I don’t remember the specific date when I used the Magic Transporter for the last time, but I think I was about eight or nine. I do remember the events that were going on the night it happened.
My dad was very interested in the space program. So, if some event was going on, he’d call me into the living room to watch it on TV. I’d sit on the floor and listen to Walter Cronkite as I watched whatever NASA was up to on that particular mission. On that evening, the lunar lander had landed safely on the moon, but there was a lengthy delay between landing and when someone actually stepped out of the capsule. That knowledge narrows it down a little, since there were six crewed landings between 1969 and 1972.
I recall laying on the floor in front of the TV, and covered up with a woobie my dad had brought home. I remember Cronkite talking with his cast of experts and broadcasting live audio from Mission Control. Every radio transmission ended with a distinctive beep.
At some point, I no longer heard the beeps as exhaustion overtook me and I fell asleep.
What happened next was something almost everyone can relate to. Somehow, after falling asleep in one place, you mysteriously found yourself in your own bed, tucked under the covers, when you awoke the next morning. Of course, folks who were kids before Star Trek began in 1966 had to call it something else besides the Magic Transporter. Whatever you call it, it was an experience many of us share and I count this among the many wonderful memories I have of my childhood.
When I became a father, I found out what it was like on the other end of that magic, when I served as Magic Transporter for my children, taking them from wherever they fell asleep to their bed. Just like me, not one of them questioned how that magic happened. They just accepted it as part of life and went on.
Night before last, I served as transporter again. I had rocked my youngest granddaughter to sleep and with that mission accomplished I picked her up, put her in her bed, and covered her up. The next morning, she made no mention of the magic that moved her from one place to another. I know at some point in the future, she will take over my role and I hope that when she does, she remembers her rides on the Magic Transporter fondly.
By the way, something is simple as my dad sharing his interest in space, led to my own interest in it. Which, probably led to me taking my son to Space Camp. Yes, it is a real place.
Whenever a discussion takes place about what and when you began reading, I’ve always said the first book I ever read was Dr. Seuss’s Green Eggs and Ham. It was the very first book I ever read by myself, and, since we are far beyond any statute of limitations. I'll admit it was the first book I ever accidentally stole from the library. I had the book checked out from the Ft Ord Elementary School library, then a few days later my father got orders and we were moving to a new base. Somehow, the book got packed with everything else in my room and I never returned it. My bad.
Even though Dr. Seuss’s book was my first book, it wasn’t my first novel. It never really occurred to me which complete novel I read first into low was writing my last entry. The very first novel that I read from beginning to end and owned several copies over the course of my life (not stolen from a library) was S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders. It wasn’t something we studied in class; it wasn’t something I read in the report on for extra credit, nor was it something that anyone recommended to me. While I was looking through the books in the Scholastic Books flyer, I discovered it and ordered it.
I am far beyond doing a report on that book now, so if you’re not familiar with it I would recommend you check out the write up on Wikipedia. It is kind of amazing that the book was still in the flyer considering it was released originally in 1967, and I discovered it in 1973.
The book’s Tulsa, Oklahoma setting coincided with my time living on Ft. Sill, but aside from that and the fact that I was also fourteen, there was not really a lot of similarity between my life and Ponyboy Curtis’. I did not have older brothers; I was not in a gang, and both of my living parents were alive. What drew me into the book was the things he was going through emotionally and the common situations that all junior high school students run into. All the way down to the girl named Cherry who was from a different part of town but somehow ended up with Ponyboy. It was exactly the right book at exactly the right time. The next year, I was dealing with a similar situation with a girl from the civilian side of town. I’m sad to say I don’t remember if her name was Jennifer or Jessica, but I’ll never forget her beautiful, long, red hair.
What the book provided to me during that period of my life was reinforcement that all the things I was feeling were not just being felt by me. Those years can be difficult for some, and confusing to all. A little reassurance that you are not alone in what you feel is beneficial and helps you move forward. Books like movies sometimes just come to you at the right time.
Immediately upon finishing the first reading of the book, I read it again. There’s only been a few books that triggered immediate second reading. The thing was, I needed to know the characters and situations better. Not that I had poor reading comprehension, but the book was so important to me, I wanted to make sure I had missed nothing. Looking back, I don’t remember if I discovered anything or not. Since that time, I’ve read the book a few more times, and I took time to see Francis Ford Coppola’s movie version of the story. While the movie was okay, I’m glad I discovered the book first.
I read the sequel to the book, That Was Then, This Is Now, but I've never read Rumble Fish, the next S.E. Hinton book. I went from those books to My Darling, My Hamburger, which I thought was written by S.E. Hinton, but it was by Paul Zindel. From there, I moved on to topics that varied widely. I remember reading Go Ask Alice, and several other books about teenage drug abuse and teen pregnancy. Luckily, I guess these books served as warnings to me and I avoided those pitfalls.
It was somewhere after I started high school in Virginia that what I read became wide and varied, limited only to what I could find in the library. At that point I had become such a ferocious reader there was no way I could afford to buy everything and at some point, during this period Scholastic Books flyers disappeared. I also went through stages, reading only biographies or history, then on to horror, then fiction set in the present day. Even now, I have a tendency to read three books at once: one self-improvement or philosophy, one history, and one just for fun. I can we hope that kids in middle and junior high school are discovering the joy of reading in whatever way they can. It broadens the possibility that they will find a wide range of topics that interest them and makes for a more well-rounded life.
When my son was attending H.H. Arnold Middle School in Wiesbaden Germany, his teacher assigned the book not only as required reading but they spent an entire semester trying to understand the nuances of what it meant to be a Greaser or Soc. Because I wanted to discuss the book with him knowledgeably, if he chose to, I bought a new copy of the book and read it again. I could connect with him about the book, and that made it even more special to me. I’m wondering now if he will turn his kids on to The Outsiders.
Finding our that S.E. Hinton is a woman wasn't a disturbing revelation. I never really thought about it back then and when I found this out years later, my reaction was no reaction. She captured the emotion and I could relate to it. That’s what matters. Check here for more on S. E. Hinton.
In my last entry, I talked about one of the who contributed to my enjoying reading and writing, Mr. Przygocki. The other was my 8th grade literature teacher, Ms. DeLong. I talked about them in the foreword to my book POMSILv2, but it was pointed out to me I never mentioned them here. Today, I fix that.
Ms. DeLong, my eighth-grade Literature teacher, introduced me to my favorite kind of written storytelling––the short story. I was attending Central Junior High in Lawton, Oklahoma (Go Cougars!) and like most 8th graders I was gradually turning into the human I’d be versus the kid I’d been until now. As I mentioned before, I had no great athletic talent, but I had a love of reading.
We spent a lot of time in Literature class reading passages aloud from our anthology. Since I was good at sight-reading, I’d get bored waiting on my turn and thumbed ahead through the book, looking at the other titles. Because of the short time between having to read segments and waiting for others, I sought titles that were not overly long.
The book contained an extensive mix of literary types, including excerpts from novels, poems, plays, newspaper articles. I focused on the short stories because I could skim a couple of pages and get away with it. I tore through the macabre and suspense stories first and then on to humor. When the Scholastic Books flyers came around every month, I sought short stories and soon had a dogeared collection on my bookshelf. I also read the unwritten required novel of my generation, The Outsiders, by S.E. Hinton. Throughout my life I’ve spent thousands of hours discovering in each a new world and finding myself immersed in the joy of reading, thanks to Ms. Delong.
Harold Przygocki was my high school English teacher at Denbigh High School in Denbigh, Virginia (Go Patriots!). On the first day of class, he made us learn to spell and pronounce his name properly, then he assigned a weekly 500-word original essay. This met with much moaning and groaning from the student side of the room. After all, we are being told we needed to write an essay the same length as War and Peace every week. In truth, 500 words are about five or six paragraphs of three or four sentences each. Not even close to the number of words Tolstoy wrote. 587,287 words to be exact.
After a few weeks, the initial shock went away, and I got into the routine. It gradually came to like the assignment. I figured out that an essay could be a story and sometimes could be longer. I enjoyed writing stories and trying to fit them into a 500-word container. Some were good, and some weren’t, but it didn’t matter. The assignment taught me that if you were going to write; you needed to write. Writing is a muscle that needs exercise to use it optimally.
Before I wrote my first novella, I prepared myself by writing 500 words a week to get my writing skills in shape. It was one of those lessons you don’t appreciate at the time, but you realize its value years later.
Both teachers affected the reader and writer I am today. I appreciate both.
NOTE: One other teacher I wrote about was Charlotte Naffin who I had for four years of Latin. Last year, Mr. Przygocki celebrated his 100th birthday. He’s still going strong. I used his name for one of the characters in my book Ferdinand's Gold.
Every Monday, I take a
seat in my writer’s garret and with keyboard in hand try to capture things that
have been wandering my mind from the week before. If I find myself without a
topic, I have a list of things I thought about before; on weeks when multiple
subjects came to mind. Today is a rare exception. I lack a subject and nothing
on the list interests me enough to devote my time and energy to explore the
nuances that interested me to begin with. In short, I’ve spent the last three
hours surfing the web and listening to music.
It’s not a bad way to pass
the time, but getting my blog entry done is serious business. After all, there
are not millions of dollars at stake and if I cannot get something written, calamities
will not befall all of humanity. Or will it? Maybe so, maybe not, but is it
worth the risk? Probably not. I mean I’m still troubled by occasional memories
of things I did in the third grade which should’ve ended with my apology — guilt
for adverse reactions as result of my actions or inactions is a given for me.
So here is sit.
My writer’s garret
contains many toys, lights, and various other things that I enjoy having
around. I've talked about my Zoo, and on days like today sometimes
let my imagination room as my eyes move from one figure to the next. I have
three lava lamps that, after a few hours provide visual entertainment as lava moves
up and down within the colored oil. These lamps were on my wish list since I
was an adolescent, and as is with many things I eventually bought it for myself
when I was able. I’m pleased I finally have them. Autographed mementos line the
walls. I can trace each one back to a specific concert or movie which lies
somewhere on my list of favorites.
One productive thing that happened
while I was sitting here was that I finally ordered a replacement set of
speakers for my computer system. After all, the ones I have and use came with
the Dell computer I bought back in 2000. After 25 years, it was time for an
upgrade, plus the subwoofer had failed several years ago, but because of the
way the system works I still had to keep it in place or the speakers wouldn’t
work. I do not know who manufactured the speakers I have, but the ones coming
in are Bose, which guarantees they will be a step up.
It’s about time to get up
and fix myself some lunch. Then I need to get ready to take my recyclables to
the recycle place so that they can be recycled. In short, it’s time I close out
this entry.
In the forward to POMSILv2, I talk about my high school English
teacher, Mr. Przygocki, and his weekly assignment of a 500-word essay. In the
years since school, I believe such an assignment is a good way to keep writing
muscles in shape. So, all in all I have completed something today. I did my
workout. 542 words worth.
My daughter recently mentioned she felt it was important for children to travel. I couldn’t agree more. I think travel is one of the most mind and spirit expanding things a person can do.
Growing up as a military brat, traveling was just part of the way life was lived. The major benefit of doing it that way, opposed to vacation traveling, was you usually got at least a year at a location. There was time enough to feel at home and enjoy it.
Since travel was a given, my parents made sure I got whatever opportunities were available at each location. One of the most unusual was archery. My Dad was a bow hunter (standard longbow), but we lived anywhere he could teach me that skill. However, on Fort Benning (one of the most opportunity rich environments for dependent, or at least it was) the Youth Activity Center (YAC) had an archery class. So, among the other things I was signed up for while we were stationed was that class.
Every Saturday, me and about 20 other brats got together at the archery range. This was a dedicated archery range, not a multi-use field, with in-ground quivers at one end of the field and huge targets on the other. The first couple of classes were in a classroom, and we learned about different bows, various arrow tips, and how important the arrow’s feathers were. The instructor also covered basic safety rules to avoid accidents and emphasized the importance of the Range Master.
The Range Master owned the range and his commands were absolute. He told us when to load the arrow into the bow (Nock), pull back the bowstring (Draw), and fire (Loose). In general, he maintained order and told us when it was safe to retrieve our arrows from down range. Many years later, I learned the military rifle range management practices mirrored the Archery Range Master’s practices. I will say, at no time while I was there was anyone shot with an arrow accidentally.
When we finally got onto the range, we learned how to use elevation to get our arrows into the center of the target and how to adjust aim for wind. It may sound kind of trivial now, but at the time they were all important lessons to putting that arrow into the center of the target. My memory may just be sweetening the experience, but I don’t recall ever completely missing the target. Of course, that doesn’t mean it was in the bulls-eye every time either.
Years later, it became popular to give everyone a trophy just for participating, but in order to get a patch from YAC had to earn it. Military bases then were big on rewarding with a patch versus a trophy. I earned a patch for hitting the bull’s-eye x number of times. I recall getting quite a few patches growing up, but few of them got sewn on.
I can recall only a handful of times since that archery class when I picked up a bow and arrow. It’s just something that went by the wayside over the years, but still remains a fond and vivid memory. An experience I had when I was a kid that not everybody gets to do.
My fondest memory of my time in archery class was getting my first kiss from the blonde daughter of my dad’s Commanding Officer. I’ll never forget Mary Ellen Anderson. Maybe a combination of the two experiences is where my admiration of Robin Hood began.
In May 1990, I walked off the stage of Havens Auditorium in Kokomo for the last time. I never expected to reenter the theatre as I was about to move, but I felt immense satisfaction when I took my last curtain call as King Arthur in Camelot. Now, 34 years later, I walked back into Havens through the front door versus the stage door. I was going to see my granddaughter begin her performance journey.
I wasn’t really familiar with the audience side of the theater, but I don't think there had been any major changes. Havens was full of parents, siblings, and grandparents who’d come to see their family member perform. My pride is why I called this her performance when, in reality, it was a performance of several groups of students from the local dance studio. That meant there’d be several performances before and after my granddaughter’s class made their appearance. That’s okay, young kids performing for the first time publicly need all the applause they can get.
As a people watcher, this was an entertaining environment. You could easily tell which parents and relatives had kids currently on the stage. Loud applause, cheering and calling their child’s name, as they leaned forward in their seats enraptured in the performance before them. As someone who didn’t do team sports growing up, it was great to see parents giving the same energy this as those who might sit in the bleachers watching their kids on the field.
When I watched my granddaughter dance with her group of peers, it'd be expected for me to claim she was the most talented kid up there. However, I realized that objectively a lot of what I was seeing was simply her genuine talent, not just my familial pride.
She held her head up and looked at the audience. You could tell she was concentrating on what she was doing by the expressions on her face, but that was also an outward reflection of the inner workings driving her performance. She radiated calm and confidence. While some kids were a bit confused and stopped between various routines to prepare for the next action (which is normal for a first performance on stage) she flowed fluidly from one thing to the next. Did she remember all the routines, or was it just that she knew her motions needed to be tied together rather than seen as separate bits? She has stage presence.
When the show was over, we met backstage to present her with flowers; she had done an exceptional job and deserved the praise. More than that, she now owned that stage and I was okay passing it on to her, as she deserved to be there.
From the first time I took the stage as a Kindergartener (toy soldier in a Christmas play) I felt the electricity that is live performing. Throughout my life, I have found great joy being on stage, and it has been my go-to place for recharging and rebirth. Be it a theatre with a large cast, a club or coffeehouse with just a friend or two, or in a train station or around a campfire with just my guitar I have found great satisfaction in that connection with an audience be they large or small. Some of us have been fortunate enough to thrive on the exchange of energy that feeds the performer while entertaining the watcher.
The only two things I wanted to do on stage which I never got around to were sword fighting and tap dancing. Not sure I will ever get around to those, but that’s okay. As I hand off the spotlight to my insanely talented granddaughter, I know she will do that and more.
The highest praise I ever received came from a fellow performer, years after we had on stage together. She called me a natural on stage. Thanks but I’m not really one to judge that, Susie. However, I have no doubts that my granddaughter is a natural performer.
Terri was my first adolescent crush. Her brown hair was long
and straight, her eyes a dazzling blue, and she possessed a beautiful smile,
which was in the process of being made into an awesomely straight smile by sets
of braces on both top and bottom. Her solitary imperfection was being my best
friend’s girlfriend — until it happened. One magnificent Friday afternoon, he
broke up with her. Later, he confided in me he did this because he wanted to go
out with a different girl. Since Mark wished to ensure a smooth transition from
one girl to the next, he felt breaking up with Terri hours before his first
date with the other girl was the smart way to make it all happen while leaving
everyone happy about it. His logic, not mine. Looking back, still pretty
stupid.
Since Mark was on a date and I was not, my Friday evening
was completely free, which was a good thing because Terri invited me over. For
those of you who were unaware, life on a military base is incredibly structured,
and much of where you can go and what you do is age based. My friends and I
were too young as ninth graders to go to the Teen Club, so instead, we usually
hung out in someone’s backyard listening to music and talking. This activity
would go on from sunset until parents ran us off. I’m not sure why or how, but
on that evening, it was just the two of us alone on her patio under the light
of some bamboo tiki torches. Having just been dumped, she was melancholy. We
listened to music on the radio, and I told jokes to cheer her up. My entire
repertoire then was borrowed from George Carlin with a bit of Richard Pryor
thrown in; not exactly appropriate for the situation, but I got her to laugh
and took her mind off things for a while.
As luck would have it, the King Harvest song "Dancin’ in the
Moonlight" came on the radio. Terri leaped out of her chair and grabbed my hand,
pulling me into her. It was one of her favorite summer songs, and she always
made it a point to dance whenever it was played. Even though I was little more
than a target of opportunity, I accepted my fate with a good amount of grace,
letting my ego be stroked since my crush was now in arms. At fifteen, I’d slow
danced with girls many times, but never one who’d first danced through my mind
first. It could have been that, or it may have been any number of other things,
but the way she danced was something I never felt before, as she seemed to be
caressing my body with hers while we moved to the music. At fifteen, it was a
mind scrambler.
Midway through the song, she began speaking softly to me––almost
whispering in my ear. I’m not sure if she was actually talking to me or not.
Terri seemed more to be having a conversation with herself about why she chose
Mark to go out with rather than me on the day when we all first met. As if she
came to some sort of decision, she lifted her face to mine and kissed me.
Considering both of us wore braces, there was a certain amount of subconscious
caution on both our parts, but it was still a beautiful and memorable kiss.
Before the weekend was over, we shared more than a few walks
holding hands, enjoyed two sunsets, and more than a few terrific kisses. It was
the best weekend of the summer. On Monday, I left for summer camp and was gone
for two weeks. When I got back, I found she and Mark reconciled, but
fortunately at the same time I was also told my father got orders to Virginia
and we’d be moving in a couple of weeks. At least I wasn’t forced to stay there
and dwell in the aftermath. I never had contact with either of them again.
When I wrote my book “Moonlit Silhouette,” I patterned the
heroine after Terri. Part memory and part fantasy. It’s okay, I hold a valid
Poetic License so I can adapt reality at will when needed to fit a story. One
thing I wanted to include was a few of the lyrics from “Dancin’ in the
Moonlight” as part of the book, so I contacted the composer Sherman Kelly for
permission. He provided me with the
contact information to get approval from Sony and we swapped a few emails about
memories the song brought back for us both. A really nice guy. The folks at
Sony were not so nice, making me wish I used the song and then asked
forgiveness rather than permission. In the end, I didn’t use the song but wrote
lyrics to a new song just for the book.
Here’s the King Harvest original:
This song still holds memories of the weekend with Terri. It
is one of the many vital parts of the soundtrack of my life.
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