Not The World We Grew Up In

“This isn’t the world we grew up in, Jack.” I told my older friend.    Jack is about eighty, give or take a few years, and spent much of his working career as Chief Of The Boat aboard several diesel electric submarines.   “You can say that again.” he said.    So, I did, thinking that he didn’t hear me the first time.   As it turned out, he had heard me and was just being his normal, agreeable self.  

We had been discussing some of the technical things that we take for granted every day now, like cell phones, medical tests, GPS navigation and a few more.  Jack came from a world where signals traveled through wires or were simply shouted down a passage way and navigation was done with a slide-rule, a book of mathematical tables and a sextant.  

I proudly told Jack that my newest book, “KITCHEN STORIES From The Iron Lake Fishing Club” had been sent to the printer, along with the Second Printing of the earlier book, “The Iron Lake Fishing Club”.  And, it had been released, too.    He said he was proud to know me, a real by-golly author, and wondered how many books were being printed.   “Well, Jack,” I said, “they aren’t really going to print any until people buy them.  They don’t print books anymore without orders.   And, they don’t ship books very far when there are orders.   In fact, my book will be available here in the USA and almost any other place. And if someone in New Zealand wants one, they’ll just print and bind it there.   They all communicate via email and some printer in New Zealand can order one book, print and bind one and deliver it faster and cheaper than one can be made in South Carolina and shipped there.   Electrons don’t weigh much and they go really fast.”    

Jack was amazed.    He was further amazed to learn about the Kindle Device which lets people buy a book cheaper and faster than a real paper book and it does not take up any space in a briefcase or on the shelf. 

No, it isn’t the world we grew up in.   In November I decided to be my own PUBLISHER for the new book and for the second printing of the other one.   Publisher?  Me?  Sure, why not?  After all, the printing company, CreateSpace.com, a division of Amazon.com, made it simple with lots of templates, 24-hour free advice from polite and knowledgeable people and a great royalty plan. I had written the book and delivered it to a publisher in July, and by the end of November it became apparent that no publishing was going to happen.  (So, the author, me, walked to edge of the cliff overlooking Printer’s Canyon, spread a stack of manuscripts under each arm and began to flap them, until take-off was assured.)

Instead of taking on a part time job after my regular work day, and instead of spending a lot of evenings getting fishing equipment ready or working in the garden, I sat at the table and hammered my manuscripts into a Word Document.   There were “page title headers”, “consecutive page numbers”, gutter margins, edge margins, bleed in and bleed out, font styles and sizes, embedded or not, paper weight, color, surface texture, dots per inch coded into cover images, and a thousand other details which needed attention.   Simply getting the sentences to work together and having words spelled correctly now seemed to be the easy part. 

In High School a 500-word essay or a two thousand-word term paper used to seem like a big job.   Now, thirty-three-thousand words is just a short book.   We used to simply staple pages together and slip them into the desk for safekeeping.   Now, we back up work, daily, maybe every ten minutes, and email a copy to ourselves every hour or so.   That way, even total loss of the working computer will not cost us a book as the email is always out there in cyber-space someplace.   Some lessons are learned the hard way.  

And, now it is harvest time, so to speak.   Both books are available at the CreateSpace site and on Amazon.com, and other major retailers will follow.  It has been an adventure and a sort of a journey, I must say. I have several “book signings” scheduled and of course in today’s world we meet and greet on FaceBook and other places where we can shake hands with a thousand miles between us.  

I feel so old, and so young, in this strange new world.   And I’ll be needing to buy a new hat to go along with all my others.  This one will say PUBLISHER on it. 

KITCHEN STORIES FROM THE IRON LAKE FISHING CLUB 

      https://www.createspace.com/3767506 

THE IRON LAKE FISHIG CLUB, 2^nd Printing

     https://www.createspace.com/3769959

New Book Covers!

Yippee!!   Watch for them on Amazon and other places

Off My Rocker?

OFF MY ROCKER

You older folks know the term, “Off his rocker.”  For you younger readers, it means being slightly crazy.  But, it means other things, too.   I do my best work when I’m off my rocker.  Actually that is the only time that I do any work. As it turns out, if someone else is in my rocker I get even less work done.  Are you confused yet? 

Back in about 1972 when I was a young man and knew everything I had a job working for the Episcopal Mission Society in the Catskill Mountains in upstate New York.   At the time, it seemed like just a job, something to do till something else better came along. Remember, that’s back when I knew EVERYTHING.   In retrospect, it was a great job and besides receiving modest pay and no benefits I got meals and a squeaky bunk in a cabin on the mountain top with a cold water shower and all the firewood I could cut and split.  How good does it get, eh? 

In the Spring time I swung a day off, a Saturday if I remember correctly and left home in my 1965 VW Beetle carrying only my camera and a sandwich.  

The Catskills were at that time a wonderful mix of old and new, civilization and almost primitive rural communities and crossroads.  While the fashionable people from NEW YORK CITY came to the Catskills to play and relax in the most up to date resorts, just a couple miles in any direction you could bring you to little cabins in hidden valleys which had been occupied by the same family lines since the Revolution. 

New York State Highway 17, AKA “the Quickway” was a modern wonder, traveling through the mountains in a series of cuts and fills with magnificent overlooks and towering walls of native rock and trees.  But, carved in with less expense, less noise and way less dynamite were the township roads, often still topped with native clay and gravel and about one and a half cars wide.  The little bridges, crossing a multitude of clear, cold trout streams were usually narrower. 

It was the little roads I traveled that day by plan and desire.   And, whenever the mood took me, I stopped and photographed the views that caught my eye and heart.  There were huge hemlock trees, massive piles of bluestone shards and tiny springs and creek crossings.   My sandwich went well with a tin cup full of cold spring water.   I didn’t know anything about water-born diseases then and never suffered for my ignorance.  Now, I suppose there are signs at every spring warning of possible death if you drink the water. 

About mid-afternoon as my little Volkswagen was sliding down a muddy section of grotesquely inclined roadway (remember, it was in the Spring) I passed a spot of what looked like the brush not growing well near the road.  Nailed to a stick was a hand painted sign that said, simply, “Junk for sale”.   It turned out to be someone’s driveway, just a muddy two-track up a slippery incline between trees and bushes which brushed against both sides of the little Bug.  

At the top of the drive appeared a cabin and a little log barn.   The cabin was complete with two windows and a door on the long side and one window and the stone chimney on the short side.  Smoke rose out of the top and mixed in the treetops.   A long “settin’ porch” ran the length of the house.   On the porch was a small boy, probably about ten-years old dressed in overalls and muddy boots.   He was friendly but cautious and showed me the table full of “junk”, old rusty pliers, a hammer, some old blue canning jars, a little box of thimbles, that sort of thing.    I noticed that he had been sitting in an old wooden rocking chair.  It really didn’t look like much, it too was for sale, and I needed a chair at my place.  So, I ponied up the four dollars he asked for.   It never dawned on me to negotiate a better price.   Even then I guess I knew that a dollar more or less to a poor man could make a big difference.  I left him happy, and I was happy myself, the signs of a good trade.

The old rocker did fit into my VW with the back seat folded forward.  And, when I got back home at the end of the day I learned that I was right .   It was just an old wooden rocker, with a worn seat.  But, by golly, it was comfortable, and it made a satisfying  sound when it rocked.  All the joints, wood-to-wood connections were pinned with wooden dowels.  My magnet didn’t find any nails or screws.  A few minutes with a damp cloth took off quite a lot of dust, grime, smoke and hand prints.  In the sunshine that came in early the old chair glowed with a deep golden hue.  I was glad that the cleaning had not removed the “creak”. 

Over the next several months I spent most of my “off” time in that old chair.  People stopped to visit me and would beat me to it, sitting and rocking and smiling as it creaked.  When the time came to move back to Wisconsin I had to make a big decision.   I was traveling light and everything I owned fit into my Volkswagen, except the rocker.  Heck, I had only paid four dollars for it, I could leave it right there.  But, something made me search out a friend who was traveling to the Midwest a couple of weeks later and I persuaded him to pack my rocker along.   He left it at my parent’s home, very early one morning, on the back porch in such a fashion that they could not open the door.  They re-arranged the living room furniture, pulled out the rags that sealed the front door against the winter weather, opened all the locks and brought my old rocker in.   My Mother said, “You mean you bought a four-dollar chair and made Dwight carry it all the way here?  And then your Dad had to open the front door and get it all fixed again, just for this?   This old chair?”      

Through the years that old rocker has been with me and later, my wife, at my apartments in Indianapolis, and our duplex in Kaukauna, Wisconsin, then our first home in Silver Lake, Wisconsin and our home in Iron River, Michigan.  The years roll on and the old rocker gave us a perch to rock babies as their teeth came in.  It was a nice place to sit and talk to the Grandparents on the phone and read a book.  It came with us to Louisiana and moved right into the violin shop with me.

Louisiana is known for it’s antique trade.  Some of its small towns thrive on the antique trade alone.  So, I should not have been surprised when several antique dealers came into the shop to look at and admire my old rocker.  A couple wanted to buy it then and there.  A couple of others were more informative and guessed that the rocker was made by a well known American named Stickley, a long time ago.  

In my sometimes-cramped shop, the rocker still has the place of honor, near the center of the room, facing the front windows and door.  I sit down there after lunch some days, and fight to stay awake.  Some folks who come in sit down and doze off right away, so comfortable is the seat and the sound. 

The rocker came into quiet prominence after Hurricane Katrina when many, many people were on the street, on foot and on their last dollar, and just about out of dreams.  Every day, sometimes several times a day, persons with nothing better to do would walk into the shop, “just to look around”.  Their homes were gone, their pets were gone, and in many cases some family members were gone, too.   They were in Hammond, just waiting, biding their time till they could get back into New Orleans to see what was left, and to try to start over. 

Many of them needed a rest room.  Some needed cash for food, and we took care of everyone who asked to best of our abilities.  But they all, every single one of them  really needed someone to listen. 

They were full of stories. They were full of questions and complaints and they were full of sadness.   And as they sat in the rocker, and it creaked with each movement, they sat and talked and cried and remembered.   After work I’d go home and wipe my face as I told my wife the details of the lives that had been shared with me that day and she suggested that I write a book titled, “Stories From The Rocker”, partly to record these little vignettes of heroism and history, but also to help me unload the weight of it all off my own shoulders. 

That was late summer 2005.  It is now 2012, and finally we can get through a day or a week without anyone saying, “…back before the Storm…”  

My old rocker is still there, and it still comforts visitors.  It is the “chair of honor” for mothers and grandmas who visit the shop with their families of budding violinists.  Children, of course, like to sit and rock enthusiastically and hear the chair creak.  Gladly, most of the sadness is gone now. 

As I look back, I have to wonder if that family in the Catskills has missed the rocker as much as I have loved it.  Or, maybe Mr. Stickley made it for this purpose, to travel and bring comfort to the weary.  

THE BLOB

I'm sorry this has taken so long.   Like so many discoveries it just suddenly POPPED into focus.  

In 1958 the movie, "THE BLOB"  was released, with Steve McQueen and other actors.   A great early Sci-Fi story, it tells about a blob of space snot that has come to wipe out mankind.   After pumping a ton of lead into it, burning it, and hooking up a 13 K V line it is discovered that it can't stand cold.   So, it is taken to the Arctic, where it freezes safely, as the star says, "As long as the Arctic stays frozen..."

Get it now?   Al Gore was ten years old in 1958.   He saw this movie and it scared the crap out of him!!  If the Arctic thaws out the BLOB is going to come back to life!!!    That's what the whole global warming thing is all about!!   He BELIEVED IT!!!

Gardening The Safe Way

This was written after our visit to Washington DC in August, 2011:

The problem with having a garden in your yard is not the bugs or the various fungus problems or even the indomitable weeds.  The real problem comes after you have tilled the ground and picked out the weed roots, then raked it all out and planted the seeds or sets, and then watered and fertilized, and picked more weeds and waited till just the right moment for harvest, some sneaky idiot neighbor steals your tomatoes or pulls up the carrots.   The cure for this, of course, is to put up a good fence with “Do Not Climb or Cross This Fence” signs.  Trained snipers on the roof make it a winning situation for the gardener.  That way, NO ONE will get near the melons or poke salad.  Michelle, a woman in Washington D.C. figured this out a couple of years ago and her little 20 x 15 garden plot looks great.  The professional landscape men who tend the yard keep it looking that way.   I think the snipers were there already and they put the garden on their watch list at no additional cost. 

It’s a funny thing when you think about it.   Folks who live in mobile homes will put a concrete birdbath with a circulating pump in it out in the yard to make the place look fancy.   And, the folks who live at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave who already have magnificent fountains front and back and a potentially prizewinning lawn put a vegetable garden out back, in view of the street to make the place look like a mobile home park in Ohio. 

Yes, there are snipers.   You can see them move about from time to time.  Our guide, a fellow who is professionally involved in the workings of the U.S. Government said we could glance at the snipers, but not to stare at them, or make eye contact as they peered down on the civilian population with their high-powered binoculars.   If they “noticed” us, the ground level guards might walk out and want to talk.   That would be bad mojo, indeed.  

This is the White House, the People’s House here in America.  Of course, “the people” don’t really get to use it.   In fact the people who own it don’t even get to knock on the front door or stroll up the front walk without a specific invitation by date and time from a Congressman or Senator.  Personally, I’d like to file a Notice of Eviction with the local Sheriff. I don’t care to knock on the door, but I think it is time for the current residents to pack up and move on.  

Marine One, the President’s Sea King helicopter comes and goes several times each hour, I suppose to make it harder for anyone to know if or when the Executive is on board.  Everything revolves around Security here.   I don’t disagree with that actually, but there is a difference between having security and living in a fortress.   You’ll not get the full feeling of this on the nightly news, but standing out front, walking by, the “fortress” effect comes through loud and clear.   The long line of Black Suburbans in the drive, possibly waiting to head out to the golf course is the only thing that breaks the spell.

We left the White House sidewalk and walked past the big building next door.  Then it dawned on me why Presidents seem to feel that they can spend money with no looking back.   The building next door is the Department of the Treasury…”Lead us not into temptation” is NOT emblazoned on the big doors.

Now, on with the tour. 

The Smell of Paint

About a month ago my friend Murphy, a fluffy gray cat, decided to check the adhesion of the wall paper in a rather inconspicuous place near the back door.   With just a little pulling, he found that the paper, applied by a previous home owner could be peeled down in narrow strips.  

Of course, this meant that the room needed some sprucing up.   This room is approx. 12 x 14 and has the desk and printer, our eliptical machine and a desk where I do leather crafts.   Why stop there? As of today, all the paper is off the walls of that room, the trim is painted, the living room is a different color, the dining room has been totally repainted and all the trim changed color, the whole long ranch-style hallway has been repainted.   All the family pictures and decorative paintings, clocks and other "permanent" decorations have been moved and re-arranged.  Our curtains are packed away and new curtains have been bought and hung. All new area rugs are in place and several new spots are now covered with NEW throw rugs.  The original spot that Murphy scratched on has not been painted yet.  I guess it is being saved till last for some ceremonial reason.

Face the facts.   Grown women just need to smell fresh latex paint sometimes.  

Men usually prefer the smell of Outers (TM) Gun Solvent.

Stepping Into The Past

Perhaps it is a matter of age, or generation.  Or, perhaps I’m just a weepy old man.  As I walked down the gentle incline, into the earth and back into time with the polished black granite just a foot or two from my right shoulder I could see the names passing by, and the little identification numbers on each panel.  It’s all very organized and tasteful.   Just names of young men and fewer young women.    Alan W. Andrews, Thomas E. Johnson, and over fifty-eight thousand more, all cut into the stones from a very few in the beginning, to large panels, full from top to bottom near the middle and tapering out again to the last names, the last Americans killed in Viet Nam. 

It should be easy to walk down and back up again.  But if you find it easy I wonder it you are really all right.   I was on a mission to find a name, the national reminder that a young man had lived among us and died far away.   The well-worn, plastic-laminated directory at the entrance to the Memorial showed the panel number I was to look for.  As we got closer my feet got heavier.  I wanted to find his name, and yet I didn’t.   Then, my guide pointed up and said, “There it is, right there.” And, so it was, LEO A. REMONDINI Jr *, clean, clear, precise.  He didn’t go out that way.  Nothing was clean, clear or precise because, after all, it was war. And the “fog of war” in Viet Nam stuck to their boots and splashed on them when the incoming got too close. 

I never met young Leo, but I knew his family for all the years I lived in Michigan.   The young man was remembered in a shrine on the wall of the Caspian City Hall.  

This was where the weepy old man popped out.   As I laid my hand on his name, touching several other names above and below his the power of The Wall hit me hard. You can’t convince me that the spirits of men do not linger and watch.  In front of my grown daughter, my friend Doyle and his young niece this gray-haired fellow had to wipe his face as The Wall volunteer made a rubbing of the name, and handed it to me with a smile.   

There is a stone channel along The Wall at ground level.  It is there to retain the offerings that people leave.   I looked, but there were no letters, books, teddy bears, graduation rings, bottles, keys or any of the millions of items that have been collected there in the past.  It seems that much of what is found simply appears there early in the mornings, as people can come at night and ponder, and pray, in private.  There is no magic lantern to show us the tear stains on the walkway.   If there was, I suspect it would glow with love and memories in a million little puddles.  Park employees collect the offerings daily and document the location, time and date, and everything collected goes to the National Archives for eternity. 

Speaking of eternity, I guess that’s why The Wall is there.  Lest We Forget and all of that.  Nearby, and facing The Wall is The Viet Nam Soldiers Memorial, a painted metal sculpture depicting three “grunts”, in jungle gear, actively looking over at the names of their comrades.  It is a beautiful piece and it would look good in any downtown city park.  This near to The Wall it appears “lightweight” by comparison. 

When my feet stopped looking too blurry, we slowly walked back up out of the gash in the earth, leaving the black granite Wall behind us, as much of America has left Viet Nam and it’s memories and significance behind. 

Leo and you other men, if you really are there watching, we are still thinking of you.  Our generation will be wiping our eyes forever.