I am nearing the completion of my novel Snow Babies. The editor, Jessie Cornwell, sent it back to me with the third read-through completed. I am now closing in on a completed final draft ready to go to print. And I am posting this post to acknowledge that the character of the hobo with the quilted jacket for a coat is indeed me. Well, as close to being me as a fictional character who may or may not be an angel can come. I admit I am probably not as good as Lucky Catbird Sandman is good.
But I am a man who is basically a Walt Whitman-type poet-y sort of man in a cartoony sort of way. That is what the Catbird really is.
He wears a coat of many colors which is made up of many varicolored patches. Each patch in the crazy quilt of his coat stands for a memory of the many people he has known and the problems he has solved. He helps the main character of the story, a small-town Iowa girl named Valerie Clarke, as her little town is besieged by a terrible blizzard. The Trailways bus is stranded near the town, and on the bus are four orphan boys, running away to nowhere and desperately needing the intervention of the angels to help them escape the lives they’ve left behind. Catbird spins miracles out of random things and random snatches of Walt Whitman’s poetry. He carries around a copy of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, and he quotes from it like a Bible. So, he is a me-character because he was born in my goofy brain and represents no real person living or dead. He is more of a literary device than a man… just like me. And that is notable because all the other players in the story are based on real people that I have known, either in Iowa or Texas, real people who have been a significant part of my real life.
I believe this is why the novel is the most important thing I have ever written. It is because, if I ever found any real worthy wisdom to spread around like jam on bread, it is to be found in this book. It is the best thing I have ever written and published. At least, so far. And the mysterious stranger character, the man in the coat of many colors, Catbird… is me. Judge for yourself if I am not like him.
It was “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” night last night, because the Princess’ middle school band was expected to attend the football game and participate in the Newman Smith Trojans’ halftime show experience. This of course took me away from where my heart was really located, as the St. Louis Cardinals took on the Chicago Cubs in their first ever playoff game. Seriously, the Cubbies have never taken on the Cards in the whole history of baseball playoffs because they are in the same division and the wild card format had never brought them into playoff conflict before now. Okay, before my brain bursts in cardinal red flames, the redbirds won and I only missed a fantastic playoff performance by pitcher John Lackey. The band thing simply had to take precedence.
So, we went to Standridge Stadium to watch the football team from the high school where number one son did his four years. They were doomed from the outset. The one and four Trojans were facing the Woodrow Wilson Wildcats who had reversed the Trojans’ record, winning four and losing only one. The opening drive for a touchdown by the Wildcats let me know immediately that there would be no hope. And then the Trojan kick returner fumbled the kickoff that followed. It was going to be a long night in Trojan town. And yet, it wasn’t. The boys in green were able to intercept a pass and run their way back down the field to tie the game up. It proved that the real way to win the game was for one side to be bright enough to never throw the dang ball. What happened next was a horrible mishmash of long runs and end-arounds punctuated by pass interceptions and penalties. At the half, the Trojans were behind 14 to 7.
That brought us to the real event, the band performing at halftime. Number one son had always adored the band program at Newman Smith. Their marching band was award-winning and top-rated super-spiffy. Dorin, my number one son, worked hard for four years to help them stay a number one rated band while he was in high school. My daughter is seriously considering following in his footsteps. But the band competition between Woodrow and Newman Smith was far more lopsided than the football game. Only in our direction.
You can kinda see in the picture how pitifully small and powerless their band really was. Of course, it didn’t help that they were facing away toward the visitor’s side, only showing us their little band butts during the entirety of their show. And you see how their little red ants on either side of the marching band outnumber them? Those little midget girls (apparently you made the girls’ dance team based on not being over four feet tall in high school) numbered about a hundred. And all they did was turn around in circles and wave little sticks with blue and silver Christmas-tree tinsel on the ends. The band performed their UIL competition routine entitled “Elvis on Mars”, or “Sram no Sivle” as their signs read from our point of view. Their routine even included a boogie dance where the band put their horns and stuff down to wiggle their behinds at us. How is that marching? They weren’t even playing music at that point.
So, we came to the performance of the Mighty Trojan Band, and the performances of “Main Street America” and “Maestro” seemed to be marching band times twelve by comparison. They actually marched in formation and impressed with a loud, bold, and highly musical sound. Their lines were crisp and their corners sharp and my wife and I really appreciated that they haven’t lost their edge even a little bit since Dorin played the mellophone among them.
The marching band performance made the effort and expense worth it for the evening. We thoroughly enjoyed it. And then, like good band parents, we proceeded to go home after halftime. Football game? What about it? That’s not why we went there. Yet, the team had other ideas. They ran the second half kickoff three quarters of the way to the goal line. And they put on an unstoppable running game that took them down into the red zone. And as we were exiting, they scored the tying touchdown.
“Do you want to stay and watch the game?” my wife asked with eyes that told me the answer had to be “no.” And I did not feel particularly well from sitting in the cold wind on metal stadium benches. So I let the aches and pains over-rule the game watching mania that nearly claimed me. We went home. I later learned that the Trojans lost in double overtime. Dang! But we won the battle of the bands hands down.
Yesterday was the bottom of the valley of a hard week. I have to climb another mountain to get out. And I can’t afford the psychiatrist I need because the health insurance we have gave us strict guidelines to follow for choosing one, and no one in our area fits their requirements. My car is showing warning lights again, and I am afraid to take it in. It runs fine. But I don’t need that warning light giving any of the local mechanics the idea that they can charge me large fees for car parts and service hours when they might not actually be needed. Money is running out and I do not have the good enough health required to get even a part time job. I write a lot. But my writing career at this point is an expense, not an income. Many shattered pieces to this puzzle. But I did finish the putting together of the latest grand Paffooney, the portrait of Mary and the Invisible Captain Dettbarn.
So, how will I put everything back together? My family depends on me doing so. The old puzzle piecer must never give up and must always keep puzzling, fitting bizarre piece to jagged hole. You may have noticed that this post is short of the 500-word goal, but a picture is worth a thousand words, and I have created two original pictures for this post. And there is poetry pieced together by the penultimate alliteration of the proud letter “P”.
Sometimes the Greek god Pan attacks with darts of fear and suffering. Sometimes what has happened in the past comes back to bite us in the rear for no other reason than the bulldog of horrible past experiences does not know how to let go once his jaw is clamped tight to the seat of your pants.
Mental illness is not taken seriously enough in American society. We tend to think that every man, woman, and child ought to always be in control of themselves and never subject to bouts of craziness for which they can not be held responsible. I joke a lot about being crazy. I am not normal in any sense of the word. But my own real mental challenges are no worse than depression caused by diabetes. I get blue a lot. But that is nothing compared to what blew up in my face today. Have you ever seen somebody who is catatonic? Curled up in a ball and unable sit up and stop shaking? And what are you supposed to say to that poor sufferer? What can you do to help? Especially when they are no longer able to communicate with you, hear what you say, or even look at you. It is frightening.
And I can’t even tell more than this. The way we view this kind of problem in our society is a problem in itself. Depression and irrational fear can destroy the entire day for everyone involved. And the persons involved are shamed by what has happened. The solutions to this kind of problem always involve talking about it and discussion. But our society does not want to talk about these things. We are all afraid of slipping into the horror of the Oregon shooter, even though that is not even remotely connected to the problem and the things that happened today. The stigma is crippling. People don’t tend to face this kind of problem until it happens to them or to somebody they love.
The word panic is derived from the Greek god Pan. In mythology, Pan was a god of the forest and wild things, especially herd animals. He was generally a jovial and fun-loving sort, but if you happened on him while he was sleeping, he would awake with a sudden shout, and that shout caused forest animals to stampede. Thus the Greek word “panikon” meaning sudden fear became the word panic. Apparently I stumbled on Pan today and suffered the consequences. I am feeling trampled at present. Don’t worry, though. I have survived. And things that don;t kill us make us stronger. That is what convinced me that I am really Superman, and have only forgotten that fact because of some unfortunate kryptonite exposure.
Well, I almost got a ticket in a school zone this morning. The sun was in my eyes and I was driving a steady 31 miles an hour in a twenty mile per hour zone. Fortunately the young officer apparently was fooled by my decrepit old man act (which I do incredibly well because I have had arthritis for forty years and I look like death warmed over in the morning… and I am not actually acting). I was let off with a warning and threats of a beating next time. Portents of bad times continue. I have another oil change warning light on my dashboard even though I just had the old Ford Fiesta at the dealer last week, having the engine put back in because Walmart blew it up. The conspiracy theorist in me was noticing particularly odd-shaped contrails in the skies over Garland and East Dallas. I have been told by fellow conspiracy theorists that the guvvamint is spraying nano-particles in the upper atmosphere to fix global warming so they don’t have to admit it exists and was caused by aliens. And I can believe these tinfoil hatters because they showed me proof that the CIA has altered their DNA with fluoridated water. Nobody could have that pointy of a pin-head without guvvamint help. So life continues to treat me the way Bugs Bunny treats Elmer Fudd. And I feel slapped silly.
But here’s the important thing;
Followed by;
And then;
So you can see that I haven’t given up yet. My flower petals burst with color. And the seeds that I have planted continue to grow and blossom anew.
I have told you repeatedly (if you are foolish enough to read more of my blog than is probably healthy for normal people) that I am a pessimist. Like Benjamin Franklin, I believe it is best to always prepare for the worst that can happen and actually expect it. With current gun laws in this nation, and the way corrupt politicians and businessmen continue to profit off the suffering of the rest of us, and people’s basic selfishness and cruelty to others in word, thought, and deed, we rarely get a glimpse of anything but the worst of human nature. We are never disappointed when we expect the worst to happen. And yet, since I am never taken by surprise by bad things, only by unexpected good things, all that is surprising is wonderful and made up of very good things. Human beings are capable of amazing goodness and works of wonder, not in spite of their many failings, but because of them. The miracle of life is how the lowly worm turns into a beautiful butterfly. How the tiny brown seed becomes the brightly colored blossom in a vast field of other flowers.
When I tell others that I believe that people are basically good and that I believe all students can learn, I often get an argument. Mass shooters like we had last week and wars and terrorists crop up by the multitudes in order to refute my belief. People who think I am an atheist tell me i’m being a hypocrite to think we should operate our lives around facts and proof and then hold a difficult-to-prove belief like this. Maybe it is an act of faith… but an act of faith that my theocratic friends call a belief in humanism, which they prefer to see as something from Satan. Well, I do believe in God. I just don’t believe in a god who waves a magic wand and intervenes. I believe that God Jehovah (or possibly Allah or the godhead or whatever you want to name Him) made us like the flower seed, meant to grow and transform, and to be winnowed like grain by the winds and rains of life experience. Not all flowers blossom. But more of them do when you water and weed and nurture them. And what is true for flowers is true for men and women. What can I say more about human beings to convince you that I am not wrong to be in awe of them… even the weedy ones? Probably nothing. If you are not open to such ideas, you haven’t read this far. But whether you read this far or not, I am fascinated by you, and will always want to know more. And I am not going to start a new church or something. I am merely going to continue to watch and to wonder.
Today is a this-and-that post because I am juggling so many things with at least one hand tied behind my back. And because this morning, (as you can see in my sunrise photo) the sky is red. You don’t believe in signs and portents, you say? Well, neither do I. Still, the old saying is, “red sky in morning, sailors take warning.” Are there rough times directly ahead? Rough seas? Hard sailing? I wonder.
My favorite sports teams, the St. Louis Baseball Cardinals and the Arizona Football Cardinals have both been the best in the business in the really-recent past. The baseball team has won 100 games and goes into the World Series playoffs expected by many to win it all. Yet, they ended the season on a three-game losing streak with two of their best pitchers taking losses. The football team, along with my all-time favorite football player, Larry Fitzgerald, had been cruising along undefeated at a totally dominating pace. Yesterday they lost by two point to the St. Louis Rams. Both teams are still sitting pretty in enviable positions in their respective sports. Yet there are portents of doom.
My home continues to crumble and my own personal health is up and down and super-iffy. The city gave us notice of a program to help with repairs and maintenance, but we make too much money to qualify. And we still don’t have any money in the bank thanks to health-related expenses. My body aches and my head spins frequently, but I am going to have to get back up on the ladder and finish painting the house.
So, what shall I do about it all? Grim omens scare me and slow me down, but I grit my teeth and pitch in. I have repainted the four shutters for the back of the house and re-hung two of them yesterday. I can still paint and do work on the house. Amazing things can be accomplished a little bit at a time. After all, I put up new siding on the back of the house last year at this time working with only my sons and my daughter to help. I managed to do it all before the city’s deadline and threatened thousand-dollar fine (because it only makes sense to fine people that much when they have no money to fix the outside of the house.) I will beat whatever new deadlines they give me too. But it is a good sign that they want to help and haven’t hit me with any new deadlines yet.
And I will double down on writing work. I sent Snow Babies back to the editor Saturday, and I am closing in on getting that book in print. I am getting back to work on the prequel, When the Captain Came Calling, and I even started a new character illustration, depicting Mary Philips and the invisible sea captain. Here is the pen and ink drawing;
And here is the first of the color I have completed;
So maybe portents are not always bad things. Maybe the sky is red because it is the color of cardinals, and things are looking up for the boys wearing red. Cardinals are the little red birds that sing sweetly and never fly away when the winter comes. We cardinals take on all comers and maybe we will win it all for the 12th time… or the 1st time since the 1950’s… or the first time ever. After all, the sky is red.
My childhood was shaped by television events like the annual showing of The Wizard of Oz and classic movies on Friday nights when I was allowed to stay up past my bedtime to watch the whole thing. I have told you before how much I loved the comedy of Red Skelton. Another comedian who shaped who I am through his wondrously manic movie performances was Danny Kaye.
One of those Friday movie classics that really struck home was the wonderful, kid-friendly movie Hans Christian Andersen.
1952 movie poster from Wikipedia
The movie was about a storyteller from a previous century and embroidered his biographical story with his famous children’s stories in the form of songs. And Danny Kaye could trip through multi-syllabic, fast-paced musical numbers like no other rubber-faced clown I have ever seen. I wanted to be such a story-teller from a very early age. I even wanted to write the kind of stories that could be made into songs. Let me show you a few of the bits that amazed me and killed me with laughter.
This song from the Inspector General was doubly engaging because the corrupt businessmen were trying to poison the character Danny played with the wine he was supposed to drink during the drinking song.
The movies Danny Kaye was in were mostly about the musical comedy. But sometimes they were just about the music. He appeared in musicals like White Christmas with Bing Crosby and stage musicals like Lady in the Dark which won him awards on Broadway. He made movies about music like The Five Pennies and A Song is Born. He always said he couldn’t read music, but he demonstrated perfect pitch and scored a number one hit with The Woody Woodpecker Song recorded for the animated cartoons of Walter Lantz. How cool is that?
And you already know that The Wizard of Oz is my favorite movie of all time. In 1964 Danny became the host for CBS’s annual showing of the film. He was able to do funny songs that made you snort your hot cocoa through your nose from laughing, and he could also do beautiful ballads like these.
I will always take the opportunity to watch a Danny Kaye movie one more time, whether it comes on YouTube or a Netflix oldie or a $5 DVD from the bin at the front of the Walmart Superstore. And I will always think of him in his role as Hans Christian Anderson.
Oh, and he was a very funny comedian too when he wasn’t singing, as in The Court Jester and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.
I have been working on final edits for my novel Snow Babies. I have also been struggling with diabetes, arthritis, and COPD. At the same time, I have been writing up a storm on my blog and posting all kinds of incredibly goofy and somewhat creative stuff. So today is a break without leaving a hole in my goal of posting a blog post every single day of 2015. I have to go all the way to Balch Springs, Texas today for a flag football game. So, if you are disappointed with this meager post, go back and look at any of the other recent posts you may have missed. I’m not saying they are worth the effort, but wasting your time is what I do.
I was a teacher, once upon a time. I learned to do the job correctly. I think I earned the pay they gave me. I think I choose to believe at least a few of those kids who told me, “Mr. B, you were the best teacher I ever had.” I’m not full of myself and conceited or anything. But the world needs good teachers. And I think I answered the call.
But I had to give it up. I am not well enough to even be a substitute teacher. I can’t breathe very well. My body is wracked with arthritis pain. I am subject to bouts of depression brought on by chronic pain. And I am worried that it is a job which has become so very much harder to do. Politics and people’s opinions of teachers and the sacrifices you have to make in pay for your work are all making teaching an impossibly hard job. I fear that more and more it is being populated not by the best and brightest, the ones who love teaching kids, rather it is a place for losers. A job held by people that were trapped by mistakes they made or lack of real choices. A job that they don’t take up as “holy mission from God”, but as a way to get by. Too many people are taking up teaching so they can fake it and pick up a paycheck. They hate the job. They hate the kids. And there is no joy in Mudville.
So here is the best thing that I can say or do to try to help this problem. Read this plea and seriously think about doing it. Become a teacher! It is the most important thing you could ever do. And who, exactly am I talking to? Well, you made the mistake of reading this far, didn’t you? If you are young and have your life ahead of you, especially if you are brilliant enough to be reading my obscure little posts on my obscure little blog, you have to realize that becoming a teacher is about more than building your own personal career castle. It is about guiding future generations in the pouring of concrete, the shoring up with strong wooden and stone pillars, and the laying of strong foundations for their own castles. The castle you build will never be as grand as the castles you will help others to build.
Neuschwanstein castle will look like a sandcastle next to those. I can testify that there is no more satisfying experience than seeing a child you taught grow and thrive and become a worthy citizen of the world.
And I know some of you are smugly thinking that, “He’s not talking to me. He’s just talking to those young goobers headed to college or not sure what they want to do with their lives.” Not at all. I am talking to you too. No adult is immune to the needs of the young. Every act of every day can be used to show the way. Read to a kid. Tell them that story about that time your Uncle Everett learned the hard way that raising chinchillas was not the road to riches and easy money, that it came with numerous foul-tempered rodent bites. Spend time with them. Get to know them. And if you are like me and have lost your good health and your access to kids other than your own, then write it all down in your blog, all the stuff that you know. It will help them and heal them and give them wisdom to grow. If that sounds like Dr. Seuss stuff… well, that’s because it is. Dr. Seuss was one of the best teachers I ever had.
I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe I just told you all to be teachers. I am alone during the school day, feeling ill and feeling depressed. I strut and fret my hour upon the stage (of the front of the classroom) no more. But what can I do about it? I just did it. And I feel better!
I am nearing the completion of my novel Snow Babies. The editor, Jessie Cornwell, sent it back to me with the third read-through completed. I am now closing in on a completed final draft ready to go to print. And I am posting this post to acknowledge that the character of the hobo with the quilted jacket for a coat is indeed me. Well, as close to being me as a fictional character who may or may not be an angel can come. I admit I am probably not as good as Lucky Catbird Sandman is good.
Catch a Falling Star 