than I remember them as a child. They move like insect legs. Her table manners remain exquisite while holding utensils, yet her motor skills and ability to deliver food directly to her mouth without taking a detour sometimes is astonishing. Ready, aim, fire is now more of a hit-and-miss proposition. Aging is cruel in itself. Aging with such an insidious disease for which there is no cure is heartbreaking.

The glazed look in her eyes as they stare straight ahead is what I see in my mind when I close my own.

I fear for both of us.

First of all, Mother’s Day should not involve children. It should be a day off to enjoy a little “me” time. This should be the requirement. The day should look something like this:

It starts by waking at your leisure. You should have a quiet morning accompanied by a hot cup of coffee, a copy of the Sunday paper and a breakfast splurge. I mean, all the carbs you want … like a giant bagel. You should be able to get out of the house and fit in a mani/pedi, a facial or dare I say it a massage. The day is followed up by shopping, an iced latte at Starbucks and uninterrupted time at the bookstore.

This, my friends, my comrades, my wipers of fingerprints and runny noses, would be the perfect Mother’s Day.

Instead, they seem to go down something like this:

You’re literally startled out of your sleep with a barrage of children running into the room with runny eggs and burnt toast – insisting you eat it now, all the while relishing every moment. Did I mention that these little people have no idea how to make coffee?

Now when they’re really small, you can get away with a carefully crafted time-out for yourself. However, my kids are at the age of understanding, and they’re going to give me a Mother’s Day whether I want one on not. If I dared mention what I really wanted, oh would they ever be insulted; then would come the inevitable guilt.

The rest of the day is spent planning things we can do “together” like baking, which means a huge mess for me to clean up, or maybe playing some games, which requires even more patience while they argue about who goes first. By the end of the day, I’m looking forward to Monday, when the old, comfortable routine begins, and they go back to school.

Finders keepers, losers weepers?

What do you do when you find something that belongs to someone else?  Do you pocket the object, thanking the universe for an unexpected gift?  Or do you go to the ends of the Earth to give it back to whomever it might belong?

For most, the answer lies somewhere in the middle but Jonathan Lyons knew that an incalculably rare item absolutely needed to be returned after disappearing some 500 years ago. But in the new novel “The Lost Years” by Mary Higgins Clark, he can’t do the deed if he’s dead.

“So much noise… so much blood.”

Those six words were the most intelligible things that Kathleen Lyons said.

She was the only witness to the murder of her husband, Jonathan – but maybe she wasn’t just a witness. Suffering from Alzheimer’s, frightened, and covered with blood, Kathleen was discovered by her daughter, cowering in a closet and clutching a gun.

Twenty-eight-year-old Mariah knew that her mother wasn’t a killer. Still, it was true that Kathleen went into a rage when, in moments of lucidity, she remembered that she had evidence of her husband’s infidelity. It was that infidelity that caused a rift between Mariah and her father, and it hurt Mariah to know that mending their relationship would never again be possible.

It also hurt that her father hadn’t shared his joy at what was surely the pinnacle of his career: Jonathan Lyons had discovered a priceless Biblical document, a letter from Jesus to Joseph of Arimathea.

And that document was missing.

As Kathleen Lyons was led away in handcuffs, crying and confused, Jonathan’s four best friends – all experts in antiquities – denied having seen the letter. Mariah was sure that one of them had been privy to her father’s discovery, or maybe Jonathan had confided in his mistress, Lily.  Mariah hated Lily, so that wasn’t a pleasant thought.

Rory Steiger needed to get out of town. If that professor hadn’t recognized her, things might’ve been different, even though she really did hate tending to “dear Kathleen.” That was a job she would not miss.

Rory hated being a caretaker almost as much as she hated being manipulated…

They say that Agatha Christie was the Grand Dame of Mystery. If that’s true, then author Mary Higgins Clark must be the Marquise, because this book is a royal treat.

Admittedly, “The Lost Years” is typical Clark: quietly predictable, and with a twist of history. The surprise is that it contains an appealing new crimesolver who, while meddlesome and a bit folksy, is somebody you can’t help but like.

And speaking of like, I like the gentle edginess of this novel. There’s blood in here, but no guts or gratuitous violence. That’s refreshing for a genre in which so many writers like to up the ante on gore.

If you’re someone who enjoys sharing novels with others, though, beware: lend this book and you may never get it back. That’s because, for mystery fans, “The Lost Years” is truly a keeper.