tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52340243044681478542024-03-13T13:52:26.128-07:00Live JournalMike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-84935260939386702402014-02-05T12:58:00.003-08:002014-02-05T13:11:17.951-08:00Remembering almost-girlfriends and transgender boys …<br />
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I didn’t have a girlfriend in seventh or eighth grade in
Norco, California. The girlfriends would come much later. But I did have
friends who were girls who I danced with at sock hops. In seventh grade, I did
have a girl at the back of the classroom near where I sat pull up her dress a
tad and rearrange her nylons. I know the girl knew I was watching because she
looked at me and smiled. I don’t recall her name, but she was one of the girls
I danced with at the sock hops.</div>
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Who knows? Maybe she could have become my first girlfriend,
except my family moved back to my birthplace – Wadsworth, Ohio – in October
1965, changing my life forever. Beyond this girl who used her nylons to tease
me, I knew another girl who I had a special childhood friendship with in
Rialto, California back in elementary school. I remember her name – Laura Wagner. </div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y8bqA5Vo1us/UvKj1sZPq7I/AAAAAAAAASI/yEb0PnI5tmc/s1600/Laura.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y8bqA5Vo1us/UvKj1sZPq7I/AAAAAAAAASI/yEb0PnI5tmc/s1600/Laura.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">While I ended up in Ohio, my friend Laura got to live the California life.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Dad, mom, my sister Jody and me moved into our St. Elmo
Drive home in 1958. Soon Laura’s family moved into their home just two houses
away. We immediately took to each other. She was one year younger than me, and
we often played together. Once she wanted me to spend the night at her house –
at that age we were truly innocent and knew nothing about sex – and couldn’t
understand why her mom told her “no.” I went home hearing Laura crying in the
background.<br />
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I taught Laura how to play baseball, and she was a better
player than many of the boys in the neighborhood. Both families had
above-ground pools and she’d be either over at mine or I’d be over in hers
during the hot summer months. I have one vivid memory of the two of us … we
were wrestling in the side yard of my house., rolling around like a couple of
cowboys in a knockdown, drag-out fight. When I pinned her, she’d look up at me
and start singing a love song, and I’d leap to me feet and complain, “Stop
that, Laura!” Maybe that could have been the first stirrings of adolescent
love, except Laura’s family moved from Rialto to Anaheim in 1964. </div>
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I saw Laura one more time – in September 1965 just before my
family moved back to Wadsworth, Ohio. We drove to her home in Anaheim; Laura wasn't home so I
played with her eighth-grade brother Mark, who was a year older than Laura. Finally, she came home along with a friend of hers. Both wore tennis
dresses, and I immediately noticed my childhood friend had become very shapely
and pretty. Laura acknowledged me with a wave and “hi,” and then left with her
friend to play tennis. Well, that’s not entirely accurate … she asked me if I
liked tennis, and I stupidly said I preferred baseball. Maybe had I said yes,
she would have invited me to go with them to the tennis courts. That’s the last
time I saw her – walking out the door and out of my life, a potential romance that
would never be.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j8n6jK0v5qo/UvKj0Uq0HLI/AAAAAAAAASA/vgAP611fcg4/s1600/Avator-Na%2527vi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j8n6jK0v5qo/UvKj0Uq0HLI/AAAAAAAAASA/vgAP611fcg4/s1600/Avator-Na%2527vi.jpg" height="241" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Avator's</em> Na'Vi people ... they could probably identify with transgenders.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I had another friend while I lived in Southern California
– this one a boy who wanted to be a girl. I met him in junior high, and became
his friend because other guys bullied him. I don’t like bullying, and decided
to offer him friendship. I don’t recall his name, but I do remember his face –
pimply and thick curly hair. He told me he had a problem … he was developing
breasts, a condition in boys called gynecomastia. He was transgender, and told
me he wanted to become a girl, and joked that maybe someday he could be my
girlfriend. I’m glad I met him during my early teenage years … he taught me to
be accepting of people radically different from me.</div>
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So you can see … I didn’t have a love life in my early
teenage years, but I did live in interesting times.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Mike Staton is the author of a fantasy trilogy – <em>The Emperor’s
Mistress</em>, <em>Thief’s Coin</em> and <em>Assassins’ Lair</em>. The first two books have been
published and the third is still being written. To purchase them, go to: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Michael-Staton/e/B007ZSSNRM">http://www.amazon.com/Michael-Staton/e/B007ZSSNRM</a>.</div>
Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-28804402952441583492014-01-27T17:19:00.000-08:002014-01-27T18:36:53.076-08:00Hallelujah … I’m sitting at my sister’s dining room table<br />
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I ain’t proud.</div>
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Not when my back is shrieking like a Halloween wind whirling
through a forest full of skeletal limbs.</div>
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Since foolishly choosing to pick up a box of heavy
coffee-table books two weeks ago, I’ve been a poor facsimile of a 90-year-old humpback
witch concocted by the Grimm Brothers, a witch barely able to pick up her book
of spells.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1BKt3E3gvHU/UucDKgcI4HI/AAAAAAAAARk/-gj_VBoY3Ag/s1600/whoops.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1BKt3E3gvHU/UucDKgcI4HI/AAAAAAAAARk/-gj_VBoY3Ag/s1600/whoops.jpg" height="400" width="271" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="background-color: white; color: black;">Don't try this or you'll end up like me</span></strong>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The last few days have been hectic, although not always for
me. There’s only so much a crippled back can manage during a weekend of packing
up my Saturn Ion for my move to Las Vegas.</div>
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Priority No. 1 on Saturday was finding someone to help me
dispose of a bedsprings and mattress. My initial choice – my longtime friend
Jayne – had to work in the morning, so I had to quickly conjure a backup plan.
My roommate Deb came through, convincing her friend Stuart to help me transport
the mattress and bedspring to the landfill.</div>
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There was a time I could single-handedly move a mattress from
a U-haul-it truck into a bedroom. But I had a healthy back by then. And I was
37 years old. This time around Stewart did the heavy lifting and I cheered him
on as he heaved the bedsprings and mattress into the back of his pickup.</div>
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Jayne showed up about 11 a.m. ready to load the Saturn for me.
Luckily I had packed most everything I intended to take with me – about 10
boxes – before I blew up my back. Earlier I had gone through two closets and
given about half my clothes to Goodwill. I hadn’t touched the rest since the
back catastrophe, so it fell on Jayne to pack the clothes in several heavy-duty
plastic lawn bags. My plan was to just dump them in … she insisted we fold
them; said the bags would not take up as much space.</div>
<br />
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I held open the house and car doors as she carried the boxes
and bags out to the car and packed them just like an 18th-century stevedore packed
cargo into a sailing vessel bound from the Old World to the New World. Amazingly
I could see out the back window, although a couple of small boxes along the
back edge of the right rear passenger window did block a smidgen of the window.
It forced me to use my right side-view mirror. But all in all it was an
excellent job of packing.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nmaeWa8PIMw/UucC3WzU23I/AAAAAAAAARU/Z-eospu9mHo/s1600/breakfast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nmaeWa8PIMw/UucC3WzU23I/AAAAAAAAARU/Z-eospu9mHo/s1600/breakfast.jpg" height="303" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Breakfast and pain, anti-inflammatory pills -- the perfect combination</strong>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with my three-quarter
antique bed. We couldn’t get it into the car and still be able to get all the
bags and boxes in as well. But Jayne said she’d store it and try to sell it to
an antique dealer and send the money to me. Then she decided she’d buy it,
order a three-quarter bedsprings and mattress for it, and use it as the bed in
the guest bedroom. The money will help me offset the cost of a HD TV for my new
haunts in Nevada.</div>
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That night I slept on the living room couch and awoke at
6:30 a.m. with a slight backache. I didn’t want to take any prescription pain
meds since they make me drowsy, and I’d be driving up to Ohio. So I went with
off-the-counter medication and said goodbye to Jayne, Nance and my roommate Deb
and her sweet pom Max, and aimed the Saturn toward I-40.</div>
<br />
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The back bothered me from the moment I backed out of the
driveway, and it kept getting worse and worse. “How the heck am I going to do
this for eight hours?” I thought to myself.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qvhY3G0KPm8/UucC_rTHKhI/AAAAAAAAARc/mZTHFh6INDk/s1600/shelter+from+storm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qvhY3G0KPm8/UucC_rTHKhI/AAAAAAAAARc/mZTHFh6INDk/s1600/shelter+from+storm.jpg" height="323" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Storms and back pain are similar. Sometime it's better to seek shelter</strong>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I discussed my dilemma with my sister Jody and with Sharon out
in Nevada. Jody was going to keep me posted on weather conditions in West
Virginia and Ohio; with worry in her voice, Sharon advised me not to take more
than one pain pill and at the next rest stop get out and walk around to stretch
the back. </div>
<br />
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Preoccupied with the pain, I missed the rest-stop exit. By
the time I passed the Greensboro exits, I was feeling nauseous. In Yadkinville
where I’ve gotten gasoline for years and years, I filled up and weighed my
options. I’d gone 260 miles and had 300 miles still to go. An inviting Day’s
Inn motel could be seen from U.S. 421. Like a sea captain sailing for a safe
harbor ahead of a storm, I docked at the Day’s Inn. Safe in Room 124, I took a
pain pill and let my back calm down, then took to the bed and got a good night’s
sleep. In the morning, I ate a hotel breakfast of Frosted Flakes and a
fruit-centered roll, coffee, and bulwarked myself for the journey ahead with a
pain pill followed by an anti-inflammatory pill. This time my back behaved
properly during the 4.5-hour ride up to Southeastern Ohio.</div>
<br />
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So here I am sitting at my sister’s dining room table composing
a blog-post update detailing my grand journey to Nevada via Ohio and West Virginia.
So tonight I get to sleep in my mom’s bedroom where 10 years ago she went to
Heaven after months of coping with Lou Gehrig’s disease. It’s good to remember
what she went through … it makes my back troubles look trivial. </div>
Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-40794725789691556702014-01-23T17:55:00.002-08:002014-01-23T17:55:25.276-08:00I’ve a universe to explore – if my back stops hurting …
<br />
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I’m officially retired.</div>
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I won’t hold back. It’s a bit scary. Yes, I have a grand
adventure planned for the days and years ahead, but after nearly 45 years in
college and the working world, I’m feeling just a bit squeamish.</div>
<br />
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I took early retirement. Instead of waiting until I’m 65 or
66, I chose to retire at age 62. No pussyfooting around for me. I went for
immediate gratification.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wJXf4OrPPWQ/UuHFBWPywUI/AAAAAAAAAPg/Gl9OkwPKFUA/s1600/Retired1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wJXf4OrPPWQ/UuHFBWPywUI/AAAAAAAAAPg/Gl9OkwPKFUA/s1600/Retired1.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Too many books equal back problems.</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Well, not really.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
By retiring at 62, I get only 80 percent of what I would
have been entitled to had I waited to retire at 66. That comes out to around
$13,800. </div>
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I figure I will soon be looking for part-time work to
supplement by Social Security income. </div>
<br />
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Over the last five years, I’ve had to cope with a body that
has been break down. Well, that’s not entirely true … it’s mostly been my brain
breaking down.</div>
<br />
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In the winter of 2010, back covering sports and news for the
first time since 1989, I tripped coming down grandstands at a girls’ high
school soccer game and broke my hip. Less than a year later I made a bad
decision at around 10 p.m. to walk down to the mailbox and get the day’s mail. Now
that wouldn’t have been a problem during a typical Southeast North Carolina
winter, except this wasn’t a normal one. It had snowed, and the snow had turned
to ice. Perhaps if I had walked through the lawn down to the mailbox? Except I
didn’t. </div>
<br />
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No need to create more tension. Most of you can guess what
happened and be reasonably correct. I slid on ice and fell. I was grateful that
I could rise to my feet even with nearly unbearable pain … it meant I hadn’t
broken a hip. Instead, I screwed up my back.</div>
<br />
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Well, here we are … two years later, and the back still
gives me problems. I can no longer take extra-long walks – too much pain. But
it’s bearable – at least until last week. That’s when my brain again let me
down.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LmvpqeoZrr8/UuHEqv3KD_I/AAAAAAAAAO8/8Hy8i1FQN2Q/s1600/Retired2+book+signing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LmvpqeoZrr8/UuHEqv3KD_I/AAAAAAAAAO8/8Hy8i1FQN2Q/s1600/Retired2+book+signing.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>They're selling a few books, maybe I can too later this year.</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I decided not to rent a small trailer for my move to Las
Vegas, NV. Instead, my plans are to pack a few boxes and plastic bags in the
trunk and back seat and head west. That meant I needed to find a home for my
books I’ve collected since the mid-1970s. I decided to donate 90 percent of
them to the Wallace public library and ship the remaining 10 percent to my
intended home in Henderson, NV. </div>
<br />
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The first box I packed full of books destined for the
library I couldn’t even lift up from my bed. So I divided the books up and
packed them in smaller boxes. Yea, I could lift them without a problem.</div>
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The process worked fine for several days of deliveries to
the Wallace library. I was down to the final box of books. Those books were
different, though, coffee table picture books, heavy books, books designed to
cripple backs and mess up plans.</div>
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Again, you no doubt can correctly guess what happened. Yep,
I picked up the groaningly heavy books and when putting them down, I strained
my back. A week later, the back is still forcing me to take painkillers and
muscle relaxers to survive. Not good. Not with me planning to start my trip
this Sunday.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qm76_vpFkPQ/UuHE463xxgI/AAAAAAAAAPU/-0PU0nOiMbE/s1600/Retired3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qm76_vpFkPQ/UuHE463xxgI/AAAAAAAAAPU/-0PU0nOiMbE/s1600/Retired3.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>The Strip's lights draws me to my future and the completion of my WIP.</strong> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I’m lucky that I have good friends who plant to help pack up
the car. Most of the things I plan to take with me are packed up. Still have to
pick up some coffee mugs and glasses, and I still have to mail four packages of
books to my new address in Henderson.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Once I’m settled into my new home, my first priority is to
finish <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Assassins’ Lair</i>, the third
book of my fantasy trilogy, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Larenia’s
Shadow</i>. I’m leaving behind my computer desk, swivel chair, dresser and
bookcases, so I will need to buy a desk, chair, dresser and one bookcase. Most
of the furniture I’ve given to Goodwill, so maybe I can buy similar furniture
at Goodwill in Henderson. Then I can finish the first draft and start the
editing process.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Right now the first draft is only about 20 percent complete,
so there’s a lot of work remaining to do. It’s been so long since I last worked
on the manuscript that I will need to reread the novel and the outline. </div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">But it’s not just going to be hard work for
Mikey. My soon-to-be roommate has been plotting out plans to market my two
published novels, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Emperor’s Mistress</i>
and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thief’s Coin</i>, at festivals and
conventions in Vegas. She’s looking forward to dressing us in 15<sup>th</sup>
century garb and setting up a display of my novels at renaissance faires and
SF/Fantasy/comic book conventions. I have to admit … I’m looking forward to
those faires and conventions as well. Back when I was still a reporter, I never
had time to attend any faires or conventions. Now I have a new “universe” that
I can soon start exploring – as soon as my back stops hurting.</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-70017396209793003292013-12-18T15:28:00.000-08:002013-12-18T15:34:29.708-08:00Christmas Trees and memories of bygone holiday celebrations<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I recently interviewed the owners of the Beautancus Christmas Tree Farm
in Duplin County, N.C. As I left the farm, I couldn’t help but remember other
Christmas trees in my life, both real and artificial.</span></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wn28ggDkK88/UrIpGvmv52I/AAAAAAAAAN0/axlYNNuP7qk/s1600/Album+p31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wn28ggDkK88/UrIpGvmv52I/AAAAAAAAAN0/axlYNNuP7qk/s320/Album+p31.jpg" width="310" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Jody and I smile in front of the silver Christmas tree.</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">When I was a kid, putting up the Christmas tree and decorating it was
one of the major events of the Christmas season. In the ‘50s and early ‘60s,
dad went to one of the Christmas Tree lots in Rialto, California, and bought a
real one. Those were splendid trees with their evergreen smell that so expertly
summoned the Christmas spirit. But they dried and presented a fire hazard, so
dad bought one of those less-than-stellar silver trees. They were just a step
above Charlie Brown’s little tree. Like Charlie Brown’s tree, that silver tree
didn’t look too bad once decorated. A slowly turning color wheel took the place
of the cords of lights that had been strung around the real Christmas trees in
earlier years.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I’ve a photograph of my sister Jody and I standing in front of that
straggly silver tree. She’s showing off a new doll while I hold a ball glove. Like many photos from the early ‘60s, time hasn’t been kind to
it. It’s smudged, damaged when removed from a photo album. I cropped it to remove the damage.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">In later years, when we lived on Mount Eaton Road just outside
Wadsworth, Ohio, and then down south on the Muskingum River in Beverly we
decorated a green artificial tree that was a bit more complicated to erect than
that silver tree we owned in California. It was prettier, but the silver tree
still holds a special place in my heart.</span></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-exmeSH39GDM/UrIpGpZ37gI/AAAAAAAAANw/PJ5Xc-H5mwY/s1600/Dennys_Christmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="255" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-exmeSH39GDM/UrIpGpZ37gI/AAAAAAAAANw/PJ5Xc-H5mwY/s320/Dennys_Christmas.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Grandpa Frog and Grandma Mid at Uncle Denny's house</strong>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were hectic at our houses in Wadsworth
and Beverly. On Christmas Eve we’d celebrate Christmas at the house of my
cousins, Candy and Pat Kelly. It was quite an affair. Many branches of the
family came to the celebration including my dad’s sister Emmy and her husband
and their kids, Billy, Kim, Ken and –born much later – Brian. The kids ate at
our own table while the parents ate at the "grownup" table. Candy and Pat’s dad
Jack would head to Akron after the meal to do his shopping, then come back and
wrap his gifts. We waited and waited and waited, and only after Jack returned
and wrapped his presents could our gifts be unwrapped beside the Kelly’s huge
"real" Christmas tree. Each December Jack chopped down a tree on the Kelly
property and hauled it to the house. The Kelly’s recreation room had a high
ceiling, perfect for that extra-tall tree erected in front of the large
picture-glass window that over looked the driveway.</span></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TX7K8-AHnZk/UrIpGm8yvLI/AAAAAAAAANo/1B3w8pWHT7M/s1600/Denny+Franks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TX7K8-AHnZk/UrIpGm8yvLI/AAAAAAAAANo/1B3w8pWHT7M/s320/Denny+Franks.jpg" width="307" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Bruce Snyder on Grandma Mid's lap; Denny with Taffy.</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">One Christmas Eve we left the Kelly house after midnight – actually,
Christmas morning, right? – and discovered several inches of newly fallen snow.
The overcast had cleared and a fall moon casts its brilliance down on the white
blanket that covered the yard. Even now, decades later, I can say that night
was the brightest I’ve ever seen. It was mystical ... I expected to see fairies
fluttering above the snow or maybe a unicorn to emerge from the woods.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">After celebrating our own Christmas on Christmas morning – and eating
the traditional fruitcake supplied by dad’s mom, our Grandmother Nan, we’d pack
presents in the car for Grandpa Frog and Grandma Mid, Uncle Denny and Aunt Dee
and their kids, Kim and Kevin, and head to the Fourth Street house in Rittman. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">In earlier times, when Denny was young and still living at home,
Grandpa Frog bought a real tree for the living room. My dad, who will be 87 in
April, recently shared some memories of Christmas in Rittman. He said that
Grandma Mid would study the tree and whenever she saw a "thin" area she’d have
grandpa hammer in an additional limb. That’s right ... grandpa would not only
bring the Christmas Tree, he’d also come back to the house with extra limbs.
He’d saw them to fit the trunk and then affix them to the tree with nails. He
must have been grateful when they purchased an artificial tree, one that had
not only limbs that needed to be attached to the trunk, but branches and twigs
that had to be attached to the limbs.</span></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tOhHMI64bLg/UrIpIWRQmlI/AAAAAAAAAN8/PfQht_eDazA/s1600/Drunk+Mike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tOhHMI64bLg/UrIpIWRQmlI/AAAAAAAAAN8/PfQht_eDazA/s320/Drunk+Mike.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>"Joyful" partying at Christmastime 1981.</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">In the 1940s and 1950s Denny’s train set ran around the tree. That’s
the way Christmas should be ... a Lionel engine and railcars wheeling around a
real tree.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Nowadays my sister
Jody and her husband put up a couple of artificial trees, one in the living
room and one in the back family room. I don’t know if any of her three
daughters, all married, plan to return to Beverly to celebrate Christmas. Two –
Quinn and Vanessa – live in Charlotte, North Carolina, while the third, Nicci,
lives up in Central Michigan. Jody is a grandmother now ... Quinn and her husband
Lance have a toddler, Griffin, 15 months old, who will be experiencing his
first Christmas where he can actually open presents. In the not-so-distant
future, Griffin will be tucking away memories of Christmas trees and celebrations
that perhaps he’ll write about in the 2070s. </span></span>Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-37673324361714266562013-11-21T17:22:00.001-08:002013-11-21T17:22:53.074-08:00Would Shakespeare like NaNoWriMo?
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I admit I don’t get it.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It’s not my – get ready for a tired metaphor – cup of tea.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
This month is NaNoWriMo, short for National Novel Writing
Month.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Fellow writers on Facebook are busy writing thousands of
words a day trying to write a 50,000 word novel by the end of Nov. 30.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Posts keep appearing on my timeline:</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Wrote 4,331 words over the weekend;</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Managed 1,133 words today;</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>My cat is sick; going to have to give up
NaNoWriMo this year.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0ZOx45KVuSc/Uo6v5AEmUwI/AAAAAAAAANE/sepbagENKCw/s1600/NaNoWriMo3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0ZOx45KVuSc/Uo6v5AEmUwI/AAAAAAAAANE/sepbagENKCw/s200/NaNoWriMo3.jpg" width="136" /></a>Back in 2008 a writer friend of mine who lives in Oregon
asked me if I planned to participate in National Novel Writing Month. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I told her no. Five years ago I needed to finish up The
Emperor’s Mistress and line up a literary agent to open doors to big-name
publishers. Boy was I naïveté. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
While not as naïveté today, I remain a skeptic of NaNoWriMo.
That’s because I put a great deal of time and effort in a first draft. For me,
an intense revision and editing process is a major portion of a first draft.
Writing the initial draft is 40 percent writing the scenes and 60 percent
sweat-and-blood editing. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
NaNoWriMo writers are spewing forth the scenes’ sentences
without a thought to editing and polishing the chapters. I fear many of them
end up doing complete rewrites.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9bdG_quDFvo/Uo6v4TSOJoI/AAAAAAAAANA/H1fPyczWa-M/s1600/Crazy+writer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="277" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9bdG_quDFvo/Uo6v4TSOJoI/AAAAAAAAANA/H1fPyczWa-M/s320/Crazy+writer.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Write, write, write ... don't worry about editing.</strong> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It takes careful thought to weave in description so that it
blends with the narrative and dialogue and doesn’t turn into big info-dumps.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Hard decisions have to be made on how you approach a scene:
should you “show” the action or resort to tried-and-true “telling?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Strategy falls by the wayside when the primary objective is
word count.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Even before National Novel Writing Month, some writers on
Facebook were bragging about the number of words they managed to write each
day. That makes me cringe. Autoworkers should brag about the number the number
of cars that roll off the assembly line. Writers shouldn’t be bragging about
the words rolling off their laptops or tablets … creative writing shouldn’t be
assembly line writing.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mmMnRgqKWGc/Uo6v4am4VcI/AAAAAAAAAM4/rMkfG5EeO6A/s1600/chapter+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mmMnRgqKWGc/Uo6v4am4VcI/AAAAAAAAAM4/rMkfG5EeO6A/s400/chapter+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>It was a dark and stormy ...</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The National Novel Writing Month organizers claim more than
250 NaNoWriMo novels have been traditionally published. They include Sara
Gruen’s Water <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">for Elephants</i>, Erin
Morgenstern’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Night Circus</i> and
Jason Hough’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Darwin Elevator</i>. So
that means the NaNoWriMo method works for some authors, just not for me.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
National Novel Writing Month is 14 years old. It’s a 501(c)
(3). This year 304,026 writers are participating. Merchandise sales, donations
by participants and sponsors fund NaNoWriMo.</div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">So let me conclude … all you NaNoWriMo writers
out there … you had better hurry … only eight days left to write your
50,000-word romance novel. Forget baths, forget eating, forget sex, pound the
keyboard … faster, faster, faster.</span>Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-68061443720685507202013-07-31T03:56:00.003-07:002013-07-31T15:35:32.338-07:00Where are the Groggs? Wow … they’re on Live Journal!<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m</span> turning Live Journal over to my author friend Cherley
Groff, a fine West Virginian author who wants to tell folks about her YA novel,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Secret in Grandma’s Trunk</i>. She’s
offering it for free on Amazon for a short time.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
* <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>* <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D6UeZQNMr_o/UfjjzjETZQI/AAAAAAAAAMM/WIh4repCfR8/s1600/Cherley+Grogg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D6UeZQNMr_o/UfjjzjETZQI/AAAAAAAAAMM/WIh4repCfR8/s1600/Cherley+Grogg.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Cherley Grogg</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I’m so glad to have this
opportunity to share a little about myself and my children’s novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Secret in Grandma’s Trunk</i>, which is
free to download from Amazon for a limited time. The inspiration for the book
came from my grandsons. I have three grandsons and a granddaughter.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My granddaughter loves to read, but
the boys do not so I decided to write a book they would love to read. I knew it’d
have to have strong kids in it, strong physically and headstrong too. The
characters would all have to be realistic with problems and scuffles among
themselves; it would have to be fast paced and full of adventure. Plus my
grandsons like sports and girls so I needed to put that in there as well.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I couldn’t leave my granddaughter
without someone to relate to so I gave the brothers in the story a female
cousin who could keep up with them in most things and top them in others. In
addition to the children, there are some strong, funny and interesting adult
characters. This book appeals to people of all ages.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Brandon, the main character in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Secret in Grandma’s Trunk</i>, is not
quiet. He’s very outgoing and loud. He’s a leader and his outgoing, boisterous
personality works well for him, but not listening gets him into a lot of
trouble. Jordon, his cousin, is a female version of Brandon, but Jacob, his brother,
is the opposite – a quiet listener, a thinker. The 13 year olds get in a passel
of trouble because of not listening, and Jacob quietly follows them.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Here’s the blurb:<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
A teen’s life gets disrupted when
his grand-grandmother, a stranger, comes to live with him and his family. She
upsets his life so much that he stoops pretty low to get rid of her, including
trying to find a way to get into the oversized trunk she has stored in the garage.
Spunky Grandma keeps the trunk's key in a special place.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The kids expect to find treasure,
but discover a terrible secret instead, one that puts Grandma in danger’s way.
Will she turn to her grandchildren for help or to a young ghost?</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LdKgvZjmPE0/Ufjj-j1GMMI/AAAAAAAAAMY/2aJ21YHAXjM/s1600/secret-grandmas-trunk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LdKgvZjmPE0/Ufjj-j1GMMI/AAAAAAAAAMY/2aJ21YHAXjM/s320/secret-grandmas-trunk.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Read Cherley's novel and find the secret.</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">And here’s an excerpt from Chapter 14:<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Jacob looked astounded. “How in the
world did you pull that off?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“A girl has to have stuff.” She
grinned. “You know … girl’s stuff.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“No, we don’t know, and we don’t want
to know. The important thing is you got the card.” Brandon reached for the
credit card.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I want to know,” Jacob said.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
Jordan laughed as she handed the card to Brandon. “Hurry up. I need to get Dad’s
card back to him before Mom’s out of the shower.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">In the next chapter the kids want to play soccer. Grandma went with them.
Here’s an excerpt from Chapter 15:<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Lilly turned to Grandma. “It doesn’t
matter what she thinks, she’s not on our team. I don’t know why the coach
favors Jordan. Maybe he feels sorry for her. She’s so big and clunky.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Grandma’s eyes flashed, and her
little fist doubled up. Brandon hoped she wouldn't spit. He put his hand on
Grandma’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I’ll go, but I want her to know
that Jordan sure is big. She has a big heart, and a big personality, and she’s
twice the lady that girl is. She would never put someone else down to try to
make herself look better.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"I don’t need to put her down to make
myself look better. I always look good.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Grandma turned her head and spit.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Secret in Grandma’s Trunk</i> is free from Amazon; I hope you enjoy it.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Secret-Grandmas-Trunk-Along/dp/1475282656">http://www.amazon.com/The-Secret-Grandmas-Trunk-Along/dp/1475282656</a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b>Cher’ley’s Books are listed below and on sale at Amazon
and local bookstores.</b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Stamp-Out-Murder-Cherley-Grogg/dp/1470113058">http://www.amazon.com/Stamp-Out-Murder-Cherley-Grogg/dp/1470113058</a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And here’s her FB fan page, hosted by a good friend of hers,
Cindy Ferrell:</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/cherleygroggfanpage">https://www.facebook.com/cherleygroggfanpage</a></div>
Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-66915270362555589782013-07-23T16:15:00.001-07:002013-07-26T16:49:37.732-07:00Don’t let the past stay dead and buried …<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Trips and vacations are excellent vehicles for reviving memories, some
wonderful, some not so wonderful.</span></span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RS42ZasfRM8/Ue8J1SF9vzI/AAAAAAAAAKc/ksAYh0g2jcI/s1600/Dad+and+Grandpa+Iuppenlatz.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RS42ZasfRM8/Ue8J1SF9vzI/AAAAAAAAAKc/ksAYh0g2jcI/s400/Dad+and+Grandpa+Iuppenlatz.JPG" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>My dad as a baby with his Grandpa Louis Iuppenlatz</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">A long drive gives a man – or woman – a chance to think. In my case, it
was nearly nine hours of driving, 90 percent on interstates, nine hours to
remember other trips up to Grantsville, West Virginia, and Beverly, Ohio, over
the last quarter century.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">My memories of my travels along Interstates 40 and 77 up to Beverly in
2003 are especially poignant. That year the drives were what I now think of as
deathwatch journeys. We’d learned mom had ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s Disease, and was
slowly dying. On that first trip northward after learning she hadn’t suffered a
stroke, but had somehow contracted the still-cureless neurological killer, my
thoughts while driving kept coming back to this unsettling thought: How was I
going to cope with watching her die, and could I handle being in her
bedroom with her when she took the last few breaths?</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Of course, I coped. And I was in the bedroom with her, sitting in her
easy chair, when she – as the song “I’ll Fly Away” says so beautifully – flew
away “to that home on God’s celestial shore.”</span></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kAajIDZhC-E/Ue8KIXNv_UI/AAAAAAAAAK0/BZzMiQnP4IM/s1600/Jody%252C+Mike+1972.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="196" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kAajIDZhC-E/Ue8KIXNv_UI/AAAAAAAAAK0/BZzMiQnP4IM/s320/Jody%252C+Mike+1972.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>My sister Jody and I one Christmas in the early 1970s</strong>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">On my most recent trip around Independence Day, my sister Jody and I
took walks through her neighborhood including a foray through the village
cemetery and past mom’s grave, decorated with summer flowers.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Last November I turned 61, and more often than I like I find my
thoughts returning to the past. I had believed that my Uncle Denny had my Grandmother
Mid’s photo scrapbooks. No, Jody told me, she had them. “He didn’t want them,”
she said, bringing them out from a closet for me to thumb through. </span></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BeVf7H01UtQ/Ue8KYESCbGI/AAAAAAAAALA/ujHuEPCdiCc/s1600/Mike+and+Gettysburg2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BeVf7H01UtQ/Ue8KYESCbGI/AAAAAAAAALA/ujHuEPCdiCc/s320/Mike+and+Gettysburg2.JPG" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>My re-enactment days ... Gettysburg 1976</strong>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Jody lacks the scanning equipment to turn the old photos into jpegs, so
I took some of them – as well as some of mom’s – back to my house in Wilmington
to scan and save. I intend to post some of them on Facebook with newsy
captions, maybe even a short story or two.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">A few days earlier, dad and his wife Linda had picked through a box of
old photographs looking for Brownie snapshots of his mom Nan, his dad Bud, his
sister Emmie and other Staton and Iuppenlatz relatives. One photo in particular
stood out for me – a slightly out-of-focus shot of the extended family taken
sometime in the mid to late 1940s. By then dad’s Grandpa Louis Iuppenlatz was no longer living. The photo shows Emmie as a child, and dad's brother Steven is a toddler. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I love that
photo, even if it doesn't include Great-Grandpa Iuppenlatz. I never knew him and barely knew my Grandpa Bud;
he died in August 1960 when I was eight. But I spent many, many fun evenings
chit-chatting with my Grandmother Nan and her sisters, Hortense (my grandma’s
identical twin) and Avis. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span> </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3B5APcH_KrM/Ue8KlkvoyxI/AAAAAAAAALM/h1g6wGq05-k/s1600/Staton-Euppenlatz+family.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="230" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3B5APcH_KrM/Ue8KlkvoyxI/AAAAAAAAALM/h1g6wGq05-k/s320/Staton-Euppenlatz+family.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Staton/Iuppenlatz family in 1940s</strong>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">They lived together in a supposedly haunted two-story
house in Sharon Center, Ohio. I never stayed overnight in that house until one
summer when I was in college, and I have to concede … I had trouble getting to
sleep … I half expected the ghost of a young woman in a Victorian era dress to
make its way down the hallway past my open doorway.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">The stories these
photographs summon to consciousness could someday give rise to scenes in
yet-unwritten novels. My books now are fantasy-genre tales, but future
endeavors could see me wandering far from that genre. First, though, I have to
finish <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Assassins’ Lair</span></i>, the last book in my
trilogy, and see it published by my publisher.</span></span>Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-24112683619551276052013-07-01T06:41:00.001-07:002013-07-01T09:11:24.059-07:00Some thoughts on how we’ll be rememberedI wrote my mom’s obituary. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FzVbob7h2IM/UdGD7VXsCRI/AAAAAAAAAJI/7AzLeTWZ6mw/s511/Bertha+Franks.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FzVbob7h2IM/UdGD7VXsCRI/AAAAAAAAAJI/7AzLeTWZ6mw/s400/Bertha+Franks.jpeg" width="118" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>My great-grandmother<br /> burned to death.</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Hand-delivered it to the mortician, a big brother of a high
school friend of mine.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
He offered to let me see my mom in the embalming room. I
turned down the offer; that was too brutal even for a grizzled old reporter
like me who has covered murders and fatal vehicle accidents.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And like seeing my mom in the embalming room at the funeral
home, I have no intention of writing my own obituary.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Fellow Writing Wranglers and Warriors blogger Neva Bodin
recently wrote a blog about how we view our lives and if given the opportunity,
would we write our own obituaries. Neva said, “… an artist friend and I once
joked about publishing our own obituary just to become famous – you know it
seems artists become or are more famous after their deaths. And we certainly
needed help!” </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She compared an obituary to a company’s mission statement
that states its purpose, its reason for existing.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
At my first-ever newspaper reporter job, my responsibilities
included writing obituaries. It was ho-hum work for me, but I soon came to
realize that an obituary is the last chance for a family to show that their
loved one lived a fulfilling life and followed the biblical principle of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shining his light before others so that they
could see his good works</i>.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Newspapers, especially the last bastion of local news –
weeklies – thrive on the various notices that </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-l4n1yZbA6nk/UdGEYlY6L0I/AAAAAAAAAJw/snuvanAE9GM/s535/Jesse+Edwards+Carnival.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-l4n1yZbA6nk/UdGEYlY6L0I/AAAAAAAAAJw/snuvanAE9GM/s400/Jesse+Edwards+Carnival.jpg" width="337" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>A great-uncle owned and operated an Ohio carnival</strong>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
people mail and email to the
newsroom. People buy the newspaper to read about themselves and their relatives
and neighbors.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Think about it for a moment. People send in:</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Birth announcements;</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Graduation announcements;</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Engagements and marriage announcements;</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Military service announcements;</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Job promotions;</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Family reunions;</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Wedding anniversaries;</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Children’s special parties;</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Scholarship awards their children receive;</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>High school and college graduations;</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Sports awards;</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Death notices.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MaPKHbrKaTk/UdGENHakd9I/AAAAAAAAAJk/HJfuuxONYe8/s371/Jackie+Franks+1year.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MaPKHbrKaTk/UdGENHakd9I/AAAAAAAAAJk/HJfuuxONYe8/s320/Jackie+Franks+1year.jpeg" width="146" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>My mother's birth <br />notice</strong>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Truly, a person’s life is chronicled in the local newspaper.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
During my days at the Lancaster Eagle-Gazette in Ohio I
edited the copy of small-town columnists who wrote about the everyday lives of
their neighbors who lived in towns like Rushville, Bremen and Millersport. They
didn’t know it at the time, but they were creating “memory treasures” for later
generations of genealogists and for descendants who want to learn about the
lives behind the photos in old scrapbooks. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I have photocopies of my mom’s birth announcement, the
obituaries of my great-grandfather and great-grandmother, and a news story
about the death of my great-grandmother who died in the 1930s when she caught
on fire as she lit her cooking stove. I also have a copy of a news story about
a relative who owned a carnival in the 1920s and 1930s.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My 86-year-old dad likes to say that in 100 years nobody will
even remember that he lived.</div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">That could turn out to be entirely true for
the grandchildren of his new great-grandchild, Griffin Goff, who will be one
year old in September, if they have no curiosity to learn about their families.
But I think with all this rich genealogical information in the past editions of
newspapers that will be available on microfilm and online, our descendants will
want to attach lives to the names on the tombstones in local cemeteries. If
they don’t, shame on them. </span>Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-77205858229445020812013-06-25T15:56:00.000-07:002013-06-26T04:19:00.498-07:00A Story: The Cloaked SorceressI’ve been posting paintings on my Facebook author’s page and
writing what I call short-shorts – usually between 10 and 20 paragraphs– that weave
a story around what the painting depicts. My author page has almost 1,100 likes,
but the short-shorts typically get no more than 15 percent penetration. I’ve
shared them on my regular page and linked back to my author page on several FB writer
groups. Very few wander over to my page to check out the stories. Writers on FB
like to post cute illustrations that say how much they love to read, but most
of the ones in these groups seem to be one-way posters … Buy my book, buy my
book, buy my book, they shout – and that’s about it. So while I’ll keep posting
these short-shorts on my FB author page, I decided just this once to post my
latest one on my blog. So here it is … I call it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Cloaked Sorceress.</i><br />
<em>________________________________________________________________________</em><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fCtfqa2quTc/Ucoep79sKDI/AAAAAAAAAIw/QTX2ZgTiiw4/s1600/alien+eyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fCtfqa2quTc/Ucoep79sKDI/AAAAAAAAAIw/QTX2ZgTiiw4/s400/alien+eyes.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She came up to me – didn’t give her name – and said in a
thick accent I couldn’t place, “I hear you’re good with a sword and composite
bow. I want to hire you to take me to Opet City.” She turned her scarf-covered
face toward the doors leading to the Burning Coals tavern.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
A perfume of jasmine escaped past her scarf and teased my
nose, making me forget the smells of dead fish, kafia and turpentine. Only the
rich could afford that scent. Perhaps her father owned all these wharves and warehouses
along Dock Street. Curiosity piqued, I let her lead me into the tavern.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I trailed her so I could get a better look at her, but to my
chagrin the hooded robe concealed her curves. She looked back at me … her eyes
spit fire<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. Sweet goddess</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Larenia</i>, I thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her eyes are glowing!</i> I’d never seen such blue eyes – a cat’s eyes.
Kafia addiction could do that, I knew. I needed to see her fingernails; they’d
glow too if she’d gotten a taste for kafia. I glanced down one of her sleeves,
and swore under my breath. She wore gloves.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Directly ahead, above three sets of mage-lights, a mural
famous throughout Setor City began to sparkle along its border, as if infested
with lightning flies. She stopped to watch, catching me off-guard. I bumped up
against her, prompting an angry retort, “You really are clumsy. Perhaps your
skill with the bow and sword is exaggerated?” She deigned not to look back at
me.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I gazed beyond her shoulder at the mural’s scene … a
terrified boar caught in mid-stride as it strained to escape the spear of a
mounted warrior woman. Suddenly, the wild boar came to life and raced along the
wall. The warrior woman’s horse bounded after it, the woman flung her spear and
its spearhead sliced through skin and muscle. The boar tumbled and the woman
raised her fist in triumph. Then the scene melted away as if wet paint dissolved
by a rainstorm – and a moment later reappeared in its earlier inanimate rendering.
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Everyone in the smoke-filled common room cheered, and no one took notice of the robed woman or her glowing eyes. She
turned suddenly, seized my arm, and guided me to the farthest table from the
mural. Motioning me to sit, which I did, she sat adjacent to me, so close her
robe brushed my knees. Perhaps she wanted to flirt. Why else sit so close? I reached out to caress a patch of skin between a glove and the end of her
sleeve. She yanked her hand away from mine.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I am not your plaything,” she growled, her voice sharp
enough to cut the block of cheese the serving wench had left on the table.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My apologies, My
Lady,” I said in my most humble voice. I attempted to shift the subject away
from my gaffe. “The boar mural … the owner’s brother, a mage, created it. A
magnificent display of magic, don’t you think?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I would have preferred to see the boar turn and gore the
woman’s leg.” She drew a money-purse from insider her robe, untied the
drawstrings and let dozens of gold imperials rain onto the tabletop. “These are
yours if you take me to Opet City. I’ve been told the Imperial Way is no longer
safe since the Emperor’s stroke. Bandits raid with impunity. My source also
said you are the best guide in the empire.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I ran my hands over the coins, felt their sweet coldness. I
wondered how we could safely exit the tavern without getting our throats cut.
Drunkards and their dollops sitting at nearby tables were eyeing the coins too.
“You were foolish to–”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Move your hand away from the coins,” she commanded. As if
her words were magic tinged, my hand jerked against my chest. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The coins and the money-purse vanished.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A damned sorceress</i>,
I thought to myself. Nonetheless, the stack of coins amounted to more money
than I had ever seen in one sitting. I would have guided Blue Eyes to Opet City
had the coins been half that number. I could buy a love slave with those coins
and have my every desire fulfilled. Or buy a tavern. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“You have a deal,” I said, and noticed that our neighbors
had grown subdued and slid their tables and chairs away from us. No one wanted
a sorceress to take notice of them. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Just a couple of stipulations, then I will retire for the
night and meet you in the morning at McPeak’s Stables.” She reached inside the
robe and I heard the jangle of coins. “I will bank these in your account at the
Imperial Bank. Once we are on the road you are not to try to crawl into my
bedroll or find excuses to rub up against me.” Suddenly, I felt invisible hands
squeeze my neck, and then the pressure vanished. “Understand?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Perfectly, My Lady.” I cleared my throat. “If I may ask,
why would a sorceress need a guide for protection?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She laughed, a sound that reminded me of glass shattering.
“Normally I wouldn’t. But I have this with me.” She opened her robe, revealing
not just inviting cleavage, but a sleeping baby dragon. “When she’s awake, she
drains my magic. Human babies drink their mother’s milk. Dragon babies drink
their mother’s magic.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I glared at my hands and forced them to stop shaking. In the
morning, I would be traveling with a dragon in human form – and her child.</div>
Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-75426765614650493822013-06-20T17:15:00.000-07:002013-06-27T05:06:09.993-07:00Precious memories of my cousin Billy …<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
One weekend in 1980 I traveled back to my childhood and
played Army. This time I dressed as a Confederate soldier and war-gamed with
Union re-enactors on military land in Indiana. Truly I had a great time; even a
blustery cold night in a tent on a hilltop could not dim my happiness.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Then I returned home.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wwQKxZbXqi4/UcOYcg4gSXI/AAAAAAAAAIM/yr8c_zFvQKo/s1600/Billy4+1957.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="318" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wwQKxZbXqi4/UcOYcg4gSXI/AAAAAAAAAIM/yr8c_zFvQKo/s320/Billy4+1957.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Billy with his mom Emmie and dad Bill in California.</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My mom telephoned me. “Billy’s gone,” she told me.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Gone? Where did he go?” I didn’t grasp the enormity of her
words.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It took a few more moments before I understood.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“He and his wife burned up,” she said.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I was so angry at her for not just telling me straight out. My
frustration traveled the telephone lines and burned her ear. Life – and death –
shouldn’t be a soap-opera drama.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Now, 23 years later, I feel guilt for my anger at my mom.
The terrible scourge of ALS battered her body and stopped her heart forever on
Nov. 14, 2003. Life can be so unfair – to a 24-year-old man with a new wife and
a new a house he’s restoring, and to a 73-year-old woman who wanted but didn’t
get to see her youngest granddaughter graduate from high school. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Billy was my sister Jody’s age. They both graduated from
high school in 1975. My cousin married a beautiful girl, Terry, and they were
restoring a house in the Akron area when the furnace exploded on an October night
in 1980. </div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UPRXm9eEJfw/UcOYR3dQugI/AAAAAAAAAIE/tr4jKYsh5bU/s1600/Billy3+1958.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="315" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UPRXm9eEJfw/UcOYR3dQugI/AAAAAAAAAIE/tr4jKYsh5bU/s320/Billy3+1958.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Billy sits with my sister Jody at Santa Monica beach.</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Billy spent his early years in LA. His mom Emmie and dad
Bill moved west from Ohio in the mid ‘50s. We followed in the summer of ’57,
settling in San Bernardino in a stucco housing development between Foothill
Boulevard and Base Line Road. We’d take turns traveling the San Bernardino
Freeway to visit each other. I always looked forward to the visits to their
home nearer the ocean. It was amazing how much colder it was. We wore sweaters
– in the summer in Southern California. Emmie cooked amazingly tasty meals.
Even today she laughs when she recalls how I munched down on her rolls and
mashed potatoes. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Billy and I would play typical kid games during our visits.
My sister wanted to join in, but we’d say “no girls allowed.” Years later, Jody
told me our behavior was hurtful. Boys can be so cruel and brainless. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
We moved back to Ohio in October 1965 and moved back into
our Wadsworth house that had been rented out during our time living in San
Bernardino and later Corona. A year later Billy’s family also </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8SOlijhXZvg/UcOYi4uAQ6I/AAAAAAAAAIU/0JN3pHPN1NA/s1600/Billy5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8SOlijhXZvg/UcOYi4uAQ6I/AAAAAAAAAIU/0JN3pHPN1NA/s320/Billy5.jpg" width="282" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>An older Billy with his family.</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
returned to Northeastern
Ohio. We’d all gather together on Christmas Eve at Uncle Jack and Aunt Gloria’s
house in Granger, and open presents under the huge Christmas tree in their
recreation room. A torrent of wrapping paper always filled the pine-scented air
on Christmas Eve. The get-togethers included seven rambunctious kids – me,
Jody, Billy, his sister Kim, his brother Ken (later Brian would be born), and
our cousins Candy, Pat. And the most important kid of all, Steven, our uncle,
born mentally retarded. Steven loved Christmas. The adults – mom and dad, Emmie
and Bill, Gloria and Jack; the older generation of Grandma Nan, Aunt Hortense,
Aunt Avis and Jack’s mom – would dutifully wait for the kids to open their
presents before unwrapping their own gifts. <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
There always seemed to be a half foot of snow on the ground
at the Granger house on Christmas Eve. You could bank on it. Cleveland’s snow
belt extends just far enough south to encompass Medina County’s Granger
Township. One year in the ‘60s a splendid full moon shone down on the snowy
scene, turning the twilight night into a Christmas carol: “It Came Upon a
Midnight Clear.”</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S1DsNHBNJxg/UcOYswXE6eI/AAAAAAAAAIc/bMy0EE36PEI/s1600/Stevie%252C+Nan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="309" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S1DsNHBNJxg/UcOYswXE6eI/AAAAAAAAAIc/bMy0EE36PEI/s320/Stevie%252C+Nan.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Grandma Nan with the Eternal Boy, Stevie.</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The last time I saw Billy was at one of the Christmas
get-togethers at the Granger house. He brought his girlfriend – his future wife
– to the family gathering. I thought, “Boy, Billy has great taste.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Billy loved cars, and in his early 20s he test drove cars
for Goodyear. It was while he was up in Wisconsin testing the Goodyear tires on
iced-over lakes that he met his true love. Billy and Terry were married in the
summer of 1980. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
In California days, Billy’s dad raced stockcars. Bill gave
me one of his trophies that I kept on top of my dresser. Later, back in Ohio,
Billy, Kim, Ken and Brian all raced Soapbox Derby cars at Derby Down in Akron
and more times than not they won.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Bill has turned the basement of their Doylestown house into
a Soapbox Derby shrine. He’s built a dais where all the cars, trophies and
other memorabilia are displayed prominently.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-g58CIC1RO5Q/UcOYJq7_hxI/AAAAAAAAAH8/oLy_tBUeMW4/s1600/Billy2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-g58CIC1RO5Q/UcOYJq7_hxI/AAAAAAAAAH8/oLy_tBUeMW4/s320/Billy2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>My sister Jody and me in Santa Monica wading pool.</strong> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Kim recently gave her mother a new IPad and Emmie has started
hanging out on Facebook. She’s noticed some of the family photos I’ve posted
and has copied them to her photo folder. They’re photos she has never seen,
most snapped by my mom and dad back in California days. I’m glad I’ve been able
to share these photos with her.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The ‘60s and ‘70s now live only inside our heads. So many who
gathered around the tall Christmas tree each Christmas Eve are no longer with
us – Aunt Hortense, Aunt Avis, Grandma Nan, Uncle Jack and his mom, my mom,
Billy.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Seven holes in my heart.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Seven holes that will never heal.</div>
Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-53616294849194422582013-06-06T17:56:00.003-07:002013-06-07T14:35:21.208-07:00Heroes, Heroines and Holy Puppeteers ...Writers who pen historical novels have to make a decision: How
realistic do they make the world view of their chief characters? If a novel is
set in 13<sup>th</sup> Century England, should the hero, heroine and other
characters who populate the pages of the book think like 13<sup>th</sup>
Century men and women?<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x3eoWBQI5Vg/UbEs3H-bJPI/AAAAAAAAAHU/VWbbbmWfkJw/s1600/Puppeteer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x3eoWBQI5Vg/UbEs3H-bJPI/AAAAAAAAAHU/VWbbbmWfkJw/s1600/Puppeteer.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>The Great Puppeteer God controls our hero</strong>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
That’s an important decision. If you want your character to
belong to the 13<sup>th</sup> Century, then you have some closet cleaning to
do. Right now your storage closet is filled with some very interesting boxes
and chests. One says: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Renaissance</i>. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Take the Renaissance box and toss it into the trash bin.
Your 13<sup>th</sup> Century characters won’t be alive when the Renaissance
dawns. No invention of metal movable type, no flowering of Latin and vernacular
literatures, no resurgence of learning based on classical sources, no paintings
using linear perspective or other techniques meant to render a more natural
reality, no increased reliance on observation by scientists.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kJnDl3XZmp8/UbEstmbIwTI/AAAAAAAAAHI/AFyOJVyHbks/s1600/Hot+13th+century+dressers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kJnDl3XZmp8/UbEstmbIwTI/AAAAAAAAAHI/AFyOJVyHbks/s320/Hot+13th+century+dressers.jpg" width="303" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Our well-dressed hero and heroine</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
See that chest with the plaque that reads <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scientific Revolution</i>? That
flowering of knowledge lay almost 300 years in the future. Get some help so you
can transport the Scientific Revolution chest to the landfill. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Without the Scientific Revolution to spur men and women to bring scientific principles to intellectual and social thinking,
you can also toss out that big box with the oversized lettering that reads: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Enlightenment</i>. That means your
characters won’t be debating the merits of constitutions and democracy versus
socialism and absolute monarchies. Or building steam engines and hot-air
balloons.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Which means no <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Industrial
Revolution</i>, so you can tell the Waste Management folks to haul off the
giant chest containing the machine parts for textile and paper mills. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
That leaves just one more chest, the one with the lid
covered with taped postcards showing moon rockets, skyscrapers, movie posters,
and a DNA helix. It’s the chest with the plaque that reads: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Modern Age</i>.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HYgYz1hHfaU/UbEsY0QNFmI/AAAAAAAAAG8/TTl9R9Cfbjs/s1600/Hero%2527s+home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="221" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HYgYz1hHfaU/UbEsY0QNFmI/AAAAAAAAAG8/TTl9R9Cfbjs/s320/Hero%2527s+home.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Better watch out for quakes and whirlwinds</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Your 13<sup>th</sup> Century characters can’t use those
boxes and chests. They’re gone, buried in the landfill or burned up in the
incinerator. Instead, the people of your book will see God directly
manipulating their world for his own sometimes unfathomable reasons. To them,
he’s the Great Puppeteer and their 13<sup>th</sup> century world is his grand
stage. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
If you plot out a scene where a whirlwind levels your hero’s
villa, your hero knows God was behind the whirlwind and punished him for some
reason he must uncover through prayer. In fact, he probably believes God was
inside the whirlwind using his mighty breath to power the tornado.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NAPelMzKGNY/UbEsLm4O7oI/AAAAAAAAAGw/oIG_H4AvOxg/s1600/Embroidered_bookbinding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NAPelMzKGNY/UbEsLm4O7oI/AAAAAAAAAGw/oIG_H4AvOxg/s320/Embroidered_bookbinding.jpg" width="220" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>13th Century book binding</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
How would your hero or heroine react if an earthquake
damaged their castle or walled city? Their thought processes would work the
same way as they did with the tornado. More prayers, perhaps more
interpretations of dreams since they can be messages from God. And if your hero
is a king or baron and decides that God wants him to punish a particular group
of people – perhaps Jews or gypsies – then your hero knows he must fulfill
God’s will and that means holy bonfires cooking ungodly flesh.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
21<sup>st</sup> Century readers won’t go for such a hero who
has never heard of natural law and believes God is the Great Puppeteer who
provides favors for some and curses for others. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
That’s why often the heroes and heroines appear to have
been plucked out of the second decade of the 21<sup>st</sup> Century and
deposited in another century, or in the case of the genre I write in –fantasy –
another world usually governed not only by natural law but by the forces of
magic as well – and that means a whole other class of creatures, creatures
spawned by magic.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Realism can go only so far when writing novels that stray
away from modern times.</div>
Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-50392703074575049602013-06-01T19:08:00.000-07:002013-06-05T19:04:38.791-07:00Railroad tracks still lead us home in our dreams<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Riding on the City of
New Orleans,<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Illinois Central
Monday morning rail.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fifteen cars and 15
restless riders,<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Three conductors and
25 sacks of mail.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All along the
southbound odyssey,<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The train pulls out at
Kankakee,<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rolls along past
houses, farms and fields,<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Passin' trains that
have no names,<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Freight yards full of
old black men<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And the graveyards of
the rusted automobiles.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Good morning America,
how are you?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Don't you know me I'm
your native son,<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I'm the train they
call The City of New Orleans,<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I'll be gone 500 miles
when the day is done.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jY7GV6MUHbE/Ua_o4j5awXI/AAAAAAAAAFU/jm2TsHKX_D4/s1600/Grandpa+Bud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jY7GV6MUHbE/Ua_o4j5awXI/AAAAAAAAAFU/jm2TsHKX_D4/s200/Grandpa+Bud.jpg" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Bud Staton</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Railroading has been an integral part of America’s soul
since the first steam locomotive – called the <br />
Tom Thumb – and its open car pulled
out of Baltimore one sunny day in the early 1830s and rolled west 13 miles to the
village of Ellicott’s Mills. The passengers, mostly VIPs, thrilled at the then
unheard-of speed of 18 mph.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
This was the beginning of the Age of Railroad in the United
States, and the organizers named this railroad pioneer the Baltimore &
Ohio, or B&O. The railroad’s objective was to connect Baltimore and its
harbor with the Ohio River and points farther west, and end the barely begun heyday
of the canal system.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My fraternal grandpa was a railroad man. Maynard F. Staton
started out a farmer tilling 75 acres near Seville, Ohio, but his
father-in-law, Louis Iuppenlatz, convinced him to join the Akron, Canton &
Youngstown Railroad (A.C. &Y.) as a telegrapher. My Grandpa Bud had only
worked for the A.C. & Y. for six months when the depression hit. He was let
go and it would be nine years before the A.C. & Y. would rehire him. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lZIaFSHJR5o/Ua_pNGp26DI/AAAAAAAAAFk/hyE331X92Zk/s1600/Restaurant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lZIaFSHJR5o/Ua_pNGp26DI/AAAAAAAAAFk/hyE331X92Zk/s320/Restaurant.jpg" width="283" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Nan Staton in the Restaurant</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When my Great-Grandpa Louis retired as station agent and
telegraph operator of the Sharon Center, Ohio train depot, Grandpa Bud took
over and ran the station for 18 years until the railroad closed its doors in
the 1950s. In its heyday, folks in Sharon Center and the surrounding farm
country would take the train into Akron to shop or do a bit of picnicking. A
newspaper article about the depot’s closing in 1952 said old-timers in Sharon
Center could recall a time when the depot was “full of passengers as late as 10
o’clock.” But more and more folks were driving their cars to Akron, eventually
dooming the the depot and the passenger train service started in the 1880s.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The newspaper article says Grandpa Bud bought the depot and
used its lumber to build a restaurant on Ohio 94 just north of Sharon’s
Center’s Gettysburg-like town square. I remember sitting on a stool in that
restaurant. Grandma Nan would serve me a Coke. Sadly, Grandpa Bud only lived a
few years after leaving railroading and running the restaurant. He died in
August 1960 during the Democratic National Convention that nominated John F.
Kennedy. I remember that bit of trivial because my mom, sister and I were at
his house for a cookout and we all watched the convention on TV. I would have
been about eight at the time. A day or two later we learned that Grandpa Bud
had suffered a fatal heart attack. Mom took me to his viewing, and I think it was the first time I had ever
seen someone in a casket. Dad had stayed behind in California to keep working
while mom, my sister Jody and I visited loved ones in Ohio. He, his sister Emmy and Emmy’s
husband Bill had to drive across country for the funeral.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9mKO143S7VM/Ua_pDIbrOPI/AAAAAAAAAFc/W1jBGbG4Olo/s1600/Louis+Staton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9mKO143S7VM/Ua_pDIbrOPI/AAAAAAAAAFc/W1jBGbG4Olo/s320/Louis+Staton.jpg" width="206" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Bodie Staton</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My dad Louis, nicknamed Bodie, worked summers in his youth
for the railroad, doing repair work on tracks. He said hoisting the individual
rails and driving in spikes built him up and had him physically prepared for the
rigors of military life when he joined the Army Air Force in 1945 shortly
before the war ended.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Now 86 years old and living in Grantsville, West Virginia,
my dad likes to tell the story of how he and co-workers were caught on a bridge
as a train approached. They had to cling to the bridge structure beneath the
rails until the train passed. So was the life of a railroad man back in the
1940s.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
When I was about 10 dad bought me an H&O model railroad
set. He built a simple layout on a plywood tabletop. He laid out a small
village with streets. We bought houses, stores, a gas station and school
for the village. Of course he bought a depot as well. Other extras included a
mountain tunnel, telephone poles, trees, cars and people so I could populate
the village. For a later Christmas, he bought me an older model train engine
that would have been seen in late 19<sup>th</sup> century America. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
During one birthday I opened up a present and discovered a toy
telegraph. It’s only now as an adult that I realize he was trying to introduce
me to the family’s railroad heritage. The depot duties of my
Great-Grandpa Louis and Grandpa Bud included operating the telegraph. The dots
and dashes coming over the telegraph line gave them the news that let them keep the depot
train schedules up to date.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0OOHqObcWXQ/Ua_piBiBm9I/AAAAAAAAAF0/m5KlCX8Jurk/s1600/Old+Union+Station.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="310" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0OOHqObcWXQ/Ua_piBiBm9I/AAAAAAAAAF0/m5KlCX8Jurk/s400/Old+Union+Station.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Wilmington's Downtown Union Station</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It’s fabulous that many towns are restoring their old train
depots. I live now in a place steeped in railroad history and lore. On the
northern waterfront of downtown Wilmington, North Carolina, the local community
college has just finished constructing what it calls Union Station. The
educational building sits on the site of the original Union Railroad Station, the pride
and joy of the Atlantic Coastline Railroad (ACL), which had its corporate
headquarters in downtown Wilmington until it left for Jacksonville, Florida, in
1960.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The ACL, now known as CSX, is the descendant of one of
America’s most famous railroad companies – the Wilmington & Weldon
Railroad. At the time of its completion, the line was the longest railroad in
the world with 161.5 miles of track. Two of the depots along the track, one in
Burgaw and one in Wallace, have been restored and are being used by each town’s
chamber of commerce. They are the downtown focal points of two festivals,
Burgaw’s North Carolina Blueberry Festival and Wallace’s Carolina Strawberry
Festival.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Many families like mine can trace their roots
back to railroading. While farming was important in 19<sup>th</sup> and 20<sup>th</sup>
century America, the railroads were what linked us together and made it
possible for us to be one country, not like balkanized Europe. I’m proud of my
railroad forbearers.</span>Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-64272831508242568682013-04-13T20:41:00.005-07:002013-05-21T18:19:32.342-07:00In North Carolina … Strawberry Festival is a time to forget politics<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I’ve been caught up lately in local politics … that is
covering local politics in North Carolina as local governments prepare their
Fiscal Year 2013-14 budgets.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-05qXYHqmKsY/UWojfhPP0iI/AAAAAAAAAEg/ZItgy4KTgV0/s1600/Berries1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-05qXYHqmKsY/UWojfhPP0iI/AAAAAAAAAEg/ZItgy4KTgV0/s320/Berries1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Politics or strawberries?</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It’s not been easy for small towns in the county I cover for
the Duplin Times newspaper, a weekly that has a circulation of about 5,800.
Duplin County has a population of around 60,000 and its largest city – Wallace –
comes in just short of 6,000 people.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Politicians in the state capital – Raleigh – and in the U.S.
capital – Washington, D.C. – have been in a cutting binge since just after the
Great Recession. Here in North Carolina, Republicans rule in Raleigh with Pat
McCrory as governor and both legislative houses in the GOP’s hands. It’s what
the voters want … they made that clear when they told gays to forget about ever
getting married or enjoying civil unions in North Carolina.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
With all the political changes going on in Raleigh, towns
like Wallace are trying to figure out how they’re going to revitalize their
downtowns, pay for sewer and water improvements, attract new industries and
jobs, and build parks and greenways. You see they’ve become use to getting
50/50 matching grants from the state as well as loans to pay for infrastructure
and other improvements.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;">s<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HqcE2p03pGU/UWokTJdSm_I/AAAAAAAAAEs/KSftqJaWA5E/s1600/Berry3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HqcE2p03pGU/UWokTJdSm_I/AAAAAAAAAEs/KSftqJaWA5E/s320/Berry3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Strawberries -- Taste to savor</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
There really doesn’t seem to be any way out of higher taxes.
Cut federal taxes, cut state taxes, but roads still need to be paved and
maintained, people still need to drink clean water, rivers and lakes still need
to be clean for fishing and swimming. That means the taxes will come from the
local level through higher property taxes, higher local sales taxes, higher
gross receipts taxes on local businesses, higher utility bills, high tap fees.
Otherwise, water systems and wastewater treatment systems can’t be upgraded and
expanded, and that stops growth – no new residential neighborhoods, no new
factories and plants.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Sometimes I don’t think local politicians see the writing on
the wall – to use a worn, tired metaphor. National and state politicians are
passing the buck to mayors, councilmen and county commissioners.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hC-SH4n6gDY/UWok2oydi2I/AAAAAAAAAE0/xKEFLA1Ddu4/s1600/Berry2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hC-SH4n6gDY/UWok2oydi2I/AAAAAAAAAE0/xKEFLA1Ddu4/s320/Berry2.jpg" width="284" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong></strong><br />
<strong>Strawberries and optimism</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Wallace was hoping to build a regional park around a 19<sup>th</sup>
century gristmill and sawmill. But with expected cutback in state grants to purchase
land, the park may not happen – unless more local funding sources can be found.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
So when the town councils like the one in Wallace seek tax
increases, what are the local citizens going to say. Will they say: “We
understand. We too want parks and jobs and clean-tasting water.” Or will they rebel
at new taxes and accept pothole streets, foul-tasting water, bridges that
collapse, and closed parks?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
In a month, Wallace will be holding its third annual
Carolina Strawberry Festival. It’s brings locals and tourists to the downtown
for a two-day party with lots of strawberries, barbecue, shag and beach music, and
recipe contests. It’s a time for optimism, so hopefully the party poopers in
Raleigh and Washington, D.C. won’t spoil people’s spirits.</div>
Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-69741276029623544372013-02-26T16:23:00.002-08:002013-02-26T16:33:55.651-08:00Moving into the future can mean a bumpy ride<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xphs-DgnwC4/US1Ok6EeLrI/AAAAAAAAAD4/k6LMvMBG_-I/s1600/Ohio+Power+Plant+--+Beverly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xphs-DgnwC4/US1Ok6EeLrI/AAAAAAAAAD4/k6LMvMBG_-I/s400/Ohio+Power+Plant+--+Beverly.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h3>
Muskingum River Power Plant</h3>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Some days are bummer days.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I just read a news story on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Marietta Times</i> website that says American Electric Power’s Muskingum
River power plant’s Unit 5 in Southern Ohio will shut down by 2015.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
That means the loss of more than 100 jobs at the plant located
a couple of miles north of Beverly. I went to Fort Frye High School in Beverly
and know many people who did or are working at the AEP coal-burning plant that
straddles the Muskingum River.</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Yes, I know the nation is transitioning to cleaner fuel
sources, but this news still leaves me in a melancholy mood.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xFYBxwyOB9w/US1PVUhzGDI/AAAAAAAAAEA/rBSB8PIco8A/s1600/Ohio++Power+--+Beverly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xFYBxwyOB9w/US1PVUhzGDI/AAAAAAAAAEA/rBSB8PIco8A/s400/Ohio++Power+--+Beverly.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h3>
View from Muskingum River</h3>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I’ve had jobs vanish in this struggling economy and know
it’s hard to get work that pays a comparable salary. </div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I first saw the plant’s smokestack towering above the hills
as the family car traveled along curvy Ohio 339 toward the back entrance into
Beverly. That was 1968. Dad had a new job at the B.F. Goodrich plant in
Marietta, and we were moving from Wadsworth, Ohio, near Akron down to Beverly.</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Through the years the tall stack has been a welcome sight as
I traveled not only on Ohio 339 but Ohio 60 down from McConnelsville. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The summer after high school graduation I played softball on
a baseball field owned by AEP’s subsidiary, Ohio Power. The field lay beside the
bank of the Muskingum River under the shadows of the plant.</div>
If you didn’t park your car in the garage in the late ‘60s,
you’d find a coating of coal ash on it when you went out to start it in the
morning. We were breathing that into our lungs.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
On some Saturdays in the mid ‘70s, I’d drive from Lancaster
where I was a newspaper reporter to Beverly to visit family. The 1.5-hour trip
took me past New Lexington and a nearby strip-mining operation, one of the
feeder systems for the Muskingum River plant and others that depend on coal to
generate electricity.</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Unit 5 is shutting down by mid-2015 because AEP just inked a
legal settlement with the U.S. EPA, eight states and 13 citizen environmental
groups to end operation of some its oldest, dirtiest coal-burning plants. The
Muskingum River plant is one of them.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-N3C-bnoCoOw/US1PwZ6ralI/AAAAAAAAAEI/I5B9VaxqVF8/s1600/Ohio+Power+-+Beverly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-N3C-bnoCoOw/US1PwZ6ralI/AAAAAAAAAEI/I5B9VaxqVF8/s400/Ohio+Power+-+Beverly.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h3>
Beverly, Ohio</h3>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The news isn’t unexpected in the Muskingum River Valley.
Back in June 2011 the company first announced that the plant was on a list of
units to be retired by 2015. It didn’t go over well with Beverly friends I’ve
friended on Facebook, and many lambasted the EPA, the Obama Administration and
Democrats in the Congress. They took it personally. Through the decades the power
plant and a steel plant on the river were important income generators for
Beverly and the sister town on the western bank of the Muskingum, Waterford. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But technological change stops for no one. The U.S. is
moving toward natural gas and alternative energy like solar farms for electric
generation. As part of the legal settlement, AEP has made a commitment to
develop 50 megawatts of wind or solar power this year, and additional 150
megawatts by 2015. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The first four of the plant’s units were commissioned
between 1953 and 1958, and are scheduled for closure by 2014. Unit 5 was built
in 1968, and could be converted to natural gas, but that would probably not be
economical for AEP.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
As a reporter for the Duplin Times in North Carolina, I
cover the Duplin County towns of Wallace and Rose Hill where I am witnessing
the transition to alternate energy sources. Both towns are in the process of
approving solar farms. Earlier this month the developers of the solar farm on
the edge of Wallace came back with a revised conditional use permit. They had
to change the footprint of their farm to move solar panels away from wetlands.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4-6rzdeDOpI/US1QgQufrBI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/f4JhDCSYvFQ/s1600/Ohio+Power+--+Solar+farm+in+Murphy,+NC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4-6rzdeDOpI/US1QgQufrBI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/f4JhDCSYvFQ/s400/Ohio+Power+--+Solar+farm+in+Murphy,+NC.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h3>
Solar farm in North Carolina</h3>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Photovoltaic power (PV) solar panels convert sunlight into
electricity that can be sold to utility or private companies. A smaller number
of solar farms use CSP technology that captures and concentrates the sun’s heat
to create electricity. CSP systems direct solar thermal or heat energy from
mirrors and lenses to a steam turbine that drives an electric turbine
generator.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
A solar farm is considered a utility-scale solar power plant
if it is selling power to a utility, is ground-mounted and larger than 2 MW (megawatts),
meaning it’s capable of powering more than 300 average homes.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Growth in North Carolina has been driven by state policy
that encourages deployment along with federal incentives. Solar farm owners can
receive a federal tax credit for 30 percent of the cost of the system.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Sunlight or coal? What choice would you make?</div>
Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-72579000999059530542013-02-20T19:28:00.000-08:002013-02-20T19:28:24.387-08:00When actresses first ruled the Social Scene …<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lpS9UiLntRs/USWRbY9jB0I/AAAAAAAAADQ/Uzzs8-b8Gqs/s1600/Famous+Actresses+of+the+Stage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lpS9UiLntRs/USWRbY9jB0I/AAAAAAAAADQ/Uzzs8-b8Gqs/s640/Famous+Actresses+of+the+Stage.jpg" width="460" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Abandoned pregnant and penniless on the teeming streets of
London, 16-year-old Amber St. Clare relies on her wits, beauty and courage to
climb to the highest position a woman could achieve in Restoration England –
that of favorite mistress of Merry Monarch Charles II.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Anyone here in the second decade of the 21<sup>st</sup>
century know who teenage Amber St. Clare is?</div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
Amber is author Kathleen Winsor’s heroine in “Forever Amber,”
the bestselling U.S. novel of the 1940s. It sold more than 100,000 copies in
its first week of release in 1944 and went on to sell more than 3 million
copies. More than a few girls born in the mid to late 1940s are named Amber.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I don’t read many romance books, but I did read “Forever
Amber” in my early 20s after I saw the movie that starred Linda Darnell as the
bed-hopping beauty.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bzkGZswYmWU/USWSetw_oZI/AAAAAAAAADY/VWJVpkE3MQc/s1600/English+stage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bzkGZswYmWU/USWSetw_oZI/AAAAAAAAADY/VWJVpkE3MQc/s1600/English+stage.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>English Stage</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
What I especially liked was Winsor’s portrayal of the 17<sup>th</sup>-century
English stage. Nell Gwynne, the actress who became a real mistress of Charles
II, even makes an appearance in the novel. Called “pretty, witty Nell” by
Samuel Pepys, she has come to be regarded as the embodiment of the spirit of
Restoration England. Considered an extraordinary comic talent, Nell’s
rags-to-royalty tale echoes another story made famous by Disney … “Cinderella.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Nell set the stage for the celebrated actresses of the 18<sup>th</sup>-century
English stage, the women who helped establish the 18<sup>th</sup> century as
the Age of the Actress. These actresses achieved star status in that bygone
time, much like today’s actresses like Angelina Jolie and Hallie Berry are
trend-setters.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Anne Oldfield, Frances Abington and Susannah Cibber have been
mostly forgotten, but in another time and place were major players at the dawn
of what we know today as Celebrity Worship. They became beacons of style and
taste. These actresses had money of their own and exerted political and
cultural influence far beyond the stage.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
During the 1757-58 season, Susannah Cibber ranked a close
second in popularity to David Garrick. This helps explain the jealousy Garrick
harbored against his female colleagues throughout his long career.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sErcKuebr8A/USWTkb_eNnI/AAAAAAAAADk/DmT3mA9pYVY/s1600/Broadsheet+Tatler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sErcKuebr8A/USWTkb_eNnI/AAAAAAAAADk/DmT3mA9pYVY/s400/Broadsheet+Tatler.jpg" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>The Broadsheet Tatler</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Both the highborn and the lower classes loved the London
stage. The broadsheets of the era loved publicizing the gossip and scandal
surrounding the stage. And at the center were the actresses.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
No doubt many today think the actresses were like Amber, prepared
to offer a special performance in the bed of a wealthy nobleman. That was
sometimes true, but the actresses also formed friendships with ladies of
quality and were in demand at parties and social events. As one observer said
of Abington, “A great number of people of fashion treat her in the most
familiar manner, as if she were their equal.” In turn, the ladies of quality
shared in the spotlight and cultivated their own spheres of cultural influence.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
While these superstar actresses were able to hobnob with noblewomen,
they came from lower-class women employed in the trades as milliners,
seamstresses, servants and orange girls. Frances Abington was a servant to a
French milliner early in her life. Yet she was able to mesh her acting talent with
shrewd business acumen to become an 18<sup>th</sup> century celebrity.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
These stars of the stage refused to classify themselves as immoral
or whores. In their autobiographies and memoirs, the actresses used their
popularity to depict their sometimes scandalous behavior as socially
acceptable. People overlooked Gwynn’s scandalous behavior because of her
philanthropy and benevolence. A generation later the fans of the London stage overlooked
Oldfield’s wild ways because of her skill and talent on the stage.</div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
See … some things never change. 18<sup>th</sup> century
folks were willing to overlook misdeeds and hanky-panky just like we are.<br />
Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-64216458729797270402013-02-08T21:13:00.001-08:002013-02-08T21:52:28.501-08:00The online future has a name and it’s called Graph Search…He’s been making a list, and checking it twice, gonna to
find out who’s been naughty or nice.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
No, not Santa Claus, but the Wizard of Facebook, Mark Zuckerberg.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Facebook’s algorithms have been collecting, cataloguing and storing
an immense storehouse of data made possible by a billion people who share their
personal lives online on the social network.</div>
<br />
They post status updates complete with photos and charts,
everything from their latest recipe creations to their day-to-day struggles taking
care of a parent suffering from Alzheimer’s.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Right now folks in the U.S. Northeast are posting photos and
comments about Nemo, the latest blizzard now blanketing the region.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I’ve collected 576 friends since I first joined Facebook
back in September 2009. On October 4, 2011, I established an author’s page to
try to generate some sales of my novels. The page has 716 likes.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I’ve posted hundreds of jpgs over the years – everything
from my nieces’ weddings and a new-born great-nephew to some related to my
writing, paintings of warrior women that once graced fantasy novels.</div>
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YMX6-xbQVNM/URXZwXP8BcI/AAAAAAAAAC4/i9etq3U64Po/s1600/FB+Graph+Search.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YMX6-xbQVNM/URXZwXP8BcI/AAAAAAAAAC4/i9etq3U64Po/s400/FB+Graph+Search.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>The Grand Annoucement</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
If asked in my more innocent days what I thought happened to
all the postings made by people back at the dawn of the Facebook Age, I would
have unveiled this scenario. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Zuckerberg frowns, crosses his arms and narrowly eyes one of
his server gurus. “We’re out of storage space and the storage tapes just went
up in price. Delete January through June 2005.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I doubt anything like this ever happened. I expect
everything you, me and the other billion users posted through the years still
exists in the nether regions between the symbols of computer code.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
That’s why I’m not the least bit surprised that Facebook is
taking on its archrival Google, announcing a search tool – Graph Search – designed
to mine all that personal information collected over the years.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I’ve noticed just one person on Facebook, a fellow author, posting
worries about Graph Search. That surprises me. I would have thought I’d be
seeing a deluge of graphic posts warning about Facebook’s newest assault on
privacy.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Maybe people don’t know about Graph Search, even though the
search engine was announced with much fanfare. Or maybe people think the
privacy controls they’re using will keep Graph Search from turning up more
intimate information. What’s a given is that people are more cautious about
what they share on Facebook, Twitter and other social networking sites.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
If you take Facebook at its word, it intends to respect users’
privacy in the brave new world of Graph Search. For example, if a job seeker
doesn’t want a risqué photo to be ferreted out by a potential employer, he or
she can make it visible only to those who have been winnowed down as “close
friends.” Face is advising users to check their privacy settings in order to
fine-tune whom they wish to share posts with online.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But even if I’m careful about what photos I post on Facebook
and with whom I share the photos with, I can’t control what my Facebook friends
post. Let’s say I partied hard in my youth and a friend took some revealing
shots of me camped out on a couch groping a female acquaintance now happily
married with three children. I’m not friends on FB with this ancient friend, so
I don’t know he has posted some “party” shots from olden times including the
one of me. Worst yet, he has tagged me. So that photo could very well be
ferreted out by Graph Search.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Graph Search is now in beta testing. When it’s fully up and
running, it will be the most powerful search engine in existence, dwarfing Google
Search. Every time you go to another site and read a news story, for example,
then press the site’s Facebook icon, the fact that you “like” the news story is
going into Facebook’s immense data that is searchable by Graph Search.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yK9W2oB79nc/URXaTwRZpgI/AAAAAAAAADA/0Nmc8jQXLqw/s1600/FB_Graph_Search2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="177" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yK9W2oB79nc/URXaTwRZpgI/AAAAAAAAADA/0Nmc8jQXLqw/s400/FB_Graph_Search2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Friends Liking Friends</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Facebook graph system has been accumulating information
since the day Facebook opened and the first connections were made in the software
graph structure. A columnist for Slapdot writes, “I did a search of people who
like running and have visited my hometown, and the system produced several
dozen people. The information is already there. And these people weren’t on my
Friends list, and the few I checked didn’t have any mutual friends with me.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The Slapdot columnist adds, “For users of Facebook looking to
meet more friends, Graph Search might prove interesting and useful. And for law
enforcement and other ‘Big Brother’ analyses, it could be a gold mine. People
were nervous about Google storing their history, but it pales in comparison to
the information Facebook already has on you, me and roughly a billion other
people.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Facebook is hoping Graph Search will make it a whole lot of
money. But that will depend on Facebook’s users continuing to share all kinds
of stuff with their FB friends – their interests, photos and likes. The beta
version doesn’t include status updates, but that will apparently change later
on.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
On the other hand, Graph Search holds unbridled promise for marketers
and advertisers seeking to target more precise audiences. Let’s say I’m the CEO
of a corporation that owns two companies; one sells dance outfits for little
girls and the other, a company that sells clogging music. I could use Graph Search
to find mothers in their 30s who have daughters taking dance lessons.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I could see where Graph Search could be very useful for
indie authors and authors under contract to ebook publishers. I could use it to
find FB users who are major fans of the fantasy genre, specifically novels with
elves and dwarves. Can you spell “future sales?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
These same fantasy genre fans could use Graph Search to find
authors like me who are not in the stables of major publishing houses. Can you
spell “more future sales?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
So while Graph Search has me nervous, I do see the benefits.
And I will keep my posts “public.”</div>
Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-42722976983917068592013-01-26T12:18:00.000-08:002013-01-26T12:50:44.975-08:00A few words on the new dodo bird …Some say libraries are going the way of the dodo bird.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The flightless, three-foot-tall bird native to the island of
Mauritius near Madagascar in the Indian Ocean became extinct in the late 17<sup>th</sup>
century due to an aggressive human population.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Today humans are coming up with technologies that have the
potential of supplanting the traditional roles of public and college libraries.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
When I was in elementary school in Rialto, California, back
in the early ‘60s, I loved to read baseball biographies and science fiction and
the best place to get them was the school library. The books were free, an
important consideration for a family on a limited income. Frankly, I don’t
recall going to a bookstore during my elementary school days.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jKmafLppqSk/UQQ5DFj4HNI/AAAAAAAAACo/oVa5deNYEv0/s1600/Bodleian+Library,+Oxford+University.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jKmafLppqSk/UQQ5DFj4HNI/AAAAAAAAACo/oVa5deNYEv0/s400/Bodleian+Library,+Oxford+University.jpg" width="391" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Bodleian Library, Oxford University</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Vague memories of a public library in Corona, California,
percolate near consciousness, but the strong, undeniable memories belong to the
county library system in Washington County, Ohio during my high school years. I
didn’t really do research in the main Washington County library or the branch
in Beverly, but I did check out science fiction and historical novels and the
occasional nonfiction book about a historical event or person.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
In college at Ohio University, I relied on Alden Library on
the College Green for research papers, combing the stacks for obscure articles
and books on long-forgotten Pacific island societies.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I don’t recall buying books at bookstores until I was in
high school and would visit a locally owned store in downtown Marietta, Ohio,
where I would purchase science fiction paperbacks. That would have been about
1968. I do believe I bought my first fantasy novel in that bookstore, a Conan
novel. Back then local bookstores ruled; I don’t recall frequenting a chain
bookstore until the early 1980s at the Lake Square Mall in Leesburg, Florida.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
So what has changed?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I’m writing this in my office using my Dell laptop. I can
keep up with my married or soon-to-be married nieces and their mom – my sister
Jody – when they use their cell phones and tablets to post to Facebook. Niece
Nicci says she just finished a kettlebell workout with her fiancé Tony. In a
few minutes I’ll have to return to writing news stories, and when I do I may
need to google to dig up some background for a story. In the old days that
would have required a trip to the county or college library.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Libraries are having to adapt to the Information Age and the
Online World. In the ancient world onward they were the storehouses of
knowledge. The intricate details in award-winning novels and nonfiction books
didn’t come out of brains or thin air. They were painstakingly gathered inside
libraries. For example, authors who specialize on periods of American history
spend hours and hours conducting research in the archives of the Library of
Congress.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
More and more nowadays, that research can be conducted
online from their laptop in their office. It’s not happened yet, but I can see
a day coming when libraries everywhere will have their books and research
materials on their websites. Their patrons will be able to freely download a
book or magazine to their e-readers for a week or two. The only people who will
drive to a “physical” library will be those too poor to afford a computer or
e-reader or elderly person who won’t learn these new fangled ways.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Libraries are also getting swept up into the conservative
vs. liberal debate that has turned discourse into a mud-hole catfight. Libertarians
and tea-partiers don’t like the idea of using tax dollars to support anything
beyond basic services – not even libraries. In Florida during a debate, one guy
said, “…most librarians are little more than unionized pawns for the social activist
bosses of the American Library Association. Today ALA controls 62,000 members,
and through its czarist accreditation program of many libraries, largely
dictates what books are available for the most impressionable members of U.S.
society, our children.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
When someone uses the word “czarist” to describe a library
association with no power, you can’t help but conclude that public discourse
has indeed entered the loony bin. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Ideological arguments against libraries by their very nature
are impossible to refute. Any attempt to refute a basic tenant of ideology will
fail … the believer will not yield to evidence.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
In 20 years, public libraries may be almost entirely online,
with only a token building open to the refuseniks who will not use computers or
electronic reading devices. And that token building could very well disappear
along with the refuseniks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">In some places it’s already happening. Every
year in Duplin County, North Carolina, the county commissioners try to zero out
money for the libraries. So far the money has been reinstated. So far….</span>Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-19907003330247499032012-12-27T18:21:00.000-08:002012-12-28T14:14:42.161-08:00Free ebooks … a successful marketing tool?<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ju-LAgbWS8U/UN0Cos_MkCI/AAAAAAAAACY/qudW9SFibNI/s1600/free-ebooks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ju-LAgbWS8U/UN0Cos_MkCI/AAAAAAAAACY/qudW9SFibNI/s320/free-ebooks.jpg" width="320" /></a>It’s called marketing – and no, I don’t have one of my
novels available for a free download on Amazon. There’s a lively discussion on
Facebook started by a New York Times best-selling author. The romance author,
who has been able to make a living writing novels for 20 years, wrote: As a
writer, “I am SO offended by other writers giving away what they write I could
scream.”<br />
<br />
She continued, “It makes no sense to work day and night to
make a product as good as you can make it, and then put it on the market knowing it's going to be buried by all the free books people are giving away." <span style="display: none; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hide: all;">as good as you can make it, and then put it on the
market knowing it's going to be buried by all the free books people are giving
away.”asas</span><span style="display: none; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hide: all;">as good as you can make it, and then put it on the
market knowing it's going to be buried by all the free books people are giving
away.”</span><span style="display: none; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hide: all;">as good as you can make it, and then put it on the
market knowing it's going to be buried by all the free books people are giving
away.”</span><span style="display: none;">as good as you can make
it, and then put it on the market KNOWING it's going to be buried by all the
free books people are giving away.”</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Her opinion generated plenty of comments – 106 all told.
When she read the comments by readers and fellow writers, some contending
giveaways are a good marketing tool, the popular author made a second posting. “I
knew posting that earlier status would cause a stink. I am well aware of all
the people doing free books and why they're doing free books and why they think
it's a good idea and it still doesn't change one damn thing about what I think.”
This time she received 70 comments.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I’m not an indie writer. I might try it if I get a large fan
base. That way I’ll see a larger slice of the profit pie. My publisher tried a
giveaway twice on holidays. They’re not doing it anymore. I wish the publisher
had more resources to devote to marketing, but like so many ebook publishers
nowadays, they don’t. They stress that authors have to pitch in and help market
their novels. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
What I see here on Facebook are indie authors making
postings every time they have a freebie day or get a five-star review. There so
seems to be a lot of freebies and five-star reviews. I’ve always been a bit
suspicious of five-star reviews on Amazon. I have the inkling that many of them
come from friends and fellow writers who want to help out the author. Another
author who is a Facebook friend, Nadine Hays, was the lucky recipient of a
review in the USA Today newspaper; that’s the best kind of favorable marketing
and no doubt translated into many sales for her.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
To me, a review in a national publication or even the local
daily newspaper can be very effective in snagging more sales. Getting a local
newspaper and radio/television station to mention a book signing at the public
library or bookstore also can result in your novel settling into the eager
hands of a potential future fan. Then word-of-mouth can take over – as reading addicts
usually have friends who are read addicts as well.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I do blog, but I stay away from “how-to-write” posts. They’re
way too dry and frankly there are way too many writer blogs telling fellow writers
how to develop tension, characters and mood. Who wants to be one of the sand
particles on the beach?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
When I do post a blog or write something on my Facebook
author page, I will try to link to it from one of the Facebook pages like “Books
Gone Viral” and “Book Blogs and Tours.” Still, I’m not sure how effective they
are. I sense that many of the writers posting on these pages don’t actually
click on fellow writers’ links and read their blogs. They’re too busy marketing
themselves. Now a mention or link by a popular blogger – and they’re out there –
can be a godsend for a first-time author trying to make a splash in the ocean
of published novels. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Lindsay Buroker is a successful blogger and indie author. Even
before she became a self-published author – and a good one – she blogged about
ways to make money online and garnered a readership. She now uses her blogs to
market her fantasy novels and has been kind enough to link to other blogs of
her author friends including me. Lindsay and I use to critique each other’s
chapters on the Online Workshop of Fantasy, Science Fiction and Horror. Unlike
many indie authors whose books are cluttered with grammatical errors, her
novels are clean, well written and fun reads. Her website -- http://www.lindsayburoker.com
-- includes paintings of her characters done by fans.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
There are thousands and thousands and thousands of Ebooks on
websites like Amazon, Barnes and Noble, ITunes and Smashwords. An author needs
to find a way to outshine the others. Let’s use the timeless metaphor of the lit
candle. Being an author nowadays is like being in a Christmas Eve church
service holding an unlit candle. You need to make sure you sit in the first pew
in the seat closest to the middle aisle. That way your candle will be the first
one lit and will shine the only candlelight in the sanctuary. While you
outshine the others, you need to make a few sales and win some fans. </div>
Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-84061936818649498412012-12-16T07:41:00.001-08:002012-12-16T07:41:40.090-08:00Remembering horror and forgiveness...<span class="userContent"><div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_50cde8d5ac6588830663233">
Just six days ago Terri Roberts spoke at a Pennsylvania church about forgiveness and Christian love.<br /> <br /> Terri is the mother of Charles Carl Roberts who back in October 2006 took 10 Amish girls between the ages of six and 13 hostage at the Nic<span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AL832rBO-aY/UM3rBAxI58I/AAAAAAAAAB0/_CXl96wYlVI/s1600/Amish+family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="261" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AL832rBO-aY/UM3rBAxI58I/AAAAAAAAAB0/_CXl96wYlVI/s400/Amish+family.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amish families showed Terri Roberts the power of forgiveness.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="text_exposed_show">
kel Mines Amish School and killed five of them before killing himself.<br /> <br /> As she spoke in the church, she recalled hearing sirens on that fall day and saw helicopters racing across the sky. In response, she said a prayer, “Lord, please be with those people who need you.”<br /> <br /> Soon, the phone rang at the office where she worked. It was her husband telling her she needed to come home immediately. In her car driving home she heard on the radio about a shooting at an Amish school. <br /> <br /> When she got home, her husband and a state trooper met her.<br /> “It’s Charlie. It was Charlie,” her husband told her, his eyes reflecting his soul’s pain.<br /> <br /> How does a mother cope with the news that her son had shot 10 little girls and killed five of them?<br /> <br /> “No, no, no, no,” she said. “This cannot be the man we know.”<br /> <br /> Shattered, Terri had little desire to keep living. The deeply religious woman turned to her faith. She asked God “to take the pierces and put them back together, to bring new things” into her life.<br /> <br /> Terri didn’t think she could ever face her Amish friends again. Instead, they came to her.<br /> <br /> On the day of the shooting, an Amish neighbor stood behind her husband and rubbed his shoulders, consoling. She says that action symbolized Amish faith and the breadth of their forgiveness. <br /> <br /> When Terri and her husband buried their son, the first parents to greet them at the graveside were the mother and father of two daughters killed by their eldest son.<br /> <br /> When Terri finished speaking at the church, the congregation’s pastor said, “The Amish reaction to the shooting was amazing because it was instant. Their forgiveness transcends.”<br /> <br /> My mom’s side of the family comes from Wayne County, Ohio and were Mennonites and shared Anabaptist roots with the Amish back in Switzerland. I deeply respect the Amish/Mennonite faith, even their pacifist ways. They have gone to jail rather than take up the gun and fight in our wars.<br /> <br /> The Amish response to their killings can be a shining light in the darkness of despair for the families of those who lost their lives Friday in the Newtown elementary school massacre.</div>
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</span>Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-57139435403411463012012-12-11T18:56:00.000-08:002012-12-16T08:03:23.909-08:00Christmas memories settle comfortably in our hearts<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Mom passed away 11 days before her 74th
birthday and less than five weeks before her favorite holiday, Christmas.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">2003 proved to be a difficult year. We
watched mom lose the ability to use her muscles as ALS inexorably took her away
from us. In her last months of her life, she communicated by nodding for
"yes" and shaking her head for "no." Emptying the urine
bag, changing the bedsore bandage, telling her we were sorry as we turned her
on her side awhile she screamed ... those were our daily tasks in the fall of
2003.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It ended at midnight on November 14 when
she turned her head as if looking at someone in the room and the next breath I
waited to hear never happened. I rose from her reading chair, kissed her
forehead, and said I loved her and would soon join her in Heaven.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I went into the living room and told my
sister Jody and her husband Larry that mom had passed. In turn, Jody woke two
of the girls, Quinn, finishing up college at Ohio University, and Vanessa, a
high school senior, and everyone gathered in mom's bedroom. Tears flowed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Se16B7XYIbI/UM3wLSXWgZI/AAAAAAAAACE/yPO8k4lLBNs/s1600/Christmas+my+mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="188" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Se16B7XYIbI/UM3wLSXWgZI/AAAAAAAAACE/yPO8k4lLBNs/s320/Christmas+my+mom.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom always loved Christmastime.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">So began the holiday season nine years
ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Some who read this may think that
Christmas has become a sad holiday for me, but that's far from the case.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I spent the rest of November and much of
December in Beverly with my sister and her family. In the week before Christmas
Jody, Quinn and Vanessa were at a Marietta shopping center when my sister
showed her girls small wrapped presents.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"They're from your
grandmother," Jody said. "Their gifts she chose from her Avon
catalog."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Everyone cried.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The gifts were pretty remarkable when you
think of the implications. With death near mom hadn't withdrawn from this
mortal world, but had wanted her grandchildren to get presents from her just as
they had since they were toddlers. She said Merry Christmas from Heaven. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Her gifts seemingly from Heaven saved
Christmas for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Such love creates wonderful Christmastime
memories.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">My memories of Christmases past would not
exist without her efforts to make sure my sister and I always woke up on
Christmas Day with nice presents under the tree -- even in tight financial
times. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In my toddler days, dad and her took me
to downtown Akron to see the wonderful animated window displays in O'Neil's,
Polsky's and other department stores.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Later, when we lived in Rialto,
California, Christmas shopping always included a trip up the escalators of J.C.
Penney, Sears and the Harris Company to their special toy departments. I loved
seeing the elaborate model train displays with their Christmas villages and
snow-covered countryside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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T<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">he Christmas season in Rialto also
included an evening trip through the neighborhood famous for its houses decked
out with thousands of Christmas lights and front yards populated by animated
Santas, elves, grinches, toy soldiers, carolers, snowmen, candy canes and
manger scenes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">As an adult, I looked forward to my
annual trip north just before Christmas where I would join mom Christmas
shopping. We'd always shop in nearby Parkersburg and then head north to Akron
where we'd visit Grandma Mid in Rittman and do a bit of shopping at the
Akron/Canton malls. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I especially remember December 1994 up in
Canton. Christmas music was playing in J.C. Penney and Cleveland Browns
memorabilia challenged holiday decorations for dominance. The Browns were in
the playoffs that year and it was exciting to see fandom going bonkers over the
Browns' playoff appearance. We bought a Browns ornament for the Christmas tree.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The years march on, and as the old hymn says,
"Precious memories, unseen angels from somewhere to my soul, how they
linger ever near me, and the sacred scenes unfold."</span></div>
Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-28207183286290191182012-11-20T06:26:00.001-08:002012-11-20T06:26:58.579-08:00Tower of Babel parable bothers me...<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_50ab92a0ce0129806257730">
The Old Testament story of the Tower of Babel relates how God introduced multiple languages because mankind was building a tower designed to reach Heaven. Traditional Biblical teachers explain that this is a parable designed to be a lesson about too much pride. As one website says, “God came to see their city and the tower they were building. He perceived their intentions, and in His infinite wisd<span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><div class="text_exposed_show">
om, He knew this “stairway to heaven” would only lead the people away from God.<br /> <br /> Genesis 11:16 reads, “If as one people speaking the same language they have begun to do this, then nothing they plan to do will be impossible for them.” <br /> <br /> This bothers me. If taken literally, it’s a manifesto call against exploration, against scientific inquiry, against anyone having a probing mind. While I’m a man of faith, I’ve also come to see that not every passage, especially in the Old Testament, should be taken literally. This sounds very much like the effort of some old-school Temple priests in ancient Israel to squash the thoughts of philosophers and their inquiries into how things work.<br /> </div>
<div class="text_exposed_show">
Why study how tornadoes form? It’s sufficient to know God dwells inside them and powers their whirlwinds for his own reasons. Why try to understand the nature of lightning? It’s enough to know that God hurls lightning bolts down to the mortal realm. Why seek reasons for diseases? It’s enough to know that God uses diseases to punish people.<br /> <br /> The modern equivalent of the Tower of Babel are the rockets, satellites, space probes and telescopes that allow us to learn more about our universe. I saw the last Saturn launch in 1975 and around a dozen space shuttle launches – and I felt pride every time they thundered away from their launch pads. I refuse to believe that God finds space exploration unacceptable.<br /> <br /> In the movie “October Sky,” Quentin says to Homer after the last homemade rocket launches, “Look at it go, Homer. This one’s gonna go for miles.”<br /> <br /> I says let’s keep going for miles and miles and miles ….</div>
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Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-15232614283270646702012-08-31T18:15:00.001-07:002012-09-01T19:05:44.815-07:00My almost chance to decide a man's fate...This is a story of forgetfulness and second chances.<br />
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And a moment of terror when I thought I might actually be
called on to decide something extremely important in one man’s life.</div>
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Back in June I was suppose to report for jury duty.</div>
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Guess what I didn’t do.</div>
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I just happened to look on the night-desk beside my bed and
there it was … the jury duty summons from the sheriff.</div>
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Whoops.</div>
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I read the summons and gulped. For not showing up, I could
be found in contempt of court.</div>
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Again, whoops.</div>
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I’m writing this from jail.</div>
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I’m kidding. Truly, I promise I’m kidding. No manacles for
me. I’m a good boy – even during times when I would have preferred to be a bit
of a rake.</div>
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I immediately drove to downtown Wilmington and went to the
clerk of courts office to see how much blood they would demand.</div>
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It turned out to be not much.</div>
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The clerk gave me a bored half-smile and shifted my jury duty to
August.</div>
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In the later part of July I got another jury summons from
the sheriff telling me to report on Monday, August 20.</div>
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I quickly realized the potential was there for another mind
meltdown. Yep, the stars were settling into a familiar pattern foreordaining me
to forget to report. The week before the summons would see me on vacation in
West Virginia and Ohio visiting my 85-year-old father, my sister and a cousin
battling breast cancer. It would be easy to let the jury summons slip into the
cobwebbed recesses of my less-than-stellar mind. Yes, I admit … I am very good
at the TV game Jeopardy – if I could only remember the answers.</div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
Back to the jury duty summons … because I fretted so much
over the fear of forgetting I ended up obsessing on it. I wouldn’t let myself
forget.<br />
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As soon as my vacation ended and I got back to my home in Wrightsboro,
I called the jury summons’ number and heard the pre-recorded message. The voice
said to report to the justice building at 9:00 a.m. on August 20. I cursed
silently, knowing that meant I might have to serve on a civil or criminal trial.
I’m the reporter – the ONLY reporter – at a weekly newspaper in the neighboring
county. If I’m not writing news stories, there won’t be a newspaper to print.
Somehow, though, I don’t think the judge would be the understanding type.</div>
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Here’s a jury-pool secret in case you’ve never been summoned.
Being a member of the jury pool entails a lot of standing around or sitting
with little or no movement. There’s a reason the summons from the sheriff
recommends bringing a book or magazine.</div>
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Instead of using the recommended parking deck, I chose to
park on a side street off Princess Street where I used to work back when the
nation had a functioning – even robust – economy. The street didn’t have
parking meters, but it did require a bit of a walk – and I do need to get into
shape. I’m guilty of spending far too many hours sitting in a comfy home-office
chair in front of my desktop computer. I’ve another vacation planned for
October – and the woman I’m going to see will want me in top-of-the-morning shape.</div>
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Again, I’ve allowed myself to get sidetracked. It’s that
forgetfulness thing. Let me see … once inside the justice building and past
security, I waited in a fourth-floor line that led to the jury room. Well,
that’s not entirely true … some folks chose to sit on uncomfortable benches in
an open area.</div>
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Once inside the jury room, we potential jurors swore on
Bibles to do our civic duty and were given a video primer on how the justice
system works in North Carolina. When the video ended, I spent most of my time
taking short visits to the coffee pot followed by bathroom visits. </div>
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The jury clerk disappeared for fifteen minutes and when she
returned she called out about 40 names of potential jurors for a civil or
criminal trial. I was one of the names. We were ready, but the judge wasn’t, so
we sat and sat and sat. Truthfully, that seems to be the SOP for potential
jurors.</div>
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Around noontime, the clerk told us the judge wouldn’t need
us until 9:00 a.m. on Tuesday, August 21. But before she gave us our freedom, she
had us fill out a questionnaire from the judge.</div>
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The questions dealt mostly with perceptions about boozing, spousal
abuse and guns. I answered them the best I could. I don’t drink at the house
because my roommate is a recovering alcoholic. I’ve never hit a girlfriend … I
prefer to kiss feminine lips, not bloody them. And I used to own a musket back when
I was a Civil War re-enactor. Still, I headed to my car thinking those
questions were a bit ominous. The jurors chosen to sit for this trial wouldn’t
be deciding monetary relief for a homeowner with a leaking basement – as I had
to do on an Ohio jury more than 30 years ago.</div>
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The next day the clerk separated the jurors, placing my
group on one side of the room and the remaining jurors on the other side. All
were handed out string necklaces for holding our juror ID badges. And then we
did more waiting.</div>
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Around 10 in the morning a bailiff led us into the fourth
floor courtroom. I was second in line and took a seat at the end of the first
row in the public gallery area. The judge – on loan from a nearby county –
explained the case, a first-degree murder trial and introduced the defense
attorneys and the defendant and his lawyers.</div>
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My immediate thought: Don’t pick me. </div>
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Murder trials have a tendency to last a long time and the
Pender Chronicle newspaper would probably shrink from 16 pages to a one-page
broadsheet if I spent a week or more as a juror. Although we now have a sports
reporter, I remain “it” for covering the news side.</div>
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The omens were not good. The judge called out 12 names of
men and women to come forward and sit in the jury seats. Again, I heard my
name. For close to three hours, the 12 were questioned by the defense attorney
about our views concerning booze, bad marriages and guns. One juror was
released before the questioning ended because she had relatives coming for a
family gathering while the trial would still be going on.</div>
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A new potential juror was selected from the pool and the
questioning continued unabated. Amazingly, quite a few jurors told the DA they
had relatives who had been arrested for DUI or drug abuse or knew deputies,
attorneys or judges. When the questioning ended, the DA released three – and I
was one of the three. I wanted to do a jig in the middle of the courtroom.
Instead, I skedaddled out as fast as I could.</div>
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Thank God most lawyers don’t want a reporter on a jury.</div>
Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-30378639392692618942012-08-14T08:11:00.000-07:002012-08-14T08:13:33.731-07:00Of elves and humans...An illustration of an elf babe got me to thinking … our
image of a female elf has become very stereotyped.<br />
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To be brutally honest, the traditional depiction of a female
elf is a stylized image of a human woman – perhaps a bit more lithe than a
human but still shapely, an angel without wings. The major difference shown in
paintings is long, pointed ears.</div>
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The artists on websites that feature elves are painting or
using drawing programs to feature elves with fantastically long ears. They look
like Roman shortswords. I’m thinking the women – and men – probably look forward to
bedtime when they can sleep and wake up without neck aches.</div>
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That’s right … those mile-long ears would lead to horrendous
neck aches.</div>
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Like human boys have their foreskins removed, I’d think
elves would hold “ear rites” that would see the lengthy ears shortened
somewhat. Like dragon skins used as armor, perhaps the cutoff end of the ears
could be used as elven swords.</div>
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Now there are some cosmetic differences between elves and
humans I’ve not mentioned. Some short stories and novels feature dark-skinned
elves or drow elves. I’d prefer purple or orange skins. Now that would be
stunning. Even better would be camouflage skin that would allow them to blend
into forest terrain.</div>
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Elven hair color is so similar to human hair that I have an
itch to call it hair on steroids. It’s golden, black or silver – and the major
difference is that the color is much more brilliant than human hair. My
thought: why not shades of green? Or blue?</div>
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Now I concede … the elves in my trilogy, Larenia’s Shadow,
are traditional. I took the lazy route – golden skin and hair and a lithe
figure. </div>
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If I could go back in time and redo the novels, I’d give the
women more irregular traits. I can see it now – three breasts, three arms and
six or seven fingers.</div>
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Now that would make for some intriguing bed romping for
human men and elven women. </div>
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<br /></div>
Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-47387767729099243612012-07-18T20:11:00.006-07:002012-07-18T20:11:52.917-07:00How the Fourth of July did a disappearing act...Everyone loves fiery displays and explosions.<br />
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That’s why summer blockbusters usually do well at the box
office, racking up millions of dollars that make the moviemakers break into
wide grins.</div>
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And it’s why folks love Independence Day. It’s a fine day of
eating hamburgers and hotdogs along with corn-on-the-cob and potato salad
followed by a night filled with sparkling fireworks in the sky and
boom…boom…boom.</div>
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On the Fourth I decided to post on Facebook some photographs
of long-ago folks celebrating the nation’s birthday. </div>
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So I went a googlin’ and found me a heap of yellowed,
old-timey photographs. I settled on the time period between 1880 to about 1910.
Over a multi-hour period I posted about a dozen photographs along with
captions. They captured moments in time – picnics, band concerts, parades, even
the Wright Flyer at a Fourth of July event.</div>
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My favorite is a faded shot of Uncle Sam leading a late 19<sup>th</sup>
century parade in an open-air buggy.</div>
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I’m a reporter; I thought that perhaps I could incorporate
these photographs into a news story. First, though, I wanted to find an old
photograph of two of a Fourth of July picnic or band concert in Pender County,
N.C., from the late 19<sup>th</sup> or early 20<sup>th</sup> century.</div>
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With the help of a librarian, I scoured the Pender County
Library’s reference section looking for photographs. We turned up nothing. The
closest was a photograph of a picnic at Moores Creek Battlefield, but those
folks weren’t picnicking on the Fourth of July. I left the Burgaw library empty
handed.</div>
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Initially, I figured digging deeper would result in a
photograph. Then I had an epiphany moment. </div>
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In my younger days, I had been a Confederate re-enactor. Of
course, I didn’t find a photograph. All the photographs I posted on Facebook
were of people from New York, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Maryland, Ohio,
Minnesota, Kansas and Illinois – all Union states.</div>
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The men and women in Pender County had just been through
four years of a terrible war. They were more likely to celebrate Jeff Davis’s
birthday. During the war, they sent nearly 4,000 troops to battle. Many didn’t
come home.</div>
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During the Civil War and up to 1875, the land that would
become Pender was part of neighboring New Hanover County. Tired of
Reconstruction corruption and carpetbagger rule in Wilmington, the voters in
the northern portion of New Hanover voted to establish a new county. They named
it after Confederate Gen. William D. Pender, who was killed at Gettysburg in
July 1863.</div>
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People naming their county after a Confederate general are
not likely to celebrate the Fourth of July. </div>
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To borrow a timeworn metaphor, time heals all wounds. Or to
be more succinct, graveyards fill up with more and more bodies. The men and
women who lived through the war and Reconstruction passed away and their
descendants were molded by different life-changing events – two world wars.
When loved ones die defending the Stars and Stripes, you look at the Fourth of
July reverently.</div>
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As an afterthought, a photograph or two of a Fourth of July
celebration in Pender County could very well exist from around 1905 or 1910.
Europeans settled in a farming community known as Van Eeden starting in 1905. I
figure these new immigrants to America and Pender County may very well have
celebrated the Fourth of July, even though they struggled mightily to make
their farmland productive and ultimately failed.</div>
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And Reconstruction military forces would have probably celebrated
Independence Day in Wilmington and invited locals. Would any have shown up? And
would a photographer have captured the moment with his wet-plate style camera?</div>
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I’ve quite a few Facebook friends who are romance authors.
An unlikely romance between an unreconstructed southern lass and a Union officer
has the makings of a melodramatic novel. Let’s assume the lady is willing to
risk the ostracism of her relatives and friends for the caresses and kisses of
her Union soldier. If asked by her lover, would she go with him to a Fourth of
July band concert and picnic? And what would happen if she did?</div>
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I once read a newspaper story about a Fourth of July picnic
in Parkersburg, W.Va., during the Civil War. Early in the war the counties of
West Virginia seceded from Virginia and were admitted to the Union in 1863. Yet
there were still residents who were secesh, a slang term for folks who were
pro-Confederacy. Insults were hurled at that picnic and the affair devolved
into a brawl involving both men and women.</div>
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I can well imagine some Northern wives of Union officers making
some unbecoming remarks about the Southern lass’s hometown. I picture her as
fiery with an untamed heart. It’s one thing to launch into shouting matches
with her relatives; it’s quite another to listen passively to Yankee women
disparage her loved ones. I’d be disappointed if she didn’t slap the smiles
from their faces.</div>
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Yep, I’m going to have to outline and write a Civil War
novel someday.</div>
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<em>Mike Staton is the
author of a fantasy trilogy called </em>Larenia’s Shadow<em>. The first two novels –</em> The
Emperor’s Mistress<em> and</em> Thief’s Coin <em>– have been published and are available on the
websites of Amazon, Barnes and Nobles, and Wings ePress.<o:p></o:p></em></div>
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<br /></div>Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5234024304468147854.post-87696101445282189302012-06-19T19:30:00.000-07:002012-06-19T19:36:35.877-07:00The frustrations of Facebook …For Facebook users like authors and artists trying to market
your books and artwork, you need to know about EdgeRank.<br />
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<br /></div>
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EdgeRank rules the Facebook universe. It’s the Facebook god.</div>
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When I log into Facebook, I see my newsfeed. Nothing mysterious
here … just a summary of what’s been happening among “friends” on Facebook.</div>
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Every action my friends take is a potential newsfeed story.
In Facebook tech-talk, they're called “edges.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Whenever a friend posts a status update, comments on someone’s
status update, tags a photo, joins a fan page or RSVPs to an event, it
generates an “edge,” and a story about that edge might show up in my newsfeed.</div>
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If the newsfeed showed all of the possible stories in my newsfeed,
I’d go mad slogging through all the postings – at least that’s Facebook’s explanation
for the EdgeRank algorithm.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The algorithm predicts how interesting each story will be to
me. It’s called EdgeRank because it ranks the edges. Any action that happens
within Facebook is an edge – status updates, comments, likes and shares.</div>
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Then the algorithm filters my newsfeed and everyone else’s
newsfeeds to show only the top-ranked stories.</div>
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Some of you reading this may be thinking: So what?</div>
<br />
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Because most of your Facebook fans never see your status
updates.</div>
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<br /></div>
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If you have an author’s page, they never see your posts.</div>
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Facebook ranks stories based on the EdgeRank score. If
EdgeRank predicts a friend will find your status update boring, then it will
never be shown to your friend. It will be cast down into Facebook hell.</div>
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Basically, the more my friends click, like, comment, tag and
share on my Facebook profile and author pages, the more I will appear on their
newsfeeds.</div>
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Commenting on something is worth more than merely liking it,
which is worth more than clicking on it. Passively viewing a status update in
your newsfeed does not count. You have to interact.</div>
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Not all edges are treated equal in the Facebook universe. If
I comment on an author page, it’s worth more than if my friend comments, which
is worth more than if a friend of a friend comments. The death knell for a fan
page is to be ignored.</div>
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<br /></div>
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When it comes to my author’s page, EdgeRank is causing me
some stomach-churning moments. Like other authors, I’ve been striving to build
a fan base via my author’s page. The ultimate aim is to get the folks viewing
the page to take a look at my novels. It’s marketing, but hopefully done in a
subtle way. I don’t want to blare out: “Buy my novels!” Instead, I want them to
enjoy their visits to my author’s page and see some interesting – even
fascinating – posts.</div>
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But there’s a problem. My penetration numbers are horrible
thanks to EdgeRank.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I’m seeing that my posts are getting to only 15 to 30
percent of folks who have “liked” my page.</div>
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Those numbers will only improve if Facebook friends play the
Facebook game of liking, commenting and sharing. The same holds true for your
fan pages.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Some bloggers are contending that Facebook wants me and
others with author or fan pages to pay for ads to make posts condemned to hell visible.</div>
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Facebook’s “Marketing Solutions” page recently posted a note
explaining that in order to make sure fans see my posts on my author’s page I
need to purchase ads to “sponsor” my stories. It’s Facebook’s new world where
profit is the driving force behind all its decisions.</div>
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To mangle an old hymn: “Praise EdgeRank in whom all blessings
flow.”</div>Mike Statonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14952855204641605173noreply@blogger.com5