I do a nightly storytime for my husband, and our latest book is Oliver Twist. Oliver Twist is my introduction to the quite descriptive world of Charles Dickens.  He is considered one of the literary masters in terms of painting a scene for a reader. You see London through Dickens’ eyes and all of its squalor, whether that be in the poorest areas of town or in the poorest character of men.

Last night I read a passage that stood out to me.  Dickens threw everything he had into this one scene, the obvious climax of the book, to which he spared nothing.  The scene where Sikes, murderer of Nancy, is ultimately hunted down by a mob of outraged citizens.  Instead of being destroyed by these people though, he slips off a roof and ends up hanging himself by the rope meant to help him climb off the roof.  Sikes death is almost anti-climactic given the intensity of the scene.

I say anti-climactic because one cannot help but get swept up in the passion of that scene.  That bloodthirsty crowd, seemingly thousands, blind to anything but the destruction of Sikes.  Sikes the murderer, and the murderer of a woman who up until this point, was invisible in polite society.

Nancy was a thief,  she kidnapped Oliver Twist, and associated with the lowest of London society.  She lived in the dirtiest, filthiest part of town, unbeknownst to any respectable person.  Despite all this though, she steps out of this existence and into the light of the noble act.  Nancy tells her entire story to Rose Maylie, a young beautiful woman who lives well, and has all the comforts that Nancy lacks.  Rose hears her, values her and longs to save her from all the evil in which she resides. To Rose,  Nancy is quite visible.

Nancy is murdered for essentially being a whistleblower.  Sikes soon finds out what she did and beats her to death for it.  Rose and Nancy both knew this may be a consequence which is why Rose begged Nancy to come with her and have a new life. Nancy, however, refused and returned to her old life, well aware of the risks, and ready to face the consequences.

So back to this bloodthirsty crowd who wishes to avenge her death. A mass of people who were most likely not aware of the sacrifice Nancy made, nor her decision to return to what was essentially her death.   These people swarming together, squashing up against each other,  trampling each other in the hunt for Sikes.  Sikes, now half starving and half mad from the guilt and fear he feels from Nancy’s death, is now the hunted.  Had he somehow climbed down that rope and been caught he surely would have been ripped apart.  The crowd, no doubt thinking, he got what he deserved.

Dickens leaves you to think about this, and one cannot help wondering how Rose Maylie would react. Would she have been a part of that vengeful angry crowd? She being the only one who truly knew Nancy?  Would she have called for Sikes’ brutal destruction at the hands of an angry mob?  My guess is she would have reacted true to her character.  Yes, she would have held Sikes responsible for his crime, but would she have spared his life?  Absolutely.

We need to ask ourselves sometimes what we would do if that were us?  Would we show mercy, even to the murderer, or would we be part of that angry mob calling for revenge.  An eye for an eye as it were.

I strive to be the Rose.

I see a lot of memes out there regarding Memorial Day.  The memes strongly admonish folks out there with messages such as, “It’s not just about BBQ’s” or “Just in case you forgot!” kinds of things. I used to happily post these myself but now I don’t anymore. Why? Well, I fear the actual message of Memorial Day will be lost, or any holiday where we take time to remember those that we have lost. A lot of times these memes just serve in angering someone else whether that be the poster of the meme, or the receiver of one.

The true message of Memorial Day is gentle and kind, but strong, “Please don’t forget me. Let my life have mattered.”

And there are so many ways, small acts or big ones, that we can make today matter for those men and women who died in battle, away from their families and friends at home. We can start with offering comfort to the widow and the orphan, those left behind, one of the most purest acts. We can watch a documentary, we can read an article online, we can visit a cemetery or national monument. We can simply take a few moments of silence. We can write. We could reconnect with friends and family. So many ways to say to these men and women, today I honor you. Today, I remember.
And to all of you on here who may have lost a family member or friend, I send you comfort, and I will never forget.
Thank you.

Well, this week is the week for me. I am hopping on a jet plane (with a bit of medicinal help) to attend the Biographer’s Conference in Boston. I will have a one page proposal in hand, all set to meet with an agent. Oh yes, I will also be there to network, and take some interesting classes too!

I have been asked over the years why write about the New Monkees? And I have wrestled with this question myself. After all they are not the Monkees, their show didn’t do well, so why all this attention on them? What will it all matter anyway? The potential market may be small, and they are dated (Truman Capote’s cardinal rule: don’t pick a story that will date).

My Dad used to be the hottest guy in the room.  No, I don’t mean the hottest guy looks-wise although from what I have gathered after his death, a lot of women found him very attractive.  And, to be objective, sure he was.  But that is not what I am talking about here.

Dad was hot and he dressed for summer almost every day of the year.

Rain or shine didn’t matter.  There he would be chugging along in his yellow and white ’71 Ford pickup, dressed in shorts and a  t-shirt.  He would come to my school,  walk around in the pouring rain,  it could have been snowing and it would have made no difference.

Hot weather and my Dad were buddies.  They worked together well.  He dressed for it, knew how to properly prepare for it, and the weather seemed to accept it.  We had no air conditioning in our house until I was in my late teens.  This was never an issue for my Dad.  He grew up without air conditioning and knew everything needed to cool down a house.

At night he would open up all the windows and screen door.  Every afternoon during summertime he would hose down our back deck, then bring in huge fans to suck in the cool air they generated.  He would then get up early in the morning before the temperatures rose,  shutting everything up to trap in the  cool.

Warmth with my Dad also came from within and radiated out.  His personality drew people to him.  Folks feeling sad or chilly, cold emotions, could always come to my Dad for a laugh, a smile, and a comforting hug.  A metaphorical warming up by a friendly campfire.  That was my Dad.  He personified warmth.

It was a brutal irony then that with age the winter weather moved in.

During the last few years of his life he was freezing, even in summer.  By that time even though he was stocky and solidly built,  he didn’t have much fat left on him.  He was cold most, if not all, days.  Gone were the shorts and on went the sweatpants, jeans, jackets, even gloves that he wore most of the time.

My house which for some reason stays cool even without air conditioning tended to be a  hindurance for him.  Blankets were always needed and the heater, even in 75 degree weather outside, was always turned on.

One of the pictures I have epitomizes my Dad in his 70’s. There he was, a huge smile on his face (the smile that could light up a room), about to have a meal at a restaurant.  He was wearing a red sweatshirt, jeans, and gloves.  The restaurant temperature most likely somewhere in the high 60’s.

However, despite that sombering phsyical progression from hot to cold, his inner warmth stilll radiated.  He may have been fully attired for winter,   but his figurative warmth was still caught in the wonderful throes of summer.

That was him.  My sweet hot Dad.

Mornings are getting harder and harder for me it seems.

I get up and  am the equivalent of an old Ford truck.  My engine is cold.  I am all steel and rusty, but mainly just cold.  My thoughts are low and depressing.

Optimism is lurking in their somewhere but it too is just waking up.  Slowly gathering various good thought twigs and branches to add to the fire.  So in the meantime the darkness of low, murky and sad thoughts reign.

My attempts to cheer myself up, start my engines prematurely, rub two sticks together usually don’t work.  It is a slow process.  A few sparks of suggestions come out of the brain.  “Well, once you take a bath you will feel better.  Look at your phone maybe there will be some good news or at least something to think about.”

So I look at my phone.  I ignore the news. I plunge into the social medias.  Metaphorically throwing open the door and yelling, “Ya got anything for me today?”  Most of the time the response is, “Nah, check back later.”

So I take a bath, I get out and check the weather report.  Get the kids up and dressed, breakfasted, and off to school.  I try blasting on the music as I drive home which sometimes works.

I get home, clean the kitchen, make breakfast, and get some coffee.  I sit down in front of the computer to write and start the day.  I am a little better.  My engines are now warm and ready to start.  The fire is now burning brightly and will be good for perhaps about 2 hours, prime writing time.

Ah the life of a writer.

I have never interviewed the real Harrison Ford.

I was Harrison Ford, or at least I played him in an interview.

At 10 years old I had a major crush on Harrison Ford.  I had a SelectTV cover photo of his Blade Runner pose taped to my bedroom door, and I kissed it daily.  I covered it in puffy stickers.  He was my first teen idol.

As a young girl with an eager best friend, her two sisters, and a tape recorder,  we proceeded to carry out what unknowingly I would find myself doing 30 years later in my life with another set of teen idols.  Interviews.  Only this time I was the interviewee rather than the interviewer. Harrison Ford was first up.

“So Harrison, what was it like working on the movie, ‘Temple of Doom’?”

“It was (dramatic pause) nice.”  Harrison/Amy replied in a deep resounding voice.

My friend’s older sister then wanted to talk about what it was like to kiss my (Harrison’s) co-star Kate Capshaw.

Harrison ceased all further questions at that point.

*****

The other day I watched an interview with the actual Harrison Ford done way back in his Star Wars days.  One of the first interviews he had given along with co-stars Mark Hamill and Carrie Fisher.

This was an interesting interview to watch since I have seen Ford interviewed over the years.  I wouldn’t say he was a legendary interviewee.  He plays off easiest with a comedian who can pull things out of him. He is a man of few words and he stumbles around once in a while in attempts to get a story right.

This interview was different. This interview Ford has somehow channeled Solo.  He was the personification of cool, got my shit together and I know it, male.  He sat back, one leg confidently and widely crossed over the other. Stern faced, hair trimmed, nicely dressed.  Just, I guess you would say, tight. He was in control of that interview. Hamill and Fisher sat silent and innocent, hunched down a bit in their seats keeping a close watch on Ford for direction.  Ford knew this.  He had that “let me handle this guy” look to him.  He seemed to have it from the very first question.

Or else he thought he did.

The question was poised about Star Wars and its popularity to which Ford sarcastically replied something along the lines of, “No we don’t get recognized at all so it is really nice.”

However, because of Ford’s then “don’t mess with me” stare, the sarcasm was missed.  Complete silence.  Hamill and Fisher remained speechless.   The interviewer did not get it, in fact there was a bit of a pause.  No doubt the interviewer was thinking to himself, “Is he serious or is he joking?”

It cut to commercial soon after that or at least the clip stopped.

You can’t say the man didn’t try.

My childhood popcorn popping machine was in the shape of a train car.  There it stood proudly parked at its little station on our kitchen counter.  Yellow plastic sides, black base, complete with wheels.  It looked more like wagon wheels than train wheels.

Dad was resident “conductor” of the popcorn machine.  He would fill the base with oil, drop two kernels, and place bets with his young daughter (me).  “Okay, which one do you think will pop first, the left or the right?”

My guesses were about 50/50 as it was all a game of chance with kernels.  Nevertheless, I would be transfixed since you could see the entire popping process rather than wait for popcorn to be spewed out of a hole somewhere.

The popcorn would pop.  Dad would heavily butter and salt it.  One could fondly compare him to Charles Ingalls in the Little House on the Prairie series salting and smoking the meat.  It was an equally sacred and delicious process.

When I was finished munching nothing made me happier than running my finger along the inside of the train car.  Yes, my friends, the machine was self contained.  It required no separate container to hold the popcorn in.  The yellow plastic car popped off, flipped over,  and there you had it. Instant bowl. Those were the days.

The butter, salt, popcorn, and Dad filled days.

Well, that was interesting.  Yesterday, I struggled for 5 minutes trying to find where to log on and write a blog entry to this page.  Today I sat down with my cup of coffee (a pink Sleeping Beauty bug, what a metaphor!) clicked on my website and there it was.  This little link button with one word, “write.”

So write I shall.

Ah yes, the Friday ramblings.  Well, Fridays are different than my other days of the week.  Friday whatever writing work needs to be done, must be done before my better half awakens.  Luckily he is a late sleeper.

So once the man gets up, trots off into the shower, and is bright and eager for the day I am then summoned.  Hence, my writing work day is at an end.  Friday is date day.

I have discovered over all these writing years that a day off is mandatory.  After all, for those of you spiritually inclined, even God took a day off right?  And as I go throughout my day, eating a nice lunch, spending time with the love of my life, and being with my kiddos, my mind still speeds along at full force.  Muses do not follow the ways of God.  They never take a day off, or rather they don’t let me take a day off.

Yes, for me date day starts when the husband gets up and my actual honest and true day of rest begins at sundown until tomorrow (Saturday) sundown.  The muses though sneak in pushing their way through any random thought, any music on the radio, there they are, waiting for me to head back to the page.

It is funny though, those muses want that so very badly, but, as every good writer knows, when you sit down to the page, a lot of those running muse thoughts are gone, aren’t they?  Yes, thinking about writing and sitting down and writing are two different things.

However, I have this though, my blog page. My venting area.  My brainstorm, my think tank, my workshop.  My writer’s garage as it were.  Yes, that is a good name for it!

And…I am being summoned, off to date day.

My writing days have now become typical and routine.  I guess it has always been my dream to have a routine.  A job like atmosphere.  One where I drop the kids off at school, come home, make myself some breakfast, eat said breakfast standing up at the counter (rather than sitting in my armchair with a book and journal which could easily take up half of my morning), and bringing my coffee to my desk and getting started.

Every morning there is something New Monkees’ in my ears.  Their voices are a part of my house.  I have transcribed endlessly, filling notebooks.  Each man possessing their own very own notebook.  Each typewritten page carefully looked over, holes punched, and put away.  This makes me feel like I am actually accomplishing something first thing in the morning.

The creative side of me is more slow to wake up.  You could say she sleeps in a little later.  I say she wakes up about midway through transcribing.  She starts throwing out ideas and directions and the to do list for the day.  She is also briefly roused when I take the kids to school, sleepingly offering up scenarios in my brain before toddling back off to bed for 10 or 15 more minutes.

Like many writers before me, I show up at the desk every day except the weekends, my day of rest.  The weekends I show up too at my journal for the New Monkees often get written there too.  I am so adept and writing them freestyle I can just sit down and write a page of all their attributes.  Often slinging in metaphors like if they were a car what kind of car would they be, a few weeks ago it was musical instruments, then my mind races to seek out all the clues and similarities between said object and said man.

I am, I guess you would say, overripe for writing them in book form.

So the proposal awaits. The marketing plan, The business ideas.  The intended audience.  The why in the hell are you writing about these guys for?  It has taken me years to formulate a good elevator pitch answer to that plaguing question.  Mostly starting with, “Yeah, the NEW Monkees.  No, not THE Monkees.” And this is why you should want to read about them.

But yes, overripe.  I am now reading the books they read, or rather reading about people they admire or conditions they have or politics that they believe in.  I can now sit down and tell you where they all stand politically.  Ha!  Isn’t that great?

Yeah, totally overripe!

So, back to sipping my coffee and transcribing.  More to come!