Some Highlights for the WAVES
One of the highlights of boot training happened off schedule. Our entire regiment assembled on the parade ground to observe the “dishonorable discharge” of a WAVE. I put that in quotation marks, for it wasn’t really a discharge at all, but just kicking out an underage kid who had crashed the party. Sixteen, we heard. The officer who had the duty ripped off the “U. S. Navy” strip from her bonnet and removed her jacket’s slide-in buttons, which showed an anchor on them, and handed the girl a small envelope of ordinary buttons she would have to sew on. I say this in a moment of time, but the ceremony lasted a good while. I never knew if the girl suspected what was up or not. She might have been totally surprised. But those of us who watched were so well entrenched in serving our country well that it was an extremely sad occasion. At least she was not in my platoon and I didn’t know her.
Another exciting time during boot was the week of “work detail.” Again everything happened in alphabetical order. The list of jobs lined up with the list of our names. The eight girls in my living quarters had the last initials of H, J, K, and L. Six got K-P, or kitchen detail. The one other L, by the name of Lewis, got Laundry. Want to take a guess at what I got with my L? Library! That deserves a whole row of exclamation points. How could I be so lucky! My roommates got up at 5:00, wore galoshes in the kitchen and the laundry while I could sleep in till 6:00. I didn’t sleep after they left, however, for fear that I might oversleep.
The girls never complained about working in such areas, so they must have had fun enough. I might complain (but I didn’t) that not a single WAVE came into the library to read anything or to get something to read. Of course not, who had the time for that? My days passed with my association with two persons, the Red Cross lady and the Padre, or Catholic Chaplain. Like me, they had time on their hands and we spent part of that conversing with each other.
We marched to meals, picked up our metal divided tray, stuffed our flatware in our pockets, held out the tray to be filled, rolled up our raincoat’s sleeves, ate in seventeen minutes even while talking, took our empty trays to a big trough where we dipped them and ran a long-handled brush over them, then placed them in the stack to go into a big electric dish washer. We individually moseyed back outside to get into platoon formation once more. In a tiny pocket at the top of our seersucker dresses we carried a lipstick. Standing in line, we served as each other’s mirrors to get the red on just right. Our pit stop was back at the barracks. We enjoyed life, even when it served us mutton.
♥
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
In Step Now
As we WAVES marched along from one scheduled activity to the next, we often sang. “Anchors Aweigh” was, of course, the main number to get us going, but we always ended up with a rather mournful little ditty that went something like this:
“Don’t make my girl a sailor,”
A weeping mother said.
“Make her a WAC or send her back
To Lockheed school instead.
She’s always been a home-girl,
She’s never been to sea.
A guy in every port is n---o---t
The life she learned from me.”
Naturally the song begged to have another stanza. It went like this:
“I want to be a sailor,”
A smiling daughter said.
“Don’t take me back to be a WAC
Nor to Lockheed school instead.
I’ve always been a home-girl
I’ve never been to sea.
A guy in every port is j---u---s---t
The life for you and me.”
However, during boot training, there were no guys in our lives, except through the Post Office perhaps. We didn’t mind, so long as we were wearing those old-woman’s shoes. But once after training was over, we wore high-heeled black pumps with the toe and heel in, and felt dressed up again. Because it was wartime, we had to be in uniform even during liberty and being in uniform got us through subway turnstiles free.
During those early days of women’s being in military services (I got in rather late), many Americans labeled women in uniform as morally bad. I want to stress strongly and indelibly, that if a person, male or female, has good moral character while at home—really and truly good moral character—he or she will still have that good moral character away from home. I was never aware of any immoralities among the WAVES in my charge; at Sears, where I had worked before joining the WAVES, I knew of quite a bit of that sort of thing. The same accusation used to label nurses. They were bad women! I could never figure that one out. Was it that a first-hand knowledge of human anatomy caused them to be bad? They certainly all didn’t have affairs with doctors. This judgment went to extreme in the case of military women. When my brother, in Europe, read aloud from a letter from back home, that I had joined the WAVES, another soldier actually said to him, “Well, I guess I won’t be speaking to you again.” To be continued.
♥
As we WAVES marched along from one scheduled activity to the next, we often sang. “Anchors Aweigh” was, of course, the main number to get us going, but we always ended up with a rather mournful little ditty that went something like this:
“Don’t make my girl a sailor,”
A weeping mother said.
“Make her a WAC or send her back
To Lockheed school instead.
She’s always been a home-girl,
She’s never been to sea.
A guy in every port is n---o---t
The life she learned from me.”
Naturally the song begged to have another stanza. It went like this:
“I want to be a sailor,”
A smiling daughter said.
“Don’t take me back to be a WAC
Nor to Lockheed school instead.
I’ve always been a home-girl
I’ve never been to sea.
A guy in every port is j---u---s---t
The life for you and me.”
However, during boot training, there were no guys in our lives, except through the Post Office perhaps. We didn’t mind, so long as we were wearing those old-woman’s shoes. But once after training was over, we wore high-heeled black pumps with the toe and heel in, and felt dressed up again. Because it was wartime, we had to be in uniform even during liberty and being in uniform got us through subway turnstiles free.
During those early days of women’s being in military services (I got in rather late), many Americans labeled women in uniform as morally bad. I want to stress strongly and indelibly, that if a person, male or female, has good moral character while at home—really and truly good moral character—he or she will still have that good moral character away from home. I was never aware of any immoralities among the WAVES in my charge; at Sears, where I had worked before joining the WAVES, I knew of quite a bit of that sort of thing. The same accusation used to label nurses. They were bad women! I could never figure that one out. Was it that a first-hand knowledge of human anatomy caused them to be bad? They certainly all didn’t have affairs with doctors. This judgment went to extreme in the case of military women. When my brother, in Europe, read aloud from a letter from back home, that I had joined the WAVES, another soldier actually said to him, “Well, I guess I won’t be speaking to you again.” To be continued.
♥
Monday, March 29, 2010
The WAVES Take the Floor
The reason we eight girls had room enough in our one closet was that only certain specified items were allowed to hang there. Our luggage was in a storage room elsewhere, where we kept our clothes we wore to get to New York. Each of us had one spare dress uniform, two short-sleeved gray seersucker work dresses with one matching jacket, two white shirts, one medium blue work shirt (office work), and a dark blue all-weather coat, double-breasted and with Raglan sleeves. When we had a fire drill in the night, we donned our raincoats, rolled up our blanket—which was called an admiral—and carried it under our left arms. We had no robes. After boot training, if we wished to have a white summer dress uniform, we bought it with our own money. This choice was based on the weather conditions of one’s new location. I never needed a white uniform after I left New York.
Although we would never serve on a Navy ship, we used the same terms as if we were on a ship. Those who ran the buildings, the personnel, the programs, etc., were called ship’s crew. The personnel who got run were ship’s company. We had classes about ships, physical exercise in a gym, swimming for just one platoon (not mine), classes on health and first aid, but we never had a class about what was happening in the war zones. It was possible to go through training without being aware a war was on. However, on Sunday morning, right after breakfast, we found a truckload of the New York Times for our taking. This was my first experience with a newspaper with far too many ads. I don’t recall how we got those to our barracks, for we did not march carrying anything. I recall turning the pages of the Book Review section and nothing else. We needed newspapers, for that is what we cleaned our one mirror with and the inside of our six windows with Venetian blinds, two in each bedroom, one in the bath, and one in the kitchen. We were not allowed to use the kitchen; we just had to keep it clean, even behind the refrigerator. Captain’s inspection with white gloves was usually announced ahead of time, but could also be a surprise.
I often thought about a family’s living in this apartment. The entry hall was square-shaped and could probably accommodate a dining table, if it were a drop-leaf type. To its right was the full-sized kitchen. Our first bedroom could have been a living room, if the family needed only one bedroom. But it, or even both of them, could have been what the British call a bed-sit. Between these two bedrooms was the bathroom with the closet opposite in a hallway. The hallway itself was only big enough to allow two persons to pass each other. Floors throughout the huge complex, about a city block in size, were hardwood.
About those floors now. Of course, the girls got demerits for simple infractions of the rules. Punishment was scrubbing the floor of the main lobby (for all three wings) for two hours on hands and knees. This was a lark for most, for we were in such great physical shape from all that marching. Yes, I got a demerit once, for a handkerchief on the floor in our closet, right under my laundry bag, during inspection. It was not my handkerchief, but in my territory. There was no redress for grievances, of course. I scrubbed that floor for two hours (with others doing the same all around me), only to give my spot to the next demeritee when I finished. I learned years later that the Navy had to pay for a new floor, for we had worn it out by scrubbing it! To be continued.
♥
The reason we eight girls had room enough in our one closet was that only certain specified items were allowed to hang there. Our luggage was in a storage room elsewhere, where we kept our clothes we wore to get to New York. Each of us had one spare dress uniform, two short-sleeved gray seersucker work dresses with one matching jacket, two white shirts, one medium blue work shirt (office work), and a dark blue all-weather coat, double-breasted and with Raglan sleeves. When we had a fire drill in the night, we donned our raincoats, rolled up our blanket—which was called an admiral—and carried it under our left arms. We had no robes. After boot training, if we wished to have a white summer dress uniform, we bought it with our own money. This choice was based on the weather conditions of one’s new location. I never needed a white uniform after I left New York.
Although we would never serve on a Navy ship, we used the same terms as if we were on a ship. Those who ran the buildings, the personnel, the programs, etc., were called ship’s crew. The personnel who got run were ship’s company. We had classes about ships, physical exercise in a gym, swimming for just one platoon (not mine), classes on health and first aid, but we never had a class about what was happening in the war zones. It was possible to go through training without being aware a war was on. However, on Sunday morning, right after breakfast, we found a truckload of the New York Times for our taking. This was my first experience with a newspaper with far too many ads. I don’t recall how we got those to our barracks, for we did not march carrying anything. I recall turning the pages of the Book Review section and nothing else. We needed newspapers, for that is what we cleaned our one mirror with and the inside of our six windows with Venetian blinds, two in each bedroom, one in the bath, and one in the kitchen. We were not allowed to use the kitchen; we just had to keep it clean, even behind the refrigerator. Captain’s inspection with white gloves was usually announced ahead of time, but could also be a surprise.
I often thought about a family’s living in this apartment. The entry hall was square-shaped and could probably accommodate a dining table, if it were a drop-leaf type. To its right was the full-sized kitchen. Our first bedroom could have been a living room, if the family needed only one bedroom. But it, or even both of them, could have been what the British call a bed-sit. Between these two bedrooms was the bathroom with the closet opposite in a hallway. The hallway itself was only big enough to allow two persons to pass each other. Floors throughout the huge complex, about a city block in size, were hardwood.
About those floors now. Of course, the girls got demerits for simple infractions of the rules. Punishment was scrubbing the floor of the main lobby (for all three wings) for two hours on hands and knees. This was a lark for most, for we were in such great physical shape from all that marching. Yes, I got a demerit once, for a handkerchief on the floor in our closet, right under my laundry bag, during inspection. It was not my handkerchief, but in my territory. There was no redress for grievances, of course. I scrubbed that floor for two hours (with others doing the same all around me), only to give my spot to the next demeritee when I finished. I learned years later that the Navy had to pay for a new floor, for we had worn it out by scrubbing it! To be continued.
♥
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Getting Started
The initials WAVES stood for Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service. WAVES did not serve aboard ship, nor on any foreign soil. The Navy Nurses Corps served wherever there were American wounded navy men, and were an entirely different unit from the WAVES. Their uniforms were black with much gold braid, for they were all officers. The WAVES uniforms were navy blue, designed by the fashion icon Mainbacher.
By train, Pullman car, I traveled in civilian clothes to New York. Of course, enlistees were arriving there from all over the country, for a new regiment was about to be formed. By bus we were transported to the Armory, where we sat on the floor, and got assigned alphabetically into platoons, and then into groups of eight for living quarters. Next we got our hats, the bonnet type, so that we could start saluting the officers. Black shoes were next, the lovely “old woman’s” type that laced up, with an inch and a half heel. We soon learned these were the very best type for the time spent in outdoor drill and we marched in formation everywhere we went. Finally we got measured for the beautiful uniforms, receiving them the very next day. The dress uniform was three-season dark blue wool gabardine, with which we wore white shirts and black ties in a square knot. Our black shoulder bag hung from the right shoulder and rested against the left hip—the only practical way to wear a no-nonsense shoulder purse. Our name was on every item of clothing we had and on our prescribed laundry bag on its assigned peg in our one closet for eight.
I wonder what you are imagining for our living quarters. You may be surprised. We were located in the Bronx, one of the five boroughs of New York City. Our base was the Bronx campus of Hunter College (the other one was in Manhattan), and on the subway, headed for Hunter, we passed Yankee Stadium just as the train emerged from underground and became the Elevated, or the El, or vice versa if going the other direction. Within walking distance of the campus, we lived in lovely apartments that civilians had to vacate for the purpose. The building complex had three large wings and was four stories high. Each level of each wing reserved one apartment to be used as a smoking room. I entered one of those only once. Talk about smoke-filled rooms! This had to be the smokiest. So, when most of the girls ran for a smoke the minute they got back to barracks, I began my letter writing. And at mail call every day, I got more mail than anyone else, up to twenty-five letters and cards some days. To be continued
♥
The initials WAVES stood for Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service. WAVES did not serve aboard ship, nor on any foreign soil. The Navy Nurses Corps served wherever there were American wounded navy men, and were an entirely different unit from the WAVES. Their uniforms were black with much gold braid, for they were all officers. The WAVES uniforms were navy blue, designed by the fashion icon Mainbacher.
By train, Pullman car, I traveled in civilian clothes to New York. Of course, enlistees were arriving there from all over the country, for a new regiment was about to be formed. By bus we were transported to the Armory, where we sat on the floor, and got assigned alphabetically into platoons, and then into groups of eight for living quarters. Next we got our hats, the bonnet type, so that we could start saluting the officers. Black shoes were next, the lovely “old woman’s” type that laced up, with an inch and a half heel. We soon learned these were the very best type for the time spent in outdoor drill and we marched in formation everywhere we went. Finally we got measured for the beautiful uniforms, receiving them the very next day. The dress uniform was three-season dark blue wool gabardine, with which we wore white shirts and black ties in a square knot. Our black shoulder bag hung from the right shoulder and rested against the left hip—the only practical way to wear a no-nonsense shoulder purse. Our name was on every item of clothing we had and on our prescribed laundry bag on its assigned peg in our one closet for eight.
I wonder what you are imagining for our living quarters. You may be surprised. We were located in the Bronx, one of the five boroughs of New York City. Our base was the Bronx campus of Hunter College (the other one was in Manhattan), and on the subway, headed for Hunter, we passed Yankee Stadium just as the train emerged from underground and became the Elevated, or the El, or vice versa if going the other direction. Within walking distance of the campus, we lived in lovely apartments that civilians had to vacate for the purpose. The building complex had three large wings and was four stories high. Each level of each wing reserved one apartment to be used as a smoking room. I entered one of those only once. Talk about smoke-filled rooms! This had to be the smokiest. So, when most of the girls ran for a smoke the minute they got back to barracks, I began my letter writing. And at mail call every day, I got more mail than anyone else, up to twenty-five letters and cards some days. To be continued
♥
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Anchors Aweigh
In an earlier blog, I promised I’d tell about my summer of 1945 in New York. It may take several installments, but here goes.
World War II was going on with my older brother in the Army Signal Corps stationed near the front lines somewhere in Europe. Other relatives were fighting the war in different locations. The two theaters of major activity were Europe and the Pacific, and the average citizen had no idea when the strife would be over. Being a patriotic soul, one day when my family thought I was just going to my job at Sears, I went to the U. S. Navy Recruiting Office and joined up. What may be interesting to you now, is that we WAVES signed up to serve for the duration of the war and six months afterwards. That could have been a very long time. It took the whole day to get all the papers read and signed, wait, get booklets to read, wait, have our eyes tested, wait, have a complete physical, and no doubt some closed-door checking on our credentials. We had to be at least 21 years of age and a high school graduate. (Not so with any other branch of the military for women.) My dream was that, because I had completed two years of college and also worked two years for Sears (the same two years), I would apply for Officer Candidate School (OCS) after boot training.
At the end of that day, I went home and told my parents I was in the Navy. I suppose they were shocked, and yet, perhaps not. If anyone in my family volunteered to do anything out of the ordinary, they knew it would certainly be I, that middle child I wrote about before.
So, I began a thirty-day wait for orders to arrive before heading for New York City, where I would spend two months in Basic Training. I didn’t know then I would spend a third month there in further training. To be continued.
♥
In an earlier blog, I promised I’d tell about my summer of 1945 in New York. It may take several installments, but here goes.
World War II was going on with my older brother in the Army Signal Corps stationed near the front lines somewhere in Europe. Other relatives were fighting the war in different locations. The two theaters of major activity were Europe and the Pacific, and the average citizen had no idea when the strife would be over. Being a patriotic soul, one day when my family thought I was just going to my job at Sears, I went to the U. S. Navy Recruiting Office and joined up. What may be interesting to you now, is that we WAVES signed up to serve for the duration of the war and six months afterwards. That could have been a very long time. It took the whole day to get all the papers read and signed, wait, get booklets to read, wait, have our eyes tested, wait, have a complete physical, and no doubt some closed-door checking on our credentials. We had to be at least 21 years of age and a high school graduate. (Not so with any other branch of the military for women.) My dream was that, because I had completed two years of college and also worked two years for Sears (the same two years), I would apply for Officer Candidate School (OCS) after boot training.
At the end of that day, I went home and told my parents I was in the Navy. I suppose they were shocked, and yet, perhaps not. If anyone in my family volunteered to do anything out of the ordinary, they knew it would certainly be I, that middle child I wrote about before.
So, I began a thirty-day wait for orders to arrive before heading for New York City, where I would spend two months in Basic Training. I didn’t know then I would spend a third month there in further training. To be continued.
♥
Friday, March 26, 2010
Children May Predict
Perhaps what children do may predict what they will be when they grow up. Of course, they may do conflicting things and parents may never assess the possibilities. But in retrospect, something our two older children did might indicate something in that regard.
One very hot summer day our oldest boy was misbehaving and I put him in the backyard and locked the door on him. He promptly climbed onto the roof of the house and turned off the air-conditioner, the swamp cooler type popular in those days. He grew up to be a civil engineer and traveled the world in being so.
When our only daughter was very young, three or four perhaps, Margaret Chugg, a lady who had been her baby-sitter the first year I taught school, dropped in one rainy afternoon to see if Susan might like to walk to the grocery store with her. Susan loved and trusted Margaret, as did I, for she was an absolutely perfect baby-sitter. Margaret wore clear plastic galoshes and carried an umbrella. While I went to get Susan’s coat and little matching hat, Susan disappeared. We found her, sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, trying to put plastic bags over her shoes. She grew up to be an artist and international fashion model.
You never know.
♥
Perhaps what children do may predict what they will be when they grow up. Of course, they may do conflicting things and parents may never assess the possibilities. But in retrospect, something our two older children did might indicate something in that regard.
One very hot summer day our oldest boy was misbehaving and I put him in the backyard and locked the door on him. He promptly climbed onto the roof of the house and turned off the air-conditioner, the swamp cooler type popular in those days. He grew up to be a civil engineer and traveled the world in being so.
When our only daughter was very young, three or four perhaps, Margaret Chugg, a lady who had been her baby-sitter the first year I taught school, dropped in one rainy afternoon to see if Susan might like to walk to the grocery store with her. Susan loved and trusted Margaret, as did I, for she was an absolutely perfect baby-sitter. Margaret wore clear plastic galoshes and carried an umbrella. While I went to get Susan’s coat and little matching hat, Susan disappeared. We found her, sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, trying to put plastic bags over her shoes. She grew up to be an artist and international fashion model.
You never know.
♥
Thursday, March 25, 2010
I Don’t Believe in Coincidence
In the early 1990s I attended every session of a trial in the case of a brutal summer afternoon murder of a young woman living alone, forty or so miles from my residence. As I considered writing a book about it, I drove to another town for the selecting of the jury and followed the case in person through the day of sentencing. During the time between the man’s capture and that opening day, I traveled by train for a week’s stay in another state, to interview the man’s soon-to-be ex-wife, and a few others. During recesses at court, and the lunch hour, I picked the brains of several of the victim’s friends who were there. On the last day of the trial, while the jury was out, I stayed in the courtroom, along with eight or so others. The sad lady who sat in front of me, remained seated too. I soon tapped her on the shoulder. Let’s say her name was Ruby.
Ruby was perplexed, it soon proved. I asked why.
“He is so little and looks so neat and innocent,” she said.
I explained that the defendant was not in the least undersized, but that his lawyer had seen to it that his client’s chair was lowered to make him appear small and innocent beside the larger attorney. This is routine on the part of defense lawyers.
“But we knew [the victim] and when we first heard about the murder, my husband prayed all night that this villain would be caught and punished.”
“Why, then, do you not think this man is guilty?” I asked.
“The only answer to my husband’s prayer was a likeness of the murderer. He had a ponytail.”
What a relief that that was all, for I had news for her.
I put my arm around Ruby’s shoulder and told her, “Rest assured God did not make an error. Neither has the court. This man, on the day of the murder, had a ponytail. His wife told me so, when I interviewed her.”
If the real reason I attended the trial was nothing more than to relay this information to this lady, it was worth the whole effort and cost. Ruby could hardly wait to get home and tell her husband the news. And though I have written about this murder in shorter form, my book on the case still waits to be written, along with several others.
♥
In the early 1990s I attended every session of a trial in the case of a brutal summer afternoon murder of a young woman living alone, forty or so miles from my residence. As I considered writing a book about it, I drove to another town for the selecting of the jury and followed the case in person through the day of sentencing. During the time between the man’s capture and that opening day, I traveled by train for a week’s stay in another state, to interview the man’s soon-to-be ex-wife, and a few others. During recesses at court, and the lunch hour, I picked the brains of several of the victim’s friends who were there. On the last day of the trial, while the jury was out, I stayed in the courtroom, along with eight or so others. The sad lady who sat in front of me, remained seated too. I soon tapped her on the shoulder. Let’s say her name was Ruby.
Ruby was perplexed, it soon proved. I asked why.
“He is so little and looks so neat and innocent,” she said.
I explained that the defendant was not in the least undersized, but that his lawyer had seen to it that his client’s chair was lowered to make him appear small and innocent beside the larger attorney. This is routine on the part of defense lawyers.
“But we knew [the victim] and when we first heard about the murder, my husband prayed all night that this villain would be caught and punished.”
“Why, then, do you not think this man is guilty?” I asked.
“The only answer to my husband’s prayer was a likeness of the murderer. He had a ponytail.”
What a relief that that was all, for I had news for her.
I put my arm around Ruby’s shoulder and told her, “Rest assured God did not make an error. Neither has the court. This man, on the day of the murder, had a ponytail. His wife told me so, when I interviewed her.”
If the real reason I attended the trial was nothing more than to relay this information to this lady, it was worth the whole effort and cost. Ruby could hardly wait to get home and tell her husband the news. And though I have written about this murder in shorter form, my book on the case still waits to be written, along with several others.
♥
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
If You Can’t Stand the Heat, Don’t Write
One Sunday afternoon several years ago, a friend called to ask if I’d heard anything from our mutual friend Dorothy in the past few days. I said yes, that we talked on the telephone Friday night. When Dorothy did not show up to teach a class at her church on Sunday morning, the phone calls started. It seemed I was the last to have contact with her.
A half dozen of us rushed to Dorothy’s house, where we found her car in the driveway of her mobile home just two blocks away from a fire station. While we waited for emergency vehicles to arrive, a couple walked around the outside of the trailer and detected a light on in the back bedroom, but drapery was closed. However, they thought they saw a bit of arm in the crack of light around the edge of the drapery. Dorothy seemed to be on the floor.
In the meantime, a neighbor, who had a similar residence, managed to remove a window on the front of the house, climb through the space, and open the front door. By that time, the paramedics had arrived, while we friends stood around and watched them enter the place. I wondered which of us would follow them inside. It became evident not a one of them would go in. I couldn’t believe it—they were afraid to go in—yet they knew Dorothy better than I did. But I didn’t hesitate, not knowing whether Dorothy was dead or alive. I knew I could handle it.
Dorothy was alive, on the floor, in her slip, having suffered a stroke. She was somewhat alert, but apparently had fallen from her bed, possibly on Friday night, as no one in her neighborhood had seen her on Saturday. As the gurney rolled out of the house, I got the answer from her—by her weak squeeze of my hand—as to which hospital she preferred. Some of those friends, I think, went on to the hospital but I came home. A patient like that doesn’t need a crowd around her.
Dorothy, in her eighties then, recovered and moved to a brand new little house in California near one of her daughters, and survived several more years.
I’m telling you this to say, if you want to write fiction, you’d better have the nerve to walk into such a situation as I did, for your characters will have to, only probably much worse situations, and you’ll need to describe them. The idea is to do this so well that you make your readers cry. That’s reaching their emotions, what fiction is all about.
♥
One Sunday afternoon several years ago, a friend called to ask if I’d heard anything from our mutual friend Dorothy in the past few days. I said yes, that we talked on the telephone Friday night. When Dorothy did not show up to teach a class at her church on Sunday morning, the phone calls started. It seemed I was the last to have contact with her.
A half dozen of us rushed to Dorothy’s house, where we found her car in the driveway of her mobile home just two blocks away from a fire station. While we waited for emergency vehicles to arrive, a couple walked around the outside of the trailer and detected a light on in the back bedroom, but drapery was closed. However, they thought they saw a bit of arm in the crack of light around the edge of the drapery. Dorothy seemed to be on the floor.
In the meantime, a neighbor, who had a similar residence, managed to remove a window on the front of the house, climb through the space, and open the front door. By that time, the paramedics had arrived, while we friends stood around and watched them enter the place. I wondered which of us would follow them inside. It became evident not a one of them would go in. I couldn’t believe it—they were afraid to go in—yet they knew Dorothy better than I did. But I didn’t hesitate, not knowing whether Dorothy was dead or alive. I knew I could handle it.
Dorothy was alive, on the floor, in her slip, having suffered a stroke. She was somewhat alert, but apparently had fallen from her bed, possibly on Friday night, as no one in her neighborhood had seen her on Saturday. As the gurney rolled out of the house, I got the answer from her—by her weak squeeze of my hand—as to which hospital she preferred. Some of those friends, I think, went on to the hospital but I came home. A patient like that doesn’t need a crowd around her.
Dorothy, in her eighties then, recovered and moved to a brand new little house in California near one of her daughters, and survived several more years.
I’m telling you this to say, if you want to write fiction, you’d better have the nerve to walk into such a situation as I did, for your characters will have to, only probably much worse situations, and you’ll need to describe them. The idea is to do this so well that you make your readers cry. That’s reaching their emotions, what fiction is all about.
♥
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
While I was editing the blog for March 23, I managed to lose the blog for March 22. (Not just everyone can achieve that.) So, below is the reclaimed blog, out of order, but readable. But don't skip the blog for 3/23.
Idea from a Genius
Einstein, who played the violin and loved great music from certain composers, believed that music, like his own favorite scientific theories, gets plucked from the universe rather than composed. I strongly feel this is true in the field of creative writing too, and the trash that gets published didn’t get plucked from out there, but from someplace right on terra firma. Einstein might have thought the same about some forms of music.
One attribute of genius is a sense of humor, not that of telling jokes, but seeing the humor in situations, humor that often bypasses others. Geniuses may just walk out of the room when jokes hold the stage, be dissatisfied with activities others choose to do, and work best when they work alone. At the risk of being misinterpreted, they often choose a simple life and are probably never bored with life, just amused by what bores and amuses others. But they may get frustrated, even irritable, when lesser minds can’t understand a point in logic. They have difficulty with enduring the lack of knowledge in others.
But humor is all around us, even with our lesser minds. It shows up in nicknames we give each other, for one place. I once met a lady whose surname was Ford, whose friends called her Chevy. Good humor is clever that way. I don’t know how we acquire a sense of humor. Perhaps we are born with it (or not), as we seem to be with imagination (or not), but my guess is that it must be developed in early childhood, not by watching comics on the telly, but by watching other people live their lives, and by reading at an early age, of course.
♥
Idea from a Genius
Einstein, who played the violin and loved great music from certain composers, believed that music, like his own favorite scientific theories, gets plucked from the universe rather than composed. I strongly feel this is true in the field of creative writing too, and the trash that gets published didn’t get plucked from out there, but from someplace right on terra firma. Einstein might have thought the same about some forms of music.
One attribute of genius is a sense of humor, not that of telling jokes, but seeing the humor in situations, humor that often bypasses others. Geniuses may just walk out of the room when jokes hold the stage, be dissatisfied with activities others choose to do, and work best when they work alone. At the risk of being misinterpreted, they often choose a simple life and are probably never bored with life, just amused by what bores and amuses others. But they may get frustrated, even irritable, when lesser minds can’t understand a point in logic. They have difficulty with enduring the lack of knowledge in others.
But humor is all around us, even with our lesser minds. It shows up in nicknames we give each other, for one place. I once met a lady whose surname was Ford, whose friends called her Chevy. Good humor is clever that way. I don’t know how we acquire a sense of humor. Perhaps we are born with it (or not), as we seem to be with imagination (or not), but my guess is that it must be developed in early childhood, not by watching comics on the telly, but by watching other people live their lives, and by reading at an early age, of course.
♥
Because People Ask Me . . .
My favorite U. S. President – George Washington
My least favorite U. S. President – O
Favorite military branch – U. S. Navy
Holiday – Christmas, Easter
Season – autumn
Television personality – Charles Krauthammer
Television channel – Fox News, then DVDs
“Charities” I support – Northwest Nazarene University; American Bible Society; Samaritan’s Purse; Medical Teams International
Favorite color(s) – red, yellow
Food – cashew nuts
Favorite tame animal – horse
Wild animal (at a distance) – cheetah
Bird – Cardinal
Flower – pink peony, yellow rose
Author of all time – Shakespeare
Modern authors -- Josephine Tey, Ridley Pearson, Felix Francis
Modern poet – Ted Kooser
Music – the classics
Books, other than the Bible - Brat Farrah, Out of the Silent Planet, Man's Unconquerable Mind, The Silence of the Sea
My favorite place to live – wherever I am
Favorite places to visit – Oregon Coast, Sun Valley, Idaho
Places to read about – England, France (in fiction)
Favorite dish to cook – these days, toast
Old days – Italian meat sauce for spaghetti
Favorite grandchildren – Jill, Jacob, Mikey, Max, Matthew, Robby, Joshua, Andrew, Michelle. Rebekah, Zachary, Adrian, Piper
Famous people I’ve met – Helen Keller, Gerald Ford, Betty Ford, Lady Bird Johnson, Hank Aaron, Clint Eastwood, Telly Sevalas, Harmon Killibrew, (footballer) Blanda
Great grandchildren – in a few days, 17
My present position – head of a dynasty
My favorite U. S. President – George Washington
My least favorite U. S. President – O
Favorite military branch – U. S. Navy
Holiday – Christmas, Easter
Season – autumn
Television personality – Charles Krauthammer
Television channel – Fox News, then DVDs
“Charities” I support – Northwest Nazarene University; American Bible Society; Samaritan’s Purse; Medical Teams International
Favorite color(s) – red, yellow
Food – cashew nuts
Favorite tame animal – horse
Wild animal (at a distance) – cheetah
Bird – Cardinal
Flower – pink peony, yellow rose
Author of all time – Shakespeare
Modern authors -- Josephine Tey, Ridley Pearson, Felix Francis
Modern poet – Ted Kooser
Music – the classics
Books, other than the Bible - Brat Farrah, Out of the Silent Planet, Man's Unconquerable Mind, The Silence of the Sea
My favorite place to live – wherever I am
Favorite places to visit – Oregon Coast, Sun Valley, Idaho
Places to read about – England, France (in fiction)
Favorite dish to cook – these days, toast
Old days – Italian meat sauce for spaghetti
Favorite grandchildren – Jill, Jacob, Mikey, Max, Matthew, Robby, Joshua, Andrew, Michelle. Rebekah, Zachary, Adrian, Piper
Famous people I’ve met – Helen Keller, Gerald Ford, Betty Ford, Lady Bird Johnson, Hank Aaron, Clint Eastwood, Telly Sevalas, Harmon Killibrew, (footballer) Blanda
Great grandchildren – in a few days, 17
My present position – head of a dynasty
Monday, March 22, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Award-deserving Comment from Leno
"With hurricanes, tornados [I’ll add earthquakes], fires out of control, mud slides, flooding, severe thunderstorms tearing up the country from one end to another, and with the threat of bird flu and terrorist attacks, are we sure this is a good time to take God out of the Pledge of Allegiance?" -- Jay Leno
♥
"With hurricanes, tornados [I’ll add earthquakes], fires out of control, mud slides, flooding, severe thunderstorms tearing up the country from one end to another, and with the threat of bird flu and terrorist attacks, are we sure this is a good time to take God out of the Pledge of Allegiance?" -- Jay Leno
♥
Saturday, March 20, 2010
How to Stay in Style
When I was growing up, I often heard my mother quote the lines:
“Be not the first by whom the new is tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.”
Then in college I came across the whole stanza:
“In words as fashions the same rule will hold,
Alike fantastic if too new or old;
Be not the first by whom the new is tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.”
–Alexander Pope, “Essay on Criticism”
It’s good advice in 2010 (particularly for the Congress and the President), as it was in the 17th and 18th centuries when the English poet lived. My mother used it with regard to fashion in clothes. I don’t know if she ever applied it to words (in writing, Pope meant), but I disagree with him in that category. Occasionally I have used an obsolete word intervale as if I were resurrecting it for all. I learned its meaning by seeing a tiny drawing of an intervale in a dictionary, and realized using it would save several words in describing the scene any other way. But it’s difficult to find it in a dictionary. Perhaps it’s in an unabridged Webster or the Oxford English Dictionary (20 volumes). I suppose that beautiful word went out of style because too many Americans couldn’t differentiate between it and interval. That’s the sort of thing that happens to a living language. As for being the first by whom the new is tried, I think I may be the inventor of the word “onblog,” a companion to “online.”
♥
When I was growing up, I often heard my mother quote the lines:
“Be not the first by whom the new is tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.”
Then in college I came across the whole stanza:
“In words as fashions the same rule will hold,
Alike fantastic if too new or old;
Be not the first by whom the new is tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.”
–Alexander Pope, “Essay on Criticism”
It’s good advice in 2010 (particularly for the Congress and the President), as it was in the 17th and 18th centuries when the English poet lived. My mother used it with regard to fashion in clothes. I don’t know if she ever applied it to words (in writing, Pope meant), but I disagree with him in that category. Occasionally I have used an obsolete word intervale as if I were resurrecting it for all. I learned its meaning by seeing a tiny drawing of an intervale in a dictionary, and realized using it would save several words in describing the scene any other way. But it’s difficult to find it in a dictionary. Perhaps it’s in an unabridged Webster or the Oxford English Dictionary (20 volumes). I suppose that beautiful word went out of style because too many Americans couldn’t differentiate between it and interval. That’s the sort of thing that happens to a living language. As for being the first by whom the new is tried, I think I may be the inventor of the word “onblog,” a companion to “online.”
♥
Friday, March 19, 2010
Really a Nonentity
One day in 1955, when I had written a check for groceries at a Boise supermarket, the clerk looked up at my husband and asked for identification—a card with his signature. The youth then looked at my husband’s signature on his card and then at my signature on my check, and okayed the transaction. ♠
Bridal Bouquet
Margaret Vail tells in Yours Is the Earth about being fortunate enough to purchase a cauliflower in Paris during World War II. Since the grocer did not wrap items sold, Vail walked down the street, carrying the cauliflower proudly, as if it were a bridal bouquet. ♥
He Asked for It
An old lady, Mattie McKibbon, who lived in Star, Idaho, told about her son who butchered a steer and gave her the neck boil. She invited him and his family over for Sunday dinner and served the neck boil. ♠ ♥
♥
One day in 1955, when I had written a check for groceries at a Boise supermarket, the clerk looked up at my husband and asked for identification—a card with his signature. The youth then looked at my husband’s signature on his card and then at my signature on my check, and okayed the transaction. ♠
Bridal Bouquet
Margaret Vail tells in Yours Is the Earth about being fortunate enough to purchase a cauliflower in Paris during World War II. Since the grocer did not wrap items sold, Vail walked down the street, carrying the cauliflower proudly, as if it were a bridal bouquet. ♥
He Asked for It
An old lady, Mattie McKibbon, who lived in Star, Idaho, told about her son who butchered a steer and gave her the neck boil. She invited him and his family over for Sunday dinner and served the neck boil. ♠ ♥
♥
Thursday, March 18, 2010
In the World of a Dictator
A column by Dorothy Thompson in The Ladies’ Home Journal in 1955 tells that an eminent psychiatrist of Prague was summoned to Adolph Hitler’s villa in Berchtesgaden but no one seemed to know who sent him. The doctor drove there with his wife, as they were vacationing in Innsbruck near Hitler’s place. After the visit, they saw a “detour” sign, and, turning off the highway, around a corner, he drove straight into a lake where he and his wife drowned. The detour led nowhere else.
♥
A column by Dorothy Thompson in The Ladies’ Home Journal in 1955 tells that an eminent psychiatrist of Prague was summoned to Adolph Hitler’s villa in Berchtesgaden but no one seemed to know who sent him. The doctor drove there with his wife, as they were vacationing in Innsbruck near Hitler’s place. After the visit, they saw a “detour” sign, and, turning off the highway, around a corner, he drove straight into a lake where he and his wife drowned. The detour led nowhere else.
♥
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
More on Memory
Last Sunday afternoon I called a friend who lives in Virginia, since I had not heard from her for at least the latest two Christmases. She used to write to me several times during the year. I’d tried to call her a few times this past Christmas season, but no one ever answered the telephone. But today she herself answered and we talked for about ten minutes. A short call after so long a time, for she could not fully remember me! She is younger than I and my memory is quite keen. Memory may have to do with genes—I think it does—but I also believe my staying closely associated with printed words in one way or another has helped tremendously.
Anyone who has not created for himself a lifetime of reading books and writing (something) often, or working solidly with mathematics, should certainly eat his celery.
♥
Last Sunday afternoon I called a friend who lives in Virginia, since I had not heard from her for at least the latest two Christmases. She used to write to me several times during the year. I’d tried to call her a few times this past Christmas season, but no one ever answered the telephone. But today she herself answered and we talked for about ten minutes. A short call after so long a time, for she could not fully remember me! She is younger than I and my memory is quite keen. Memory may have to do with genes—I think it does—but I also believe my staying closely associated with printed words in one way or another has helped tremendously.
Anyone who has not created for himself a lifetime of reading books and writing (something) often, or working solidly with mathematics, should certainly eat his celery.
♥
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Natural Aristocracy
There is a natural aristocracy among men, the grounds of which are virtue and talents. At one time bodily powers gave place among the aristocracy. But because the invention of gunpowder has armed the weak as well as the strong with missile death, bodily strength—like beauty, good humor, politeness, and other accomplishments—has become but a secondary ground of distinction. There is also an artificial aristocracy founded on wealth and birth, without either virtue or talents. With these it would belong to the first class.
A natural aristocracy must be the most precious gift of nature for instruction, trusts, and government of society. Indeed it would have been inconsistent for our Creator to have formed man for the social state, and not to have provided virtue and wisdom enough to manage the concerns of society.
That form of government is best which provides the most effectually for natural aristocrats to be elected as officials of government, just as our forefathers believed. Artificial aristocracy is a mischievous ingredient in government, and provision should be made to prevent its ascendancy.
In this 21st century, it appears our governmental leadership is heavily composed of artificial aristocracy and we must rid our nation of it.
♥
There is a natural aristocracy among men, the grounds of which are virtue and talents. At one time bodily powers gave place among the aristocracy. But because the invention of gunpowder has armed the weak as well as the strong with missile death, bodily strength—like beauty, good humor, politeness, and other accomplishments—has become but a secondary ground of distinction. There is also an artificial aristocracy founded on wealth and birth, without either virtue or talents. With these it would belong to the first class.
A natural aristocracy must be the most precious gift of nature for instruction, trusts, and government of society. Indeed it would have been inconsistent for our Creator to have formed man for the social state, and not to have provided virtue and wisdom enough to manage the concerns of society.
That form of government is best which provides the most effectually for natural aristocrats to be elected as officials of government, just as our forefathers believed. Artificial aristocracy is a mischievous ingredient in government, and provision should be made to prevent its ascendancy.
In this 21st century, it appears our governmental leadership is heavily composed of artificial aristocracy and we must rid our nation of it.
♥
Sunday, March 14, 2010
The Stupidest Reply
Years ago I asked my cleaning lady if she had seen the paring knife that I’d left lying in the drainer over the sink.
She said, “I wasn’t looking for it.”
I’m one of those people who cannot always think of the perfect repartee till too late and this time was a good example, for I was absolutely speechless.
I never found the paring knife—expensive, by the way—and it certainly did not go down the disposer or into the trash. I searched everywhere for it, and that was the last day this woman worked for me, though I did not accuse her of stealing, and fired her over the phone, not in person. I did not fire her because of her crazy reply to my question, but because she was the only clue to what happened to the knife.
Now, let me suggest what to say to such a reply, in case it ever happens to you. Just say, “Do you mean you see only what you look for and nothing else?” That should slay them.
♥
Years ago I asked my cleaning lady if she had seen the paring knife that I’d left lying in the drainer over the sink.
She said, “I wasn’t looking for it.”
I’m one of those people who cannot always think of the perfect repartee till too late and this time was a good example, for I was absolutely speechless.
I never found the paring knife—expensive, by the way—and it certainly did not go down the disposer or into the trash. I searched everywhere for it, and that was the last day this woman worked for me, though I did not accuse her of stealing, and fired her over the phone, not in person. I did not fire her because of her crazy reply to my question, but because she was the only clue to what happened to the knife.
Now, let me suggest what to say to such a reply, in case it ever happens to you. Just say, “Do you mean you see only what you look for and nothing else?” That should slay them.
♥
Saturday, March 13, 2010
How Americans Mistreat Americans!
Write an email and notice how all the little do-dads start jumping around across the bottom of the screen to distract you from what you’re doing. Call your doctor’s office and get his office hours for the umpteenth time, times when the clinic closes for lunch, and a reminder that if this is an emergency, call 911, or go to the nearest emergency med place. This unnecessary information can take two or three minutes while your time is limited. Call your doctor’s office with an important question on your mind, get the nurse’s voice mail which tells you she’ll call you back within twenty-four hours. Open a bill that comes in the post and find almost an ounce of extraneous ads, leaving you to put them in the recyc cart. Open more mail and find pale pastel printing on white paper or white on pastel or pale black print on gray. Watch a television program and the commercials are louder. Buy a DVD and wade through numerous commercials there before you see what you want to see. Call your car dealership and suffer through a sales talk of what that dealer can do for your car before you get a human being on the line. Call almost any business or many medical facilities and tell your problem to three persons before you get the right one. Try to find shoes of really narrow widths with a combination last in most states and travel to a big city, especially in the South, to really find them. And more.
Look, if we can get to the moon and back, we can correct all the above.
♥
____________________________________________________________________________________
Write an email and notice how all the little do-dads start jumping around across the bottom of the screen to distract you from what you’re doing. Call your doctor’s office and get his office hours for the umpteenth time, times when the clinic closes for lunch, and a reminder that if this is an emergency, call 911, or go to the nearest emergency med place. This unnecessary information can take two or three minutes while your time is limited. Call your doctor’s office with an important question on your mind, get the nurse’s voice mail which tells you she’ll call you back within twenty-four hours. Open a bill that comes in the post and find almost an ounce of extraneous ads, leaving you to put them in the recyc cart. Open more mail and find pale pastel printing on white paper or white on pastel or pale black print on gray. Watch a television program and the commercials are louder. Buy a DVD and wade through numerous commercials there before you see what you want to see. Call your car dealership and suffer through a sales talk of what that dealer can do for your car before you get a human being on the line. Call almost any business or many medical facilities and tell your problem to three persons before you get the right one. Try to find shoes of really narrow widths with a combination last in most states and travel to a big city, especially in the South, to really find them. And more.
Look, if we can get to the moon and back, we can correct all the above.
♥
____________________________________________________________________________________
Friday, March 12, 2010
One Way to Start
One day I decided to start writing a story with the words “the wind blew” and headed for the computer to enter that sentence into the Word Processor. By the time I typed the second “w,” I had the next few words. I completed the first sentence, without knowing what the story would be about. I left the computer with the anticipation of writing just one sentence a day until a plot began to unfold. That was July 1st.
The next day I wrote the second sentence and instantly knew at that time, the woman’s husband had died and I understood why she was hanging his clothes on the line outside ten months after his death. The third day I wrote nearly all day, revising as I went along.
From the moment the main male character appeared at the ranch, I saw him as a familiar figure and this image would not leave me. This story did not happen, but the familiar figure I knew for nearly fifty years could have done all that is in the story. Some details are true.
I finished the story on July 4th, exactly fifty-five years from the day I met my husband-to-be.
♥
One day I decided to start writing a story with the words “the wind blew” and headed for the computer to enter that sentence into the Word Processor. By the time I typed the second “w,” I had the next few words. I completed the first sentence, without knowing what the story would be about. I left the computer with the anticipation of writing just one sentence a day until a plot began to unfold. That was July 1st.
The next day I wrote the second sentence and instantly knew at that time, the woman’s husband had died and I understood why she was hanging his clothes on the line outside ten months after his death. The third day I wrote nearly all day, revising as I went along.
From the moment the main male character appeared at the ranch, I saw him as a familiar figure and this image would not leave me. This story did not happen, but the familiar figure I knew for nearly fifty years could have done all that is in the story. Some details are true.
I finished the story on July 4th, exactly fifty-five years from the day I met my husband-to-be.
♥
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Grisham
What a paradox that one of our currently most financially successful authors is not a good writer! He has achieved our readership because he is a great storyteller. (There is a difference.) His books are made into movies and he has become rich. As is generally the case with me, the book of his that I like best is one that received little attention and no one seems to talk about. I did meet one advanced student from Boise State University whose favorite book by this author was the same as mine. I’m talking about the author John Grisham.
Apparently Grisham’s research of espionage wasn’t total, for at the end of The Broker, he admits he knows nothing about spying and asks readers not to write to tell him so. If he had not made that disclaimer, critics might have been kinder. But I have read much nonfiction and numerous novels involving spying as well as all of Grisham’s books, and my favorite of his published work is The Broker. I even have it on a CD (five of them, in fact) in the captivating voice of Dennis Boutsikaris, award-winning actor. I’d like to read that book again, but I gave it away. I suppose I’ll listen to the CDs again soon. It would be lovely if I could hear those five disks while I sleep, but I doubt I sleep that long any night. But The Broker is interesting enough to lose sleep over.
♥
What a paradox that one of our currently most financially successful authors is not a good writer! He has achieved our readership because he is a great storyteller. (There is a difference.) His books are made into movies and he has become rich. As is generally the case with me, the book of his that I like best is one that received little attention and no one seems to talk about. I did meet one advanced student from Boise State University whose favorite book by this author was the same as mine. I’m talking about the author John Grisham.
Apparently Grisham’s research of espionage wasn’t total, for at the end of The Broker, he admits he knows nothing about spying and asks readers not to write to tell him so. If he had not made that disclaimer, critics might have been kinder. But I have read much nonfiction and numerous novels involving spying as well as all of Grisham’s books, and my favorite of his published work is The Broker. I even have it on a CD (five of them, in fact) in the captivating voice of Dennis Boutsikaris, award-winning actor. I’d like to read that book again, but I gave it away. I suppose I’ll listen to the CDs again soon. It would be lovely if I could hear those five disks while I sleep, but I doubt I sleep that long any night. But The Broker is interesting enough to lose sleep over.
♥
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Dreams
I seldom remember dreams longer than two seconds, but one of several weeks ago stayed with me all day and is still quite clear in my mind. It was an afternoon following some big gathering in the town and I was on a street, preparing to enter a building of several stories, such as an office complex. Across the road from this building was a well-kept section of suburbia, lovely older brick houses set back off the road with expansive lawns and sensibly placed shade trees. In the front doorway of one house stood a young woman, yelling, and evidently coming outside, with her eye on me. Her hair was dark brown, lots of it, pinned on top of her head without styling. Her lips were messily painted an orange-red, yet her rightful color was a blue-red. She wore a simple white cotton dress with tiny flowers all over it, reminiscent of dresses made from “designer” flour sacks several decades ago. The dress needed a belt.
In the dream I recalled learning in Introduction to Psychology class that the first sign of serious mental disturbance was letting the hair go unkempt. Perhaps forgetting a belt was second. [Don’t mistake a styled messy hair-do for letting it go.]
Meanwhile the girl—who appeared to be older now, maybe thirty—was getting closer to me and wielding a slab of wood, like two feet of a slender tree trunk, as she screamed at me, “I’ll get you.” I was afraid to enter the office building, for it seemed to be Saturday, possibly with no one else in the place and she might corner me there. That’s when I awoke, but not the least bit afraid.
When I told this dream to a couple of friends, they were amazed at the details of the dream, and the colors. I was amazed that everyone didn’t dream in details and colors. Does one need an overloaded imagination for such dreams?
♥
I seldom remember dreams longer than two seconds, but one of several weeks ago stayed with me all day and is still quite clear in my mind. It was an afternoon following some big gathering in the town and I was on a street, preparing to enter a building of several stories, such as an office complex. Across the road from this building was a well-kept section of suburbia, lovely older brick houses set back off the road with expansive lawns and sensibly placed shade trees. In the front doorway of one house stood a young woman, yelling, and evidently coming outside, with her eye on me. Her hair was dark brown, lots of it, pinned on top of her head without styling. Her lips were messily painted an orange-red, yet her rightful color was a blue-red. She wore a simple white cotton dress with tiny flowers all over it, reminiscent of dresses made from “designer” flour sacks several decades ago. The dress needed a belt.
In the dream I recalled learning in Introduction to Psychology class that the first sign of serious mental disturbance was letting the hair go unkempt. Perhaps forgetting a belt was second. [Don’t mistake a styled messy hair-do for letting it go.]
Meanwhile the girl—who appeared to be older now, maybe thirty—was getting closer to me and wielding a slab of wood, like two feet of a slender tree trunk, as she screamed at me, “I’ll get you.” I was afraid to enter the office building, for it seemed to be Saturday, possibly with no one else in the place and she might corner me there. That’s when I awoke, but not the least bit afraid.
When I told this dream to a couple of friends, they were amazed at the details of the dream, and the colors. I was amazed that everyone didn’t dream in details and colors. Does one need an overloaded imagination for such dreams?
♥
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
McKenna
The story goes that Richard McKenna was too poor to attend high school athletic games in Mountain Home, Idaho, but he figured out a way. He appeared at games, carrying a big dictionary, and challenged classmates to choose a word he could not define. He collected enough money for the games. His family was so poor that when they moved across town, he transported the household belongings on his little (red?) wagon. After completing high school, it must have seemed his only option was to join military service, for he did so.
After twenty years in the U. S. Navy, he wrote The Sand Pebbles, which made a movie too. If you’ve read The Sand Pebbles, you know a Navy ship of that time did not hold a single part unknown to McKenna.
Conclusion: his literary success must have stemmed from his vocabulary study while quite young. Oh, and an imagination, of course.
♥
The story goes that Richard McKenna was too poor to attend high school athletic games in Mountain Home, Idaho, but he figured out a way. He appeared at games, carrying a big dictionary, and challenged classmates to choose a word he could not define. He collected enough money for the games. His family was so poor that when they moved across town, he transported the household belongings on his little (red?) wagon. After completing high school, it must have seemed his only option was to join military service, for he did so.
After twenty years in the U. S. Navy, he wrote The Sand Pebbles, which made a movie too. If you’ve read The Sand Pebbles, you know a Navy ship of that time did not hold a single part unknown to McKenna.
Conclusion: his literary success must have stemmed from his vocabulary study while quite young. Oh, and an imagination, of course.
♥
Monday, March 8, 2010
One Research Source
Like many other sectors of the economy, magazines are having a difficult time staying afloat these days, obvious, because they currently send out invitations to subscribe at ridiculously low prices. Not that they get most of their functioning money that way, they don’t. For years I received these offers from a certain “beautiful house” magazine, which I’ve never seen for sale on any store’s magazine racks and never heard anyone speak of. The offers always referred to me as a professional and “of the trade,” meaning the trade of interior design. I’ve no idea how my name got on such a list, as interior design has never been my field of work, though it has been a great interest, and I have subscribed to many such magazines over the years. While the photos may be beautiful or not, the texts of the articles give information a writer can use in creating both fiction and nonfiction.
When I received the latest ad for ordering the magazine referred to above, I decided to do something about it. I wrote a letter saying I’d been on their mailing list for years—erroneously—but that I would be happy to advertise their magazine in my fiction, if they would honor my enclosed check of fifteen dollars for a subscription, the price asked of only professionals of the trade. (The regular price is sky-high.) I added that I wrote suspense and was quite sure most suspense readers did not know the magazine existed. I enclosed a SASE (self-addressed stamped envelope), but had no reply. Then one day, as I was checking my bank account on the computer, I saw that the check had gown through. That meant they had accepted my terms. Better my fifteen dollars than nothing at all, I suppose.
Then my first issue of Veranda arrived in the mail. There’s been no time to read an article, but I will. The magazine appears on a table in my novel-in-progress, but at the present time, no one in the story has picked it up, but my detective has noticed it. After all, a crime is under investigation. But you never know what one of the characters might do. Some guy may leaf through it. I’ll keep my promise. Maybe I’ll send the magazine a copy of the book when it’s published.
♥
Like many other sectors of the economy, magazines are having a difficult time staying afloat these days, obvious, because they currently send out invitations to subscribe at ridiculously low prices. Not that they get most of their functioning money that way, they don’t. For years I received these offers from a certain “beautiful house” magazine, which I’ve never seen for sale on any store’s magazine racks and never heard anyone speak of. The offers always referred to me as a professional and “of the trade,” meaning the trade of interior design. I’ve no idea how my name got on such a list, as interior design has never been my field of work, though it has been a great interest, and I have subscribed to many such magazines over the years. While the photos may be beautiful or not, the texts of the articles give information a writer can use in creating both fiction and nonfiction.
When I received the latest ad for ordering the magazine referred to above, I decided to do something about it. I wrote a letter saying I’d been on their mailing list for years—erroneously—but that I would be happy to advertise their magazine in my fiction, if they would honor my enclosed check of fifteen dollars for a subscription, the price asked of only professionals of the trade. (The regular price is sky-high.) I added that I wrote suspense and was quite sure most suspense readers did not know the magazine existed. I enclosed a SASE (self-addressed stamped envelope), but had no reply. Then one day, as I was checking my bank account on the computer, I saw that the check had gown through. That meant they had accepted my terms. Better my fifteen dollars than nothing at all, I suppose.
Then my first issue of Veranda arrived in the mail. There’s been no time to read an article, but I will. The magazine appears on a table in my novel-in-progress, but at the present time, no one in the story has picked it up, but my detective has noticed it. After all, a crime is under investigation. But you never know what one of the characters might do. Some guy may leaf through it. I’ll keep my promise. Maybe I’ll send the magazine a copy of the book when it’s published.
♥
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Running
I have already mentioned jealousy among writers and said there is room for all. I believe in writers helping writers, though individual aims may be quite different. But I believe in offering facts I have learned through living a longer time than young writers. Someone out there may dream of his novel’s becoming a hit movie. Nothing wrong with that, if you don’t keep it in mind all the time you are writing. But I do want to suggest a specific action that Hollywood must like, for it certainly rivets the viewers’ eyes to the screen. That is, have your main character run and run fast—not jog and not run in a ball game—but run for his life, or as if he were doing so. Home viewers don’t go to the kitchen for popcorn when the protagonist is running for his life. So what movies can I name with the main characters running for their lives, for the truth, for the sake of their jobs, or whatever? Or even minor characters?
Three Days of the Condor
Pelican Brief
The Firm
The Murder Room (minor character)
North by Northwest
The Man Who Knew Too Much (minor character)
Perhaps every James Bond film
Even a bit at the beginning of The Sound of Music
If you can add to this list, with titles of really big movies with serious running in them, let me know and I’ll be happy to give you credit on this page.
The idea is not to plan the running in your writing. Let your characters do their own thing. You set up the location where events may happen, and just let your characters show up when they are good and ready. They will likely get into some trouble, if you let them, and someone may then need to run. It wouldn’t hurt if that runner worked out in a gym every day before he ran, but you just discover that after he runs, and so you go back to an early part of your story and add that working-out in the gym. You just didn’t know about it before. The characters are still directing their own story; they just didn’t tell you everything when you first met them.
If the characters do not surprise the author, they will likewise not surprise the reader, and readers like surprises.
♥
I have already mentioned jealousy among writers and said there is room for all. I believe in writers helping writers, though individual aims may be quite different. But I believe in offering facts I have learned through living a longer time than young writers. Someone out there may dream of his novel’s becoming a hit movie. Nothing wrong with that, if you don’t keep it in mind all the time you are writing. But I do want to suggest a specific action that Hollywood must like, for it certainly rivets the viewers’ eyes to the screen. That is, have your main character run and run fast—not jog and not run in a ball game—but run for his life, or as if he were doing so. Home viewers don’t go to the kitchen for popcorn when the protagonist is running for his life. So what movies can I name with the main characters running for their lives, for the truth, for the sake of their jobs, or whatever? Or even minor characters?
Three Days of the Condor
Pelican Brief
The Firm
The Murder Room (minor character)
North by Northwest
The Man Who Knew Too Much (minor character)
Perhaps every James Bond film
Even a bit at the beginning of The Sound of Music
If you can add to this list, with titles of really big movies with serious running in them, let me know and I’ll be happy to give you credit on this page.
The idea is not to plan the running in your writing. Let your characters do their own thing. You set up the location where events may happen, and just let your characters show up when they are good and ready. They will likely get into some trouble, if you let them, and someone may then need to run. It wouldn’t hurt if that runner worked out in a gym every day before he ran, but you just discover that after he runs, and so you go back to an early part of your story and add that working-out in the gym. You just didn’t know about it before. The characters are still directing their own story; they just didn’t tell you everything when you first met them.
If the characters do not surprise the author, they will likewise not surprise the reader, and readers like surprises.
♥
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Memory
Recently the YOU doctors informed readers that celery is an excellent boost for improving one’s memory. A rib a day added to one’s diet is easy to accomplish. If you don’t like the idea of just chomping on a stick of celery, you can cut it into little slices and add it, raw, at the last minute, to your soup, stew, salad, or even into your smoothie, but slice it before adding to the smoothie, to avoid getting the blender tied up in strings. I don’t think it will affect the taste of the smoothie so you would notice the difference. But eating it raw in whatever dish will give a nice crunch, without waking the neighborhood from sleep.
Here’s what I like to do: in a saucepan I heat a cup of chicken broth, add half a cup of a starchy vegetable (potatoes, corn, lima beans, or any of the bean category except green beans), and two ounces of chicken. Add a little water, if necessary. While that heats, I slice a rib of celery into my soup bowl and pour the hot mixture over the celery. If you’re a writer, you take this delicious and nutritious meal to your dining shelf beside your computer, and keep working. Well, now, if you have a family, no, you eat with them—unless they’re mad at you. In that case, you can’t write, so you might as well give in and eat with them anyway.
Here’s another boost for the memory. Click for the links under “Free Crossword Puzzles.” Down the list you will locate one called “American Hard.” Click on that. It isn’t hard, but is extremely easy. It’s the only Network puzzle I’ve found that you can move around freely in any direction with a grid larger than most. But here’s the winning point: after you have worked it, using the clues, bring it up again, and work it once or twice more WITHOUT LOOKING AT THE CLUES. That is where the fun starts. So, you see, it doesn’t make any difference how easy it is, if the aim is to work it without clues to improve your memory. When you finish the puzzle, a photo will come up. It’s worth waiting for that, for sometimes it is quite interesting. Workers of the puzzles send them in. You might opt to send in pictures of your darling child playing in mud. These often seem to come from foreign locations but no explanation is attached.
This same puzzle’s location does offer two more puzzles that are harder. To the left of the big grid mentioned above, you will find a list of three words, each saying “hard.” You’ve just worked the first hard. Try the second hard. It’s not really hard either. But the third one, now there’s the real challenge, like those in The London Times, such as Inspector Morse worked addictively in the mystery series that bore his name, and he even timed himself.
But one more thing. You may reach the point at which you wonder if the puzzle maker really understands English or if he merely lifts his clues and answers from other puzzles. For example, sometimes he offers a clue such as “Quip, part 2” when there isn’t a part 1. Sometimes he says, “Theme of this puzzle” while the answer is “detergents.” Go figure. Not only is this situation funny, yet acceptable, it gave me the idea for a plot for a short story that will soon go into competition where the opposition is keen, almost 150 eligible competitors.
I trust some of you will give your memory these boosts.
♥
Recently the YOU doctors informed readers that celery is an excellent boost for improving one’s memory. A rib a day added to one’s diet is easy to accomplish. If you don’t like the idea of just chomping on a stick of celery, you can cut it into little slices and add it, raw, at the last minute, to your soup, stew, salad, or even into your smoothie, but slice it before adding to the smoothie, to avoid getting the blender tied up in strings. I don’t think it will affect the taste of the smoothie so you would notice the difference. But eating it raw in whatever dish will give a nice crunch, without waking the neighborhood from sleep.
Here’s what I like to do: in a saucepan I heat a cup of chicken broth, add half a cup of a starchy vegetable (potatoes, corn, lima beans, or any of the bean category except green beans), and two ounces of chicken. Add a little water, if necessary. While that heats, I slice a rib of celery into my soup bowl and pour the hot mixture over the celery. If you’re a writer, you take this delicious and nutritious meal to your dining shelf beside your computer, and keep working. Well, now, if you have a family, no, you eat with them—unless they’re mad at you. In that case, you can’t write, so you might as well give in and eat with them anyway.
Here’s another boost for the memory. Click for the links under “Free Crossword Puzzles.” Down the list you will locate one called “American Hard.” Click on that. It isn’t hard, but is extremely easy. It’s the only Network puzzle I’ve found that you can move around freely in any direction with a grid larger than most. But here’s the winning point: after you have worked it, using the clues, bring it up again, and work it once or twice more WITHOUT LOOKING AT THE CLUES. That is where the fun starts. So, you see, it doesn’t make any difference how easy it is, if the aim is to work it without clues to improve your memory. When you finish the puzzle, a photo will come up. It’s worth waiting for that, for sometimes it is quite interesting. Workers of the puzzles send them in. You might opt to send in pictures of your darling child playing in mud. These often seem to come from foreign locations but no explanation is attached.
This same puzzle’s location does offer two more puzzles that are harder. To the left of the big grid mentioned above, you will find a list of three words, each saying “hard.” You’ve just worked the first hard. Try the second hard. It’s not really hard either. But the third one, now there’s the real challenge, like those in The London Times, such as Inspector Morse worked addictively in the mystery series that bore his name, and he even timed himself.
But one more thing. You may reach the point at which you wonder if the puzzle maker really understands English or if he merely lifts his clues and answers from other puzzles. For example, sometimes he offers a clue such as “Quip, part 2” when there isn’t a part 1. Sometimes he says, “Theme of this puzzle” while the answer is “detergents.” Go figure. Not only is this situation funny, yet acceptable, it gave me the idea for a plot for a short story that will soon go into competition where the opposition is keen, almost 150 eligible competitors.
I trust some of you will give your memory these boosts.
♥
Friday, March 5, 2010
Middle Child Syndrome
What causes a child to grow up wanting to write? Many factors, of course, but Hemingway said “an unhappy childhood” helps. This reply has most likely spurred some people, who don’t write, into psychological discussion of the statement. But the idea is bound to hold some truth. It also may be related to the “middle child syndrome.” If you research this issue on the Net, you will find that the middle child is highly creative, among other oddities. He also might have had an unhappy childhood because of being the middle child.
I am trying to learn what famous writers were middle children—believe me, it’s a challenge—and so far, there’s only one on my list: Daphne du Maurier. I would be delighted if my readers would send me other names of writers who were/are middle children, if they are sure of the information. But one needs to know about the ”gap.” There is a gap in our family. For instance, in one set of grandchildren, there were first a girl and a boy. Then seven and a half years later three more children began to arrive. Of the three younger children, the one in the middle plans to write, and is now running a blog, with his wife, about their current living in Libya, as he works for a large American engineering company, on the biggest such project going on in the world at the present time. I don’t think he suffered from any particular lack of attention from the family as he grew up, but he was reserved and quiet, at least when I saw him at family gatherings. He’s not like that now though, is quite out-going, and loaded with self-confidence. After all, he holds his first college degree, has a lovely wife, and a particularly precious big baby boy.
It is possibly true that the middle child blooms only after leaving home, no matter how good a home he left behind. Yes, I was a middle child.
♥
What causes a child to grow up wanting to write? Many factors, of course, but Hemingway said “an unhappy childhood” helps. This reply has most likely spurred some people, who don’t write, into psychological discussion of the statement. But the idea is bound to hold some truth. It also may be related to the “middle child syndrome.” If you research this issue on the Net, you will find that the middle child is highly creative, among other oddities. He also might have had an unhappy childhood because of being the middle child.
I am trying to learn what famous writers were middle children—believe me, it’s a challenge—and so far, there’s only one on my list: Daphne du Maurier. I would be delighted if my readers would send me other names of writers who were/are middle children, if they are sure of the information. But one needs to know about the ”gap.” There is a gap in our family. For instance, in one set of grandchildren, there were first a girl and a boy. Then seven and a half years later three more children began to arrive. Of the three younger children, the one in the middle plans to write, and is now running a blog, with his wife, about their current living in Libya, as he works for a large American engineering company, on the biggest such project going on in the world at the present time. I don’t think he suffered from any particular lack of attention from the family as he grew up, but he was reserved and quiet, at least when I saw him at family gatherings. He’s not like that now though, is quite out-going, and loaded with self-confidence. After all, he holds his first college degree, has a lovely wife, and a particularly precious big baby boy.
It is possibly true that the middle child blooms only after leaving home, no matter how good a home he left behind. Yes, I was a middle child.
♥
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Higgins and I
After just over two years since the publication of my first novel, a friend called me today to say she had recently read it, starting it the day she got it about a month ago, and reading on into the night and into the next day till she finished it, for she could not put it down. (Writers love to hear that.) She eagerly awaits the next one, which I’m working on now. What is so amazing about that, is not that a reader enjoyed it so enthusiastically (several have), but that some other friends have remained silent. In a few cases it is jealousy. Jealousy among writers is such a foolish and ugly thing, as if there isn’t room for all. But there is room. My guess is that this jealousy also shows up among artists and composers, and among all creative groups.
I do not think Death in Time is an especially well-written work, but it is a great story (which the characters created, not I). Before it came out, I knew it had been a profitable learning experience, and therefore, the next one would be better.
I am currently reading my first book by Jack Higgins, and so I looked him up on the Internet. He says writing those first volumes of his was a learning process for him. He turned them out too fast, of course, using more than one pseudonym. (Jack Higgins is also a pen name.) This one, The Wolf at the Door, exposes a great deficiency in character analysis. I’m halfway through and so far, not a single character has come alive with any personality. The character who comes closest to having personality is a female, in a story with few such creatures. I cannot keep the “good” guys separate from the bad guys without this character depth, and am about to decide, I think, they are all bad. At least, and so far, Higgins’s language is cleaner than that in most stories involved with international intrigue. That I appreciate.
Higgins wrote his practicing books early on and now appears on the best-seller list frequently. I write much more slowly and don’t anticipate making any such list. But we have that in common: we learned to write while writing our first book(s).
♥
After just over two years since the publication of my first novel, a friend called me today to say she had recently read it, starting it the day she got it about a month ago, and reading on into the night and into the next day till she finished it, for she could not put it down. (Writers love to hear that.) She eagerly awaits the next one, which I’m working on now. What is so amazing about that, is not that a reader enjoyed it so enthusiastically (several have), but that some other friends have remained silent. In a few cases it is jealousy. Jealousy among writers is such a foolish and ugly thing, as if there isn’t room for all. But there is room. My guess is that this jealousy also shows up among artists and composers, and among all creative groups.
I do not think Death in Time is an especially well-written work, but it is a great story (which the characters created, not I). Before it came out, I knew it had been a profitable learning experience, and therefore, the next one would be better.
I am currently reading my first book by Jack Higgins, and so I looked him up on the Internet. He says writing those first volumes of his was a learning process for him. He turned them out too fast, of course, using more than one pseudonym. (Jack Higgins is also a pen name.) This one, The Wolf at the Door, exposes a great deficiency in character analysis. I’m halfway through and so far, not a single character has come alive with any personality. The character who comes closest to having personality is a female, in a story with few such creatures. I cannot keep the “good” guys separate from the bad guys without this character depth, and am about to decide, I think, they are all bad. At least, and so far, Higgins’s language is cleaner than that in most stories involved with international intrigue. That I appreciate.
Higgins wrote his practicing books early on and now appears on the best-seller list frequently. I write much more slowly and don’t anticipate making any such list. But we have that in common: we learned to write while writing our first book(s).
♥
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Rain
Besides watering our crops in some areas and causing great destruction by floods in others, rain offers much more. It might be said that one has not truly slept until he has done so under a tin roof during a steady autumn shower. Of course, the pleasure of that comes just before one sleeps, for he doesn’t know about it while he sleeps. So it may be said, a fine continuous drizzle helps one go to sleep. Recordings of rain are on the market, intended to help listeners do just that very thing. But in the old days, just as one was falling under the influence of a recording, cassette players, turning themselves off with a loud click, undid the good work. Today the CD player turns itself off in silence but who has one beside his bed?
On the other hand, rain helps to awaken the mind if one is creative. Perhaps artists don’t opt to paint pictures while it is raining, unless they have a well-lighted studio to dispel outside gloom. Perhaps composers don’t create great sonatas in damp weather either. But with writers rain can be a beacon of light itself, for the brain stirs with the change in weather, as if that means a change in the story’s direction. I recall in my early college days, getting up before dawn for the ten or so miles’ bus travel across town, while the rest of the family slept. Many southern autumn mornings were rainy, causing me to linger at a window, looking out—feeding my writing brain—rather than feeding my body. I scorned bright light in the kitchen as I gave in to preparing my breakfast and eating it in semi-darkness.
Looking out a window in the rainy dawn had nothing to do with meteorology, but only with writing. It was the perfect moment to write—if one could write in the dark—and I did make a note or two. I mentally wrote all the way to the bus line. Then this monster bus intruded into my thought, wiping away all I had “written” during the past hour. My companion on the bus was the reflection of the person who sat in front of me in the window beside him, for if I looked elsewhere, I might be dragged into conversation and that was a killer to a would-be writer during a dark rainy morning in the south.
♥
Besides watering our crops in some areas and causing great destruction by floods in others, rain offers much more. It might be said that one has not truly slept until he has done so under a tin roof during a steady autumn shower. Of course, the pleasure of that comes just before one sleeps, for he doesn’t know about it while he sleeps. So it may be said, a fine continuous drizzle helps one go to sleep. Recordings of rain are on the market, intended to help listeners do just that very thing. But in the old days, just as one was falling under the influence of a recording, cassette players, turning themselves off with a loud click, undid the good work. Today the CD player turns itself off in silence but who has one beside his bed?
On the other hand, rain helps to awaken the mind if one is creative. Perhaps artists don’t opt to paint pictures while it is raining, unless they have a well-lighted studio to dispel outside gloom. Perhaps composers don’t create great sonatas in damp weather either. But with writers rain can be a beacon of light itself, for the brain stirs with the change in weather, as if that means a change in the story’s direction. I recall in my early college days, getting up before dawn for the ten or so miles’ bus travel across town, while the rest of the family slept. Many southern autumn mornings were rainy, causing me to linger at a window, looking out—feeding my writing brain—rather than feeding my body. I scorned bright light in the kitchen as I gave in to preparing my breakfast and eating it in semi-darkness.
Looking out a window in the rainy dawn had nothing to do with meteorology, but only with writing. It was the perfect moment to write—if one could write in the dark—and I did make a note or two. I mentally wrote all the way to the bus line. Then this monster bus intruded into my thought, wiping away all I had “written” during the past hour. My companion on the bus was the reflection of the person who sat in front of me in the window beside him, for if I looked elsewhere, I might be dragged into conversation and that was a killer to a would-be writer during a dark rainy morning in the south.
♥
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
George Emlyn Williams
To come across a beautifully written bit of prose in a day when plenty of quick trash rolls off the presses, is one of the greatest pleasures in the literary field. Reading it several times will help to keep it in your mind and I am talking about something here worth keeping there, for I discovered it years ago and it still charms me. That is, the first forty-three lines of Emlyn Williams’s George, An Early Autobiography.
This short passage gives us the date of the author’s birth, but while we are traveling that distance, we run into everyday life in a rural British setting with chores, animal life, vegetative life, the history of England, utter stillness, with George being the only one to know the sun will not set that night and he will never grow up.
But the silence stops and everything springs to life again. The sun does set and by the next morning the Titanic has sunk. His thought was that if the world had ended yesterday, they would not have sunk. He thought about it for days. Finally in line forty-three he tells us he was born November 26, 1905.
Williams’s style in this first page plus a few lines more, is poetic, so much so that I once typed it up, word for word, to look like a poem. Everyone who read it thought it was a poem. The Welsh author was primarily a playwright but sometimes an actor in his own plays, who died in 1987, but this autobiography proves he could have branched out much farther than the stage. Every would-be writer would do well to read these forty-three lines.
To come across a beautifully written bit of prose in a day when plenty of quick trash rolls off the presses, is one of the greatest pleasures in the literary field. Reading it several times will help to keep it in your mind and I am talking about something here worth keeping there, for I discovered it years ago and it still charms me. That is, the first forty-three lines of Emlyn Williams’s George, An Early Autobiography.
This short passage gives us the date of the author’s birth, but while we are traveling that distance, we run into everyday life in a rural British setting with chores, animal life, vegetative life, the history of England, utter stillness, with George being the only one to know the sun will not set that night and he will never grow up.
But the silence stops and everything springs to life again. The sun does set and by the next morning the Titanic has sunk. His thought was that if the world had ended yesterday, they would not have sunk. He thought about it for days. Finally in line forty-three he tells us he was born November 26, 1905.
Williams’s style in this first page plus a few lines more, is poetic, so much so that I once typed it up, word for word, to look like a poem. Everyone who read it thought it was a poem. The Welsh author was primarily a playwright but sometimes an actor in his own plays, who died in 1987, but this autobiography proves he could have branched out much farther than the stage. Every would-be writer would do well to read these forty-three lines.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Summer of 1945
Browsing in a bookstore—again—I ran across a small volume titled Summer at Tiffany by Marjorie Hart. The jacket indicated the summer of 1945, and so I purchased it, to absolutely no regret, but to my great pleasure, for, you see, I was in New York that summer too.
Hart had the three months off from college in Iowa, but took along her cello to keep in practice. Can you imagine traveling to New York for a summer, burdened by the load of a cello? I don’t recall there was much cello practicing, but what a time she and her girlfriend experienced. They had to find jobs, but stores weren’t hiring. However, with some slight connection through a friend of the family, they produced a letter to just the right person and got jobs at Tiffany, stationed on the main floor (jewelry) where Tiffany traditionally hired only men to work. But the guys were away, currently fighting a war.
Not a salesperson, but only something like a gofer, Hart, in a Tiffany uniform, carried valuable jewelry needing repair, from first floor to the repairman on an upper story. One time she dared to take a peek and ended up with pearls all over the elevator floor, with only seconds before the door would open. I won’t divulge how that episode ended. I recommend it for reading.
The girls barely made enough money to cover their livelihood, saw some celebrities in the store (didn’t actually meet them), and heard, as I did, about the Army plane that accidentally hit the Empire State Building and crashed. They had a great summer in New York, but it didn’t begin to compare with mine, but that comes later. However, on the book jacket, the publisher invites readers to make comments and gives its email address. I made comment and had a nice letter from the author, to whom the publisher had forwarded my letter.
My children and grandchildren have had, or are having, exciting lives in many areas of the world, but are so busy with theirs, they have learned little about mine. Maybe, if they’re reading my blog, they might learn what an exciting time I had when young, if I decide to mention it. But this blog is not really about me, but about Literature and Life. But then, I had a life too. And still do.
♥
Browsing in a bookstore—again—I ran across a small volume titled Summer at Tiffany by Marjorie Hart. The jacket indicated the summer of 1945, and so I purchased it, to absolutely no regret, but to my great pleasure, for, you see, I was in New York that summer too.
Hart had the three months off from college in Iowa, but took along her cello to keep in practice. Can you imagine traveling to New York for a summer, burdened by the load of a cello? I don’t recall there was much cello practicing, but what a time she and her girlfriend experienced. They had to find jobs, but stores weren’t hiring. However, with some slight connection through a friend of the family, they produced a letter to just the right person and got jobs at Tiffany, stationed on the main floor (jewelry) where Tiffany traditionally hired only men to work. But the guys were away, currently fighting a war.
Not a salesperson, but only something like a gofer, Hart, in a Tiffany uniform, carried valuable jewelry needing repair, from first floor to the repairman on an upper story. One time she dared to take a peek and ended up with pearls all over the elevator floor, with only seconds before the door would open. I won’t divulge how that episode ended. I recommend it for reading.
The girls barely made enough money to cover their livelihood, saw some celebrities in the store (didn’t actually meet them), and heard, as I did, about the Army plane that accidentally hit the Empire State Building and crashed. They had a great summer in New York, but it didn’t begin to compare with mine, but that comes later. However, on the book jacket, the publisher invites readers to make comments and gives its email address. I made comment and had a nice letter from the author, to whom the publisher had forwarded my letter.
My children and grandchildren have had, or are having, exciting lives in many areas of the world, but are so busy with theirs, they have learned little about mine. Maybe, if they’re reading my blog, they might learn what an exciting time I had when young, if I decide to mention it. But this blog is not really about me, but about Literature and Life. But then, I had a life too. And still do.
♥
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