A View of the Town, Episode 3: The Christmas Pageant

Welcome to A View of the Town, the adventures of Dr. Willis Fletcher in a small coastal town in Maine.  Offering tidbits of local color and the lay of the land, we now return to Dr. Fletcher and The Christmas Pageant of 1928.

This episode of A View of the Town is brought to you by...  "Snow.  White, bright, wet, and slick. It can mount up fast. It melt down slow.  Snow.  It's just water waiting to happen."

And now on with A View of the Town, Episode 3...

Now the folks of Misty Cove take the holidays seriously here.  Starting with Halloween all the ways to New Year's Day.  One celebration after another.  But one of my favorite memories was The Annual Christmas Pageant put on by the school.  And the performance in 1928 proved to be the most memorable.

Mrs. Amy-Jane Hawkins, the local school teacher, who often left town for a month and another teacher had to fill in.  In any other town, this might be grounds for firing, but here, not in a long shot. Amy-Jane always made up for with the best pageants ever.  The first one I ever attended was actually the 11th one produced. The eleventh would be prove to be the most memorable all because of one not-properly-tied rope.

It was held on the Friday evening of the week before Christmas.  Snow had come.  We only had a few inches. Lucky we were that Christmas.  I had been invited, among a few other select, over to Mayor Archie and Caroline Switcher's for dinner before the pageant.  Now the school housed all eight grades.  High schoolers traveled ten miles down to the school in a neighboring town.  So, the cast for 1928 had thirteen young actors and actresses.

The pageant began well -- a jolly chorus of several favorites, then onto a brief recitation of "A Visit from Saint Nick," a few more songs, then onto the finale of the Story of the Christmas.  The scene started out beautifully.  The oldest students, Agnes Williams and Lester Holt, played Joseph and Mary.   The next oldest played the three Wise Men.  The younger ones filled in as farm animals.  And last, the skinny Raymond Victors had the honor of playing the angel of the Lord, mainly because he was the only one who fit into the harness they used to lower him from Heaven.

The stage had been simply set with a make-shift manger, some bales of straw, and a painted cardboard star. Lester came on stage pulling Agnes on Benny, the smallest donkey Mr. Rankins owns on his farm.  All was going well until they reached the center stage.  Now at this time, the narrator had brought us to the Angel of the Lord to come down from Heaven and say unto thee... But what really happened was this.

Poor skinny Lester was all harnessed and ready to be lowered by Franklin Henry, the appointed stage manager.  Old Henry had a good gripe on the rope.  Forgetting about an empty pale, Old Henry kicked the bucket, lost his gripe on the rope, just as Lester stepped off the small platform just above the manager.  In his angel costume, six-foot wing span and all, Lester swung a little and landed on the back of Benny who in turn bucked up his back legs send the make-manager to fly into pieces.

Now Agnes had been holding the baby Jesus, played by Ida Bell's rag doll, but when the manager flew so did the baby Jesus.  Straight up in the air, out over the audience, and right into the fireplace on the outside wall.  Poof!  That poor baby Jesus went up in smoke in front of poor Ida Bell who screamed and passed out at the doll's demise.

Back on stage, costumed animals scrambled in all directions.  Pieces of manager flew in every direction.  Hay bales tumbled, busting apart.  A cloud made up of straw, chaff, and dust erupted like a volcano spreading all over the stage, forming a dense cloud.

Now we as the audience just watched as the from the thick cloud emerged bucking Benny with an angel with spread wings.  Benny leaped off the stage into the middle aisle and ran to the back doors, kicked one open and ran out into the street.  Poor Lester held on for dear life.  Now trailing behind that donkey was the rope still attached to the harness.  And at the end of that rope, also holding tight was Old Henry.  Covered in straw from being drug through it on the stage, Old Henry looked like a Halloween scarecrow being dragged behind.  He was smart enough to let go before that donkey took to the streets.

Some people saw what happened that night was a Christmas miracle,  For you see, Benny ran down Main Street right towards Leroy Snude, who was notorious for being the town drunk, to give it to you bluntly.  However, Leroy had staggered out into the center of Main Street, completely buck naked. Not a great sight since he could have been mistaken for a bear.

Leroy saw Benny racing toward him and when Benny got within a few feet, Lester sat straight up. His angels wings flew out and rustled in the breeze.  He didn't realize that foil-covered cardboard star was stuck to the back of his head.  So just imagine what drunken naked Leroy saw.   A angel, flapping wings, and a shining star behind him.

From that day, Leroy went on to divinity school and came back to take up the Gospel at the town church.  As for the audience, we had the best time even though it wasn't true to the story.  It was still the best Christmas Pageant ever.  The Christmas Pageant of 1928.

Join us again next time, when Dr. Fletcher tells us about the Witch's Woods and how it came to be known as the scariest place not in town.

This episode of A View of the Town is brought to you by...  "Snow.  White, bright, wet, and slick. It can mount up fast. It melt down slow.  Snow.  Snowmen are waiting to be built."   

A View of the Town, Episode 2: July 4th, 1920

In our first episode, we met Dr. Willis Fletcher, a new arrival in Misty Cove, Maine.   Offering tidbits of local color and the lay of the land, we now return to Dr. Fletcher and The Sawmill Incident.

This episode of A View of the Town is brought to you by...  "Ink.  Black, Blue, Red, or Green.  Ink is always seen.  Ink.  It does a writer good."

And now on with A View of the Town, Episode 2.  So, sit back and let's hear from Dr. Fletcher himself tell the tale of The Sawmill Incident.

July 14th, 1920.  That was the day I arrived in Misty Cove. Well, here it was two weeks later, I've settled in.  I've been welcomed.  And my patient roster is growing. Such a nice, pleasant little coastal town with such an interesting and sordid underground of life you would never have guessed.  I don't think I'll ever forget my first trip over to Slumberman's Sawmill.

Now in order to understand this story, first, I've got to take you on a side trip.  On March 15, 1820, Maine became the 23rd state, under the Missouri Compromise, admitted to the United States.  If you've never experienced a Maine winter, they can be colder than a witch's teat.  So, the March celebrations of Maine's centennial was left for warmer weather.  Come July 4th, Misty Cove set out to whoop it up.  This whooping-up included the largest fireworks display ever seen in the city. However, one firework made its way to a storage shed behind Slumberman's Sawmill.

Lewis Hardy, the man in charge of the fireworks display, had decided to outfox the previous years fireworks thief. The past few years, the largest firework for the display had been absconded by a teenager who I'll tell you more about sometime later.  Well, Hardy had stashed the firework in a shed to the east side of the sawmill.  And was promptly forgotten.  Hardy could be a little absent-minded.

On that warm Monday afternoon, here I stood at the Slumberman's where Luke Jankins, our local handyman and employee of the sawmill, had brought my new sign and had my freshly cut two-by-four.  Now growing up on a farm in Ohio had taught me a few things about being a handyman myself.  Not only can I use a scalpel, but I can also use a hammer.  So, Jankins and I stood out front and debated of who would hang the sign and fix the back step.  Now, just I was about to add my points of the debate, we heard the loudest whistle fizzing from the shed.  And what happened next is hard to describe, but here goes.

The shed had a small square four-pane skylight in it so you could see when you went in.   Well, the skylight's glass busted out as that forgotten lone firework burst its way through.  I can only assume that since its path had been cut short was why about twenty-feet up it did its job.  Boom!  That firework went off only twenty feet off the ground.  Sparks flew in every direction.  Jankins and I hit the ground waking a cloud of dust soon mixed with embers and dying stars of fire.  I had covered my head, but poor old Jankins found his hair aflame.  I was lucky and only a few burn holes showed up on the back of my jacket.  Jankins jumped up and ran for the nearest horse trough.  Several nearby windows shattered. The whole town seemed to stand still after the sound of the blast.

Slumberman's Sawmill on the other hand came to life. In fact, ablaze.  Being a sawmill, there were piles of sawdust, wood shavings, and stacked lumber.   The men had already grabbed buckets and began to put out whatever they could.    And just when all seemed lost... Well, let me put it this way.  Nobody had noticed the clouds that had moved in.   And wouldn't you know it, we had a downpour. Curls of smoke began to rise everywhere.  And we had a little help from Mother Nature herself.  And from that day forth, Lewis Hardy was asked to keep the fireworks in one place.  They decided the second empty bank vault was the place.

What could have been a major disaster for Misty Cove actually turned out to be the biggest mystery the town have ever known.   Just how did the fuse on that firework get lite.  Well, let me tell you.  I know.  It involved a splinter, a bench, and a sigh of relief.

You've been reading A View of the Town with Dr. Willis Fletcher.  One doctor's view of a small town.  Join us next time for a whole new episode where Dr. Fletcher tells the tale of the Christmas Pageant.

This episode of A View of the Town is brought to you by...  "Ink.  Green, Red, Blue, or Black. Ink forms to words.  Ink.  A writer's best friend."

A View of the Town, Episode 1: My Arrival

Welcome to my new installment story, A View of the Town, where you meet Dr. Willis Fletcher, a new arrival in a small coastal town in Maine.  Who knows where he will take us?  What tales he will tell us?  (I don't even know and I'm the author.)  This first installment, entitled My Arrival, brings the town to light.

This first episode is brought to you by... "Paper.  You've felt it.  You've written on it. Paper...  A clean sheet will do wonders for you."

And now on with A View of the Town.  So, sit back and let's hear from Dr. Fletcher himself...

I remember arriving as if it were just yesterday.  I stepped off the early afternoon train onto the weathered platform.  My rear-end was sore from sitting for so many hours.  It's a long trip from Xenia, Ohio.  But, now I was a new arrival in a new town that I would eventually call my home. Maybe. Even at age twenty-seven, I still got butterflies in my stomach. New place. New people. I got nervous. Medical school was behind me.  The War to end all wars was over.  And on my calendar, I had marked July 14th, 1920, as the start of my professional life.

To the end of the platform, around the corner to my right, and there it was. Misty Cove, Maine. Your typical coastal town on the Atlantic shore. I could smell that salty and fishy air I had read about. Seagulls circling. Small clapboard houses all neat and white.  Population 329 1/2.  Really 330, but I'll tell you about the "half" later.

My new office was directly across from Whitman's Grocery and Dry Goods on East Street.  East Street ran north and south; so not to confuse you, it was named after Jedediah Cork East, the founding father of Misty Cove.  In fact, my office stood where the first cabin was built in 1854, by Old East himself on land owned by his Grandfather Cork. The Corks had purchased and settled the land about 15 miles to the south, but it was Old East who had platted out Misty Cove. The cabin now gone, but not forgotten as noted by the wood plaque that stood in my new office's window.

When you stand facing east in the center of the street in the center of town, you see out to the Atlantic Ocean.  If you turn south, you'll see the road curve west due to a steep wooded hill.  Many Misty Cove citizens thought of the hill as the town picnic area during any major summer celebrations giving them full view of any fireworks.  Many like to tell of the time, Jesse Cork rode his sled down the hill so fast in the winter of '04 that's what caused him to became that automobile racer.  Or at least that's what his mother blamed it on.  Looking west, you'll see such sites as Slumberman's Sawmill and the Fluke's Fishery.  And north, you'll see the road disappear into Birdwhistle woods.  Or as it is known by to the youngsters "The Witch's Forest."

Anyways.  The Misty Cove Post Office conveniently stood to the west of my office. The post office building had just been built last year in '19.  Mr. Hank Hawkins was the post master. Mr. Hawkins was the most organized man in town, despite the fact of holding the prize for being the most oddest. "Hawk-eyed" was what students had nicknamed him.   He was know for being able to spot a truant student a mile away.  Even worse, he could spot a candy snatcher by simple putting his nose in the air and taking a deep sniff.

My more logical explanation was that his wife was the school teacher, Mrs. Amy-Jane Hawkins. Rumor had it that she had married Hawk-eyed for one reason.  He had a hundred acres of virgin pine ten miles outside of town.  Each year, she'd try to pull one over on her husband and try to sell some to the loggers. And each year, he'd get wise and intervened.  He always won and she'd leave town for a month before coming back.  Her absence put a damper on student lessons and Ms. Ferule would jaunt over from the nearby town and fill in.

But I really want to tell you about the time that Slumberman's Sawmill nearly caught fire and burnt to the ground.  You see it all started when I stopped by to get a two-by-four to fix a porch step out back of my office and I also had to pick up my new sign with my name on it to hang in the window -- Dr. Willis C.B. Fletcher.

Well, folks, that's the end of the first episode.  Stay tuned for the next installment of "A View of the Town" and just exactly how Slumberman's Sawmill almost burnt down.

And now a word from our sponsor...  "Feel it.  Love it.  Use it.  Paper...  It's always lined up, just for you.  Clean, crisp white paper."

CSM  

Life Review #3: A Selected High School Memory

Wouldn't go back to high school if my life depended on it.  Don't me wrong.  It was a rite of passage that I had to go through, but in hindsight, the awkwardness of it all was too much.  I try not to think about my high school years.  I wasn't one of the football jocks, nor one of the smart kids, and most definitely not one of the "high school heroes, life zeros."  I was just me and as I've aged, I've gotten better like a fine wine.  You know those ones you hear about going for thousands of dollars in auctions.

What I remember most about high school was when it ended.  I marched to Pomp and Circumstance, in my robe and cap, got my diploma, and that was it. I remember it well.  I also remember when Roger, the guy who sat next to me in French class, got our teacher so mad she turned red.  And I do mean bright red.  She looked like a bottle rocket about to go off.  It's one of my better memories.  I would guess it was not for Roger since her red-glaring eyes were burning holes in him.

From what I recall, Madame, as we always called her, had given us the assignment to write a letter to an imaginary person all "en francais."  In order to pass, she gave us a baseline and from there you could add more.  If you didn't add more, you kind of heard about it.  Roger heard about it.  He used the excuse that he didn't realize and started pushing the issue.

I can equate it to kind of like a fight at the United Nations.  Maybe with someone pounding their shoe on the podium.  Madame obviously being the French delegate. Roger from Germany.  Me from Ireland.  (I only throw myself into the mix because I love the idea of the Emerald Isle and redheads.)   Since I sat right next to Roger, I feared that yet another war would break out between the two countries.  Ultimately, there seemed to be some sort of peace treaty.  Possibly with Madam telling him to "knock it off or else."  I suspect that day if the opportunity had arisen Roger would have been sentenced to life in the Bastille.  Luckily for him, she didn't keep a guillotine in the closet.

Vive La France!

CSM

Life, Liberty, the Pursuit of Happiness, and JD Mccallister

James Mccallister mentioned something about getting old in a recent Facebook post.  By the way, I never called him James, I always called him JD because my Dad did... but back to where I was James Mccallister mentioning something about getting old.

Well, from what I've heard over the years, he'll never be old.  He's timeless.  And one of the few out there in the world.  My Dad told many stories about JD's life from the time he maneuvered his way into the military nearly breaking his mother's heart to the spectrum of world adventures.  And from my best judgement, JD is a man who knows no fear. And never has.  So, as far as I'm concerned he doesn't need to be fearful of getting old.  Now, of course, I realize that I'm a 45-year-old saying this and not turning 80 any time soon.

JD reminds me of my Mom.   Always on the go.  My Mom worked at a living history museum, dressing in 1830s clothes, spinning, weaving, cooking on the hearth.  She loved it.  We always joked that she would die there and she'd be happy to play the part of the corpse for the funeral recreation. The main point to this is that she never stopped.  Her body had a different opinion, but her spirit kept going.  JD has that type of spirit.

Out of everyone I've ever known or heard about, I think he's one of the few that took on the true meaning of "Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness."  He always encouraged others to get out their shells and ruts and go beyond their comfortable life path.

I recently visited him in Florida, he took for a boat ride along coast.  We started to dock and he wanted to give me tour of the resort that was there, but between the wind and boat not cooperating, we didn't make it.  Even though I didn't get to the see the resort, I was amazed at his agility and enduring spirit.   He wrestled with that boat to get it docked and tied up like nobody's business.

Now that's what I call living life.  I just hope when I'm 80 that I'll be just as high-spirited.

CSM

Tune in this time for: Growing a Writer Shrub or Pruning the Author Tree

The other day, I decided to revisit some of my old posts.  Ah, the memories. I had forgotten how much I had truly written over the past four years.  Such a load...  Well you know!  Among those posts, trashy works that need better editing, poignant thoughts about my truly boring life, tearful moments of death, and comedic look at my dating life so far.

As I traveled further back in time to review what I had written, I think I've done a good variety of exercises. Starting out with some non-award-winning short stories, I began to wander down the path of writing and attempting to fuel my appetite to become the next best-selling author.  Wow!  How little I've traveled down that road.  As I look around the scenery looks very familiar.  Oh wait!  I've really not moved on that at all.

So, what am I trying to say?  Well, how about this?  It's time!  Get those books printed out, re-edit them, and start looking for an agent.    By the way, I'm not going to disappoint my readers.  Book three WILL be done and out there by beginning of the year!  Come hell or high water.

Short and to the point!

CSM

Life Review #2: Elementary School or Bust!

Continuing my life review...

It seems like a day doesn't go by when I think to myself "What have I done with the first 45 years of my life and why did it fly by so fast?"  The wrinkles are getting wrinkles.  Parts of my body starting to droop and sag with fears that it will drag on the ground.  My ever-thinning hair is migrating south to my chin.  I'm not sure my face is any warmer than the top of my head so I'm not sure what's up with the migration.  It's just not right.

Just the other day, I was entering kindergarten as a scared youngster wondering what did I do to deserve this.  My Mother loved to tell the story about the neighborhood carpool to the Methodist Church just outside the business district of my small hometown.  She would stop behind the church, let the rest of the kids out, then park, and proceeded to coax me out of the car.  I'm not sure what she used to promise, but I'm sure some never happened.  My Mother always carried the blame.  She and my Aunt Carolyn took me everywhere with them before my school days -- shopping, lunch, the park.  When kindergarten arrived, I'm sure my five-year-old brain was thinking "I'm no bother, so what's the problem?"

Then came first grade.  I can still remember standing in line at the elementary school gym.  White tile walls.  Hard wood floor. My Mother was there to enroll me into school.  One of life's rite of passage.  My friend, Scott, and his Mom were in a line near us.  Two hopefully 5 or 6 year olds heading into the education system for the next twelve years.  Twelve long years of growing up.  Going through the "Wow! There's hair there!" puberty years all the way through the teenage-anxiety-ridden-who-am-I-and-I-know-it-all years.

My elementary school memories are few and far between.  And all I have to say is Thank you for that, God! One memory I have is the smell.   Elementary schools of the 1970s have a distinct smell.  I'm not sure exactly how to describe it.  Maybe it's asbestos off-gassing.  Or maybe it was the smell of the now-cancer-causing cleaning fluids.  Whatever it was, I just remember it.  Oh, and one other smell...  Remember the mimeograph machine?   Runny-blue printed homework.  That distinct smell of the ink.  It was always a great moment when you knew the teacher had just come from the printer with a stack of papers and hand them out.  Ah, getting high at age seven.   Maybe that's why I don't remember a lot of my elementary years.

There's no doubt about it.  I hated school right from the get go, until I hit college.  That's when life for me really began, but that's another story.

In hindsight, I feel sorry for my teachers. No wonder they always looked stressed and, in some cases, aging in front of us.  They would have to deal with a crying-five-year-old who didn't want to be there. I'm sure they saw me and said a prayer that we would make it through the day of learning colors, shapes, and letters.

CSM

For Mary Jane

Mary Jane, I've know you for almost twenty years.  I haven't known the love of your life and soul mate, Jack, as well as I know you, but can see without much trouble that you two have lived a rich and full lives and were most definitely made for each other. And when I got to enjoy time with both of you, it was never dull.

I couldn't even begin to imagine what it was like for my Dad to watch my Mom die.  The girl he fell in love with in high school. The mother of his children. Living through rough times. Creating lasting memories.  His best friend who he loved the most. I saw the fall-out.  An angry man mad at the world and all around him. But, I also saw the adjustment, new friends, and continuous living until his turn came.

You and Jack remind me very much of my parents.  And I can see that you are like my Dad.  You are that time where you are going to have to pick up the pieces and carry on.  Everyone will understand your sadness and anger.

As I write this, I am wrestling with the words to write.  What to write to express my thoughts.  And then I realized that I didn't need to think hard about what to write.   I already know what to say.  It was what I said to my parents.

So here are my words to you...

It is never "goodbye."  It is never the last moment ever.  This is only a horrendous, heartbreaking parting that you will struggle with for a long time. Taking all your strength and courage. You may not like it.  In fact, you should be hating it, ever bit of it, but it is never "goodbye." So, instead of "goodbye," think of it as a "see you later" moment.   I just can't imagine any God/Allah/Fates/Whoever taking two such great people apart and not reuniting them somewhere someday.

It isn't "goodbye."  It's "see you later."

CSM

Tune in this time for: SWM seeking Same, or Double Insanity

My friend, Kathy, recently filled out an online dating profile, as she put it, "just for fun to check it out." Within hours, she received a delightful assortment of very special dating possibilities.  To quote her, she got "1) a married guy who just wanted a woman "friend", 2) a 27-year-old guy that said he liked to "satisfy older women"; and 3) a beautiful transgender person transitioning from a man to a woman."  Welcome to the world of on-line dating, my dear Kathy!  You, me, and numerous others just venturing out to find someone special in wide sea of "special" people.  But guess what?  We did find someone special.  And oh boy, they were special alright.  Specials that you found a sideshow at the circus.

The world of online and apps for dating have never ceased to amaze me since their creation.  A friend of mine got me hooked on some phone apps that, at first, seemed like a possible road to dating bliss.  Smiling faces either in close-ups or in front of someplace they had been like the Eiffel Tower, or the Washington Monument, or the Tower of Pisa...  Notice anything about those places...  I didn't either until I realized they were all phallic symbols. Then there are the pics of hairy or smooth chests, sometimes feet for the foot fetishers, or underwear-covered behinds.  And... Oh my!  Is that your...  Well, you know.  Why show me a suggestive picture such as The Tower of Pisa if you can show me the real thing?

At first, it was all in good fun, but after while it was the same guys looking for the same thing everyday all day.  Never updating their pictures, which by the way may have been from ten years ago, if you're lucky to actually meet them in person someday you could spot the difference... But in all fairness, that wasn't true for any of the ones I responded to.  They were just nice guys looking for what I wasn't.  My bald spot, grey hair, and Buddha belly-wanna-be wasn't exactly Ricky Martin in a thong.  Just wait until all of what I have is in style. I'll be ready.  They'll be all over me.  Excuse me while I don't sit around and wait.

The guys I never meet were numerous, despite my messaging and viewing their profiles.  One that I did meet had nothing on his profile.  Only his name and age. When I asked about that, he replied "I don't want everyone in my business."  Then what the hell are you on here for?  I was brave enough to ask what he was looking for and some of his interests, but I still felt like I was trying to lift a ten-ton elephant just to get something to start a meaningful conversation.  I should have dated the elephant. He would have been more interesting and peanuts are a cheaper meal.

I've come to the conclusion there's only one true and tried way of meeting people.  Get out and look for them. From my point of view, these apps and websites are just a way for people to hide for whatever reason and, in some cases, that's exactly what they should do. From just a pic and a few words, I can't really use my instincts, body language, or pick up visual cues to determine if they are lying, uncomfortable, or at any moment might come at me with a butcher's knife like Norman Bates.

In a recent Facebook post, I announced that I was over the dating scene, especially the virtual one.  It's back out and into the real world for me.  Make some friends, chit-chat, and get to know you.  I'd rather shake your hand and meet you face to face than see your shaking ass in a YouTube video and then watch you strip down and proceed to... Well, I might save that video for later.

CSM

Tune in this time for: The Dating Game, or Love is a Splintered Thing

I've been asked by several gentlemen over the course of the past few months "Why are you still single?"

Let me get straight to the answer of why I'm still single.  I took care of my parents because I made them my priority.  I took myself off the dating scene about eight years ago and don't regret doing that.  I will admit that I have gotten out of touch with the current standards of the dating.  For example, I have to ask Do people still date?  Or do you just stalk each other on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram?

Regardless, now eight years later, I'm now back in the game.  Out of dry dock and back in the water.  And the first thing I notice...  I'm finding myself pushing aside the dead fish at the top!  Attention Psych Ward shoppers, we've got a real humdinger at table four.  A swinging single who's back in the game.  That was what I felt was announced to the world when I hit the dating scene with both feet because the needy and the destitute came out of the woodwork.  It was then that I realized I wasn't searching for Mr. Right, but sorting out Mr. What's Left-Over.

Why is dating so hard?  It seemed when I was in college, you could meet someone, hang out, get some pizza, watch a movie, then make out.  But now, it feels like my only choice of meeting someone means constantly going out.  This isn't so bad if I want to cut laundry, housework, and sleep out of my schedule. Once I do meet someone, I have to research them.  Look at Facebook, Twitter, Linked-In, and criminal court records to see if they're wanted in another state. Then comes the coaxing to talk them into even having a drink.  By the end of the evening, I feel like I've done a lot of work with very little in return.  Next time, I think I'll request a deposit that's non-refundable.  I could use the money for a weekend get-away.

Back to the "Why are you still single?" question...  This single question has turned me onto the idea that hope is still there.  If he's asking, I've got to be asking "Hey, does this mean I've got something worth giving?"  The answer is simple.  Yes, I do.  Even though I posted that I welcomed the single life over the dating scene.   (Remember, I'm a crab.  We flow with the tides.)

I've got a lot to offer and it's these times that make me do a self-check... I'm funny, loving, caring, dependable, honest (sometimes too much), loads of self-respect, educated, child-like (not be be confused with childish), diverse interests, and have a long honey-do list -- he can start by helping me paint the kitchen. Hey, I said I was very honest.

Another point for me to remember... Give up on the dating apps and websites.   I found that getting my face out there and shaking hands has gotten me a lot farther than someone's bare chest profile pic.

Anyway, he's out there, somewhere.  Maybe the Fates/God/Allah/Whoever will intervene.  Ha!  Who am I kidding? They probably have their own dating problems!

CSM

Forgiving More for Being Crabby

Being a crab isn't easy.  I've got a hard outer shell with a space just big enough to peer out at the world and a couple of claws that, if they get a hold on you, will squeeze you until your eyes bulge out.  I live under the influence of a vast ocean of ever moving water and the low and high tides which in turn are influenced by the ever-cycling moon.  I will scurry off when I feel like it, leaving you to wonder, and then come running back when you aren't expecting it.  And, some seafood is very tasty.

Yes, I am a crab, born in July... Even worse on the 4th.  (A side note -- thanks everyone for coming to my nationwide birthday party.  Love you all.)

If you're a Cancerian, you know what I'm talking about.  Tenacious, crabby, moody, touchy, unable to let go, unforgiving, never forgetting, and can be very vindictive...  And that's when I'm in a good mood.  Just kidding.  We Cancerians are caring, nurturing, have a great love of family and tradition, loyal, dependable, and love ya more than our luggage if you gain our trust.  

I've gone through some rough times over the past few years and I have to admit that I have taken the vindictive road on several occasions.  Not always, but sometimes.  Part of this vindictiveness is anger that keeps manifesting.  Anger over my parents dying.  Anger over things that never got said.  Anger over moments when I wish I would have been more vocal. Anger over the fact that I can never find pants that are 29" long.

Being angry is part of our general human make-up.  I like being angry sometimes.  It reminds me that I'm a human who has deep emotions and a big heart.  It also reminds that I'm not going to agree with everyone, but I only have to get along with them. But most of all, it reminds me that I need to be more forgiving with myself and others.   It's not easy to forgive someone for dying. It's nobody's fault.  Death is part of the human experience.  That and watching old reruns of The Golden Girls.  But I digress...

Forgiving someone for me is hard.  Being a crab makes me, well, naturally crabby.  What's more important is that I recognize it.   I need to allow myself to forgive.  I forgive the shopkeeper.  I forgive the mailman for bringing bills. I forgive the millennial.  I forgive my Mom and Dad for leaving here and making me change... and I might add, for the best.

And I also forgive myself for taking the vindictive road.  Anger makes us do weird things.

CSM

Life Review #1: Health Roll Call

Now that 45 has arrived, I think it's time to do a life's review.  So, I've decided that first item on the agenda is a health roll call.  In other words, who had what and what did them in.

My Dad -- diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, overweight.  All led to kidney failure at age 76.  He smoked, ate the "meat and potatoes" diet, and loved his sweets.

Dad's side: cousin with breast cancer, cousin with testicular cancer, Uncle Ron had strokes, high blood pressure, drank in younger days, diabetes.  Aunt Carolyn has diabetes, high blood pressure, heart disease.

My Mom -- high blood pressure, hypo-thyroid, overweight.  She died of oral cancer at age 73. Never smoked or drank... however, she worked around a lot of smoky fires, almost on a daily basis.  She grew up with her Father who smoked cigars and married into a smoker's family.

Mother's side: Uncle Roger had heart issues, high blood pressure.  Uncle Mick -- ???.  Cousins -- ???

Grandpa David Marshall -- diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, overweight.  All led to a heart-attack in the night at age 69.  In his younger days, he drank, smoked, and loved his sweets.  His Dad had diabetes, died at 69.  His Mom lived to be 82.

Grandma Doris (Reeder) Marshall -- diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, overweight.  All led to kidney failure, dying in the hospital at age 69.  Breast cancer.  She drank, smoked, and loved her sweets. Her Dad died from injuries from a fall.  Her Mom died at age 70.

Grandpa Ralph Alford -- died in the hospital at age 64 of emphysema.  He was a heavy smoker and worked in smoky and rough environments.  His Mom died at 80 from old age.  His Dad died from TB.

Grandma Irene (Schacher) Alford -- he died at age 86 from cancer of the brain, then liver. She was very overweight for most of her life, but lost a lot of it after the age of 60.   Exact time frame of weight loss unknown.  Her Dad -- ?.  Her Mom died at age 83.

I sometimes wonder just how much control do I have over how I die.  Weight can be lost through diet and exercise, diabetes avoided by eating fresh vegetables and fruits, same with high blood pressure and cholesterol...  but it's that cancer factor that I always come back to.   I have limited control over it.  If it happens, it happens.  That's one of the hardest pills to swallow.

CSM

My Inner Circle

The older I get, the more like my Mother I become.  I just don't feel like putting up with people I don't click with.  And I am happy to say that I don't have to, because I can just walk away. Nancy Sinatra sang it best about her boots -- they're made for walking. Usually I'm bitching about people who annoy me, but lately I've turned it around and found the humor in those interactions, but it's time for me to give praise to the my nearest and dearest.

When I think about them, I see a group of diverse personalities with interesting personal history, interesting lives, and amazing stories. With that said, my circle of friends are a canister of mixed nuts that I hold dear. Some are a little salty, some roasted, and some plain. Not matter, I love that small inner circle. Not many people have made it to my inner circle.  But if we click, I'll love you forever and try my best to be there when you call.  I've known most of them since I moved to the big city and have added very few since then into my inner circle. Hey, what can I say.  I'm selective.

Among the inner circle, to name a few, I have a railroader, a Coloradan, a curator, a singer, a scotch-lover, an Iowan, a cancer-fighter, a survivor, a loner, a weirdo...  Just to name a few.

Each and everyone of these friends have had some influence on my life.  They helped me with their various levels of advice when I needed to make both simple and rough choices. They were there when I needed a soft shoulder to cry on, an ear to bend, a leg to stand on, a mouth to feed, and various other body parts to personal to mention.  We have our differences.  We may annoy each other at times.  We may not speak for weeks, not because of a squabble, but simply because of our hectic lives.

When we do meet, we have our own special blend of aromatic spices that tickle our noses and dance on our palates.  A compliment of flavors that blend together into a savory feast that will warm our stomachs... Yes, we eat out a lot!  It's the most common thread we have -- food.  No wonder I'm overweight.  But then I think of the mental health benefits.  What could be more fun than being with great friends over a warm meal.

I feel lucky to have them. Bless them all.

CSM

Tune in this time for: Chuggin' the Bourbon, Or Doin' the Dance

In one of my previous posts, I wrote about my fledgling attempts at building a love life and learning the true meaning of "just stay single, you're hair won't gray as fast."  The idea of finding that someone special to cuddle up with or who won't laugh when he hears the bathroom scales moan when I step on them has turned into more of a curvy Grand Prix.  You gotta learn to steer clear of the obstacles and pray that you don't get sideswiped by one of the other nuts on the road.

I've dated several times since entering back into the scene.  And since that moment, I decided that I have yet to find the best pool to swim in. Trying to find someone decent to date is like find a parking space at the mall on the day after Thanksgiving.  It can take a long time, be frustrating, and you may reach the point where you're better off just going home. However, you keep on trying.  And trying.  And trying.  Until it becomes trying.

One rule that I've always followed -- I'll date anyone once.  And usually once is enough. During my brief stint back out into the dating field, I've encountered some very interesting characters.  Most not interesting enough to date again, but enough fodder to talk about the experience for weeks to come.  And perhaps even to name a dance after them.

One of my recent endeavors involved a millennial.  You know that newer generation who've been criticized for too much self-absorption, self-fascination, and mighty-high level of sense of entitlement.  Gee, I didn't experience any of that on my date. (Eyes rolling.)

I've nick-named this particular date "The Twenty-Seven-Year-Old-Going-On-Eighteen."  I felt a very high sense that the college days of partying hadn't ended at graduation.   While I nursed a scotch and soda the entire time, he proceeded to down three large bourbon and cokes in three hours.  The evening ended great -- I planned on never seeing him again, at least not in the dating sense.  I realized that the rule of "dating anyone once" maybe wasn't such a good idea.  Let me scratch that one from the rules.

It wasn't the last time that I saw him.  The next time I ran into him eventually was dubbed "The 501 Incident." I didn't realize the simple statements and questions of "Hey!  What are you doing out tonight? Meeting Friends?  Waiting for a date?" would be equated to an interrogation by Attila the Hun.  I was told "That's a rather personal question."   Wow!   If I'd of known, I would have rethought that "Hey" part.  From there, the conversation proceeded to a set of simple statements like "It's cold outside," "It might snow," to "Yes, the moon is out tonight."  Just can't wait to hear the sequel.

The peak of the conversation came early.  (Thank god for that.)  I said to him "Well perhaps I shouldn't talk to you anymore since I'm obviously invading your privacy too much."  The return response was priceless. An action that would give me many weeks of joyous child-like giggles.  What proceeded was as follows:  He busted a dance move which involved cupped palm-up hands, swaying his arms back and forth like balancing scales, while saying "That's a little extreme.  Going from talking to me to not talking to me."  Very few times have I ever been struck speechless.  This was one.  Let me add this time to my list.

When I told my friends about this, their mouths gaped just like mine did that night.   At work, we even turned it into a dance, set to a similar tune of The Hustle.  People who saw us performing would comment that we "had our dance moves on."   The dance began to spread throughout the building and before I knew it everyone was doing it. Cupped hands, swaying back and forth to the groove, and occasionally stopping and saying "That's a little extreme." Little to my knowledge did I know that my simple statement of "Hey" would turn into the latest dance craze. Amazing.  Such a cultural influence. Perhaps it will eventually be seen on "Dancing with the Stars" or "So You Think You Can Dance."

To use a cliche, back to the dating drawing board.

CSM

Tune in this time for: Spare Change, or Ruts A'Matter with You

I declare my independence from my past, ruts and all.  My personal history is what shaped me to this point, but it is not who I want to be next.  There's a lot to be learned from my history like what to do or not to do on a date, or they will charge you major fees for overdrafts, or even worse, do not pass gas in the middle of winter in your car. Think before you do it because, if you roll down a window, you'll freeze.  Or you might pass out and almost drive into a ditch.  But I digress...

Like most of everyone else, I've got my baggage.  Unfortunately, I think mine has turned into two steamer trunks, three regular size suitcases, and at least a dozen or so carry-ons.  I'm beginning to think I should apply to be a hotel porter.  Carrying around emotional baggage can get pretty rough. It's the hot thing to do; everybody's doing it.  Sorry, this isn't a passing fad.   But I have to ask myself, what good is all this baggage? If I haven't learned from it now, will I ever?

It's not just emotional baggage, but there's also the physical baggage.  The stuff that sits around, gathers dust, and doesn't have much purpose.   Sorry, I take that back...  What a better way to get exercise than to dust all that stuff?  Wait, who am I kidding!  I can't even get my butt off the couch and onto the stair stepper, which by the way would have to be dusted first.

Making changes in my life isn't going to be easy.  It means getting out of those comfortable-old ruts, the easy-way of thinking, and getting back down to a pants size that really fits.  It's gonna be hard to do.   I'm just saying that I think it would be easier to just look in the mirror, point at my middle, and say "Since when did spare car tires become fashionable to wear?"  I don't drink beer, so I can't use the excuse that belly's a liquid grain storage facility.

All of these types of baggage are a part of my sweet simple past, but now I'm looking to build am adventuresome, sordid future.  What this means is forcing some change, which I've determined that I can spare, and getting out of those nasty comfortable ruts.   Nobody really likes to make changes, but I think I need to, especially if I'm going out and creating a new way of living life.  This change has got to be more than just underwear...  Hmmm... maybe free-balling it might be interesting.

CSM

Tune in This Time For: I've Got You Under My Epidermis or You are the Pimple on My Thigh!

As Cole Porter once wrote "I've got you under my skin."  Or as Stevie Wonder once sang "You are the apple of my eye."   For some, those songs mean "I can't stop thinking about you and how much I love you." For me, both of those mean "You are annoying me and I want to kick your ass." Or "You're that aggravating pimple that showed up the other day."

Right off the bat, I want to clarify something.  I can count their number on one hand.  That is, the people who have annoyed me, with most being in the past year or so.  This makes me wonder.  Am I just getting cranky as I reach middle-age?  Or have I achieved one of my recently-set goals -- Not to take sh*t from anyone.  Learning to kick to the curb.  Get out of my life, you're bringing me down.  My god, being around this jerk is my second favorite thing in the world...  My first being having an unclean buffalo sit on my lunch.

But recently, my annoyance level seems to have plummeted to zip. I've had a few really bad experiences.  Most surrounding my attempt to build a love-life. So far, it's been like a tug of war... one jerk after another.  I feel like I've entered the psych-ward of the dating scene and I can't seem to find the exit.  You know what I mean. Compare it to standing in line at the supermarket with three items and a mother of five is in front of you trying to maintain her three-ring circus, a packed-full cart, and a coupon for everything.  Not to mention, the sale item she argues about and eventually saves five cents.

I've written before about my definition of a friend.  To me, it's someone who cares beyond "You're breathing, so I don't have to perform mouth-to-mouth, so please go away."   But I've never thought about my definition of what I'm looking for in a relationship.   My preference would be someone who loves me unconditionally and I'm not annoyed by. But quite frankly, I'm worried that I've settled for "You've got a pulse, let's roll."

Dating is hard. I always thought dating would be fun, but I may be reaching the age where dating my couch, a DVD, and order-in Chinese on a Friday night might be more thrilling.

From a "I can't believe a Facebook friend acceptance doesn't make us friends" shopkeeper to a "twenty-seven-year-old-going-on-eighteen" millennial to an artist whose best friend told me "Be prepared to do all the work"...  (Please, I already have a long list of work to do.  I'm not adding to it.)  So far, all I can think to say is "Don't think it hasn't been a little slice of heaven... cause it hasn't."  Thank you, Bugs Bunny for that quote.

I just can't help say "What was I thinking?  Why didn't I listen to my instincts?"  I really should have listened to Mother.  "Get a millionaire with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel."   I can see me now... "Sign these insurance papers first, before we get naked.  I'm not sure you're going to live through the experience."

CSM

For Carrie

So, my friend and coworker, Carrie, recently lost her Mom.  Something that I have experienced in my life.  I thought about what to say to her about this loss and I've come up with just a few pieces of advice.

First, your Mom isn't gone from you, she's left to do other stuff and you are temporarily apart.

Second, don't ever stop talking to her, because she is probably listening and will respond in her own way.

Third, if you think she might be hanging out with you, she may be.  Who's to say she isn't?

And last, even though she is out of sight, you are still her little girl.  Not matter what.  Don't ever let go of being her little girl.

CSM

A Few Words about Family History

My niece has gotten interested in the family genealogy, which in turn has caused me to open up my old family files and see where I left off.  That's why I haven't posted as much lately.  Between working on book three and trying to figure out who begot who...

It's amazing to me how much has changed since the first time I stepped foot into the genealogy section of the old Carnegie Library in Anderson, Indiana.   I remember room being packed with books, file drawers, and microfilm.  This was in the late 1970s.  Computers weren't even on our minds.  So, I learned how to research from two librarians -- Howard and Phyllis.   I remember them both well.  Howard was tall and heavy-set.  He had slight tick to him causing his head to shake from side to side.  I often felt like he didn't really care for "the younger generation" unlike Phyllis.  She and I were the same height.  Actually, I think she was shorter.  She was the one who really helped me the most.

Looking back at the whole experience now, I consider it one of my best decisions in my life.  I got to talk to a lot of people who are now gone.  In my head, I have story after story about the family.   I've spent years with stacks of books piled on library tables trying to piece together families.   The hours I spent pouring over census indexes, making copies of the pages so I could make notes, going to the microfilm to discover disappointment after disappointment.   And wow, what a great day it was when the 1860 Indiana census index came out!   It was gold.  But alas, all of those days are over.  Now I can just go on-line and see if someone else has already done the research, use the databases, or just type in the name and see what comes up.  A far cry from the days of xeroxing, doing the math of birth and death dates, and hoping that you get a response back from the local historical society four states away in a small town in the middle of the hills.

Genealogy was my first experience in major research.  I learned a lot about creating searches, organizing information, and nurturing logic.  But more importantly, I got to know my family.   The times I would talk to my Grandma Alford about her life in North Dakota.  Asking my Father about growing up in Park Place in Anderson.   Listening to my Grandma Marshall talk about the bad times and then the good times.  Getting to know those Aunts and Uncles who are all gone.

I've also learned something else.  How to be glad I'm alive and how good a life I really have especially in the age of medicine, science, and technology.  My family history is amazing to me.   Stories of settlers, immigrants, hard-workers, and the odd ducks, who may have been poor, but happy.

I asked my Grandmother Alford and my Mother one time "What was it like to live during the depression?" My Grandmother replied "We didn't notice it.  We had nothing to loose.  Dad Alford worked odd jobs, we had a huge garden, and lived near family."  My Mother added "We were poor, but we had good times."

What I would give to have met some of my relatives.  I would have had a million questions.

CSM

True Love or Great Sex? Part Two

So, Bill and Sadie had two children together -- my Grandfather and his sister, Nancy (who died when she was only a year old).   They lived in Greensburg, Indiana, for a few years before finally moving to the Kalamazoo area in Michigan.  I suspect that Steve Jones and Bill may have had a few brawls, but who knows.   They lived in Michigan for several years before moving to Anderson, Indiana, where Bill went to work for Delco-Remy, part of General Motors.

Throughout the 1930s, I found it very interesting that the Anderson City Directories lists Bill and Sadie in one part of town, while Steve and Sadie lived in another part of town.   I wonder if she had to take care of two households?  I also just can't help to ask what was it?

Years later, Steve died, allowing Sadie to finally marry the man she had spent a large part of her life with.  I know for some this news came as a shock, but I always knew something was amiss, since no one seemed "to know" when they got married.  Regardless, I have lots of great photographs of them, looking happy and enjoying life.   Later, Bill would take "a preaching course" via mail and have his own church and congregation.   By the sounds of it, Bill and Sadie got religion which only makes me wonder what else they might have done that no one knew about.

But no matter what, I admire them.   It had to have been true love.   To seek out divorces when they were frowned upon and basically made you an outcast, despite the social structure, the legalities, the paperwork with signatures,  they didn't really care what anyone thought.  A trait that runs on the Marshall side of the family.  Isn't that right, JD, Robin, Tim... and even myself?  For 30 years, they lived together, raising two children, and enjoying life.  They made the family history a little more interesting.  I also feel a little more free in my life.  In other words, there is no straight and narrow path to follow.  I think it's good to venture off it for a while, otherwise, you may live a very boring life.

CSM

The First Anniversary of the Day My Father Died.

It's been one year since my Father died.   It seems like ages since that day.   Funny how I can still remember the last few minutes of his life.

My Father was still breathing, but barely, and shallow.  Ever so often, he made a couple of bodily noises.  Stretched out in his lazy boy, just like he wanted to be, and had been for three days.   I can still see him laying there, covered with his favorite stripped afghan in brown, black and white.   I looked at him.  This shell of an old man housed the soul of the father I once knew. 

The house was quite.  The television was off.  The doors were open since the weather was nice.   The sun shined. We just waited. My Father's girlfriend, Dorothy, was pacing, looking for something. Maybe she was in heavy denial of what was happening. My Sister, Robin, went about her business, keeping busy with housework.  The house was quite, except for a stir now and then from him.

The clock read two, in the afternoon.  A typical Monday afternoon for most of the world.  I had called work to say I wouldn't be in and that the end was near.   We just waited.

There was a tap at the kitchen screen door.  Our cousin, Cathy, had stopped by to check in.  She had two of her grand-kids with her.  We hugged as was the custom with her. She came in and sat down on the couch across from my Father.  Plain old beige couch with speckled upholstery of tan.

We were talking about what was going on -- my work, her kids, Robin's kids, Aunt Carolyn, what's going to happen next.  She wanted our addresses, so I sat down at the counter that separated the living room and kitchen.   Dorothy came in and lost it next to my Father.  Robin took her to the back bedroom and put her to bed.  I was writing my address.  Cathy stopped talking.  And then there was total silence.

Cathy said one word.   "Chris."  She looked at me and pointed at my Father.   Robin had just stepped back into the room.   It was a moment when it felt like time had came to a standstill.  For just a brief moment, the clocks stopped ticking.   Everyone in the world stood motionless.  I felt like a slow-motion figure.   He was gone.  In an instance.   One moment, then the next.  At 2:30 in the afternoon.

Moments like these stick with you, no matter what you do to rid your mind of them.  Like my Mother's final moments, my Father's will too.   And I will treasure them because I was one of the lucky ones to be there to see them off to new adventures.

CSM

True Love or Great Sex? Part One

While in middle school, I started researching my family and interviewing the older generations. I now realize I made a great decision since they are all, but a few, gone.  However, there were stories we didn't know and I had the great fun of piecing them together, one sliver of information at a time.   Over the years, I've recorded many stories in my head about my family's past.  They are a writer's pool of wealth. So here's one...

(Side note to the audience:  Before I even dive into this story, I just know that a few people are spinning in their graves at this moment. They know I am about to spill the family gossip for the whole world to read!)

This story involves my Great Grandparents -- Bill and Sadie Marshall.  I never met them.  My Father always said that they had a life before they had a life. This is one it took years to dig out of the closet, despite the fact, my research had already given me a clear picture.  You can run, but you can't hide.

Bill was born in 1886 in a log cabin owned by his Grandfather, a proud member of the Underground Railroad movement in southern Indiana.  The family also formed a baptist church in the area and, today, a state marker honors their work.  From what I have gathered, Bill must have been the lady's man.   He traveled about and eventually made his way to Greensburg, Indiana, around 1915.

Sarah was born in 1879, somehow along the way she gained the nickname "Sadie."  She would live with that name right up to the end.  In fact, that's what is engraved on the headstone.  Anyway, Sadie was born in Indiana, lived in Illinois, and "may have been raised along the Ohio River."  In other words, little is known about her vagabond childhood.   Rumor has it that she had an affair with a river boat gambler, who was reported to have been "of dark skin."  Well now!  Regardless, she married a guy named Steve and they had three children -- Rose Ethel, George Herman, and Rebecca Jane.   It is with Rebecca (a.k.a. Becky) where the fun really begins.

Becky, as she was called in her youth, was born in Columbus in 1910.  However, according to the official census, Steve was a grieving widower with no Sadie or Becky in sight.   As it turns out, Sadie had left Steve for Ohio where she left Becky to be put up for adoption.  This never happened.  Eventually, Sadie turned up in Greensburg, about 1915.  She lived in one part of town, while Bill lived in another.   I'm not sure what exactly was going on.   I can only guess.  But I do know this, in 1915, they year my Grandpa Marshall was born... in Greensburg...  there are no birth records for a Marshall.   But there is one for a Jones...  On the same day.   Grandpa Marshall was, without a doubt, Bill's son; and later, a sister, Nancy, came along in 1917.

The Marshall side of the family always seemed to me... well...  to put it bluntly, to be a little on the wild side.. and, well, maybe the horny side.

CSM

You never really die... You just linger in someone's database.

My Mother received an invitation to someone's memorial.  My Father is getting applications for credit cards. They both get advertisements on great sales on new vehicles.  Debt collectors and mortgage companies are threatening to file a complaint against their credit scores.  

My Mother died six years ago.  My Father a year on April 15.  Yet, they live on.   In some company's database somewhere out there.  A database that no one ever checks.

Between me and the lawyer, we've sent copies of death certificates and copies of legal forms, but still, you aren't really dead in the bytes of a database with your name in it.

So, what is this?  Does no one ever clean these things up?  Where do the returned letters go with "deceased" written on them?   I can just image some room somewhere in these companies with dead letters.   The returned mail of the deceased.

I'm not sure what's sadder -- the fact that someone died or the fact that someone never gets the chance to move on from their death because some well-organized database has got your address.   I'm sad for the living and the burden that these faceless databases send out to the left behind.   We're the ones that are trying to move on with our lives, to heal from the deaths of those who were dear to us. 

I shouldn't take these mailings personally, but it wears on my mental health.  I don't seem to get any relief from being reminded that my parents are dead.

CSM

"Once you learn to be happy..."

"Once you learn to be happy, you won't tolerate being around people who make you feel any thing less."

Not sure who said it, didn't bother to do an Internet search to see, but...  I really love this quote and I send my thanks to whoever originally said it.

I've decided not to settle for anything less than being happy.  Some days, I wake up and feel slow and just can't get it moving, but somehow I always end up being in a good mood.    Personally, I think it's because I've seen death and know that it's coming sometime in my life.  Sad, scary, but true.  I figure what's the point of worrying about stuff that's beyond my control and turn my attention to the things that I can.

Writing has become my passion.  I don't feel that I am good at it, but that's what drives me.  To become good at it.   I'm not out to writing "the great American novel" as I read on some unknown writer's blog or website.  I don't remember who it was.  Guess he hasn't got the great American novel after all.

What I really want to do is entertain you, dear reader.  I'm standing at a fork in the road and, as Yogi Berra once said, I think I'll take it.

Short but sweet and to the point.

CSM

Another Interview with Sam Henry

When I was first approached by a member of The Time Savers Club, I had no idea how big of a project this would become. It grew beyond my wildest imagination. Much of my writing time has been spent writing their first story and not much on my own story.

But, like I mentioned, I have lots of posts to work on, including this one. Another great interview with Sam Henry.

He stopped by a few weeks ago to talk about book two, From Cleo to Edgar. Here's how it went...

CSM: So Sam, it's been a few weeks since I saw you last. The last time we meet, you filled me in on the details of your first adventure with The Time Savers Club.

SH: Yep. We had a lot to talk about.

CSM: Yes, we did. I was amazed about what had happened to you guys. You know, I think it's important for us to tell our readers about the time frame of these stories.

SH: I think that's a good idea cause as they know my Mom and I moved into the apartment only last year.

CSM: Basically, the story isn't that old.

SH: Nope. Book two just happened last year in November.

CSM: So what I am about to write for book three actually happened last December.

SH: Yep.

CSM: So, I know you had a rough situation. How are you handling it?

SH: Well, I doing much better since...

CSM: Hey wait, don't give anything away.

SH: (Laughing) I almost did! I doing OK. I've really come to accept the whole story. The Club has been a great help. Rose has become my counselor. She's helped me a lot.

CSM: Good to hear. Well, as you can see, I've fallen behind on this blog. I'm glad we had time to chat and I can get this posted. I'm spending a lot of time working on the books as well as my own writing.

SH: Great. I'm out of here.

CSM: Thanks for stopping by.

From Cleo to Edgar: A Time Savers Club Adventure Book 2 is available on Amazon.

Excerpt from book two, From Cleo to Edgar: A Time Savers Club Adventure

And now, an excerpt from my second book, From Cleo to Edgar: A Time Savers Club Adventure.  You can buy the entire e-book on Amazon.

Sam opened his eyes. Sam and Mrs. Steers stood high on a plateau overlooking the construction site of the oldest of the Pyramids. Beyond the construction site, the gold sands of the Egyptian desert stretched like a massive sea. The sand blew across the barren land.

To their left was a great white wall that had been carved in the side of a plateau. It was the quarry where lime stones were being cut. To the right, a massive ramp went up to the Pyramid. It worked around the sides of the structure. The pictures Sam had seen showed them worn down and weathered from time. Here they were being built and the whole area was alive with activity.

Thousands of workers moved stone blocks up the well-designed ramp system until they reached the upper level. The Pyramid was just above the half-way point. They could see more workers there, moving stones to the edge and placing them.

"Whoa! Look at that. I didn't imagine this." Sam was awed. Mrs. Steers was quiet.

Mrs. Steers wasn't looking at the Pyramids. She was staring at Sam. Her mouth opened. Her eyes fixed on him in disbelief.

"Sam, you must tell me honestly. Have you been to other places without me?" She tightened her grip on his arm and looked mad.

"No, Mrs. Steers. I promised and I didn't go anywhere." Sam expressed a high level of sincerity. Mrs. Steers studied his face.

"Sam, that's remarkable. I believe you, but... How?" Mrs. Steers released his arm and took a few steps in the sand. Sam watched the ground below her feet, noting that she didn't leave any footprints. Once again, he marveled at the strangeness of time-travel.

Mrs. Steers took about ten steps in front of him, then turned. "You... Sam... You are..." She blinked a few times. She was speechless.

"Mrs. Steers, you're kinda freaking me out. What's wrong?"

Mrs. Steers stopped, shook her head and rubbed her temples. "It's nothing, Sam. You just got us here quicker than anyone else I know or have ever know. You spoke the incantation perfectly and on the third round, we are here. That's extraordinary, Sam. Extraordinary."

Another old post: Travel Guides

I had the great fortune of taking a picture of a couple of Mrs. Steers' travel guides.

Mrs. Steers has numerous travel guides.   Sam told me about the two that they took with them to 1880s London.  I was able to take a picture of them.

She had marked several pages about London Bridge, Westminster Abbey, Whitechapel, and Madam Tussaud's Exhibition.

Great stuff!

An Old Post from The Time Savers Club

I have retired The Time Savers Blog.   Too much to juggle.   Write the books...  Post on the blog...  I chose to write the books.   However, as I clear away the blog, I just have to re-post some of the posts here.   So here's one...

A couple of weeks ago, I had the honor of having lunch with Xavier Graff to talk about the completion of book one.  He had some interesting comments.

CSM:  What do you think?  You've read it.  Did I get it right?

XG:  From my point of view, you did, dear.  I have always thought our club's adventures and stories should be recorded, although I never thought they would be novelized.

CSM: Great.  I'm happy to hear I got the story right.   I need to write on my other blog about what I learned.  I can't believe I wrote a book.  Be it good or not, I did it.   I am grateful to the club for their support and choosing me to write it.

XG:  You're welcome, love.  You just needed some confidence.  Your writing will improve over time.   You have started on book two, yes?

CSM:  Yep. I think I have everything. I need to clarify some stuff, so I need to talk to Sam and Mrs. Steers. Otherwise, I have started.  My goal is 6 months to the first draft.

XG: I think that is a reasonable goal. I find it interesting to look back at the club's first introduction to Sam. I remember the first time I laid eyes on him.  He was talking to Lottie on her front porch.  I only saw him a moment.  He looked so young.  Of course, now the events in your trilogy are over and we've had other adventures since then.  He is a wonderful addition to the club.  Hopefully, he will learn his true life's goal.

CSM:  Interesting.  Yes, my readers aren't aware that the books are based on recent past events.  Mainly from last year.  You have a long history with club, don't you? I've seen the name Graff in early records of the club's archives. Weren't you younger than Sam when you got involved?

XG:  Yes, I was seven.  Was I ever so young?  My family has been involved with the club for several generations.  They have fabulous stories to tell.   My Uncle Griff likes to tell about my first initiation.   We traveled back to the French Revolution.   I saw Marie Antoinette beheaded.  Dear lord, it was awful to watch.  I cried and cried.  Oh lord, did I cry.  She was very beautiful.  People cheered.  I was so upset.

CSM:  You must have been terrorized at such a young age.

XG:  I was.  I had a several dreadful nights afterwards.  I didn't sleep.   Now, I have an infatuation with her.

CSM:  Cool.  Well, I'm glad we got together for lunch and chat.   I think I will schedule another interview with you.   It sounds like you could have lots of stories.

XG:  Sounds good to me, sweets.

I had an Epiphany this week.

So, I have to ask myself this question. Am I ready for a relationship? What am I looking for? What do I want to do right now? I've turned away from my career, now I just have a job. I've poured a lot of time into my books. And now, I'm back out in the world, trying to find... what? What is that I want?   My needs are filled, but what do I want?

 

I think this week I had my Epiphany.

 

I'm scared. Why start a relationship when all I will do is mess it up and send the person packing? I'll fall in love and they'll leave... just like everyone else that I loved. I've had a few dates since I headed back out into the dating scene. Merrily skipping along, not really believing that I would meet someone.  All the dates went no where.  One kind of interesting, one drunk, and one "woe is me."

 

But, I think I really need to revisit the above-mentioned statement:   "...just like everyone else that I loved."   Meaning my parents.  It's almost been a year since my Father died.   I miss my parents.   I actually had the very strong desire of driving to their house to see them... Only to realize that they were gone.  It took several moments to calm myself down to remember this.  I no longer had the luxury of seeing them.  For a few brief moments, I lost it.  I mean mentally lost it.  I had never experienced anything like it.

 

I just paid my Father's last taxes.  That was it.  It's really over.  My parents are really gone.

 

I think this week I had my Epiphany.

 

CSM  

From Cleo to Edgar: A Time Savers Club Adventure, Book Two

It's been a few weeks since last I sat and wrote.   I've been making a few more changes that have consumed my time and I have neglected my writing and my books.  So, if you have not heard, the second book of my trilogy is available on Amazon.

Book two didn't take as long to write, even though it was longer.   That made me feel good.   Now, I'm going to challenge myself further to get book three done even faster.

I was asked how I came up with the idea for my trilogy... Well, here's the story.

I was laying in bed one August morning, thinking about how my job was unsatisfying and how I needed a challenge.  For some reason, I reflected on something my Father had once said to my Mother, who was an avid reader.  He told she should write books.   While there in bed, I thought to myself "Mother, why didn't you write a book?"   Not more that two seconds later, this popped into my head.  "Why don't you write a book?"   Hmmm...  Was that my Mother speaking to me from the great beyond?  Maybe.   I decided to write a short story. 

The idea for the plot itself came from my love of history and mysteries.   Naturally, what young geek of a kid like I was wouldn't be interested in Jack the Ripper.  Where the names came from I don't really remember.   I do remember lots of notes, 3x5 cards posted on my bedroom door as "the plot began to thicken."   How do I get from here to there... Well, you create a cast of characters, deepen the plot, and add a pinch of humor.  And voila... There you have it.  In a nutshell.  

(Note to self:  Avoid clichés.)

Now, it's time to get to book three.

CSM

 

For Carrie -- The Good, the Bad, and the WTH!

Why do bad things happen to good people?  Why do good things happen to bad people?  Why does Allah/God/Buddha/Fate/Whoever allow things to happen at all?  Personally, I like to keep it simple:  Things happen to people.  It's neither bad nor good, it's just your perception of the situation.   A bad person may not really be bad.  You only think they are bad.  But remember, you've never seen their life as a whole.


Carrie, I hear ya!   I know exactly what you are saying and thinking.  I've sought the answer for years. I would try to do the right thing.  Try to be the best person I could be.  Give whenever possible.  Help whenever I could.  Go the extra mile to make the world a better place.  Leave something behind that someone else could use.  But no matter how much good I did, the bad always seemed to follow.  The peaks and valleys of life.  God's way of mixing things up.

Thinking back to my Mother, why did she get cancer?  Did she do something bad? My Father was given a hard luck of the draw.  What did he do?   Was it something he said?   What?  What was it?

Carrie, the only conclusion that I have ever come to is this...  You don't get to know... at least for now.  You can only trust that Allah/God/Buddha/Fate/Whoever knows what they are doing.  That it's for some unknown reason that they have allowed this to happen. I've run circles looking for answers.  Praying.  Begging.  Just tell me why!  I demand an answer!  I've spent a lot of time wondering, but ultimately no answer ever comes.

Except this...  I wasted a lot of time trying to figure out the answers.  

Allah/God/Buddha/Fate/Whoever throws wrenches into the works to derail you.  To see how strong you are.  To see how you will accept what is or was happening.  Is it fair?  No.  Is it life?  Yes.  Allah/God/Buddha/Fate/Whoever gives you both the good and the bad.  And no one escapes.  You may think it's just you, but it isn't.
 
Carrie, you can only assume that Allah/God/Buddha/Fate/Whoever wants you to go with the flow.  No matter how much you hate it.  And believe me, you will hate it. It's part of the growing-up process that everyone has or will go through.

Sometimes, you just sit back and say "WTH?", then have to let it go.   Otherwise, you will go crazy trying to figure it out.


CSM

Now on Amazon: From Cleo to Edgar: A Time Savers Club Adventure Book Two

And now a year later, From Cleo to Edgar:  A Time Savers Club Adventure Book Two is available on Amazon!

 

Picking up where book one left off, Sam and Mrs. Steers travel to Ancient Egypt where he witnesses the death of Cleopatra.  Meanwhile, The Time Savers Club do their best to keep Sam protected from The Shifters, a dangerous group lead by Dr. Herkeimer, a mad man determined to change history.  A trip back to 1849 Baltimore to see the final moments of Edgar Allen Poe leaves Sam wondering if he wants to be involved with the club nevermore.

It was great fun getting the book to this point, but the work doesn't end here.  I've kept you hanging once again...   Now it's time to begin book three.