Write it out.

8/9/2012

Good morning, Lynne.

This feels so strange — I don’t remember the last time I wrote a letter. I knew I had some stationery somewhere around the house but had to search to find it — a full box that someone gave me for Christmas one year, completely untouched. Hopefully I’ll remember how to do this and my penmanship (is it still penmanship if I print?) will remain legible or at least moderately so.

The funny thing is, for years I was an avid letter-writer. Friends at home when I was on vacation, college friends, random friends made at camp. I’d pen five or six pages and send them off. It was always an adventure to receive letters as well. Later I started collecting postcards: by that time I no longer wrote letters, relying on email instead (and usually failing miserably at that!). I joined a forum called The Kitchen Table comprised of fans of Anne McCaffrey. On the forum I found a section titled PCX — postcard exchange. Through it I connected with others who enjoyed sending and receiving postcards and for several years enjoyed finding cards to send, often to forty people per month from around the globe. I have most of the postcards organized into books, though I should add the couple stacks that I have. I no longer send posties (it became too expensive) but I still keep up with some of my PCX friends through a friend’s forum and Facebook.

Yes, I know, that was written a month ago. But I couldn’t finish the post right away, not until Lynne had received the letter that I sent. Right? So after I sent it I had to wait and I didn’t know for certain that she had received it until I checked my mailbox and there was a letter from Lynne.

And of course, then life got in the way, so I didn’t get back to it. Perhaps if the topic had come up during one of my general words writing months I’d have continued. But during August I was working on a sci-fi novel and needed to concentrate on that first.

Of course, my writing plan for August didn’t quite work out as it should. I had planned to write 50,000 words and finish that novel. I had also planned to write 50,000 words in June. FAIL. I did manage to write 26k+ in June and over 30k in both July and August, so not bad, but I didn’t meet the goal. This month I’m shooting for 800 words per day on either the sci-fi novel or the blog or both plus 20 pages of editing on a third project. So far I’m almost on schedule, just 150 words behind for the month and ahead on the editing.

But I digress.

Lynne complains that people don’t write letters anymore and that the world is a sadder place for that.

I think she’s right.

Back in May I volunteered at the Gaithersburg Book Festival. I told the organizers that I would work anywhere they wanted me. To my disappointment, they had me acting as a tent assistant in one of the non-fiction tents. The tent assistant part didn’t bother me; the non-fiction did. C’mon folks: I write fiction! Or at least at that time, I wrote only fiction. Obviously, I’m writing non-fiction now. Unless I’m lying. Which I’m not.

Ok, back to the Book Festival. The first author in our tent was Vincent dePaul Gisriel Jr. Never heard of him, right? That’s because he’s a local author — local to Maryland — and has written only one book, a non-fiction work. I’ll admit, I still haven’t bought the book: I didn’t have time to visit other tents that day to do so and I forget at other times. But I intend to buy it. The author stood up and told how he started researching in an attempt to write a book about his father’s career as a bombadier during World War II. I’m sure that appeals to some people, but not to me.

What does that have to do with this post?

That’s very simple to answer: to further his research, Mr. Gisriel decided to read through the stacks of letters that his parents had written back and forth to each other during that time — and saved. The result was NOT a military book but a love story, a story that outlined the lives of two people who were in love but separated by a war.

Wow. Just wow.

I have a few items of correspondence from older family members. Very few items. But I find them fascinating.

I think I mentioned in an earlier post (one entitled “Stuff”) that when we were sorting out all of the stuff in Gammy and Pappy’s house, I claimed a wooden box. Nothing fancy or beautiful, but it appealed to me.

There were lots of interesting things inside:

Including a manila envelope.

Yeah, I know — like you really needed a photo of that. But when I was snapping pictures today, I was also trying to see how many I could get before the almost completely discharged battery gave out. I managed all that I wanted and more and still made it to the charger before my camera shut off.

Anyhow, the manila envelope. Inside were a variety of papers. Several of my grandmother’s knitting patterns — and a crochet one that I had jotted down after I “read off” a chicken-shaped egg cover that she liked to use at Easter time but wanted to have more. She had written out some prayers.

No idea why. For her own use so that she’d remember? Prayers that she intended to use with her church women’s group? Or had she read somewhere that writing prayers helped to focus? The pages are there but they’re incomplete, lacking background.

Also in the manila envelope were the folio-type pages with two of my great-grandfather’s poems.

Those could be dated at about 1911. Ok, no date on them, right? But there was also a postcard.

The postmark reads Fort Des Moines Iowa, Jan 6, 1911 and was mailed to Miss Harriett Reynolds of Des Moines.

The message:

Hello S.H. (or that could be D.H. — Sweet Harriett or Dear Harriett). I hope you are better by the time you receive this. Will see you on said date. A.C.S.

That’s followed by an inverted pyramid of X’s and the words “love you.”

It was written from my great-grandfather to his future bride, my great-grandmother.

Nice, huh? Other correspondence in the box included a note card.

Inside was a lengthy letter from an 85-year-old woman, Mabel. It may have been my grandmother’s cousin but I’m not sure. I am certain about the age, since it’s mentioned in the letter. And seriously, at 85 she was writing a lengthy and legible letter of encouragement when I can barely get out a line.

Even Christmas and birthday cards.

These have no postmarks or stamps so they must have been placed in envelopes, and yet. . .

Those are longer messages than most of us write nowadays.

And they saved them. I’m sure that many of the letters were thrown away. Ouch. I really wish that I could have read them.

Me? I can remember writing letters. And letters. And more letters. I’d write about everything, and I do mean everything. At Christmas time I’d send everyone lists of everything I’d received. Boring, right? But it took up pages and pages of that new stationery I received each year. And sometimes I’d write something with more meat. I can remember in the summer of ‘72 (Hmm. Sounds like a song title.) — Hurricane Agnes. I was home from college and I chronicled all of it in a letter to my friend Ed. When we arrived back on campus he commented that maybe he should save it because some day it might have historical significance.

I wonder if he did save it?

As for me, I’ve saved very little. There might be a few things tucked away in my parents’ attic, but I doubt it.

I did come across one letter — or at least a message. It came from my friend Karen.

If you can’t read it, she complains that if she waits to write a real letter it’ll be way too long before what she wants to send gets to me.

Cool stuff. She was on a writing tour for her first novel and these are promotional items. Since then she’s written and published more novels, but I’m still waiting for the letter.

Of course, I haven’t written to her either. But I saw her just a few weeks ago.

Back to my letter-writing.

I managed to write to Lynne — four pages. Why? Well, she asked for my address so that she could send me a postcard and gave me her address, in case I ever wanted to write a real letter. That seemed like a challenge, so I did, and sent along a packet of postcards for her collection as well.

And in return I received this:

She even used sealing wax.

Talk about memories. Once upon a time I wrote and wrote and wrote. I had an assortment of stationery and seals and wax and stickers and pens, and I also occasionally made my own envelopes from magazine pages. Letter-writing took up my time and energy and I took it very seriously.

Now I have the internet and I’m writing a novel and other things. I can keep in contact instantly with email and Facebook.

But I still feel guilty and one of these days I’ll have to reply to Lynne’s letter.

Where have all the heroes gone?

It’s funny how those we admire fall.

Ok, not funny. Tragic? In some cases. Disgusting? Disappointing? All of those could describe some circumstances.

Let’s see. . .

The first hero I remember was someone I knew personally. I saw him every Sunday at church. His name was Bobby Forsyth and in my very young opinion, he was to be much admired. He was a few years older than me, though how many, I couldn’t say.

And what made him my hero?

Bobby could recite every commercial on television. Every slogan. Every jingle. He knew them all. What could be more significant, right?

Over time, over the next few years, Bobby remained the same. Ok, a little larger — both taller and wider — but still, the same.

And since I was by then exposed to more and more worldly viewpoints, compliments of my classmates and those in older classes, the word “hero” was no longer applied.

Why?

Because I learned a word, a word that described Bobby in what were considered more accurate terms: retarded.

Suddenly he wasn’t so admirable, at least not as I heard that word used by my peers. Derogatory? Um, yeah.

Bobby never really “grew up.” He was eventually institutionalized. Later I’d hear other terms: “Idiot savant.” “Autistic.” I didn’t hear those applied to Bobby, not specifically, but as I learned what those meant, as I studied cases and symptoms, I had to wonder. And I wondered if in a different time his end would have been different.

Other heroes. . .

Elvis Presley, of course. He was a simply God-fearing Southern boy who changed the world of music. Films, records, even a military career. I followed those — though not as carefully as did so many others.

But as he aged — not that he ever reached an age that would be considered “elderly” — but as he aged, he put on weight and indulged openly in his vices. Eventually, at the age of 42, he died in a pool of his own vomit.

No more hero.

John F. Kennedy? As an elementary school student, I eagerly devoured the magazine articles about our President and his family, both his wife and children and the larger Kennedy clan. His death kept us home from school and riveted to the television, watching replays and live events. It turned many of us — including a ten-year-old me — into news junkies.

But years later, I heard JFK characterized as a womanizer. I saw the fall of others in the much beloved clan.

There were more — athletes, rock stars, politicians, and those I knew in person. Heroes — created and then fallen. On top and then plunging downward.

So why am I concerned with heroes right now? Why today?

Because yesterday was the first Penn State game of the first post-Paterno season and I sat with my parents in their living room, watching, watching something so familiar and yet with eerie undertones.

No Joe Paterno. No JoePa on the field. No statue of him on campus.

Wow. Heroes do fall, don’t they?

But this leads me back to the beginning and the fall of those we admire. Is it tragic? Disgusting? Disappointing? Finding out about JFK and the slide of Elvis: disappointing. Joe Paterno? The situation surrounding him is disgusting, but was he the evil one or simply weak and trying to present himself as the strong one that everyone expected? And Bobby Forsyth? His story is more tragic than anything else.

In fact, in some ways, whenever one of our heroes falls, it’s tragic.

Why?

Because even if we stop seeing them as heroes, they still are — or were. At some point there was something that we admired in that person, something that was worth emulating, right? Does the fall make the original qualities any less?

What makes a hero? Did any of those people ask to be idolized? Or did it just happen, and then they had to live up to the image?

I don’t know the answers, don’t know what makes a hero.

But I’ve been thinking about it.

King of the Road

Today I did something a little unusual. It’s something I have an opportunity to do just about every weekday, but I don’t.

I gave $5 to a jobless guy.

I don’t know whether he’s homeless, since his sign mentions “job ended, bills didn’t.” Of course, the sign also said, “Happy Holidays,” so the situation could have changed since he first wrote it.

The man’s name is Rick and he works the Shady Grove Road medial strip at the intersection with Frederick Road, right next to the “Welcome to Gaithersburg” sign.

Besides the above messages, the sign also proclaims, “Curb Patrol: I’ll take your car trash.” I like that, since he is at least trying to work instead of simply beg.

As I said, I hardly ever give him anything.

In fact, today was the first time.

I usually have trash in the car, but I don’t always have cash (I tend not to carry any), so I ignore him as I’m stopped there but flash him a peace sign as I drive by (a trademark wave that he also uses). Today I managed to have both, so I figured I’d give it a go.

I pulled up to the traffic light, noted that I had time to complete my business with Rick, and opened my window. When he saw me dangling an old grocery bag, he sprinted over to me, saying, “Be right there, sweetheart.” He held out his garbage bag and took my trash, but seemed surprised when I handed him the money. He leaned forward and said, “I was just talking to those workmen over there. They’re putting in a new red light camera. You drive by here every day, so you be careful to stop so that you don’t get a ticket.” And he walked away.

How about that: $5 trash removal and traffic tips.

So what does this have to do with memories?

Not much.

I remember talk of hobos. That came from grandparents, possibly mentioning once upon a time when one came to a back door looking for a handout. It was still vivid in their memories, though I don’t know that it happened in my lifetime. I never saw a hobo.

I saw hobos in magazines.

And Red Skelton played one on television.

There were songs about them.

But aside from that? No.

I know that there were homeless people.

I know that there were jobless people.

But I never saw them.

Did we live in some time warp or a cocoon? Was Middletown that off the beaten track that we avoided that?

Or did I just not see it?

So long, it's been good to know you

I just checked and I haven’t posted a blog entry since July 31st. It looks as if I’m falling back into my old habits, but there really is a reason for this. You see, during July I made a commitment to write 30,000 words, using both this blog and a novel that I had started. July ended and I moved on to something else: Camp NaNoWriMo. During August I’m trying to write 50,000 words and all of that must be novel. So what I’m typing now doesn’t matter at all. Not a bit.

On the positive side (for me, since the only person who actually reads this is Lynne and I’m not sure how positively she’ll view this news), during September I plan to edit as well as sign on for “Story a Day.” Since the story project has few rules, I figure I can use my blog for the stories, sometimes using the story prompts for the day (if they happen to fit my mood and something I have to say) and sometimes just rambling as I usually do. So if all works out and the world doesn’t end, September should bring more blog entries.

End of the world. . . That reminds me that I really need to finish my day-before-the-end-of-the-world story and find somewhere to submit it. Hopefully I’ll fit that in before December.

Easily distracted lately, can you tell? I posted an ecard to Facebook yesterday that says it all:

And yes, I kept on track long enough to buy and eat ice cream yesterday. Some things keep my attention.

Anyhow, August — the month in which I will write 50,000 words and finish the book The Clockwork Heart. At the moment my total for the month stands at 9974 words. For some people that might sound impressive, an average of 907 words per day for the first eleven days this month. The problem is that I should have reached 17,741 by the end of yesterday. By the end of this day I should be at 19,354 words. That won’t happen. However, in a little while I’m heading to Panera with the goal of 4026 words, ending the day with at least 14,000. That’s at least doable — if I don’t get distracted.

However, I’m not leaving for almost an hour, so I decided it’s time to write this post that I’ve been planning for the past six days and got exactly as far as titling. Procrastinate much?

But I need to move on.

Amazing how I can write over 400 words and say absolutely nothing, isn’t it?

Ok, so back to the topic of choice for today and the past six days: saying “Good-bye.”

Those who know me know that there’s a good reason for this post: after seven weeks in the US, spent visiting me, my daughter returned to her real home, South Korea. Yes, Anjee was born in Pennsylvania, lived in Pennsylvania for most of her life. But for the past almost-six years, she has lived in Jeonju, where she teaches English. When I’m lucky, I see her once a year, though usually for an extended stay. When I’m not lucky, I can go longer without seeing her. Yes, I could go and visit her, but that requires funding that I don’t currently have. Some day. . .

Anyhow, while Anjee was here, we didn’t do anything truly exciting: four trips to Middletown, PA, seven movies. One trip to Hersheypark, a single excursion into the District, many trips to various retailers, and quite a few restaurants. It was fun, relaxing, rewarding to spend time together (at least for me). I also worked during that time, while she went to the gym, wrote her lesson plans, shopped, and watched television with Slink. We fell into a pattern of quiet evenings, busy but usually relaxing weekends, and being comfortable with each other.

Saying good-bye really sucked. Really. I try my best not to cry when my kids leave and mostly succeeded this time — at least while I was with Anjee — but even now, thinking of her leaving makes me sad. The same is true of when Albert is here, even though his stays are shorter and occasionally I manage to find my way to Florida to visit him. I miss my kids. We live separate lives, but they are still a part of me.

Of course, there are plenty of reminder of Anjee when she leaves. She’s quite a traveler and brings me gifts, gifts, gifts when she returns. She’s started me on several collections that remain within sight. The masks:

Most of those were from her, though I purchased a few on my own. The same is true of the marionettes:

There are other things as well.

And she’s left some personal items. Most notable are the shoes:

Pretty scruffy looking and soon to be removed from the living room. You see, while Anjee was here, she’d kick her shoes off in the living room before sitting on the sofa. Slink took to lounging on them. We never did figure out whether he did that because he liked them or to try to annoy her. Whatever the reason, these two pairs were worn out and she decided to leave them here.

For Slink.

Since she left, he hasn’t touched them. It’s probably time to relegate them to Anjee’s bedroom (ok, it’s my guest room, but for months each year it’s hers). I could throw them away, but if I save them she can set them out next time she’s here and save her newer footwear from cat hair and scratches.

But the shoes bring me to the topic of saying good-bye. Part of this for me is setting my apartment back to being just mine, rather than the residence of myself and my child or children. I’ve done this since they were in college, going through a ritual each time they left for their dorms or apartments or wherever. I go through the apartment (or house during those initial good-byes) and pick up bits of trash, forgotten items, empty water bottles, the toothbrush left behind. I strip the beds, wash the sheets, and say good-bye to the traces that mark their presence. There are still reminders, but those are reminder of my children and not of their residence here. Does that make sense?

This particular good-bye got me to thinking about Middletown and my parents and grandparents.

My grandparents never had to say good-bye, at least not to my parents. “Good-bye” meant that their children were traveling the three blocks or five blocks to their own homes. Vacations? For the most part they were taken jointly. Yes, there were those who went into the service and moved away for a while, but then came back. For the most part they stayed in Middletown — or maybe moved to Royalton or Highspire.

And that seems to be the case for many of those in Middletown. So many of my high school friends are still there and so are their parents. A few had moved away and then came back. But Middletown seems to be a magnet, drawing them all home.

Yes, I have relatives who no longer live in Middletown, who live in New Jersey or Tennessee or other places. And my ancestors haven’t always lived in Middletown, but for the most part that’s where they are.

And yet, I live in Maryland — as of next week will have been here for five years and before that hadn’t lived in Middletown since 1981. My kids live in Florida and South Korea.

But if I were to name my hometown, it would be Middletown.

The same is probably true of many of my high school friends, whether they still live in Middletown or not.

And yet, many of their children don’t live in Middletown, or even wherever they are. Kathy lives in Pennsylvania, but her daughter lives in California. Lynne lives in Texas, but her children are in Oregon. We’ve become scattered.

Somewhere along the line, people moved away.

Yes, there was some of that when I was growing up. Middletown was home to Olmsted Air Force Base, which meant that we had classmates whose parents were in the military. These kids usually lived at Meade Heights or Pineford Acres, the military housing sites in Middletown. And occasionally they’d leave.

I can still remember when one of our friends left. His name was Andre and he was wild: always getting into trouble. I don’t know how our teacher felt about him leaving but all of us kids knew that we’d miss him. I’m not sure whether that was because he created so much excitement or because with the focus on him, the rest of us spent less time in trouble. Whatever, we decided to let him know that we’d miss him. Not being well acquainted with good-byes, we chose to sing a song to him, one of the songs that we had learned and sang regularly in our music classes: “So Long.” I can remember standing there, all of us in Mrs. Wilson’s fifth grade class, and singing the lyrics in the required western drawl:

                          So long, it's been good to know yuh;
                          So long, it's been good to know yuh;
                          So long, it's been good to know yuh.
                          This dusty old dust is a-gettin' my home,
                          And I got to be driftin' along.

           I had to search for the words to this because I couldn’t remember the fourth line of the refrain, though I do remember the tune. The verses? I found them but they just don’t ring a bell. And something else I found about the song: it was written by Woody Guthrie. Seriously. Woody Guthrie. Of course, basically all I know about Woody Guthrie is that he wrote This Land is Your Land and that he died of Huntington’s Disease, though I probably saw him perform on one of the musical shows that I watched with my grandparents. I wouldn’t recognize him if I saw a picture: I remember him as played by Joseph Boley in Alice’s Restaurant, puffing on a cigarette while dying.

Ok, back on task.

Andre’s good-bye wasn’t the first, just the first I remembered. There were many after that, and for children, we endured more than our share. You see, shortly after Andre’s departure, in 1964, Defense Secretary Robert McNamara announced that Olmsted Air Force Base would be closed. This was devastating because it meant that not just military families but also civilian defense employees started to leave the area. Some stayed, but many left in pursuit of jobs, and our classmates seemed to be leaving in droves.

Ok, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but it hurt.

In fact, when the closing announcement was made, Mrs. Booser, leader of church activities and Girl Scouts, mobilized all of us in our first political action: we went door-to-door one Sunday afternoon, collecting signatures on petitions, begging Mr. McNamara to spare our town and our friendships.

And we had our first taste of being turned down.

Over the years more and more people left.

And more arrived.

Comings and goings. I really think that the base closing opened us up to both. Olmsted moved out. Penn State moved in. People came. People went.

And eventually many of us left for college, more of us each year. Some of us returned, some didn’t.

Sometimes we said good-bye. Sometimes we just drifted apart.

But somewhere along the line, good-bye became a way of life.