Giving birth to a book isn’t for wimps

 

Giving birth to a book isn’t for wimps

The crazy idea of writing a book did not surface early. I had to wait until sanity abandoned me. 

A devoted reader since I was a kid, I always thought that books were the result of brilliant minds, great imaginations, and writerly skills. Ordinary people like me didn’t write books.

But you know – you live long enough and a lot happens. Some of it is worth writing down. The book I’ve just published, Rounding Third, is named for where I am now in that long life – this autumn of my years.

There are seven very heavy boxes in my front hall. At my age, I do not get excited by very much. Opening the top box and holding my book was thrilling, absolutely amazing. Can this actual, real book be mine? It weighs 11 ounces and the cover has a silky matte finish. It has my name on it, my picture is on the back, and it’s filled with experiences that I lived. It contains eleven ounces of a phantasmagorical life and the whackadoodle ideas that tumbled around in my head – for years. They gradually spilled out on paper. Putting this book together has been a challenging way to stay young!

The cover is brightly colored, eye-catching for its whimsy. The headless, running woman in culottes who is rounding third base in her red high heels is no longer me. But she used to be.

Early on, an acquaintance commented, “But I’ve never seen you in red high heels, really high heels.”

I replied, “You’re right. I haven’t run in high heels since I was in my 40s. And since you and I did not meet until our 60s, you missed a whole generation of high kickin’.”

“Then why did you put red high heels on the cover?” she asked.

With great memories bubbling up, I smiled at her, “’Cuz I really, really like them.”

I started writing for the Warren paper in 2004. As the years went on, the columns appeared biweekly, then weekly. Then a few years ago, I was published weekly in the Jamestown and Dunkirk regional papers as well. I began to hear from a larger body of readers. And frankly, that’s really nice. It makes you feel as if some of those late nights and miserable edit sessions are worth it.

As the notebooks of columns grew thicker, I occasionally mused about putting some together in a book, but couldn’t imagine who would read it. Or why.

I’d always thought that the notebooks might get discovered some attic rainy day by great-grandchildren – who would proceed into a gigglefest.

            Then I started hearing from some nice readers out there. Many who laughed with my incompetencies – seeing themselves. Some who shed a tear, and decided to share. Once in a while, there were questions about when the book would appear. I laughed it off for a long time, not feeling worthy or capable.

Then Covid showed up the second time and I was home from the hospital again. Down and out. Again. Getting better takes time – which I finally decided was book time. Now or never.

Hey! How hard could it be? I have files with hundreds and hundreds of these dribblings.

Already written. Already published. I would only have to pick out my favorite 75 and slap them together under a cover. Right? Like I said, I wasn’t very capable. I’m often delusional.

            It’s a long process. The process demands dedication and timing. And if you self-publish as I have, it requires an infusion of dollars.

I never once thought of sending it to a publisher. I don’t have the number of years left that it takes to break through the pile of rejection slips. The big houses are looking for a Doris Kearns Goodwin collection. I am a Mrs. Nobody from Podunk with essentially short stories – fun, warm, but nevertheless, hometown short stories.

I began by reading ALL the hundreds of columns I have written. Then I chose eight “alpha readers” who volunteered to read, comment, and grade 120 of my chosen columns. Next, with my newly-vetted collection, my wallet, and a don’t-look-back-now attitude, I plunged. I hired a professional editor, a publishing consultant and a local illustrator. And we all put together, beginning last April, this 11-ounce miracle.

It does not lie in my arms wiggling its toes. It is not the gift to the world that my children are. But it is a lot better than a few of my report cards.  I’ll accept that much satisfaction.

In this life, I was lucky. I didn’t get thrown out at first. And here I am, Rounding Third with a book in my hand.

 Maybe I should buy some sneakers. Red ones.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The impish card sender from down Texas way

 

             His name was Bruce Smith. By telling you that, I am breaking my general rule of writing only first names. 

Bruce and I never met. He lived in Garland, Texas, and yet he became important in my life for 13 years. He died last fall. With his death, a very special voice and heart passed from my world. 

I found Bruce by accident. I was nosing around on the internet looking for an old friend by the same name. I had no idea that Bruce Smith was one of the most common names anywhere. Looking by age produced a few possibilities so I decided it was worth a quick inquiry. 

The Bruce I dropped a note to said no, he wasn’t the right one, but emailed, “Are you looking for an old friend?” After I replied yes, he wished me good luck. He did have my email address. I had stated that I lived in western Pennsylvania. I didn’t think much more about it – or him – and I quit looking for the other Bruce. Looking for a needle in a haystack requires more patience than I have. 

The first card came in late October. No return address. It was a happy, fun Halloween card, signed with an exuberant scrawl written in orange felt pen, “Bruce.”  

Bruce? Bruce who? Then I flipped over the envelope. The postmark was Garland, TX. My reaction was somewhere in between “Hmm – sorta nice,” then “Uh-oh.” But I didn’t really worry. It’s just a harmless Halloween card, right? I did wonder, though …. 

How did he know my last name? My home address? The only things he knew about me were general location and that I ran a historic theatre. I realized it was enough information to go on. I have found people with less.  

Then the next card came … in late November. Standing at my roadside mailbox, I gulped when I saw the Garland, TX, postmark. I opened the Thanksgiving card to find the same signature, written in brown ink, “Bruce.” Just a perfectly nice turkey on the front with a simple greeting. OK. 

I didn’t tell anybody. I knew they would think I was nuts, plus they would worry.  

Then the Christmas card came, signed the same way, in green. And the valentine was signed in red. I was a bit anxious about the valentine, but its simple message was just like all the others: “Fun Halloween,” “Happy Thanksgiving,” “Merry Christmas,” “Sweet Valentine’s Day.” Nothing more, just a signature. 

I emailed him a thank you a after each card. 

March brought the St. Patrick’s Day card, followed by April’s Easter greeting. When he didn’t send cards for Arbor Day, May Day or the Fourth of July, I was a bit disappointed. Summer was a long dry spell, and I almost forgot about the cards. Then, in October, a week before Halloween, a Texas card was in the mailbox and I thought, “Gee, his cards always arrive the day before the event. Wonder why this is so early?”  

It was a birthday card. The day before my date. The Halloween card followed a few days later, on time. 

I realized that a birthdate can also be found online, but I figured, a year has gone by and no more communication than these fun cards. I was tempted to send a card in return, but thought sensibly that I have trouble keeping up with family and friends’ special days without adding a stranger in Texas. 

So, the years rolled by and the cards continued. Bruce emailed me and asked me to send my columns to him. I added him to my distribution list, and that proved to be our only direct contact. When I wrote a column about marrying Dear Richard, Bruce sent a congratulatory card wishing for our happiness.  

His pictures popped up on Facebook with his elderly parents on vacation, or his party lunches at work. Always smiling, he was bearded with fun, twinkling eyes. I had no idea whether he was divorced or widowed. 

After a few years, I sent him annual Christmas cards with a one-liner thanking him for all my feel-good moments at the mailbox. Sometimes those feelings arrived just when I needed a boost or a smile. And I came to think of his charming on-time arrivals as part of my belief that we humans need to reach out to each other. Maybe Bruce’s cards really weren’t much different than my chatting up fellow travelers, clerks, and cab drivers.  

I looked forward to each holiday, wondering when he would miss – and he never did. Then late last summer, Bruce posted to friends that he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Devastated, I sent a few get well or “thinking of you” cards. No birthday card arrived, and for what would have begun the 14th year, no Halloween card. 

I found his weeks-old obituary in December. I learned he had lost his wife, that he had one son, a grandson and great-grandchildren. He was an engineer, an antique buff, and loved camping with his wife. Individual memorials mentioned how much they loved his cards. I have no idea how many peoples’ lives he graced with his simple, thoughtful legacy.  

Bruce just reached out, touched someone, and said, "Hi! Be happy!" And I was. For 13 touching years. 

I guess I found the right Bruce Smith after all. 

 

Becoming Nine

 Becoming Nine

 May 2017

Last weekend, my grandson, Malcolm, turned nine.  I’m still trying to figure out how he went from diapers to Dungeons & Dragons in what seemed like nine months instead of nine years. 

At dinner Monday night, he was explaining to me the physiological differences between seals and sea lions – facts from a book-writing project he is working on in third grade.

After finishing our Japanese dinner of mostly sushi (the birthdays boy’s choice) we went home for a festive lemon cake topped with a number “9”.  And all my memories of an earlier “nine” story came flooding back – the reason that being nine is part of our family’s folklore.

It takes me back 33 years this past winter. Tom and I worked at our business in Corry two Friday nights a month which left us with a child care challenge. Alix, at twelve, was old enough to begin babysitting for some neighbors but we thought maybe not for her little brother, Bart, who was turning nine.

Tom thought that the children would enjoy skiing at Peak and Peak, the small ski resort about 15 minutes from work, rather than staying at home with a sitter. We would have an early supper together and he would run them over to The Peak, leaving them with two things – strict instructions to stay together, and money enough for two evening lift tickets and hot chocolate.  I can hear him now saying to Alix as he handed her the money, “Be ready by the parking lot at 9:15 – no later, and no excuses.”

This little scene had played out successfully a few times. They didn’t seem to fight too much and a good time was had by all. 

We seldom worked on a Saturday, but that year we had to work the second weekend in January which was a few days after Bart’s birthday … his ninth.  We figured if the skiing plan worked so well for Friday nights, wouldn’t a whole Saturday be even better? The kids were excited at the prospect as they packed up their equipment, even talking about what they’d have for lunch to go with their usual hot chocolate. Somehow that conversation didn’t register with their Dad. 

Tom, ever a creature of habit, dropped them off as usual at the same spot, with the same admonition about behaving and staying together – and the exact same amount of money he left with them Friday evenings. It was 9:00 AM. Alix didn’t look at the money until she got to the lift ticket window. Uh-oh.

She read the price list for all-day passes and realized that not only did she not have enough for two all-day lift tickets, there wasn’t enough for lunch or even a snack. The ticket lady spotted her dilemma and tried to help. 

“What’s the problem, honey,” she said.

            “Well, my Dad dropped us off and he gave me the same amount of money he always does for night lift tickets and I don’t have anywhere near enough for us to ski.”  She managed  not to cry, not knowing what they’d do. She could picture them skiing one at a time, but they weren’t allowed to split up. If they just stayed and watched they could eat lunch, but seven hours is a long time to watch others ski.

            “How old are you, honey,” the lady asked.

            “I’m twelve.”

            “And him?” she asked, nodding toward Bart.

            Remembering his Wednesday birthday, Alix blurted out that he had just turned nine, the magic number. An eight-year-old is ticketed as a child, but nine becomes an adult on the ski slopes. Alix realized at that moment that if Bart was still eight. they could both ski and still have some kind of lunch. It might not be cheeseburgers with fries, but they wouldn’t starve before Dad picked them up.

            The nice lady looked at the price chart again, looked back at both kids, and made a decision. “Why don’t we just pretend that he’s still eight,” she said quietly, nodding at Bart.

            Hearing this, the birthday celebrant piped up, “I’m not eight, I’m nine,”

            “I know honey, but I’m trying to help you out,” she whispered. The line was building behind them. “If we pretend you’re still eight, just for today, you can both have lift tickets with a little money left over for lunch. Okay?”  she said brightly.

            Upset at being eclipsed out of his newly-earned year, he spoke up a little louder to make her understand, “I am not eight anymore – I AM NINE.”

            Trying to ignore him, the lady leaned toward Alix, saying in a hushed voice, “I’m giving you one adult ticket and one child tick … “ 

Bart heard this and loudly wailed, “BUT I’M NOT EIGHT, I’M NI-I-I-I-I-NE.”

She clenched her jaw, leaned forward and growled, “Shut up kid – you’re eight – and you better get outta here before I change my mind.” She shoved the tickets at Alix and yelled, “Next?”

Tom didn’t hear the end of that one for a long time. Since then, the age has always been celebrated with, “But I’m Ni-i-i-i-i-ine.” The endearing, long-winded ski story follows, the same way we explained this to Malcolm last weekend.

Malcolm also skis with his sister, but I have it on good authority that Dad is usually on the slopes nearby so the hot chocolate breaks are well assured. 

Plus, there’s this new-fangled gadget called a cell phone that is reputed to prevent miscommunication among families.  I often wish we’d had one during those years, but then again, our family would be missing one of its stories.