Sharing is Caring

I know how beautiful and courageous it is to dip the pen in the inkwell early on, then to stay motivated, finding other voices to keep you inspired. Never give up. Always dare to dream... In the electronic age, all can be heard. The depth of your audience is up to you.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Childhood memories from Prospect Street in Chicago: Running in clouds of DDT when the fog man sprayed the neighborhood, how we scrambled for change at the sound of the Good Humor Man, building our first go-karts and motor bikes with engines from old lawn mowers, watching the knife man sharpening the cutlery from his cart on the street, Gordy giving us a bear hug whether or not we bought a greeting card from his bicycle basket, King and Duke learning to pull our sled in preparation for a Klondike Derby. The taste of an eight-ounce coke or orange Nehi in a glass bottle pulled from the door of the vending machine at the gas station... Penny candy at Mrs. Reece's candy store. The smell of the plastic drawers in the back of her store where treasures could be bought for a quarter. The purple whip cream at the Purple Cow on Western, the taste of a Wimpy's hamburger with its secret relish and onions, hot chocolate made with milk and marshmallows, the aroma of the chicken coop under the back porch, the smell of gasoline and oil and old rags and wet ropes in the garage. Climbing in the third row of the station wagon, facing backwards. Four shopping carts at the Hi-Lo, scouring aisles with mom. Carloads of hillbillies parked in front of the house, sipping on beers and nuts, waiting for dad to return with cash from Beverly bank. Old Mrs. Brown limping from her house with a broom to chase away our bicycles that she swore put gouges in her new sidewalk from the kickstands (actually Mike did it with a pick when he shovelled her walk and broke up the ice the previous winter... Old Miss Miller suddenly appearing from her house to snatch a softball or football that descended on her property. Mrs. Evans carrying a fresh-baked apple pie across the street, Bob the Milkman, Ralph the Dry-Cleaner, Buddy Beakley, Flashlight tag in the Duffy backyard (no poop). Baloney sandwiches, gravy-on-bread, the taste of mom's delicious rock-hard fudge... The smell of Momma Helen's hair when mom dyed it, the aroma of Niagra spray starch when mom and the black lady ironed all day. (no permanent press then). The smell of Tabu powder, the scent of banana peppers when dad made a batch of chile. The look on Ronnie Michelak's face when we told him it was raccoon chile, Dad getting Tom Jones, Rich Licker, and John Huber to rake the front lawn so I could leave the house early. (Only for them to discover when they were done that I wasn't even home). Dad arriving at the house on a hot August day with boxes and boxes of ice cream from the Swift plant when their freezers died and a hundred kids from the block sitting on our front lawn eating ice cream sandwiches and fudgicles and dreamsicles until they were sick. Chum gum coated in confectionary sugar for a penny. The spongy delight of Tip-Top cakes from Mr. Tusher. The greasy-bottomed 25 cent bags filled with day-old pastries from Reizman's bakery every Friday night. Get Smart, Gomer Pyle, USMC, The Man From Uncle, I Spy. Jackie Gleason in black and white. Clutch Cargo, Garfield Goose, Bozo's Circus, Saturday morning cartoons. The magic of Halloween and Christmas. The stripped glass handles of the door in the downstairs bathroom. Spumoni ice cream. Mom's secret stash of peanut butter cups. The stairway traffic as the cats carried their litters upstairs after the dogs carried them downstairs. The never-ending laundry pile in the basement. The spider money, the raccoon, the ducks, the geese. Pat being mauled by a turkey. Bringing cherries from our tree so Pa would give us a silver doller. Cooking hot dogs on a stick over a pile of leaves at Dan Ryan's Woods with John Duffy. Chocolate or white milk in 6-ounce cartons in the basement of St. Barnabas. The flavor of a chocolate long-john after the 6 am mass as an altar boy. Wrapping up my orange belt as a crossing guard in sixth grade. Book bags, pencil sharpeners and the magic of a Bic pen. Secretly suckling on sweet tarts one at a time in Sister Alberta's math class. Sister Nina examing Kevin's snapping turtle with a pencil before Show and Tell. Carol's yellow record player and her 45's of Fabian with Ginny Gratz. American Bandstand, then The Soul Train... That Susie Homemaker oven when I baked my own chocolate cakes. The monkey wreaking havoc at the Dove candy store. The giant polar bear in the lobby of For Men Jr. Dialing four numbers on the heavy black telephone. Camping in Jimmy Brown's backyard. Prank phone calls to random strangers at midnight to tell them their child was just arrested. Shaving with a toothbrush to make my mustache come in. Sweating in my bunk bed, listening to the sound of the Rock Island trains whooshing by over the hum of the window fan. Dad comically standing in the dark for an hour with a bear paw poised over the light switch at the door of the bedroom after we saw Thirteen Ghosts. No one dared move. Buddy Beakley's enormous collection of soldiers. Watching both Mr. Norrises wearily marching home after a day of labor. Skinny Ernie Vogwell and his fat wife. Gypsy John at the coal factory. The smell of heating oil, one dixie cup at a time. Playing Injun Joe with Howie and taking all of his money on his first date with Carol. The older kids, the little kids. Mom remembering my name after running down her list of children to get to mine. The Game of Life, Sorry and Monopoly. Scrabble. Dad nailing windows and doors shut so we couldn't sneak in the house. Scrubbing down the driveway with Comet. The square blocks of ice cream at Prince Castle. A triple decker at Rainbow Cone. The scent of incense in the gym while the new church was being built. Making crossbows and arrows. The backyard crab apple tree, the turtle pond, switches and tomato weeds. My big circus with popcorn balls. Kool-aid stands. short-cuts and alleys and Tim and Vinny Brown's secret tree fort at the prairie. Mike walking down the path telling us his rented horse died when he kicked it in the ribs to giddy-up. Yes, I remember most of it.

Monday, February 21, 2011

My most humbling and surreal experience... I'll never forget visiting lepers on a disabled hemp boat in Manila Bay at midnight... The American actor passing out autographed pictures to men, women and children huddled in the hold of the ship. Such a human spirit they possessed...

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Excerpt from Chasing God's River

He wanted to stock up on pecan logs.
The only Stuckeys between San Diego, California and Salida, Colorado was in Grants, New Mexico, ninety miles east of the Arizona border on I-40. Indian land. Navajo. The candy detour added a hundred miles on The Beast's odometer but Wade made up for the time with a flatter route. After Grants, he would swing through Albuquerque, then up Interstate 25 through Santa Fe, over Raton Pass before entering Colorado at Las Animas County.
He remembered the Stuckeys legend ever since he was a boy. The franchise began during the Great Depression in the 1930's. Some good old boy from Georgia named W. S. Stuckey started with an old car converted into a truck and a thirty-five dollar loan from his grandmother. He bought and sold nuts locally until a banker invested in his idea for a roadside stand to lure drivers passing through Georgia on their way to Florida for vacation. To supplement the seasonal supply of pecans, his wife started making other candies. Things went so well, they sold their roadside stand and built three stores until World War II came and he was forced to close his stores because of gas rationing and a rubber shortage. (What rubber and candy have to do with each other is a mystery.) But his candy had caught on. Mr. Stuckey was commissioned to make candy for the military.
After the war, business boomed as Americans started driving again. By the time of his death in 1977, he had over one hundred stores. But after a corporate buy-out, the land his stores were built on was more valuable than profits from the stores. Land that wasn't sold was simply shut down and boarded up or sold to independent operators.
For Wade, the pecan logs were living history. As much a part of Americana as White Castle Sliders, eight ounce bottled Cokes from a reach-in machine and Bonomos Turkish taffy. Bonomos wasn't really taffy, but a kind of nougat. It came in four flavors - chocolate, strawberry, banana, and vanilla. Wade knew a place in Vermont for it.
“A little out of my way this trip,” he smiled. He'd settle for the Stuckeys taffy.
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Saturday, February 12, 2011

Galleycat & MediaBistro - Thanks for the recommendation for my novel Chasing God's River.
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Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Am I full of b.s. or not? Thanks for the interview on my writing, Norm.
to view: http://ping.fm/2AloJ

Friday, February 4, 2011

There are many silent heroes in our lives. Take a minute to honor them for their strength and courage. Hi mom!

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

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Prologue for my book Waking Paul Bunyan.
Recounted by James Jefferson Madison - as told by a dying man with guilt on his conscience. Year 1871.

Deep in a forest primeval against the canopy of murmuring pines bearded with moss, echoed the voices of maddened men indistinct in the twilight. A hundred arms carrying tar-tipped torches searched, their shadows grown large against the distant and jagged ancient rock. They raced to and fro, to and fro, past stubs of trees freshly hewn, over a dishevel of leaves and trunks and decaying bark.
"Over there!" a voice announced. "Up the mountain!"
The man pursued appeared in an open glade ahead of them. He seemed disproportionate to the landscape, the ancient trees at his back standing like saplings. Wearing a red and black checked lumberjack shirt tucked inside canvas overalls, he was thick-bearded and strong. The man held a wooden cask firmly under one arm. In his other arm, a double bit ax gleamed in the moonlight.
He shouted back towards the pursuing mob, his voice slurred from drink. "It was a fine night, men! Now go back to your camp and rest for Boil Up Day! Pick your blueberries and hone your iron in the morning! For there is not a man among you drunken bushworkers can keep up with the likes of Paul Bunyan! For I am the tallest of all tales"
The mob entered the glade like a small stream of angry ants, torch lights revealing the faces and clothes of scruffy lumberjacks armed with axes, picks, saws, cant hooks and ropes.
Their leader, Jack Scraggs, announced in a thick Scottish accent, "He's stolen his last drink, I tell you!"
The mob replied in chorus, "Hear, hear!"
"A lumberjack's whiskey is more important than his woman!" Scraggs added.
"Aye!" the mob cried.
The Mob stampeded into a frantic run across the glade towards the man, their torches sending off sprays of sparks into the crisp night air. As the field narrowed between pursued and pursuer, it became apparent that Paul Bunyan was no ordinary-sized man, but rather a giant. Leaning his long-handled axe against his side, he lifted the keg to his lips and took a long, steady drink.
"There you have it!" He laughed. "I saved a pint for the fastest man!"
He set the cask down gingerly, picked up his axe and raced into the forest, arms and shoulders breaking boughs as the forest engulfed him.
The mob reached the keg. Three men lifted it and shook it. "If he left us even a pint, then I'm the King of England!" one complained.
They dashed the empty keg to the ground, breaking its iron bands and reducing it to slabs of bent wood.
Scraggs twirled his rope like a lasso, mustering his men. "Keep up the pursuit! He is headed up the point towards the glacier! We'll have our way with him there!"
The mob rushed on into the thick of branches and bramble, over cool hard rocks, following the path the giant had made.
"Fan out left and right," Scraggs ordered. "He won't escape our noose! He's put himself on a rock ledge!"
They saw the giant ahead. He was paused at a cliff, considering his options.
The mob closed in. Loggers with ropes let them fly, snagging the giant's arms, his axe, head and legs. Men dropped their tools of the trade and joined them, tethering the giant from all sides. He pulled and pushed, but the ropes had taken well.
"You can't fend against a hundred men, Bunyan! There's a cliff behind you and a mile down beyond!"
Scraggs picked up a single-blade axe and approached the giant cautiously, poised to strike a leg.
"Stand down, Paul Bunyan or we'll cut you down to a proper man's size! Speak for yourself before we cast the first stone!"
"I am a man of unequalled appetites," Paul spoke drunkenly. "I do the work of forty men, but am given the share of only twenty. How is that fair?"
"The whiskey delivery was low this month. All of us are thirsty! You drank too many shares!"
"Then have at me and we'll make a night of it!" Paul Bunyan bellowed. His giant voice boomed and the men leaned back, frightened.
"Aye, Paul Bunyan! You have worked your last camp in these woods and mountains!" Scraggs turned to the mob. "Bind him up good and tight! We'll find a way to hang him from the tallest tree!"
The delirious mob took to the ropes, pulling the giant to the hard earth as he let out a long, loud whistle.
"Hurry now! Before his beast arrives or there will be no stopping them together!"
In the distance, in the direction of the open glade below, came the unearthly, deep-throated moans of an enormous animal. Its voice echoed in the woods like that of a demon.
Spooked loggers turned their torches and looked behind, nervously exploring the forbidding darkness.
"If we put out our fires..." suggested one.
"The beast can smell us," Scraggs shouted. "Hurry, men. Strike your blows upon him!"
Men raised their axes, hesitating to strike at the giant, for they were not killers of men, but slayers of wood.
Scraggs stepped towards the giant, ready to strike the first blow as the earth at his feet rattled and shook.
"His beast is upon us!" screamed the camp's cookie. "We're dead men now!"
Trees snapped and fell towards the frightened mob, sending them together in a tight circle as a rain of pinecones and needles showered down upon them. Men dropped their rope grips. Axes and saws shook from their moistened hands. Torches dropped. All fell silent, awaiting the inevitable.
The beast cleared the last rows of trees, revealing long horns on either side of its massive head. A broken yoke hung from its thick neck. It towered over the men, a steady drip of yellow snot steaming from its nostrils heavy with exercise, its thick blue body glistening with sweat
Paul Bunyan stood and ripped the ropes from his body. He reached inside his overalls and pulled out a large lump of sugar wrapped in paper.
"That's a good boy," smiled the giant. "Come, Babe. Come my little ox. Here is your treat."
Paul extended his hand with the sugar as Babe moved cautiously forward. She was a dumb animal, uncertain of the situation at hand. Slowly the heavyset beast emerged from the trees, its black untrusting eyes peering at the men one by one as it slowly passed towards its master on giant hoofed feet. Inch by inch, men stepped back away from the giant, the ox and cliff, ready to flee for their lives into the thicket at a moment's notice.
"Good ox," Paul said softly. "Steady now. There is no harm at hand."
The enormous ox shuffled a few more feet, the ground creaking beneath.
"Easy, Bunyan!" Scraggs announced. "We're on uncertain ground near this cliff!"
Babe took more steps and reached the giving hand, licking at the sweet mound, its eyes grateful.
Suddenly, the earth seemed to jar beneath them all. Cracks appeared all around, illuminated by the dropped torches.
"The land's giving way!" shrieked a logger.
"There's too much weight between them!" shouted the camp cookie.
The earth cracked and swelled again, creating a rift that separated the loggers from the giant and ox.
"Run for it, men!" shouted Scraggs. "Away from the cliff before she gives in!"
A hundred men scrambled into the safety of the woods.
The camp cookie looked back, seeing the sodden giant known as Paul Bunyan sway from uncertain footing as the giant blue ox stepped forward again, nudging his master with a massive head as it licked at his open hand again.
"No, Babe!" Paul said. "Whoa! Back up, Babe! Back..."
But the uncertain earth cried out again. Rocks screamed and the sinewed roots of trees snapped free from the edge of the primeval forest. Suddenly, the entire point of land gave in at once and heaved a broken sigh, sending the giant man, his beast and axe head over heels, backwards towards the long-sloping abyss beyond.
Men covered their ears, listening to the giant's final screams for salvation, the oxen's moan, as they tumbled, tumbled towards oblivion into the pit of the frozen glacier below.
As the ripped earth steadied beneath their feet, lumberjacks crawled towards the edged cut of land and peered into the glacier below.
The giant man and beast landed with a thunderous end, shaking snow and ice loose from above as the glacier groaned and drifted downwards, burying them forever in a white shroud.
Jack Scraggs stood up and blessed himself. One by one, other loggers found their footing and joined his side.
"Let us say a prayer for Paul Bunyan. There was never a better man with an axe." Scraggs heaved a long sigh. "We must have agreement between us," he said to the disheartened men. "There will be no more talk of Paul Bunyan and his blue ox or of this deed done tonight! In a generation from now, his name will fade from history! But we here shall never forget our own sins performed for the sake of the wicked spirit we call whiskey!"
The camp cookie looked at the freshly carved grave down below.
"He drank like no other."
"Poor Paul Bunyan," said Jack Scraggs. "Born too big to find his peace on this earth."
"Amen," said the assembled men solemnly.
After a moment of silence, torches, axes and ropes were found and the men made their way back towards their lumber camp deep in the forest. Tomorrow was Sunday. Boil Up Day. They would rest and whisper and remember the man they knew as Paul Bunyan.