She Said, He Said; A Real Gentleman

 “Why don’t you open the car door for me anymore,” she said.

“My car has a center consul,” he said.

She Said, He Said; First Kiss

 “You know what today is, don’t you? she said.

“No,” he said.

“Thirty years ago today we had our first kiss,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, “I licked the mustard off your chin and you went for it.”

New Novel Just Released; "A Place Called Serenity"

 My latest novel, A Place Called Serenity, is available on Amazon; digitally or in paperback. 

It has been serialized on The Short Story Cafe for the last few months.

The novel’s backdrop takes me back to the days before going to school. My memories are vivid of a small rural neighborhood my family lived during the late forties and early fifties.

The book is fiction. The characters in the book are based on those I remember. The events are fiction yet based upon a vague and foggy memory.

The location of the mythical settlement of Serenity is about 2 and ¾ miles south of Lima, Ohio. It’s just east of an overpass on State Route 25.

The main character, Bo Tanner, returns to civilian life after World War Two. His desire is for an uncomplicated and quiet life. However, for a reason he’s not quite sure, he returns to Europe several years after the war to resolve things in his mind.

He found that war erased something from his memory; something he could not live without.

Purchase and enjoy.

Whistling And Missing

Today, for some reason, I found myself whistling the song Three Coins In The Fountain. (I don’t whistle well.) It is a song few know or remember. It is a Sinatra song and made popular at the same time the movie entitled Three Coins In The Fountain came out in 1954.

I immediately thought of my sisters, Becky and Charlene. They were teenagers then and if still alive would be in their 80s today.

They gushed over the male leads in the movie. The plot developed around three American girls who worked in Rome and hoped for love.

I remember my sisters singing the song when it came on the radio.

“Three coins in the fountain

Each one seeking happiness.

Thrown by three hopeful lovers.

Which one will the fountain bless.”

Likely they dreamed of venturing to Rome; finding happiness, blessings, and romance. They never went to Rome—and I hope they found the other things.

Anyway, I was just whistling and thinking about my two sisters and how much I miss them.

I've Been Gone

Well, not really; just sort of a break. Not really; been writing. And currently recovering (I hope) from COVID--bummer. 

Starting Monday, September 19th, my newest novel, A Place Called Serenity will be serialized. 

The setting is the first years after World War Two. Bo Tanner returns from the war. He tries to pick up on a life that barely started before going off to war. Bo trudges through life looking for answers and meaning. To reveal more; well you'll have to follow along.

Often folks wonder where novels spring from. I don't know about other folks. This novel comes from a time when I was very young. I remember the men who came back from the war and just went on as if nothing happened. They didn't tell war stories. In fact, it was the absence of war stories that fascinated me. 

Does it carry a message? Indeed, the absurdity of war. 

The goal, as in the past, is to post three episodes a week. Sometime before serialization is complete it will be made available in its entirety on Amazon.  

Hope ya'll enjoy. 

LGBTQ-Friendly; What Does That Mean?

I’ve noticed lately a few retail companies and restaurants post a notice they are LGBTQ-friendly. Does that mean they weren’t at one time and now they are? So they’re letting everybody know they are now? Are they now reformed? When did this reformation come about? How can we be sure every vestige of intolerance has been eradicated. What has happened to those former intolerant employees? Have they moved on to a competitor? This only creates too many unanswered questions.

If I were L, G, B, T, or Q it would start me thinking. Why all of a sudden are they so friendly? Have they got something up their sleeves? Are they trying to lure me in only to beat me up or exploit me?

Aren’t these places supposed to be friendly to everybody anyway? The old business motto used to be the customer is always right not the customer is always straight.

So if a place declares itself LGBTQ-friendly, are they unfriendly to “straights?” Just asking. Can a redneck, straight, homophobic guy expect the same level of service as a flaming, transgender, dike lover? Just asking.

No one in US society has ever been more discriminated against than blacks. Have we ever seen a retail company or restaurant proclaim they are “black friendly?” What about “Asian friendly?” What about “Jewish friendly?”

However, in one way, LGBTQ sounds like it’s the kind of place kids or straights ought to shy away from. You know, like those places that say, “Adults Only or Pretty Girls.” I don’t want anybody being “friendly” to me, one of my kids or, grandkids—if you know what I mean. Actually, a waitress, clerk, or stewardess being a little too “friendly” gives me pause for concern.

It’s all that they call virtue signally. It is their way of declaring their moral superiority over Hank’s Muffler Shop, who treats everybody the same except little old ladies who are a little short of cash.

Likely, I have an unusual way of looking at things, just treat everybody good. And I’m a little skeptical of people who feel compelled to proclaim they’re good and morally superior.

Manager Wanted

If we listen carefully to how a person responds to a simple greeting, it tells us a whole lot about that person. An unconsciousness and seemingly innocent response is the window into a person’s psyche; who the person really is—his soul.

For instance, you see an old acquaintance, Joe.

“How ya doin’, Joe?”

“I’m managin’.”

It sounds sort of lame. It almost sounds like Joe ain’t doin’ so good. But scratch below the surface.

That says a lot about Joe; he’s managing. Look around you; 90 % of the people you see from day to day aren’t managing it. They’re overworked, overdrawn, overextended, over mortgaged, overweight, and by the looks of things, over the hill. And they’re underpaid, under stress, underdressed, under-achieved, and under the gun. In other words, they ain’t managing it well but good ole Joe, “I’m managin’.”

Then you see Frank; haven’t seen Frank for about as long as you haven’t seen Joe.

“How ya doin’, Frank?”

“Hangin’ in there.”

It almost sounds like Frank and Joe are walking shoulder to shoulder in some sort of miserable mundane macrocosm of life as we know it today.

Let’s look at Frank’s words a little more closely; “Hangin’ in there?”

Where? Where’s Frank hanging? We know it’s not in a closet, from a streetlight, or from a flagpole; else we wouldn’t be seeing Frank. If he was hanging from a flagpole he could at least say, “Hey, I’m up here, hangin’ in there.” But Frank is lying. No rope, no chain, no hanger, no string, no hook. Frank is unreliable. Maybe he means he’s hanging out—but where? He’s not there. He’s not where he should be hanging. He should be there if he’s “hangin’ in there.” We don’t even know where there is. If it was here, we’d see Frank hanging off something. The least he could do is bring “there” with him, so we’d at least know where he is supposed to be hanging.

If I was hiring, I’d hire Joe before I’d hire Frank any day. At least Joe can manage.

Why Do Writers Write?

I don’t know why writers write. I’m speaking of creative writers.

Speaking for myself, it is much more than telling a story.

Personally, I only know of one other writer. Hours have been spent talking with him. He’s a good man. To me, he tries to make sense of the world through the use of his stories.

At times that requires manipulation of the facts. What I mean is to arrange things to make sense of something. It’s like the baseball batting order in the starting lineup; batters are arranged in the order that their skills are most needed. There’s an old adage often quoted by fiction writers. “life doesn’t make sense, fiction has to make sense.”

Many of my friend’s stories follow a common thread; the downtrodden and oppressed have more to offer than what others are willing to accept. There is goodness and value in all. Give all a chance because there is value in everyone. Like I said, he’s a good man.

There is so much more to be written on this subject. And by people who are more contemplative and deeper things than I.

As for me, some of my stories are often fiction but based on real things experienced or witnessed. However, I have a rule. When I write a story it is best to be considered fiction as described in the first sentence of this paragraph. When I tell a story it is factual and truthful remembered.

My novel, The Desperate Summer of '62, is somewhat autobiographical. The first chapter describes a time when Rich Larsen ate at a restaurant with two of his friends at the same time they went to a movie. In reality, the time at the restaurant took place a year later. However, everything else in the first chapter is as I remember. The reason for this manipulation of facts was to give more context to Rich Larsen’s personal conflicts.

My meandering thoughts boil down to a question an old high school buddy asked a few years back. “Why do you write these stories, an alter ego?” Tough question.

Like many artists; painters, sculptors, song writers, etc, they try to reshape reality in order to make sense of it. They want to discover the beauty, grace, and elegance of life and existence in a more perfect way.

Yes, I know, that is not the reasons for many but those are mine for the moment and they can be shared by whoever wants them.

It’s Not Writer’s Block, It’s Something Else

 I don’t ever recall having writer’s block. However, I’ve experienced writer’s—well, I don’t know what to call it. I just don’t feel like writing.

It’s a period I’m going through right now. I’m working on a novel. I have the direction to proceed. I really like the characters, setting, and plot.

Maybe it’s like ignoring a friend you really like but just don’t want to put the energy and emotion into engaging them. You always have a good time with them but you don’t always need a good time.

The feeling soon passes. Old friends get together and before you know it everything else in life has been placed on the back burner. You sort of catch up on what you have been avoiding.

I suspect I’ll get back to my novel. Those characters are in a crowded waiting room in my head waiting for me to give them life, dialogue, and thoughts. They don’t know where the story is going and likely some anxiety has set in.

Just in passing, I’ve started two characters as being near villains. But I couldn’t do it to them. One will remain a pain in the neck but there will be sympathy for him. You have to do good wherever you can.

Writer’s Neglect is what I’ll call it. And that’s what it will remain until something more descriptive comes along. 

People Worship The Grass They Walk On

 People who spend more time on their lawn than with people are sick. They are to be avoided but don’t worry, if you are not one of them they will avoid you anyway.

“Grass worshipers” is what a couple of friends called them. And it fits.

Grass worshipers have lawn globes. That’s where they worship and sacrifice earthworms to the great grass god and founder of Scott’s Miracle-Gro, Orlando Scott. 

For the grass worshiper, the globe serves several purposes. First, it is their place of worship. It is their holy shrine. It is their statue of Mary. Sometime between midnight and sunup grass worshipers bow down to the holy lawn globe. It gives strength, vitality, and a brighter shade of green to their grass. Second, grass worshipers believe the lawn globe is an intergalactic communication medium. This is where messages are transmitted from the cosmos; “Use more nitrogen.” Third, the lawn globe is a beacon for intergalactic space transport. When “they” come. That’s where “they” will be attracted. It is a friendly beacon from earthly believers. The grass worshipers will be spared what is destined to occur. Grass worshipers have actually been known to have been abducted by little green humanoids. 

The grass people are competitive about their lawns. They always brag about it. If you say you don’t care, you are marked as an infidel. 

They take care of their lawns for no other reason than to make themselves superior to others. Conversion is not their purpose; it’s separation. If you make any attempt whatsoever to prove your lawn better they will spray it with grass killer as you sleep.

They will mow when not needed and trim closer than a barber giving a six-week haircut.  They do it for no other reason than to convince others their grass is really growing that fast. They’ve been known to mow three times in one day.

Grass worshipers don’t ever use their lawn for recreation—it’s hallowed ground. You will never see one with a croquet set or volleyball net. 

They can’t bear to watch golf or baseball on real grass. They can’t imagine walking on grass in spikes or cleats. It would be like a vegan watching a Ted Nugent video.

Here’s all a person needs to do to care for their lawn; a used mower and spray tank of weed killer. The weed killer is for the trim.

If you have to mow more than once a week you’re living wrong. Most folks I know work on a ten-day cycle. That way you ruin only about one weekend a month. And if you’re really lucky it will be raining that weekend.

All kidding aside, I respect a person who cares for their lawn. Without a lawn, they could be doing something else that may actually bring harm to others. 

Yet, we want to get along in the world around us; be a good neighbor, and don’t cause needless offense. For that reason mow your grass but reasonably. Once a week is enough.

You might even buy a trimmer. The sound will put a grass worshiper to sleep. 

You don’t have to be a jerk or join their cult; just mow your lawn.

I just don’t want them lecturing me on fertilizers, pre-emergents, and aeration methods. They have their religion and I have mine.