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
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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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.
http://ping.fm/1cK52
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
to view: http://ping.fm/2AloJ
Friday, February 4, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
http://ping.fm/8O9JB
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.
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.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
"There's a new girl at school. She's coming over to visit. Please don't make a mess of things by mentioning Paul Bunyan is my great, great uncle."
"Why are you so ashamed of your heritage?" her father Bob asked.
"This is the 21st century, dad," Alissa said. "Your fairy tales are killing my social life."
"Just last week you said acne was killing your social life."
"That too."
"I'll try to behave," her father said. There was disappointment in his voice.
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"Why are you so ashamed of your heritage?" her father Bob asked.
"This is the 21st century, dad," Alissa said. "Your fairy tales are killing my social life."
"Just last week you said acne was killing your social life."
"That too."
"I'll try to behave," her father said. There was disappointment in his voice.
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Friday, January 28, 2011
I just reread Eckhart Tolle's A New Earth - Awakening to Your Life's Purpose. A nice reinforcement when I feel mired in the muck I often create by letting people step over my unattended boundaries. Nice guys really do finish last if they allow the universe too much of their time, energy and creativity.
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Awakening to your life's purpose
http://www.eckharttolle.com/home/about/
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Lean Sentences With Power
Amber Beulah stood at the guardrail of the footbridge, studying the streambed below for signs of life.
She was barely seventeen, but the weight of the secret baby ball inside her skinny kid belly made her feel thirty. What have I done? Two minutes of a strange new terror and pleasure while I leaned against a dead tree. What have I done? I’m a mistake. Worthless.
She pressed her arms against the pair of library books that were now a month overdue. She adjusted her flimsy black waistcoat, pulling it down. It was a good buy. Two bucks at the secondhand store, according to the price tag. What made it even better was that she stole it. Just slipped it on and walked out the door. Amber didn’t like stealing, but there was no job, no allowance. You didn’t get an allowance at the group home for wayward girls.
Amber Beulah stood at the guardrail of the footbridge, studying the streambed below for signs of life.
She was barely seventeen, but the weight of the secret baby ball inside her skinny kid belly made her feel thirty. What have I done? Two minutes of a strange new terror and pleasure while I leaned against a dead tree. What have I done? I’m a mistake. Worthless.
She pressed her arms against the pair of library books that were now a month overdue. She adjusted her flimsy black waistcoat, pulling it down. It was a good buy. Two bucks at the secondhand store, according to the price tag. What made it even better was that she stole it. Just slipped it on and walked out the door. Amber didn’t like stealing, but there was no job, no allowance. You didn’t get an allowance at the group home for wayward girls.
Lean Sentences With Power
Amber Beulah stood at the guardrail of the footbridge, studying the streambed below for signs of life. http://www.barryhickey.com/
She was barely seventeen, but the weight of the secret baby ball inside her skinny kid belly made her feel thirty. What have I done? Two minutes of a strange new terror and pleasure while I leaned against a dead tree. What have I done? I’m a mistake. Worthless.
She pressed her arms against the pair of library books that were now a month overdue. She adjusted her flimsy black waistcoat, pulling it down. It was a good buy. Two bucks at the secondhand store, according to the price tag. What made it even better was that she stole it. Just slipped it on and walked out the door. Amber didn’t like stealing, but there was no job, no allowance. You didn’t get an allowance at the group home for wayward girls.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
Science has not made me happy yet
Why does the magnificent applied science which saves work and makes life easier bring us so little happiness? The simple answer runs: because we have not yet learned to make sensible use of it - Albert Einstein.
And here I am at my computer, reminded that War and Peace, Huckleberry Finn and Moby Dick were written by hand and typewriter... There is something said for the slower method, connected perhaps most implicitly to the thought process from head to hand... Not a mad dash to fill up the page with extemporaneous and unnecessary words. Anyone use a typewriter anymore?
And here I am at my computer, reminded that War and Peace, Huckleberry Finn and Moby Dick were written by hand and typewriter... There is something said for the slower method, connected perhaps most implicitly to the thought process from head to hand... Not a mad dash to fill up the page with extemporaneous and unnecessary words. Anyone use a typewriter anymore?
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Writing novels on napkins
Yeah, I know. Crazy title, but I can't tell you how many ideas, changes, insights I get as I'm constructing my story and I'm away from the keyboard. At least once a day an idea strikes and I'm off! I write on a Starbucks napkin, the back of a grocery receipt, the edge of a newspaper ad, whatever is immediately available and able to soak up the ink of a particular pen I may be carrying. (I have backed away from cardboard... Just doesn't feel good in my shirt pocket... Never a Sharpie! Screws up my clothes when I forget the napkin and wash it. Anyone else out there doing the same?http://www.barryhickey.com/
Sunday, January 16, 2011
THE GREEN DOT
The sea was unnaturally calm and not a cloud on the western horizon. Golden time. In a few minutes the sun would dip into the ocean with a wink of a goodbye followed by a final green flash.
Katie Jones stood alone, her bare feet dug in the sand at Crown Point, a strand of beach at the end of Jewell Street. Crown Point was just one of many approaches to Mission Bay Park, a massive recreation area with twenty seven miles of Pacific shoreline and nineteen sandy beaches in San Diego. Day’s end was near, but jet skis, open-water kayakers, skiers and an armada of windsurfers darted around the bay like pesky flies on water.
There were birds here, too. Migrants and residents. Over at the eastern mud flats, ruddy turnstone, willet, and black-bellied plovers nested. A goofball with a tuft of blue punker hair seemed to have one of its luckless feet stuck too deep in goop to pull itself out.
I know the feeling. Katie shook her shoulder-cropped blonde mane. Love isn't dead; it's just hibernating.
The sea was unnaturally calm and not a cloud on the western horizon. Golden time. In a few minutes the sun would dip into the ocean with a wink of a goodbye followed by a final green flash.
Katie Jones stood alone, her bare feet dug in the sand at Crown Point, a strand of beach at the end of Jewell Street. Crown Point was just one of many approaches to Mission Bay Park, a massive recreation area with twenty seven miles of Pacific shoreline and nineteen sandy beaches in San Diego. Day’s end was near, but jet skis, open-water kayakers, skiers and an armada of windsurfers darted around the bay like pesky flies on water.
There were birds here, too. Migrants and residents. Over at the eastern mud flats, ruddy turnstone, willet, and black-bellied plovers nested. A goofball with a tuft of blue punker hair seemed to have one of its luckless feet stuck too deep in goop to pull itself out.
I know the feeling. Katie shook her shoulder-cropped blonde mane. Love isn't dead; it's just hibernating.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Hooking the reader in your novel
Opening pages of Chasing God's River
BANKING IT
Wade Jones stood in the shower and yawned. He had originally planned his day for the garage, stripping the antique nightstand that he and his wife Katie had found at the yard sale in Hillerman Heights the previous weekend.
Instead, what he got was an eight-thirty phone call from Doctor Lieverman’s assistant. The doctor wanted to check his remaining testicle again, grab another blood and urine test for tumor markers, get a serum testosterone level and maybe try to bank some sperm.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Just a simple lube job," the doctor’s assistant quipped over the phone.
His female doctor was a godsend, an excellent physician with good information. Because of her, he might become a father some day and for that, he was grateful. The cancer could have spread to his abdominal lymph nodes, lungs, bones, liver, maybe even his brain.
Katie was the one who noticed the signs – he was losing weight, eating less and complaining of lower back pain. The back pain he attributed to old sports injuries. But one night, while attempting to make love, Wade complained of pain in his scrotum and when Katie playfully ran her fingers over his nipples he pulled her hand away.
"That hurts," he had apologized.
The next day, his wife ordered him to get a physical. After that, his personal physician sent him to Doctor Lieverman and the race against cancer was on.
He rinsed off the hair conditioner and watched the froth puddle at his feet.
Wade had done a lot of work around the house, even before the cancer was found. Finding a job was the last thing he wanted to pursue. He had a college degree. He was six-feet tall and smart, good-looking for thirty-five. He was also a kayaking hero to a handful of somebodies somewhere. The cancer was just an inconvenience. Wade knew what he had to do to get back in the real world soon. The only nibble at an opportunity was a commission job shaving down fiberglass surfboards and kayaks at a local beach shop, but the owner was taking a "wait and see" approach because of the cancer, promising Wade a space when a clean bill of health was provided.
Wade ran his fingers along his deadened pink scar. He had a bikini line now, a four-inch incision running across the lower abdomen on his left side from the orchiectomy – a surgery to remove one of his beloved testicles using an inguinal incision. They put him under general anesthesia during the surgery. The incision sounded like a simple long snip. After she made the cut, the good doctor pushed the left testicle up through the pelvis and out it came with a ‘pop’. A snip, snip, and tie followed. The whole surgery took forty-five minutes.
Wade was home the same day before the pain medication wore off. That was almost three months ago.
He grabbed a towel and stepped out of the shower stall, thinking of the summer kayaking circuit again. He had made a few secret phone calls in the past few days to old friends, but he was just poking around, making inquiries.
Who am I kidding anyway?
In the past months, he'd been through the chemotherapy regimens used to kill the cancer and so far it seemed to work. Wade had lost twenty pounds since they found the cancer. Twenty pounds of practiced muscle and sinew. Now the chemo was over and everyone was watching the healing clock. His hair was coming back fine. On his last visit, according to Doctor Lieverman, it seemed the chemo had worked and killed all the germ cells and so it stood to reason that he wasn't going to have a whole lot of sperm anytime soon. At least, no sperm with fish swimming upstream. The good doctor said that for fifty percent of men the sperm counts returned to normal in two to three years and for a select few even sooner.
"Depends on the quality of the sperm," she said. "Like karats in a diamond."
The doctor gave Wade a five-minute pep talk about sperm being genetic and since he had five siblings, it was all looking good.
"Good genes," she reassured him.
He banked some sperm before the surgery and the chemo treatments began. A whole vault full. Enough to repopulate an entire city, it seemed. He wondered aloud where they kept all that banked sperm. "Is it a savings account or a checking account? Does it gain interest or lose interest? Do they keep it in a hospital or a mini-storage unit? What happens if the power goes out and the refrigeration is kaput?"
A physician’s assistant had examined a sperm sample under a microscope. "You have good sperm. High quality," she reassured him with a smile.
The tumor attached to his lost testicle turned out to be malignant so the sperm bank turned out to be a great idea after all. Doctor Lieverman explained why the surgery was an absolute necessity. Doing a biopsy in that area of a man's body might cause the cancer to cross-contaminate and spread and then he might lose his other "ball."
He didn't know why men called their testes balls. He thought eggs or walnuts a better name.
Katie sat through the ultrasound as moral support, talking with the doctor about scrotal sacks and lymph nodes and testicular cancer having a tendency to "run north."
That Katie. Gotta love her.
When the pathology report came back from the lab on his removed testicle, everyone was relieved. It appeared Wade had beaten the cancer. So he was down to one remaining testicle. It was all he needed to grow hair, have intercourse, and make babies. Now all he had to do was wait and see if he could get an erection again.
After his morning visit to see the doctor, he'd taken his kayak down to San Diego Bay and worked out for almost two hours. He would have paddled in Mission Bay but didn't want to risk the chance of Katie seeing him out on the open water. He was afraid of hurting his wife. She was the center of his universe.
After he dressed, Wade contemplated going out to the garage to start stripping the nightstand. He decided to take an afternoon nap instead.
It's the water that's missing in our lives. The water.
His rivers had run dry and a mean sea had replaced Katie’s lakes.
Wade Jones, former world champion kayaker, was ready to change their future. All he needed was a few returned phone calls to start the process. All he needed was the ripple of a small pebble into the stale pond that had become their life together.
All he needed was a swift kick in the ass by any old friend to jump-start him again.
www.barryhickey.com
Opening pages of Chasing God's River
BANKING IT
Wade Jones stood in the shower and yawned. He had originally planned his day for the garage, stripping the antique nightstand that he and his wife Katie had found at the yard sale in Hillerman Heights the previous weekend.
Instead, what he got was an eight-thirty phone call from Doctor Lieverman’s assistant. The doctor wanted to check his remaining testicle again, grab another blood and urine test for tumor markers, get a serum testosterone level and maybe try to bank some sperm.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Just a simple lube job," the doctor’s assistant quipped over the phone.
His female doctor was a godsend, an excellent physician with good information. Because of her, he might become a father some day and for that, he was grateful. The cancer could have spread to his abdominal lymph nodes, lungs, bones, liver, maybe even his brain.
Katie was the one who noticed the signs – he was losing weight, eating less and complaining of lower back pain. The back pain he attributed to old sports injuries. But one night, while attempting to make love, Wade complained of pain in his scrotum and when Katie playfully ran her fingers over his nipples he pulled her hand away.
"That hurts," he had apologized.
The next day, his wife ordered him to get a physical. After that, his personal physician sent him to Doctor Lieverman and the race against cancer was on.
He rinsed off the hair conditioner and watched the froth puddle at his feet.
Wade had done a lot of work around the house, even before the cancer was found. Finding a job was the last thing he wanted to pursue. He had a college degree. He was six-feet tall and smart, good-looking for thirty-five. He was also a kayaking hero to a handful of somebodies somewhere. The cancer was just an inconvenience. Wade knew what he had to do to get back in the real world soon. The only nibble at an opportunity was a commission job shaving down fiberglass surfboards and kayaks at a local beach shop, but the owner was taking a "wait and see" approach because of the cancer, promising Wade a space when a clean bill of health was provided.
Wade ran his fingers along his deadened pink scar. He had a bikini line now, a four-inch incision running across the lower abdomen on his left side from the orchiectomy – a surgery to remove one of his beloved testicles using an inguinal incision. They put him under general anesthesia during the surgery. The incision sounded like a simple long snip. After she made the cut, the good doctor pushed the left testicle up through the pelvis and out it came with a ‘pop’. A snip, snip, and tie followed. The whole surgery took forty-five minutes.
Wade was home the same day before the pain medication wore off. That was almost three months ago.
He grabbed a towel and stepped out of the shower stall, thinking of the summer kayaking circuit again. He had made a few secret phone calls in the past few days to old friends, but he was just poking around, making inquiries.
Who am I kidding anyway?
In the past months, he'd been through the chemotherapy regimens used to kill the cancer and so far it seemed to work. Wade had lost twenty pounds since they found the cancer. Twenty pounds of practiced muscle and sinew. Now the chemo was over and everyone was watching the healing clock. His hair was coming back fine. On his last visit, according to Doctor Lieverman, it seemed the chemo had worked and killed all the germ cells and so it stood to reason that he wasn't going to have a whole lot of sperm anytime soon. At least, no sperm with fish swimming upstream. The good doctor said that for fifty percent of men the sperm counts returned to normal in two to three years and for a select few even sooner.
"Depends on the quality of the sperm," she said. "Like karats in a diamond."
The doctor gave Wade a five-minute pep talk about sperm being genetic and since he had five siblings, it was all looking good.
"Good genes," she reassured him.
He banked some sperm before the surgery and the chemo treatments began. A whole vault full. Enough to repopulate an entire city, it seemed. He wondered aloud where they kept all that banked sperm. "Is it a savings account or a checking account? Does it gain interest or lose interest? Do they keep it in a hospital or a mini-storage unit? What happens if the power goes out and the refrigeration is kaput?"
A physician’s assistant had examined a sperm sample under a microscope. "You have good sperm. High quality," she reassured him with a smile.
The tumor attached to his lost testicle turned out to be malignant so the sperm bank turned out to be a great idea after all. Doctor Lieverman explained why the surgery was an absolute necessity. Doing a biopsy in that area of a man's body might cause the cancer to cross-contaminate and spread and then he might lose his other "ball."
He didn't know why men called their testes balls. He thought eggs or walnuts a better name.
Katie sat through the ultrasound as moral support, talking with the doctor about scrotal sacks and lymph nodes and testicular cancer having a tendency to "run north."
That Katie. Gotta love her.
When the pathology report came back from the lab on his removed testicle, everyone was relieved. It appeared Wade had beaten the cancer. So he was down to one remaining testicle. It was all he needed to grow hair, have intercourse, and make babies. Now all he had to do was wait and see if he could get an erection again.
After his morning visit to see the doctor, he'd taken his kayak down to San Diego Bay and worked out for almost two hours. He would have paddled in Mission Bay but didn't want to risk the chance of Katie seeing him out on the open water. He was afraid of hurting his wife. She was the center of his universe.
After he dressed, Wade contemplated going out to the garage to start stripping the nightstand. He decided to take an afternoon nap instead.
It's the water that's missing in our lives. The water.
His rivers had run dry and a mean sea had replaced Katie’s lakes.
Wade Jones, former world champion kayaker, was ready to change their future. All he needed was a few returned phone calls to start the process. All he needed was the ripple of a small pebble into the stale pond that had become their life together.
All he needed was a swift kick in the ass by any old friend to jump-start him again.
www.barryhickey.com
Hooking Readers - first chapter of Chasing God's River
BANKING ITWade Jones stood in the shower and yawned. He had originally planned his day for the garage, stripping the antique nightstand that he and his wife Katie had found at the yard sale in Hillerman Heights the previous weekend.
Instead, what he got was an eight-thirty phone call from Doctor Lieverman’s assistant. The doctor wanted to check his remaining testicle again, grab another blood and urine test for tumor markers, get a serum testosterone level and maybe try to bank some sperm.
Instead, what he got was an eight-thirty phone call from Doctor Lieverman’s assistant. The doctor wanted to check his remaining testicle again, grab another blood and urine test for tumor markers, get a serum testosterone level and maybe try to bank some sperm.
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