That last blog headline said we'd try rail travel "without drama" Oops.
Now it's one thing to be a grouch, but worse to write like one. There's enough in the world to feel bad about without a grumbling travel story - especially from a writer on vacation. Besides, I like to say everything is an opportunity - everything. Keep that in mind in this brief travelogue.
My wife and I were looking for a different method of travel. She had a 28-year career as a flight attendant until 9/11. Of the many trips in recent years, most were not for leisure, but to deal with declining health of family and funerals. Planes are packed, confining, often delayed and John Candy could be sitting next to you, wafting his socks. Our answer for a casual trip to Chicago was Amtrak - in a sleeper car.
Think of it: plenty of room, privacy, sight-seeing across the country, the rhythms of the rails rocking us to sleep, fine-dining with a view. It would be so much better than my youthful adventure of hopping freights. Time for mature comfort.
Boarding at Portland, we were lucky because later trains on the Empire Builder route were being delayed or canceled. Besides weather problems, the demand for material to and from North Dakota's oil fields was nudging passenger trains down the priority list. We had squeaked through at the right time.
It's dark this time of year as the train chugs up the Columbia Gorge and stays that way through the Rockies of Glacier Park. Luckily, this train did not have Internet service, so the blackness and isolation gave us a chance to practice creative imagination of the passing scenery. The variety of vibrations and motion provided night time meditation and prayer rather than sleep. If awake, any light at a crossing or on the distant hillside was exciting. Daylight breaking at Whitefish brought renewed vigor.
From that point east, we had splendid opportunities to kick back and practice patience because long trains of black oil tankers began to roll past in the opposite direction. We could hear and feel them from the sidings we kept pulling into. There are many of them across Eastern Montana and North Dakota and we can cheerfully report they all work just fine. The phone app we had tracked our progress and there was plenty of time to do that as the hours slipped pleasantly past and kept adding up.
A highlight in North Dakota was seeing the customized Christmas displays of Williston. They might just be flares burning off gas from the scattered oil wells on the landscape, but to us they were glimmers of good cheer. I could imagine a wagon train or Indians circling those fires, warming their chilled bodies while roasting a buffalo's rump. I saw a cast of characters that could fill such a scene during a short stop in the Williston depot. That interesting place is truly the new Wild West.
Inside our cozy quarters, we enjoyed fluctuating temperatures that allowed us to try different levels of clothing. In doing so, we got to stretch and practice our balance as the train rumbled on to the next siding. The rooms are designed with walls so close that bouncing off you won't break a hip or dislocate a shoulder.
There's a tight little private bathroom in which you can conveniently sit to do your business and shower at the same time. The thin plastic walls allow travelers to share toilet sounds not only with your partner, but with the room next to you. Our neighbors were hard-of-hearing, enabling us to sample vital communication. For example, the elderly gent says, "What did you say? I gotta take off these dang longjohns. What was that? Hey, I found your glasses, honey. What did you say?"
A couple will grow closer than ever on a train and can learn coordination skills while inching around the cabin, over luggage and around the other's elbows. There's adequate time for reading while the jiggling train races along at over 70 mph - affording excellent eye exercise and evoking sympathy with vision problems in third world countries. I was fortunate to maneuver into the top bunk, strapped in for safety and teaching myself how to hold off on those pesky evening bathroom visits.
Winding your way down the aisles gives you the thrills familiar to skateboarders. And going through the coach cars, there are plenty of opportunities to bump into strangers. If they have appendages in the aisle you can whisper a greeting if the limb is still intact. Eventually, you end up in the dining car. Of course the menu is limited and no matter the selection, you come away with a fresh appreciation for home cooking.
Amtrak personnel are cordial, efficient folks - just like our young friend who is an engineer in the Midwest. It is not their fault that three months ago Congress changed regulations that previously had given people trains priority over freights. The nation's energy needs are certainly more important than the Vikings game in Minneapolis, or the wedding in Milwaukee, or my son's play in Chicago. Not everyone on the train would agree with me as time not only slowed, but stood still.
That's what happened when we came to an abrupt stop when some early morning driver left his pickup on the tracks 30 miles north of Chicago. Luckily he escaped and only three hours later, we rolled past a twisted piece of indistinguishable black metal. Only the scattered wheels indicated it might have been a vehicle. The lesson: never park your car on the tracks.
We eased into Chicago's Union Station at 4:30 a.m. on Sunday. The actor we came to see was waiting for us, despite his 3 p.m. matinee that day. Sure, we were 14 hours late and wobbly for a few hours, but we came away from our experience so much more knowledgeable. We learned so much we probably don't have to do it again.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Riding The Rails Without The Drama
Among the more interesting misadventures of my youth was hopping freights from Montana to St. Paul. It's the subject of a short story I'm working on and the idea was one of my more foolhardy decisions.
I come from a part of the country where they have an annual Hobo Festival and I've had the opportunity to meet and write stories about former "Kings" and "Queens" of the hobos crowned at that Iowa event. Let's just say they're all a colorful lot, a few quite clever and some not rowing with both oars. Some were authentic hobos - like Pasco Slim and Reno Blackey - but it seemed to me there were also a share of likely successful businessmen with Walter Mitty imaginations and annual acting performances - like Muscatel Mike and Sundance. Real or fake, they all made hopping freights sound romantic and adventuresome.
Then I found a photo book on hobos and tramps that also praised riding freight trains as the true way of wandering. A line that got me: "Once you've pissed out of an open boxcar, you're hooked."
So I did it with a pal and in summary, it was a dirty, dangerous and painful experience. Along the way, strange characters with thousand-yard stares asking to hop in our wooden boxcar were rudely turned away in language to suit the occasion. I'd read about cut throats on the rails, too. I don't want to tell the entire story here, but I will admit that it is nearly impossible to pee from an open boxcar. The motion, the vibrations and swirling dust make most everything miserable.
To break the boredom, we worked out a little dance routine and when the highway paralleled the tracks in North Dakota we performed for families running alongside. Parents, worried what might be exposed from a freight train, tried to get their kids not to look, but we were rewarded with big grins and what appeared to be applause. Then parents began to wave.
We made it - seriously bruised and coated with layers of heavy dust - awakened from a much-needed nap by a railroad detective in St. Paul who was surprised at our ability to explain and apologize for such a naive and illegal stunt. We meant it when we said we'd never try it again.
I mention this because decades later I am about to ride the rails again. This time I'll be with my wife and in a sleeper with two beds, our own shower and a real toilet. None of that open boxcar stuff for this old gent, but I'll give a report on Amtrak's Empire Builder from Portland to Chicago soon.
I come from a part of the country where they have an annual Hobo Festival and I've had the opportunity to meet and write stories about former "Kings" and "Queens" of the hobos crowned at that Iowa event. Let's just say they're all a colorful lot, a few quite clever and some not rowing with both oars. Some were authentic hobos - like Pasco Slim and Reno Blackey - but it seemed to me there were also a share of likely successful businessmen with Walter Mitty imaginations and annual acting performances - like Muscatel Mike and Sundance. Real or fake, they all made hopping freights sound romantic and adventuresome.
Then I found a photo book on hobos and tramps that also praised riding freight trains as the true way of wandering. A line that got me: "Once you've pissed out of an open boxcar, you're hooked."
So I did it with a pal and in summary, it was a dirty, dangerous and painful experience. Along the way, strange characters with thousand-yard stares asking to hop in our wooden boxcar were rudely turned away in language to suit the occasion. I'd read about cut throats on the rails, too. I don't want to tell the entire story here, but I will admit that it is nearly impossible to pee from an open boxcar. The motion, the vibrations and swirling dust make most everything miserable.
To break the boredom, we worked out a little dance routine and when the highway paralleled the tracks in North Dakota we performed for families running alongside. Parents, worried what might be exposed from a freight train, tried to get their kids not to look, but we were rewarded with big grins and what appeared to be applause. Then parents began to wave.
We made it - seriously bruised and coated with layers of heavy dust - awakened from a much-needed nap by a railroad detective in St. Paul who was surprised at our ability to explain and apologize for such a naive and illegal stunt. We meant it when we said we'd never try it again.
I mention this because decades later I am about to ride the rails again. This time I'll be with my wife and in a sleeper with two beds, our own shower and a real toilet. None of that open boxcar stuff for this old gent, but I'll give a report on Amtrak's Empire Builder from Portland to Chicago soon.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
The Bucket List or The Grab Bag?
I first heard of the now famous "bucket list" reading an interview with former football coach Lou Holtz. He's now a college football TV commentator, but when he was at Notre Dame he had 50 things he was checking off before he, well, circled the drain. He'd just notched the "skydiving" box when he was asked about it. Since then the bucket theme has become a hit movie and a new lifestyle goal for many.
Bless those who have such a list - go for it. The concept just doesn't work for me because I'd have to focus on myself too much to check off the targets. I'm a veteran of putting myself first on a sort of unscripted pleasure list up until some 25 years ago. I'm also competitive, so if I have a set of goals I'd likely give them priority at times when I really should set aside my own recreation.
Somewhere along the line, I had an epiphany that I was not the most important person on the planet. To conjure up a list of exotic places like the Amazon River or the thrill in an underwater cage near great white sharks would have to push family, friends and associates off the front burner of my one-burner stove.
Among the gifts I treasure most are the family members, loved ones and associates who have graced my life over the years. There are too many to catalog, but they'd provide a list of folks I'd like to once again visit. Still, I'd rather not make a list, but simply enjoy them as our lives happen to mesh.
It's not that I don't have dreams or an imagination to come up with a bucket. By keeping myself open to whatever comes my way and trying to have a positive attitude with whatever does arrive, I am given a thrill of the unexpected - actions or incidents that may have been dreamed of, but not planned. That's what hit me a few years ago atop the Great Wall of China.
If I'd had a wish list, the Wall would have been on it, but standing there, looking at this magnificent, historical icon, I remembered imagining it back in grade school. Suddenly, I was a child again and I raced along the top of the wall as it wound into low-hanging clouds, imagining how goats hauled the heavy bricks and where the Mongol hordes might have tried to breach it. I had out-distanced the tourists and - winded and sweating like a farm animal - Chinese students had me pose for pictures with their friends. I'll assume they were laughing with me, but I was aware of the derogatory term they use for us and here I was, a "greasy ghost" very much out of place. It didn't matter, I was there.
Had this visit been on a long-standing list, I don't think it would have had the unexpected magic. I get this same surprise emotion standing on a mountain top or at the base of a majestic waterfall, but all things meaningful do not have to be thrilling. By letting life's highlights come to me, my memory and heart are often touched with pleasantries. Laughing with grandchildren, intimate discussions with grown children, hiking with close friends and reaching out to help someone through an issue are undrawn boxes I'd never bother to check off.
Though of course happy times are preferred, not all my highlights need to be cheerful. Holding someone's hand as they die is as significant an event as I could experience. So is an arm around the shoulder of a grieving loved one. Such gut-wrenching times will broaden my understanding and enrich my life, but would never be on anyone's bucket list.
If I create a list, I am setting myself up for disappointment. Instead, I try to be receptive when a seemingly incidental occurance crosses my path. It has been a son on a stage, a granddaughter's vocal solo and the twinkle in a ninety-year old's eye that stirs me. And it's not always people. A hummingbird's bath in our backyard fountain, the scent of a tiger lilly and the electricity of a thunderstorm will unexpectedly brighten a moment in my life.
The bucket list concept doesn't work for me, but another image does. When I reach into the people, places and things around me, I never know exactly what I'll pull out. I envision life as more of a grab bag.
Bless those who have such a list - go for it. The concept just doesn't work for me because I'd have to focus on myself too much to check off the targets. I'm a veteran of putting myself first on a sort of unscripted pleasure list up until some 25 years ago. I'm also competitive, so if I have a set of goals I'd likely give them priority at times when I really should set aside my own recreation.
Somewhere along the line, I had an epiphany that I was not the most important person on the planet. To conjure up a list of exotic places like the Amazon River or the thrill in an underwater cage near great white sharks would have to push family, friends and associates off the front burner of my one-burner stove.
Among the gifts I treasure most are the family members, loved ones and associates who have graced my life over the years. There are too many to catalog, but they'd provide a list of folks I'd like to once again visit. Still, I'd rather not make a list, but simply enjoy them as our lives happen to mesh.
It's not that I don't have dreams or an imagination to come up with a bucket. By keeping myself open to whatever comes my way and trying to have a positive attitude with whatever does arrive, I am given a thrill of the unexpected - actions or incidents that may have been dreamed of, but not planned. That's what hit me a few years ago atop the Great Wall of China.
If I'd had a wish list, the Wall would have been on it, but standing there, looking at this magnificent, historical icon, I remembered imagining it back in grade school. Suddenly, I was a child again and I raced along the top of the wall as it wound into low-hanging clouds, imagining how goats hauled the heavy bricks and where the Mongol hordes might have tried to breach it. I had out-distanced the tourists and - winded and sweating like a farm animal - Chinese students had me pose for pictures with their friends. I'll assume they were laughing with me, but I was aware of the derogatory term they use for us and here I was, a "greasy ghost" very much out of place. It didn't matter, I was there.
Had this visit been on a long-standing list, I don't think it would have had the unexpected magic. I get this same surprise emotion standing on a mountain top or at the base of a majestic waterfall, but all things meaningful do not have to be thrilling. By letting life's highlights come to me, my memory and heart are often touched with pleasantries. Laughing with grandchildren, intimate discussions with grown children, hiking with close friends and reaching out to help someone through an issue are undrawn boxes I'd never bother to check off.
Though of course happy times are preferred, not all my highlights need to be cheerful. Holding someone's hand as they die is as significant an event as I could experience. So is an arm around the shoulder of a grieving loved one. Such gut-wrenching times will broaden my understanding and enrich my life, but would never be on anyone's bucket list.
If I create a list, I am setting myself up for disappointment. Instead, I try to be receptive when a seemingly incidental occurance crosses my path. It has been a son on a stage, a granddaughter's vocal solo and the twinkle in a ninety-year old's eye that stirs me. And it's not always people. A hummingbird's bath in our backyard fountain, the scent of a tiger lilly and the electricity of a thunderstorm will unexpectedly brighten a moment in my life.
The bucket list concept doesn't work for me, but another image does. When I reach into the people, places and things around me, I never know exactly what I'll pull out. I envision life as more of a grab bag.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
A Writer's Dream World
For years I've wondered about those writer's conferences held around the country. After attending the well-known Willamette conference in Portland recently I have a better understanding.
Perhaps it is the familiar journalist's suspicion that gave me pause beforehand. Politicians and personalities always had something to sell a newspaper person and it can be difficult to cut through the fluff. There's a growing cottage industry that feeds on writers like me - anxious to get published and willing to invest time and money to support our egos.
Most of us feel we a have life of interest to the world - usually in an autobiography. I once worked for Michael Gartner, a brilliant Iowan, former president of NBC News and Pulitzer Prize editorial writer. He said he could write a solid page of newspaper copy and I'd read every word: "The story of Denny Waller." He didn't write it, but I take a shot with a childhood memoir ("Walkin' Joe and The Midnight Marauders").
The question for would-be writers boils down to this: is this conference - or editorial service, consultation or how-to book - worth it? Hundreds were drawn to the Portland gathering because of its good reputation. Besides educational opportunities from a series of lectures and workshops, the real goal for attendees is to get the attention of a legitimate agent for your play, movie script, novel or memoir. Writers sign up and pay for a limited number of interviews with registered agents.
There are two options to meet such a person. You can make your pitch to a single agent in a ten-minute speech or join four or five other writers at a table, taking turns giving a two or three minute pitch to one agent. The problem with this is that a very talented writer might get wound tight over such a timed presentation and make a bad impression. All the writers I talked to were worried about the consultations - even though agents insist they look for content rather than personality. My feeling is that it helps to have both.
It is said that writing something is much easier than selling it. Today, self-publishing is easy with print-on-demand (POD) facilities, but it is not cheap. That's how I published my memoir. Still, I'd prefer to work with an agent who can push it into a wider market, hoping the message might have universal appeal.
At Willamette I had consultations with five agents who review memoirs and now, like others, I twist in the wind to see if a professional actually reads and likes it. Although working with an agent would be exciting, my life does not hang in the balance, nor do I need a best-seller to be comfortable. Still, the challenge is dangling out there. I'm just not going to melt the charge card to build my ego. Oprah could do that for me...
Perhaps it is the familiar journalist's suspicion that gave me pause beforehand. Politicians and personalities always had something to sell a newspaper person and it can be difficult to cut through the fluff. There's a growing cottage industry that feeds on writers like me - anxious to get published and willing to invest time and money to support our egos.
Most of us feel we a have life of interest to the world - usually in an autobiography. I once worked for Michael Gartner, a brilliant Iowan, former president of NBC News and Pulitzer Prize editorial writer. He said he could write a solid page of newspaper copy and I'd read every word: "The story of Denny Waller." He didn't write it, but I take a shot with a childhood memoir ("Walkin' Joe and The Midnight Marauders").
The question for would-be writers boils down to this: is this conference - or editorial service, consultation or how-to book - worth it? Hundreds were drawn to the Portland gathering because of its good reputation. Besides educational opportunities from a series of lectures and workshops, the real goal for attendees is to get the attention of a legitimate agent for your play, movie script, novel or memoir. Writers sign up and pay for a limited number of interviews with registered agents.
There are two options to meet such a person. You can make your pitch to a single agent in a ten-minute speech or join four or five other writers at a table, taking turns giving a two or three minute pitch to one agent. The problem with this is that a very talented writer might get wound tight over such a timed presentation and make a bad impression. All the writers I talked to were worried about the consultations - even though agents insist they look for content rather than personality. My feeling is that it helps to have both.
It is said that writing something is much easier than selling it. Today, self-publishing is easy with print-on-demand (POD) facilities, but it is not cheap. That's how I published my memoir. Still, I'd prefer to work with an agent who can push it into a wider market, hoping the message might have universal appeal.
At Willamette I had consultations with five agents who review memoirs and now, like others, I twist in the wind to see if a professional actually reads and likes it. Although working with an agent would be exciting, my life does not hang in the balance, nor do I need a best-seller to be comfortable. Still, the challenge is dangling out there. I'm just not going to melt the charge card to build my ego. Oprah could do that for me...
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
A Fresh View Of Reunions
Somewhere along the way, high school reunions were no longer silly. I changed my opinion at our Twenty-fifth. To put that in perspective, that was twenty-five years ago.
My Iowa high school class, Algona High, 1961, has the ideal elements for such events. There were only 89 graduates in a rural town with two high schools and ours had an abundance of organizers and overachievers who voted to have a reunion every five years. I remember smirking at that plan and I missed the early ones. Looking back, it was my loss.
A school reunion was like the old letter jacket, put away never to see the light of day. High school was not the highlight of my life, so let's move on. However, with every reunion the class ranks shrink and with each loss I miss a chance to reconnect with a part of my childhood.
For the earliest reunions, I found myself embarrassed to be back in my hometown, which we called "Gonerville" for all the folks trapped in conformity and boredom. I couldn't quite get in tune with those celebrating the return to their roots. I felt a bit inadequate compared to the defense lawyer in LA, the professor in Florida, a doc at Mayo or career military, including one at the Pentagon. So I skipped the earliest of the ten reunions we've had.
Our last gathering, the Fiftieth, was the best yet, but we've lost some colorful personalities. Gone is my chance to better know them, because as a self-absorbed teenager so long ago, I may have sat next to the same gal for years and not really known her life story. Now I am at a stage in life where I'd like to see her scrapbook or watch her home movies.
As a career journalist, I believe every life has a story of interest. The key is to ask the right questions and hope that established trust will provide honest answers. As time marches on I will miss classmates who mutually helped shape our childhood foundation.
It's a selfish sadness because with their departures go a bit of myself. Our paths had crossed in that Iowa community so long ago before life sent us in divergent directions, but I yearn to hold onto that connection. I've come to treasure that common history that made us who we are today.
Self-absorption takes a toll. Oh, I remember the pranks, incidents, adventures and personality quirks from school days - stuff I've compacted into a recent childhood memoir. A friend says he's amazed at my "anecdotal history," but I don't think it's a compliment.
Who were the youngsters sharing nearby lockers or laughing at a dirty joke or sweating alongside during football drills? And that farm girl in homemade dresses, so quiet with her shy smile? What unknown afflictions or joys shaped their futures? By missing reunions, I forfeited my inquisitiveness.
My adult children have mixed views of reunions. With a career move, two transferred from a small private school to Iowa's largest and they have no interest in returning to the bigger institution. Another was so deeply offended by classmates there is no desire to return. Our youngest two, both graduates of high schools in Southwest Washington, are just moving into the reunion phase and we hope they'll participate.
At about the Thirtieth Anniversary of a high school graduation, we quit worrying about where we live or what we do for a living, but we might still try for a quick tan or hair tint or get that new car. By the time the Fortieth rolls around, the pain, envy and resentments from previous relationships should be dissolved and besides, everybody has a gut now. And by the Fiftieth, we don't care how we've aged or that we have that cane. We're just glad to be hobbling through the buffet.
Now, with all my fresh enthusiasm for reunions I have to wait until 2016, but I'll be there and I want to hear their stories before it's too late.
One more thing in hindsight about my hometown: it is a great place to raise a family, get a quality education and build lifelong friendships. And when it all winds down and you prepare to graduate from this life and onto the next, there's likely to be a crowd of good folks who know your story and wish to honor your farewell.
Treasure them.
Monday, July 1, 2013
Memorable Fourths of Forgotten Julys
Like fireworks, Fourths of July memories tend to run together for me. Now, without little ones nearby to ohh and ahh, the aerial displays and bombardments are for someone else. Residents in the Chehalis Valley here in Washington state started early this year. Last night (June 30) I felt like a kid, smiling from our deck at the 45-minute colorful show courtesy of someone right next to Interstate 5. It was quite professional and cost someone a bundle. At first I wondered if a fireworks stand was exploding.
Two Fourths in particular stand out in my mind. The first was when I was 11 and is documented in my childhood memoir, "Walkin' Joe and The Midnight Marauders." Our Iowa town celebrated its Centennial in 1954 and if fell over the July 4 holiday, so many festivities were packed in, including the grandest fireworks display ever held there. Or so everyone said. Actually the fireworks misfired and sent us and the crowd scrambling.
A couple decades ago, a prominent Iowa grocer, who shall remain anonymous, decided to make the Fourth memorable. We were guests at their beautiful home in the Iowa Great Lakes (yes, there are great lakes there!) for the long weekend. Sharing my penchant for fireworks - illegal in Iowa - my grocer friend thought it was a good idea for us to fly his plane to South Dakota, where fireworks could be purchased. We pooled our resources (actually, his resources) and loaded up his plane with boxes upon boxes of promising rockets, starbursts, rain-makers and bombs for our own little lakeside party.
Loaded with hundreds of of dollars in fireworks and safely in the air, my friend (let's just call him "Bob") had this strange smile as he detailed all the violations we could be charged with. Taking explosives across state lines was one thing, taking them in an aircraft was another. I hadn't given it much thought, I just wanted some damn fireworks. I owned a newspaper at the time and Bob thought this caper and the resulting charges would make a funny story - "One for the old scrapbook, eh, Denny?" Once we got out of jail, he asked, would it make page one?
Well, the story ends happily, except for one little thing. We had a brilliant display for our children and every other family on West Okoboji that night. It was truly impressive. There were so many fireworks going off that the grand finale was one to remember. We caught his wooden dock on fire. No one was hurt and we had plenty of water to extinguish the flames.
So, Bob, our story didn't ever make the newspaper, but in this newfangled digital age, it's on a "blog." Someone explain it to him, okay? (And thanks for the memories.)
Two Fourths in particular stand out in my mind. The first was when I was 11 and is documented in my childhood memoir, "Walkin' Joe and The Midnight Marauders." Our Iowa town celebrated its Centennial in 1954 and if fell over the July 4 holiday, so many festivities were packed in, including the grandest fireworks display ever held there. Or so everyone said. Actually the fireworks misfired and sent us and the crowd scrambling.
A couple decades ago, a prominent Iowa grocer, who shall remain anonymous, decided to make the Fourth memorable. We were guests at their beautiful home in the Iowa Great Lakes (yes, there are great lakes there!) for the long weekend. Sharing my penchant for fireworks - illegal in Iowa - my grocer friend thought it was a good idea for us to fly his plane to South Dakota, where fireworks could be purchased. We pooled our resources (actually, his resources) and loaded up his plane with boxes upon boxes of promising rockets, starbursts, rain-makers and bombs for our own little lakeside party.
Loaded with hundreds of of dollars in fireworks and safely in the air, my friend (let's just call him "Bob") had this strange smile as he detailed all the violations we could be charged with. Taking explosives across state lines was one thing, taking them in an aircraft was another. I hadn't given it much thought, I just wanted some damn fireworks. I owned a newspaper at the time and Bob thought this caper and the resulting charges would make a funny story - "One for the old scrapbook, eh, Denny?" Once we got out of jail, he asked, would it make page one?
Well, the story ends happily, except for one little thing. We had a brilliant display for our children and every other family on West Okoboji that night. It was truly impressive. There were so many fireworks going off that the grand finale was one to remember. We caught his wooden dock on fire. No one was hurt and we had plenty of water to extinguish the flames.
So, Bob, our story didn't ever make the newspaper, but in this newfangled digital age, it's on a "blog." Someone explain it to him, okay? (And thanks for the memories.)
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Facing The Wall of Death
Jeff would have loved the spring day of his funeral.
He'd have that familiar wide grin when glancing at the dairy cows dotting the verdant valley that winds its way to Pe Ell. He would have squinted dreamily at the cloud puffs gracing the bluebird sky as he tended his garden. He would have marveled at the sparkling waters flowing past his fishing line. And the tears would have rolled off his full cheeks as he witnessed the sorrow of grief-stuck loved ones packed into his quaint church to say goodbye.
The minister and speakers did their best to assure us Jeff is finally at peace with his Maker, but the tragic fact is that he'd just become another statistic in the national epidemic of suicide. Like so many others who have been left behind, it is painfully confusing that a man who offered us so much love and compassion did not have enough for himself.
Unfortunately, the roll call of those taking their own lives is growing at an alarming rate. With that acceleration are the expanding ranks of parents, children, siblings and friends who have to live this unspoken nightmare. It is an unpleasant, unforgiving topic with unanswered questions for those of us who have lost loves ones at their own hand.
The grief of those left behind is often buried deep, though it surfaces, often to spoil a perfectly good moment. We don't want to forget them, but we tire of hurting. This blog is a way for me to expunge the angst I feel, shrouding a fine day with thoughts of those no longer able to share it.
The Wall Street Journal, America's largest newspaper, recently reported the alarming trend of suicide among baby boomers who are faced with the end of a meaningful career, a shrinking nest egg, declining health or simply a loss of self-worth. Previously the focus has been on our youth, distressed at social pressures or self-imposed isolation in their virtual worlds, who are also doing the unthinkable by ending it all.
Anger is a part of grief and it would be easy to consider suicide a coward's way out. We naturally wonder "how could they do that to us" or "didn't they know this horrible pain would last our lifetime?"
I gained a different perspective after talking to a young woman who had tried to take her life several times. In her twenties and a victim of sexual abuse, she survived her last attempt using poison, but had destroyed her internal organs and was thus having serious new physical issues.
"I know it looks terribly selfish," she told us (I'm paraphrasing). "And I guess it is, but what people don't realize is how powerful the wall of pain is that surrounds you. It is so bad suicide is the only way out. You can't see or feel anything except the wall."
It's that wall of pain that needs to be penetrated when we hear a call for help from someone in trouble. The wall could come from someone suffering a torturous, incurable disease or injury and seeks relief from their Heavenly Father, but they are playing God in the process. That's a frightening individual choice and my friend Jeff made his, though I do not worry about his soul.
Even sadder is the person without hope who sees suicide as the only option. That is haunting - a human being who can't sense anyone caring in a world absent of any love or hope. At times a sufferer can self-medicate into addiction - often just a prolonged method of suicide.
The message that needs to be delivered is that there is always hope, always. It may come from a medical professional, your friendship or your prayers. Even with all three, it may not be enough. If not it is not your fault.
No matter what situation drives someone into ending it, those left behind have lives that are changed forever - and not for the better. Suicide is not a graceful farewell gift.
For families and friends of those who have done the unthinkable, there's an organization called Survivors of Suicide (S.O.S.) that serves as a support group. They stress that despite the pain, you can survive and you may be able to help others by sharing. The nearest group to Lewis County (WA) is in Olympia and it meets every third Tuesday, 7:30 p.m., Westwood Baptist Church on Kaiser Road.
He'd have that familiar wide grin when glancing at the dairy cows dotting the verdant valley that winds its way to Pe Ell. He would have squinted dreamily at the cloud puffs gracing the bluebird sky as he tended his garden. He would have marveled at the sparkling waters flowing past his fishing line. And the tears would have rolled off his full cheeks as he witnessed the sorrow of grief-stuck loved ones packed into his quaint church to say goodbye.
The minister and speakers did their best to assure us Jeff is finally at peace with his Maker, but the tragic fact is that he'd just become another statistic in the national epidemic of suicide. Like so many others who have been left behind, it is painfully confusing that a man who offered us so much love and compassion did not have enough for himself.
Unfortunately, the roll call of those taking their own lives is growing at an alarming rate. With that acceleration are the expanding ranks of parents, children, siblings and friends who have to live this unspoken nightmare. It is an unpleasant, unforgiving topic with unanswered questions for those of us who have lost loves ones at their own hand.
The grief of those left behind is often buried deep, though it surfaces, often to spoil a perfectly good moment. We don't want to forget them, but we tire of hurting. This blog is a way for me to expunge the angst I feel, shrouding a fine day with thoughts of those no longer able to share it.
The Wall Street Journal, America's largest newspaper, recently reported the alarming trend of suicide among baby boomers who are faced with the end of a meaningful career, a shrinking nest egg, declining health or simply a loss of self-worth. Previously the focus has been on our youth, distressed at social pressures or self-imposed isolation in their virtual worlds, who are also doing the unthinkable by ending it all.
Anger is a part of grief and it would be easy to consider suicide a coward's way out. We naturally wonder "how could they do that to us" or "didn't they know this horrible pain would last our lifetime?"
I gained a different perspective after talking to a young woman who had tried to take her life several times. In her twenties and a victim of sexual abuse, she survived her last attempt using poison, but had destroyed her internal organs and was thus having serious new physical issues.
"I know it looks terribly selfish," she told us (I'm paraphrasing). "And I guess it is, but what people don't realize is how powerful the wall of pain is that surrounds you. It is so bad suicide is the only way out. You can't see or feel anything except the wall."
It's that wall of pain that needs to be penetrated when we hear a call for help from someone in trouble. The wall could come from someone suffering a torturous, incurable disease or injury and seeks relief from their Heavenly Father, but they are playing God in the process. That's a frightening individual choice and my friend Jeff made his, though I do not worry about his soul.
Even sadder is the person without hope who sees suicide as the only option. That is haunting - a human being who can't sense anyone caring in a world absent of any love or hope. At times a sufferer can self-medicate into addiction - often just a prolonged method of suicide.
The message that needs to be delivered is that there is always hope, always. It may come from a medical professional, your friendship or your prayers. Even with all three, it may not be enough. If not it is not your fault.
No matter what situation drives someone into ending it, those left behind have lives that are changed forever - and not for the better. Suicide is not a graceful farewell gift.
For families and friends of those who have done the unthinkable, there's an organization called Survivors of Suicide (S.O.S.) that serves as a support group. They stress that despite the pain, you can survive and you may be able to help others by sharing. The nearest group to Lewis County (WA) is in Olympia and it meets every third Tuesday, 7:30 p.m., Westwood Baptist Church on Kaiser Road.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Carrier of My Disillusionment
Admittedly I've glamorized the military - stemming from the War to End All Wars in which my dad, uncles and warriors of that generation battled simultaneously in European and Pacific theaters. The Navy in particular always held my interest so when I got an invitation to sail on a "Tiger Cruise" on the USS John C. Stennis nuclear aircraft carrier I took it.
I've watched countless WWII movies and read numerous accounts of the world's greatest Navy and over the years I've interviewed and written about many veterans who served our country courageously. But I never wondered about the everyday life while on a ship as my attention was focused on the historical strategies and combat against Nazi submarines and kamakazi attacks and today from pirates and other terrorists.
In a week's cruise from Honolulu to San Diego, I knew I'd be watching the flight operations off the carrier deck, which could hold 70 jets, props and helicopters. I didn't really comprehend the daily grind on this warship, which was returning from an eight-month deployment to the Middle East. How these ensigns handled such a long stretch in the conditions I experienced is beyond me, but then again I'm 70 and they are but pups.
The carrier is packed with aircraft, munitions and support equipment, but they also squeeze in some 6,000 sailors, including several hundred women (segregated berths in case you wondered), into quarters connected laterally and horizontally by a labyrinth of narrow hallways. Normal sized adults can pass, one-and-a-half at a time, while avoiding the gauges, pipes and displays that protrude. The carrier is 300 feet long - that's three football fields of rooms, shops and hallways going sideways and lengthwise.
Vertical connections between the many floors of the ship, from the bottom deck to the captain's bridge, are all via challenging combo ladders/steps, mostly steep and - in my case - should have required a helmet to navigate the narrow tops. This giant ship must be 18 stories high. In the movies, the call to general quarters shows sailors rapidly tap-dancing up and down those metal steps. Not me. I'm a serial outdoor hiker, but my hip-flexors kept locking up.
For a guy who usually knocks on the right room number in a motel but often on the wrong floor, the dining exercise (called "the mess") was trying. Without an escort to the various chow lines, the mess quickly fouled my internal compass. A person can only fake like he knows where he's going so long. After passing the same diners several times, they'd ask me if I was lost.
Now I've enjoyed institutional food most of my life - not that I was an inmate that often. My take is that quantity is more important than quality. The sailors warned me otherwise. I found that one can fill up more quickly when the food is truly bad.
One morning my heart jumped seeing French toast in narrow slices for a tasty breakfast, but even after soaking in an inch of syrup my knife would not penetrate. A sailor offered his jackknife, but for a guy who can't even stand croutons, I surrendered to the scrambled eggs. At least I think they were eggs. This brings me to the first of two crucial shortages on this nuclear carrier: ketchup. Sailors swear the cooks hoard the stuff that can cover all other tastes. In a week's time I only saw one bottle. An empty one.
I saw the petrified French toast again - a large raft of it floated onto the Pacific, past the back of the carrier at 1800 hours (that's 6 p.m. to you civies). All biodegradable food is tossed and I could stomach that, but I wasn't real happy to see the flotilla of empty cans and black plastic garbage bags stretching in the wake - dozens of them. An officer said when any ship is 12 miles out and in international waters, anything can be tossed overboard. I didn't have to stomach to ask about sewage.
Speaking of that. The stainless steel bathrooms are, shall we say, confining. The stalls reflect what I've always known: men are pigs. That takes on a new meaning when showering (and you always wear your flip-flops in the head, always). In the row of six steel shower stalls, the drains couldn't handle all the runoff, which sloshed over the tops of my feet. Maybe it didn't really matter since my towel never dried the entire week. Oh, and that second shortage? Toilet paper. If any could be located, it was single-ply. Maybe it was a good thing I couldn't go.
So. After wandering aimlessly down the corridors, unsettled from the heavy, tasteless meal and likely sporting numerous fungi, germs and viruses from the slow shower drains, a little TV time should wind down the day. The one TV in a small lounge had the military network on unless one of the young sailors had connected his laptop to it for a movie that, well let's just say it's popular for a different age group. This inane content was frequently interrupted by a jack-hammering in the metal walls nearby that drowned out all other sound. Curious what kind of metal work would be going on this time of night, I was told that this was what happened when the toilets were flushed. I should rejoice they worked so well.
But alas, off to bed for a good night's rest. In these ensign's berths (as opposed to officer quarters), there are three stacked bunks, each with 15 inches of clearance up to the bunk overhead. I could not read a paperback on my chest. A yard across is another row of bunks, so it is not unusual to have an undressing sailor's backside quite close to your pillow. Bless the darkness.
The sleeping area is dark nearly all the time because sailors have rotating work shifts, so one has to feel his way along to the right bunk. Then, to reach the middle bunk, I was able to do something similar to the Fosbury Flop, a slow motion high jump onto the firm mattress, which was just wide enough for my shoulders when on my back. Perhaps it was my imagination, or my own feet, but the place had the faint odor of a sweaty locker room. The hum of large fans and vents covered the chorus of snoring.
So this sums up the average day except for the many hours of standing around. The old military adage about hurry-up-and-wait is true, but add standing to that. There are precious few chairs and no benches on a carrier. I've always preferred standing to sitting in the workplace, but this put that to test. You stand in line for chow, for roll call, drills, promotions and instruction. There's a standing line for the ping pong table. I wanted to buy a chair, any chair, if the small commissary had such items.
I've rambled on about my civilian misery of sailing on this warship, but the real reason for its existence is of course, war, or the prevention of it. When it's time for flight operations, this convoluted, massive, sleepy vessel of bored, cramped sailors undergoes a transformation.
Whistles and bells are followed by scrambling sailors in designated colored shirts - each color assigned to specific crews preparing for the flights. They scurry about on the flight deck or on hanger deck below, where planes are stored before moving onto the giant elevators taking them quickly to the flight deck. The colored shirts check everything as the pilots climb aboard their jets, helicopters and propeller-driven radar planes. The fixed wing planes are launched off by steam-driven catapults that can toss a VW a mile. The roars are heard and felt throughout the ship.
Some of the fighter jets hit 1000 mph and break the sound barrier, which penetrated our bodies and could actually be seen in a shimmering vacuum behind the afterburners just overhead. Jets demonstrated maneuvers and formations as they and the choppers fired their weapons. It was captivating, eliciting cheers and whoops from the crowd allowed on the flight deck for the operation.
I felt pride in the powerful potential the Stennis could unleash when necessary. It was said that it successfully completed 100 percent of its missions in the Middle East, though what and where they were remains classified. I know the helicopters fired warning shots to halt an approaching Iranian fishing boat that appeared to have torpedoes on board. They reportedly test our ships all the time.
On the deployment before this one, the Stennis was responsible for inserting a Navy Seal team onto an Iranian tanker that had signaled distress when Somali pirates took it over. Some of the crew had been killed, but we assisted our good Iranian friends. The 15 Somalis were kept in the brig on the Stennis and the jailers had a few interesting stories.
I laugh at myself in reflecting on naive expectations on this brief trip, but more than ever I remain a strong believer in a stout defense and a powerful military with ships like the USS John C. Stennis. I salute the young Navy sailors, pilots and officers who routinely endure discomfort and boredom in the line of duty and I honor them for the role they play in defending freedom and liberty when they are called upon.
Never mess with the Stennis.
I've watched countless WWII movies and read numerous accounts of the world's greatest Navy and over the years I've interviewed and written about many veterans who served our country courageously. But I never wondered about the everyday life while on a ship as my attention was focused on the historical strategies and combat against Nazi submarines and kamakazi attacks and today from pirates and other terrorists.
In a week's cruise from Honolulu to San Diego, I knew I'd be watching the flight operations off the carrier deck, which could hold 70 jets, props and helicopters. I didn't really comprehend the daily grind on this warship, which was returning from an eight-month deployment to the Middle East. How these ensigns handled such a long stretch in the conditions I experienced is beyond me, but then again I'm 70 and they are but pups.
The carrier is packed with aircraft, munitions and support equipment, but they also squeeze in some 6,000 sailors, including several hundred women (segregated berths in case you wondered), into quarters connected laterally and horizontally by a labyrinth of narrow hallways. Normal sized adults can pass, one-and-a-half at a time, while avoiding the gauges, pipes and displays that protrude. The carrier is 300 feet long - that's three football fields of rooms, shops and hallways going sideways and lengthwise.
Vertical connections between the many floors of the ship, from the bottom deck to the captain's bridge, are all via challenging combo ladders/steps, mostly steep and - in my case - should have required a helmet to navigate the narrow tops. This giant ship must be 18 stories high. In the movies, the call to general quarters shows sailors rapidly tap-dancing up and down those metal steps. Not me. I'm a serial outdoor hiker, but my hip-flexors kept locking up.
For a guy who usually knocks on the right room number in a motel but often on the wrong floor, the dining exercise (called "the mess") was trying. Without an escort to the various chow lines, the mess quickly fouled my internal compass. A person can only fake like he knows where he's going so long. After passing the same diners several times, they'd ask me if I was lost.
Now I've enjoyed institutional food most of my life - not that I was an inmate that often. My take is that quantity is more important than quality. The sailors warned me otherwise. I found that one can fill up more quickly when the food is truly bad.
One morning my heart jumped seeing French toast in narrow slices for a tasty breakfast, but even after soaking in an inch of syrup my knife would not penetrate. A sailor offered his jackknife, but for a guy who can't even stand croutons, I surrendered to the scrambled eggs. At least I think they were eggs. This brings me to the first of two crucial shortages on this nuclear carrier: ketchup. Sailors swear the cooks hoard the stuff that can cover all other tastes. In a week's time I only saw one bottle. An empty one.
I saw the petrified French toast again - a large raft of it floated onto the Pacific, past the back of the carrier at 1800 hours (that's 6 p.m. to you civies). All biodegradable food is tossed and I could stomach that, but I wasn't real happy to see the flotilla of empty cans and black plastic garbage bags stretching in the wake - dozens of them. An officer said when any ship is 12 miles out and in international waters, anything can be tossed overboard. I didn't have to stomach to ask about sewage.
Speaking of that. The stainless steel bathrooms are, shall we say, confining. The stalls reflect what I've always known: men are pigs. That takes on a new meaning when showering (and you always wear your flip-flops in the head, always). In the row of six steel shower stalls, the drains couldn't handle all the runoff, which sloshed over the tops of my feet. Maybe it didn't really matter since my towel never dried the entire week. Oh, and that second shortage? Toilet paper. If any could be located, it was single-ply. Maybe it was a good thing I couldn't go.
So. After wandering aimlessly down the corridors, unsettled from the heavy, tasteless meal and likely sporting numerous fungi, germs and viruses from the slow shower drains, a little TV time should wind down the day. The one TV in a small lounge had the military network on unless one of the young sailors had connected his laptop to it for a movie that, well let's just say it's popular for a different age group. This inane content was frequently interrupted by a jack-hammering in the metal walls nearby that drowned out all other sound. Curious what kind of metal work would be going on this time of night, I was told that this was what happened when the toilets were flushed. I should rejoice they worked so well.
But alas, off to bed for a good night's rest. In these ensign's berths (as opposed to officer quarters), there are three stacked bunks, each with 15 inches of clearance up to the bunk overhead. I could not read a paperback on my chest. A yard across is another row of bunks, so it is not unusual to have an undressing sailor's backside quite close to your pillow. Bless the darkness.
The sleeping area is dark nearly all the time because sailors have rotating work shifts, so one has to feel his way along to the right bunk. Then, to reach the middle bunk, I was able to do something similar to the Fosbury Flop, a slow motion high jump onto the firm mattress, which was just wide enough for my shoulders when on my back. Perhaps it was my imagination, or my own feet, but the place had the faint odor of a sweaty locker room. The hum of large fans and vents covered the chorus of snoring.
So this sums up the average day except for the many hours of standing around. The old military adage about hurry-up-and-wait is true, but add standing to that. There are precious few chairs and no benches on a carrier. I've always preferred standing to sitting in the workplace, but this put that to test. You stand in line for chow, for roll call, drills, promotions and instruction. There's a standing line for the ping pong table. I wanted to buy a chair, any chair, if the small commissary had such items.
I've rambled on about my civilian misery of sailing on this warship, but the real reason for its existence is of course, war, or the prevention of it. When it's time for flight operations, this convoluted, massive, sleepy vessel of bored, cramped sailors undergoes a transformation.
Whistles and bells are followed by scrambling sailors in designated colored shirts - each color assigned to specific crews preparing for the flights. They scurry about on the flight deck or on hanger deck below, where planes are stored before moving onto the giant elevators taking them quickly to the flight deck. The colored shirts check everything as the pilots climb aboard their jets, helicopters and propeller-driven radar planes. The fixed wing planes are launched off by steam-driven catapults that can toss a VW a mile. The roars are heard and felt throughout the ship.
Some of the fighter jets hit 1000 mph and break the sound barrier, which penetrated our bodies and could actually be seen in a shimmering vacuum behind the afterburners just overhead. Jets demonstrated maneuvers and formations as they and the choppers fired their weapons. It was captivating, eliciting cheers and whoops from the crowd allowed on the flight deck for the operation.
I felt pride in the powerful potential the Stennis could unleash when necessary. It was said that it successfully completed 100 percent of its missions in the Middle East, though what and where they were remains classified. I know the helicopters fired warning shots to halt an approaching Iranian fishing boat that appeared to have torpedoes on board. They reportedly test our ships all the time.
On the deployment before this one, the Stennis was responsible for inserting a Navy Seal team onto an Iranian tanker that had signaled distress when Somali pirates took it over. Some of the crew had been killed, but we assisted our good Iranian friends. The 15 Somalis were kept in the brig on the Stennis and the jailers had a few interesting stories.
I laugh at myself in reflecting on naive expectations on this brief trip, but more than ever I remain a strong believer in a stout defense and a powerful military with ships like the USS John C. Stennis. I salute the young Navy sailors, pilots and officers who routinely endure discomfort and boredom in the line of duty and I honor them for the role they play in defending freedom and liberty when they are called upon.
Never mess with the Stennis.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
A Fledgling's Status
A minimal goal in this new independent writing career has been attained, but I'll hold off on celebrating. I had never expected to self-publish my own work, but the upside-down world of book publishing and the Internet age changed that.
Along the way have been good lessons in humility. I can no longer write something, send it to production and have it appear on newsprint the next day like I did in newspapering. Now I am among the horde of anonymous authors penning memoirs in hopes of creating a readership base - the bigger the better.
Both the famous and infamous have much better odds at finding an agent and a major publishing house and I fall comfortably in between those two, with perhaps a narrow advantage of having a journalism career that has taught me the power of the written word. Writing is very easy and enjoyable for me. Put me at a keyboard and I will let it flow, losing track of time and myself in the words and stories. That does not mean however, that quantity outweighs quality.
Stephen King writes that he does not engage his literary skills for money, but for the simple pleasure of writing. He has earned his fame and fortune and we are better off for it. And yeah, I'd like to have some of that.
"Walkin' Joe and The Midnight Marauders" has been well received in Iowa, particularly with those having Algona roots. I am so happy with the new and old connections because of the memoir. Having been in Washington state for over 20 years I have a nice base of readers here, too. Whenever I go to the www.walkingjoe.com site and click on the Amazon link, I am flattered by the reviews posted and before you wonder, no, I did NOT write any of them.
All this is to say that the book's sales more than cover what I have invested in my self-publishing project so my initial goal has been reached. Beginning writers beware, this work can drain a bank account for someone with unrealistic dreams and an overzealous reach. Fueling the dreams of would-be writers like me is a healthy cottage industry, with carnivores ready to stroke your ego at every turn on the bumpy road to fame.
Stephen King and I have one thing in common. I am not writing for the money either, but neither of us would turn it down. I write at the conclusion of a career that allows me a comfortable retirement and my house payment is not in jeopardy if the memoir doesn't make the Oprah show. That does not mean I do not hunger for recognition or authentication as a writer.
To be frank, it will take professional representation for the sequel to Walkin' Joe to ever see the light of day. That remains a long shot. I have the initial draft of this unnamed Part II finished (70,000 words), but do not intend to self-publish. Still, like the original childhood memoir, the followup feels good upon completion, covering recollections from junior high up to the high school graduation ceremony.
Looking at this new manuscript, I wonder what could have been accomplished had I paid attention and not been such a goof-off? Admittedly, the stories of mischief and misbehavior may well be more interesting reading than a solid academic career. Reliving those days creates some embarrassment, but also brings a smile to my face. God forbid my children or grandchildren were that irreverent.
I also have a biography in the works of a most interesting friend and his dramatic life story. And there are enough short stories to last a lifetime of typing in front of my screen. I look forward to that, mixing exercise of the mind with hiking and workouts six days a week. Remember, we can't stop aging, but we can delay decay.
So here I am, feeling life is good, very good. I am grateful for a multitude of blessings I don't deserve, including associations with those of you taking time to read this epistle.
What happens from here on is up to a Power Greater Than Myself. I thank God for that.
Along the way have been good lessons in humility. I can no longer write something, send it to production and have it appear on newsprint the next day like I did in newspapering. Now I am among the horde of anonymous authors penning memoirs in hopes of creating a readership base - the bigger the better.
Both the famous and infamous have much better odds at finding an agent and a major publishing house and I fall comfortably in between those two, with perhaps a narrow advantage of having a journalism career that has taught me the power of the written word. Writing is very easy and enjoyable for me. Put me at a keyboard and I will let it flow, losing track of time and myself in the words and stories. That does not mean however, that quantity outweighs quality.
Stephen King writes that he does not engage his literary skills for money, but for the simple pleasure of writing. He has earned his fame and fortune and we are better off for it. And yeah, I'd like to have some of that.
"Walkin' Joe and The Midnight Marauders" has been well received in Iowa, particularly with those having Algona roots. I am so happy with the new and old connections because of the memoir. Having been in Washington state for over 20 years I have a nice base of readers here, too. Whenever I go to the www.walkingjoe.com site and click on the Amazon link, I am flattered by the reviews posted and before you wonder, no, I did NOT write any of them.
All this is to say that the book's sales more than cover what I have invested in my self-publishing project so my initial goal has been reached. Beginning writers beware, this work can drain a bank account for someone with unrealistic dreams and an overzealous reach. Fueling the dreams of would-be writers like me is a healthy cottage industry, with carnivores ready to stroke your ego at every turn on the bumpy road to fame.
Stephen King and I have one thing in common. I am not writing for the money either, but neither of us would turn it down. I write at the conclusion of a career that allows me a comfortable retirement and my house payment is not in jeopardy if the memoir doesn't make the Oprah show. That does not mean I do not hunger for recognition or authentication as a writer.
To be frank, it will take professional representation for the sequel to Walkin' Joe to ever see the light of day. That remains a long shot. I have the initial draft of this unnamed Part II finished (70,000 words), but do not intend to self-publish. Still, like the original childhood memoir, the followup feels good upon completion, covering recollections from junior high up to the high school graduation ceremony.
Looking at this new manuscript, I wonder what could have been accomplished had I paid attention and not been such a goof-off? Admittedly, the stories of mischief and misbehavior may well be more interesting reading than a solid academic career. Reliving those days creates some embarrassment, but also brings a smile to my face. God forbid my children or grandchildren were that irreverent.
I also have a biography in the works of a most interesting friend and his dramatic life story. And there are enough short stories to last a lifetime of typing in front of my screen. I look forward to that, mixing exercise of the mind with hiking and workouts six days a week. Remember, we can't stop aging, but we can delay decay.
So here I am, feeling life is good, very good. I am grateful for a multitude of blessings I don't deserve, including associations with those of you taking time to read this epistle.
What happens from here on is up to a Power Greater Than Myself. I thank God for that.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Just another number, but a big one
I'm not shy about reaching the milestone of 70 years today. In reflection, I am happy to still be here considering all the crazy decisions I made as a young man.
The response today from so many friends, associates and relatives is overwhelming and humbling. My daughter Anne coordinated a "card shower" - you know, one of those things they do to salute centenarians and other old folks. What a pleasure to read through the seventy-plus cards and notes. I'll stash those notes because if I ever feel down, they erase any sense of doom. It was a creative, labor-intensive effort that reflects Anne's spirit.
We always hear older people wondering about "what happened" to get to this age. I wonder about that too, but I must admit I do not feel 70, nor do I wish to act like it.
If you are short of reading material, check out the book "Younger Next Year." My wife, Glynn, and I have adopted the basic and traditional theories in that book, with the emphasis that we cannot stop aging, but we can impact decay. It is a framework of exercise for the body, mind and soul. Passions of reading and writing provide me with an energy level as much as exercise, while companionship offers a vital foundation of support.
I have been so blessed in my life - blessings perhaps not deserved, but treasured. If you are reading this, you are among my blessings, far and near and from any time frame.
My good friend Ned Vifquain once told me "coincidences are God's way of staying anonymous." That was true last night as I was invited to speak at an AA bonfine potluck - the night before I moved into a seventh decade. I did my best to share my gratitude for my sobriety, because if practiced, it is a perpetual gift that enhances not only our lives, but those around us.
Thank you for adding a touch of happiness to my little corner of the world. May God bless you and your loved ones.
The response today from so many friends, associates and relatives is overwhelming and humbling. My daughter Anne coordinated a "card shower" - you know, one of those things they do to salute centenarians and other old folks. What a pleasure to read through the seventy-plus cards and notes. I'll stash those notes because if I ever feel down, they erase any sense of doom. It was a creative, labor-intensive effort that reflects Anne's spirit.
We always hear older people wondering about "what happened" to get to this age. I wonder about that too, but I must admit I do not feel 70, nor do I wish to act like it.
If you are short of reading material, check out the book "Younger Next Year." My wife, Glynn, and I have adopted the basic and traditional theories in that book, with the emphasis that we cannot stop aging, but we can impact decay. It is a framework of exercise for the body, mind and soul. Passions of reading and writing provide me with an energy level as much as exercise, while companionship offers a vital foundation of support.
I have been so blessed in my life - blessings perhaps not deserved, but treasured. If you are reading this, you are among my blessings, far and near and from any time frame.
My good friend Ned Vifquain once told me "coincidences are God's way of staying anonymous." That was true last night as I was invited to speak at an AA bonfine potluck - the night before I moved into a seventh decade. I did my best to share my gratitude for my sobriety, because if practiced, it is a perpetual gift that enhances not only our lives, but those around us.
Thank you for adding a touch of happiness to my little corner of the world. May God bless you and your loved ones.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Sidebar Blessings
In the newspaper business, a shorter, anecdotal article accompanying the main story is called a sidebar. There are sidebars to completing a manuscript that I have found rewarding.
The main benefit of this writing exercise is that it is good for the brain, soul and occasionally, the revenue. The sidebar for my memoir is that I have connected or reconnected with many associates and have become acquainted with many new people I would not have known had I not finished my work.
The common thread for all of us is either the specific Iowa hometown, the general era of our good old days or nostalgia for others relating to my various vignettes in Walkin' Joe and The Midnight Marauders.
If you are like me, the older I get the more I treasure the past and the more I look at the past the more appreciation I have for close friendships with admirable people. Many people with decades in the media develop a strong sense of sarcasm and suspicion. This may be from over-exposure to the type of news that grabs headlines and broadcast spots.
Switching to a writing career has helped me move past that into a more favorable view of life and the people around me. It has been a joy to hear from folks who share an experience or memory or just say how my little memoir affected them.
Of course I admit to being a little strange. I am a guy who likes to look at your photo albums and see your home movies. I am fascinated by people and their backgrounds and I am acutely aware that everyone has a story to tell. It is important to know that we can learn much from their stories.
The main benefit of this writing exercise is that it is good for the brain, soul and occasionally, the revenue. The sidebar for my memoir is that I have connected or reconnected with many associates and have become acquainted with many new people I would not have known had I not finished my work.
The common thread for all of us is either the specific Iowa hometown, the general era of our good old days or nostalgia for others relating to my various vignettes in Walkin' Joe and The Midnight Marauders.
If you are like me, the older I get the more I treasure the past and the more I look at the past the more appreciation I have for close friendships with admirable people. Many people with decades in the media develop a strong sense of sarcasm and suspicion. This may be from over-exposure to the type of news that grabs headlines and broadcast spots.
Switching to a writing career has helped me move past that into a more favorable view of life and the people around me. It has been a joy to hear from folks who share an experience or memory or just say how my little memoir affected them.
Of course I admit to being a little strange. I am a guy who likes to look at your photo albums and see your home movies. I am fascinated by people and their backgrounds and I am acutely aware that everyone has a story to tell. It is important to know that we can learn much from their stories.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Isolated and Mysterious Discovery
No, not talking about myself, but this little town in southern Utah we stumbled upon yesterday in finding a remote canyon hike.
First, the hike up Squirrel Canyon was "strenuous" and at the top, the view from the ledge or bench was as good as any we've seen. Stunning scenery, but wanted to share our experience in the village nearby at the bottom of the canyon.
Driving through Hildale, UT, the remote collection of houses felt strange with many unfinished structures and tall fences or walls. The residences appeared incomplete and some abandoned, while others were huge, but with crude construction for a place that would house many people. There was one relatively new, big brick structure with a 12 ft. wall around it, appearing to be a school, civic hall or church, but we could only see the top of it.
Of the few residents we saw all of the women and girls had ankle-length homemade dresses and one single braid down their necks and onto their backs. Not many men in sight except for a group of guys with cowboy hats working with dozens of penned horses of a breed I have not seen. The animals were not full-sized, but more like the ponies used in Mongolia, beige-colored with short, spiked manes.
People looked the other way as we passed and Glynn refused to let me stop and ask a few reporter-type questions. So we inquired through our old friend Google. Hildale is the headquarters for the FLDS, a breakaway group from the LDS religion who maintain plural or "celestial" wives and other practices not approved by mainstream Mormons. This was the home community of Warren Jeffs, imprisoned leader of the FLDS and a controversial individual who reportedly still controls the organization.
What is most interesting is that although it is a very isolated place, it is rife with conflict internally and externally. There are acrimonious divisions within the town who have separated themselves. The state and federal government is attempting to take control of the property owned by a trust set up by the FLDS and worth millions of dollars. Multiple lawsuits are in play. Many of the practicing families live in compounds, hence the high fences.
So why is this interesting? I would love to look into the town and do an in-depth story of how such a town in a lovely setting could come to today's unsettled crisis. There are many story lines for an enterprising reporter - starting with freedom of religion and moving to abuse and legalities and high retardation from genetics of marrying relatives - but it would be extremely difficult to get trust and a willingness to visit. It could also be dangerous.
I will have to settle for the thrill of hiking to the precarious top of the canyon, just outside fascinating Hildale, Utah. Ah, but what a story sits there, awaiting the light of day.
First, the hike up Squirrel Canyon was "strenuous" and at the top, the view from the ledge or bench was as good as any we've seen. Stunning scenery, but wanted to share our experience in the village nearby at the bottom of the canyon.
Driving through Hildale, UT, the remote collection of houses felt strange with many unfinished structures and tall fences or walls. The residences appeared incomplete and some abandoned, while others were huge, but with crude construction for a place that would house many people. There was one relatively new, big brick structure with a 12 ft. wall around it, appearing to be a school, civic hall or church, but we could only see the top of it.
Of the few residents we saw all of the women and girls had ankle-length homemade dresses and one single braid down their necks and onto their backs. Not many men in sight except for a group of guys with cowboy hats working with dozens of penned horses of a breed I have not seen. The animals were not full-sized, but more like the ponies used in Mongolia, beige-colored with short, spiked manes.
People looked the other way as we passed and Glynn refused to let me stop and ask a few reporter-type questions. So we inquired through our old friend Google. Hildale is the headquarters for the FLDS, a breakaway group from the LDS religion who maintain plural or "celestial" wives and other practices not approved by mainstream Mormons. This was the home community of Warren Jeffs, imprisoned leader of the FLDS and a controversial individual who reportedly still controls the organization.
What is most interesting is that although it is a very isolated place, it is rife with conflict internally and externally. There are acrimonious divisions within the town who have separated themselves. The state and federal government is attempting to take control of the property owned by a trust set up by the FLDS and worth millions of dollars. Multiple lawsuits are in play. Many of the practicing families live in compounds, hence the high fences.
So why is this interesting? I would love to look into the town and do an in-depth story of how such a town in a lovely setting could come to today's unsettled crisis. There are many story lines for an enterprising reporter - starting with freedom of religion and moving to abuse and legalities and high retardation from genetics of marrying relatives - but it would be extremely difficult to get trust and a willingness to visit. It could also be dangerous.
I will have to settle for the thrill of hiking to the precarious top of the canyon, just outside fascinating Hildale, Utah. Ah, but what a story sits there, awaiting the light of day.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Plugging Along
The story of writing my memoir, "Walkin' Joe and The Midnight Maraudes,' is a story in itself. A long story at that, it is unfortunately also a boring one.
The memoir had its start way back in 1971, but then that longhand version was shelved for decades as life got in the way. Fulltime work and a nice family of four children took priority until about 10 years ago, when I began to give it shape in an outline.
Writing is familiar work for me, but manuscript writing is another animal. I have read of successes and failures of so many aspiring writers and I took some precautionary steps.
First, I started with a list of priorities in my life and writing did not head up the list. Since I retired from the newspaper business it has moved up on this list, but my well-being does not hinge on market success. Would I welcome it? Absolutely, and it would invigorate my efforts, but I will continue to write regardless.
I also started a journal based only on my writing career - the one as an independent author engaging a new passion. I've never done a journal, but wanted something to guide and remind me where I've been. It reflects the challenges I have face as a writer, but it is repetitive and boring. An example? I lost the entire manuscript once with a "delete" button and had to start over.
Writing is enjoyable and absorbing, but getting a professional to acknowledge your work and perhaps take it on as a publisher is a real challenge. I have been a lifetime journalist and I am spoiled. I used to be able to write something, run it past editors and quickly get it in the newspaper or magazine.
However, I am now no longer in charge, but what I write has a chance for a longer shelf life than something on newsprint. This drives me.
I am also driven by comments from regular, average readers if they are moved by my story. As a self-sufficient person, my ego and humility hopefully blend in a solid foundation.
I have found dealing with would-be publishers or agents frustrating, but in their defense the book publishing world is upside down. Memoirs are a dime a dozen and only those of the famous and infamous get much traction. That is understandable.
So I plug away, relaxed and enjoying the work. I have a sequel to Walkin' Joe in the early stages and a number of short stories I want to develop. There is also the possibility of a remarkable biography of an amazing person, but many things will have to fall into place for the right to tackle that story.
For those who take time to read this, or my memoir, I thank you. In today's world there is a myriad of choices for your attention. I hope I will do something to warrant yours and make it worthwhile.
The memoir had its start way back in 1971, but then that longhand version was shelved for decades as life got in the way. Fulltime work and a nice family of four children took priority until about 10 years ago, when I began to give it shape in an outline.
Writing is familiar work for me, but manuscript writing is another animal. I have read of successes and failures of so many aspiring writers and I took some precautionary steps.
First, I started with a list of priorities in my life and writing did not head up the list. Since I retired from the newspaper business it has moved up on this list, but my well-being does not hinge on market success. Would I welcome it? Absolutely, and it would invigorate my efforts, but I will continue to write regardless.
I also started a journal based only on my writing career - the one as an independent author engaging a new passion. I've never done a journal, but wanted something to guide and remind me where I've been. It reflects the challenges I have face as a writer, but it is repetitive and boring. An example? I lost the entire manuscript once with a "delete" button and had to start over.
Writing is enjoyable and absorbing, but getting a professional to acknowledge your work and perhaps take it on as a publisher is a real challenge. I have been a lifetime journalist and I am spoiled. I used to be able to write something, run it past editors and quickly get it in the newspaper or magazine.
However, I am now no longer in charge, but what I write has a chance for a longer shelf life than something on newsprint. This drives me.
I am also driven by comments from regular, average readers if they are moved by my story. As a self-sufficient person, my ego and humility hopefully blend in a solid foundation.
I have found dealing with would-be publishers or agents frustrating, but in their defense the book publishing world is upside down. Memoirs are a dime a dozen and only those of the famous and infamous get much traction. That is understandable.
So I plug away, relaxed and enjoying the work. I have a sequel to Walkin' Joe in the early stages and a number of short stories I want to develop. There is also the possibility of a remarkable biography of an amazing person, but many things will have to fall into place for the right to tackle that story.
For those who take time to read this, or my memoir, I thank you. In today's world there is a myriad of choices for your attention. I hope I will do something to warrant yours and make it worthwhile.
Friday, February 8, 2013
A note to would be authors
2/8/13
I cannot count the number of people who have commented that they would one day like to write a book or a memoir. The truth is that there is a story in every single person, but getting it out and making it interesting is a huge challenge. Then an ever harder task presents itself: making your story marketable (i.e. if not making a profit or providing a living, at least paying for itself).
The smartest man I ever worked for was at The Tribune in Ames, when Pulitzer Prize winner Michael Gartner owned the paper but was running NBC News in NY. Gartner suggested I write a column and how to go about it. Later he asked me to move to the news side as editor, because "that's what gets your juices flowing, Waller."
He's also the guy who told me that every individual has a story, but not every reporter or writer can pull it out of that person - let alone make it interesting.
Writing your own story can be wonderful therapy, but there is pain and dedication involved and the book world is upside down. Publishing is so much harder than the initial idea or the writing process. About the only way you can get a big publisher to take on your story is if you are famous or infamous, but that doesn't mean your tale is unworthy.
But be aware if you decide to self-publish, as I have done with "Walkin' Joe and The Midnight Marauders," of pitfalls.
There is a whole, expanding cottage industry of those who will sell you books, workshops, tutorials, seminars and all aspects of publishing - all at a cost. It seems people like us who wish to tell our story are vulnerable because our egos are on the line. Thankfully my exposure to people like Gartner, along with experience in writing and publishing, have provided a foundation of caution and common sense.
The closest I came to biting was last year when a NYC publisher said he wanted me to sign an exclusive contract for one year. Buried in the contract was the point that "first-time authors" had to come up with $8,500 to cover "publicity costs" to get the show on the road.
My little show is on the road for a lot less than that and my ego seems quite intact.
I hope I am not boring you with all this, but if I am at least there is no charge...
I cannot count the number of people who have commented that they would one day like to write a book or a memoir. The truth is that there is a story in every single person, but getting it out and making it interesting is a huge challenge. Then an ever harder task presents itself: making your story marketable (i.e. if not making a profit or providing a living, at least paying for itself).
The smartest man I ever worked for was at The Tribune in Ames, when Pulitzer Prize winner Michael Gartner owned the paper but was running NBC News in NY. Gartner suggested I write a column and how to go about it. Later he asked me to move to the news side as editor, because "that's what gets your juices flowing, Waller."
He's also the guy who told me that every individual has a story, but not every reporter or writer can pull it out of that person - let alone make it interesting.
Writing your own story can be wonderful therapy, but there is pain and dedication involved and the book world is upside down. Publishing is so much harder than the initial idea or the writing process. About the only way you can get a big publisher to take on your story is if you are famous or infamous, but that doesn't mean your tale is unworthy.
But be aware if you decide to self-publish, as I have done with "Walkin' Joe and The Midnight Marauders," of pitfalls.
There is a whole, expanding cottage industry of those who will sell you books, workshops, tutorials, seminars and all aspects of publishing - all at a cost. It seems people like us who wish to tell our story are vulnerable because our egos are on the line. Thankfully my exposure to people like Gartner, along with experience in writing and publishing, have provided a foundation of caution and common sense.
The closest I came to biting was last year when a NYC publisher said he wanted me to sign an exclusive contract for one year. Buried in the contract was the point that "first-time authors" had to come up with $8,500 to cover "publicity costs" to get the show on the road.
My little show is on the road for a lot less than that and my ego seems quite intact.
I hope I am not boring you with all this, but if I am at least there is no charge...
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
The Mob Museum - a must-see
Admittedly, I am not a big Las Vegas fan, likely because I don't gamble, drink or smoke and am a bit of a tightwad. But we spent the day there.
And if you do go to Vegas, a must see is the Mob Museum, created last year in a former federal building where mob bosses were confronted and investigated. Allow a full day and if you are fascinated by organized crime and the Mafia, you will get your fill of movies, displays and bios.
It is surprising to find that a number of hardcore members of the crime syndicate are still alive today - several in the witness protection program. Here I thought the Sopranos was a fictitious family, but they have one of Tony's shirts on display so the series must be true...
And if you do go to Vegas, a must see is the Mob Museum, created last year in a former federal building where mob bosses were confronted and investigated. Allow a full day and if you are fascinated by organized crime and the Mafia, you will get your fill of movies, displays and bios.
It is surprising to find that a number of hardcore members of the crime syndicate are still alive today - several in the witness protection program. Here I thought the Sopranos was a fictitious family, but they have one of Tony's shirts on display so the series must be true...
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
I start this blog process somewhat reluctantly. My ulterior motive won out over recommended humility: I hope to sell more of my writing and this medium is suggested as a tool.
I completed a long-overdue childhood memoir, "Walkin' Joe and The Midnight Marauders" and if you want to find out more about it, go to www.walkingjoe.com. Though I am proud of the work, I'm a bit tired of self-promoting it. It is for sale on Amazon and can be ordered through Barnes and Noble and book stores. Amazon has it in Kindle format also.
I'll begin posting items primarily related to my "new" career as I retired from a long career in the newspaper and communications business Sept. 1, 2012. Believing that retirement as such is hazardous, I am now writing for myself. I have about 45 years of professional writing - from basic reporting to editorials and from promotional copy to features and regular columns.
Writing is easy for me, but getting official recognition - like a publisher engaged in building a readership market - would be a goal. But I'll write regardless and balance that with exercise, reading, hiking and selected humanitarian work.
I have a simple goal: to make my little corner of this world interesting and beneficial.
I completed a long-overdue childhood memoir, "Walkin' Joe and The Midnight Marauders" and if you want to find out more about it, go to www.walkingjoe.com. Though I am proud of the work, I'm a bit tired of self-promoting it. It is for sale on Amazon and can be ordered through Barnes and Noble and book stores. Amazon has it in Kindle format also.
I'll begin posting items primarily related to my "new" career as I retired from a long career in the newspaper and communications business Sept. 1, 2012. Believing that retirement as such is hazardous, I am now writing for myself. I have about 45 years of professional writing - from basic reporting to editorials and from promotional copy to features and regular columns.
Writing is easy for me, but getting official recognition - like a publisher engaged in building a readership market - would be a goal. But I'll write regardless and balance that with exercise, reading, hiking and selected humanitarian work.
I have a simple goal: to make my little corner of this world interesting and beneficial.
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