M. Thomas Apple's Blog, page 60

Apply not to others the cold wind of criticism! “Get your ass to Mars”

Unworldly and unearthly — by definition. A low rumbling at very low frequency, barely discernible at first until shifted up two octaves.

Imagine living with this constant mild 15 mph wind all the time. Imagine what the wind sounds like when the global dust storm hits.

via Listen here to wind on Mars — the first it has ever been captured —

Joseph Octave Lewis: Franco-American Trojan

[image error]A few weeks before my mother passed away, I finally had the chance to do what I had wanted to do for years: Visit the sites where my French-Canadian ancestor had been.

The problem was, I could only figure out one specific location, and that was only due to guessing based on an old photograph: a “cabinet card.”

My mother had insisted for decades that she had French-Canadian ancestry. Her grandmother Carrie Lewis Connally was French, she claimed. But I always wondered.

Lewis doesn’t sound terribly French.

So who was this person?

It’s taken me three or four years (and counting) but I think I have a fair idea of who Joseph was. He was Québécois. Or, rather, French-Canadian — the term used up to the 1960s, before French-Canadians of the Parti Québécois tried to claim they were all French with no other ethnicities mixed in. Joseph O (among many, many others throughout Quebec history) falsifies that particularly unhelpful nationalist belief. The Lewis family are British-French.

His mother was Sophie Patry, a farmer’s daughter from a long, long line of French ancestry (more on the Patry family later). His father was Ferdinand Lewis dit Claremont — who died a couple of months before his son was born.

At one time, I thought that the Lewises might be Irish — there are plenty of Lewises in Ontario, all Irish Protestant. But this family seems to go way back to the Seven Years’ War. And the British Army. Still haven’t figured out exactly where in Britain the original Lewis soldier came from, but he was English, Scottish, or Welsh. Hence, British (as a general catch-all term). Wish I could be more specific that than.

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Joseph Octave Lewis dit Claremont’s baptismal/birth record in St. Roch, Quebec City. 6 July 1854. His father Ferdinand had died 7 months prior, probably in a cholera outbreak.

One of the Lewis ancestors, a certain Lt. Thomas Lewis, was given land south of Quebec City at some point in the 1760s, and married a local French Canadian woman. Thereafter, the family integrated into what became first Lower Canada, then Canada East, and finally Québéc. I have no idea to what degree the family spoke English or French, but given that Joseph so easily integrated after immigrating in the 1880s, it’s a fair bet that they were largely bilingual for many generations.

 

It also turns out that Joseph had three older siblings, two of whom died at or just after their first birthdays. His only brother, who died the year he was born, was named Louis Ferdinand Lewis.

Yes, there is a Louie Louie in the family. Honestly, people and names.

So how do I know when he was in Montreal?

The back of the cabinet card had an embossed name: Carré Chaboillez, No. 11, Montréal.

[image error]A quick online search told me that this is the name of a “square” in downtown Montreal; in fact, a well-known square that used to be twice its current size. The original Montreal planetarium had been there before its removal to the Olympic Park in the 1950s. The entire area had experienced a horrendous flood in 1886 – which turned to be just a few years after Joseph O Lewis had left the area.

But at the time he was there, in Montreal, Chaboillez Square featured dozens of stores, including several photography studios, as well as the Bonaventure Station. In the 1870s, Bonaventure was the terminus for the Montreal and Lachine Railway and also connected to the central Montreal station that allowed for travel south to New York City on the Delaware & Hudson via Troy. He may even have been living in Montreal when the first official hockey game was held in 1875.

How do I know when Joseph O left the area?

He likely had left by 1878. We know this because he became a naturalized citizen in Troy, New York, in 1883. My mother had never told me that she had had his naturalization papers until just this past August. The only one from my family history so far found.

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At the time, the US had a “2-step, 5-year rule” that allowed all immigrants (regardless of country of origin) to naturalize after only 5 years in the country. This policy later fell afoul of racism and discrimination, particularly against Asians but also against Irish, Polish, and Germans, starting in the decade after most of my ancestors immigrated.

Joseph quickly found work as a moulder in Troy or Cohoes, probably at one of the many iron works around the area.

This was the age of Iron in the Collar City. Burden Iron Works with nearby Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute (RPI) was a major powerhouse; George Washington Gale Ferris, Jr., was an RPI student and based his famous Ferris Wheel on the great iron water wheel used by the ironworks for power generation. The Watervliet Arsenal nearby became famous in the 1880s (the time period Joseph moved to the area) for producing large cannon and other heavy artillery pieces.

Iron moulding would have been (and still is) a dangerous, dirty job. Perfect for immigrants. Then, as now, immigrant workers always wind up doing the dangerous, dirty, and difficult jobs that others won’t do. Joseph did it. It probably led to an early death, in 1905. He was buried by Charles J. Côte — son of a fellow French-Canadian immigrant and family friend.

“Come and see my daughter!”

Back to the 1880s, Joseph O got married to a fellow Franco-American, herself the daughter of a Quebec immigrant, likely just after his arrival. For all we know, he had been invited to come get married via family and migrant worker networks. We do know that the marriage was in the now-defunct St. Joseph’s Church of Cohoes/Waterford — the first church in the area that held mass in French.

None of Joseph’s own family joined him. He was alone.

Family legend says that after four years of childless marriage, he was despondent. After his first daughter was born in 1884 (in their home, as all childbirths were at the time), he ran out into the streets, calling out to all passersby that he had had a child. He even dragged a nearby (surprised) policeman into the house to celebrate the event.

As an only child who never knew his father, as a lone immigrant with only his wife’s family for emotional support, the sense of joy must have been extreme. He could be a father.

He and his wife Julia Amadelia Mayotte went on to have six children, one of whom (Caroline) became my great-grandmother. Her tiny stature (all of 4’10”) and just as short, sharp temper was passed down to my grandmother, Beatrice R Connally, and then to my mother, Linda A Langworthy.

The need to be proper and that there is a place for everything. The insistence that anything within the family stays in the family. That each person must be as independent as possible. That we all have the right to our own opinions and should never hesitate to express them — these are French-Canadian traits in my family thanks to Joseph Octave Lewis dit Claremont.

September 2018, Chaboillez Carré, Montréal

Wandering around downtown Montreal, surrounded by endless streams of Chinese tourists and construction as far as the eye can see, I found it difficult to imagine the Montreal of 1878. I stepped into Chaboillez Square — what’s left of it, at any rate.

A few flowers, two semi-circles of hedges. Dusty brick center square where Copernicus used to be. Small trees lining the outside, dirt paths leading back to the road surrounding the park. No benches. Nothing.

A far cry from the bustling shopping area in the 19th century photographs. The train station, the lifeblood of the square, was removed for a four-lane expressway that cut through the middle of the city. Just as the “urban renewal” in Albany and Troy in the post-war 1950s.

In place of the station from where my great-great grandfather left to the US about 140 years ago, presently there stands a building for the Citizenship and Immigration Canada offices.

Fitting.

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Chaboillez Square, facing west. The statue of Copernicus was at the right until 1952. The Bonaventure Station was demolished in the same year; the current building houses Citizenship and Immigration Canada.

Nine years and blogging

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So WordPress tells me I started blogging here nine years ago today.

Really? I should have more far more posts by now

The predictive space powers of Linda A Langworthy

[image error]I’ve made good progress on my mother’s high school manuscript — up to Chapter 9 (out of 15). Taking notes while I type, particularly about cultural references and language usage, I came across one interesting prediction:

“The space program of the two major nations [US and Russia] were joined after the moon project because it was cheaper to outfit; also, with the world’s greatest minds working together, better vehicles could be built.”

This was written a full 9 years before the joint Apollo-Soyuz (or Soyuz-Apollo) Test Project in 1975 that basically ended the “space race” started by the launch of Sputnik.

Written by a 17-year-old in 1968. The reality was more complicated, but still, heck of a prediction. Go, Mom!

Reality bites

[image error]A literary agent just told me (via email) that I need to “ground each scene in reality.”

Of a science fiction slash fantasy novel. In outer space. With asteroid miners, space pirates, Martian settlers, astral walking, and elemental morphing powers.

Um. Okay.

 

Thanksgiving Day without you

[image error]Two days ago I celebrated Thanksgiving Day, or as we call it, Turkey Day, with my relatives in the US. It was the first time for me to do so in over 20 years.

The myths about the holiday are well-known, so I won’t waste time relating them here (most Americans are happy to go on pretending the “Pilgrim Fathers” started this when really it’s just an excuse for a four-day weekend of stuffing yourself, watching football, and shopping).

In our case, it was the first holiday since my mother passed away. The next two will be even harder. But the oft-trite is oft-true: it was as if the empty chair at the long table was filled with her presence. This year was different.

A passing of the family torch. Dinner at my sister’s house, desert with her in-laws. Boardgames with aunts, uncles, nieces, and nephews. Family stories with grandpa. Skype with the grandkids overseas. Most of us drove seven or eight hours roundtrip just to spend one day together.

The grieving process continues. So does life. You can’t pick your relatives, but in some case you get real lucky.

Star trekking throughout the universe…

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The holidays are coming up, which always reminds me of old Trek.

No, seriously. When I was a kid, we always went to my grandparents’ house for the holidays, my mom’s parents. And they had a color Zenith (we had a tiny black and white TV at the time).

The first time I saw Star Trek was in the “TV room” of my grandparents’ house in Troy. In brilliant red-blue-green color. It blew my seven year old mind.

It never occurred to me at the time how unusual it was for a US network show to feature Indian and Russian captains, Asian and African officers, women lawyers and societal leaders. In hindsight, the writing was often childish, the plots simplistic, the acting melodramatic. (Also, the miniskirts too tight and the language sexist by today’s standards).

But also in hindsight, it’s not surprising why the show always seemed to be on TV whenever we visited my mom’s parents’. Star Trek was both a product of its time as well as a product of a forward-thinking, open mind. A lot of the principles behind the show rubbed off. And ultimately much more influential on my writing than Thursday night football.

Thanks, mom. Shalom, Spock.

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For your edification:

Star Trekkin’ across the universe,

On the Starship Enterprise under Captain Kirk.

Star Trekkin’ across the universe,

Boldly going forward ’cause we can’t find reverse.

Lt. Uhura, report.

There’s Klingons on the starboard bow, starboard bow, starboard bow;

there’s Klingons on the starboard bow, starboard bow, Jim.

Analysis, Mr. Spock.

It’s life, Jim, but not as we know it, not as we know it, not as we know it; it’s life, Jim, but not as we know it, not as we know it, Captain.

There’s Klingons on the starboard bow, starboard bow, starboard bow;

there’s Klingons on the starboard bow, starboard bow, Jim.

Star Trekkin’ across the universe,

On the Starship Enterprise under Captain Kirk.

Star Trekkin’ across the universe,

Boldly going forward, still can’t find reverse.

Medical update, Dr. McCoy.

It’s worse than that, he’s dead, Jim, dead, Jim, dead, Jim;

it’s worse than that, he’s dead, Jim, dead, Jim, dead.

It’s life, Jim, but not as we know it, not as we know it, not as we know it; it’s life, Jim, but not as we know it, not as we know it, Captain.

There’s Klingons on the starboard bow, starboard bow, starboard bow;

there’s Klingons on the starboard bow, starboard bow, Jim.

Starship Captain, James T. Kirk:

Ah! We come in peace, shoot to kill, shoot to kill, shoot to kill;

we come in peace, shoot to kill, shoot to kill, men.

It’s worse than that, he’s dead, Jim, dead, Jim, dead, Jim;

it’s worse than that, he’s dead, Jim, dead, Jim, dead.

Well, it’s life, Jim, but not as we know it, not as we know it, not as we know it; it’s life, Jim, but not as we know it, not as we know it, Captain.

There’s Klingons on the starboard bow, starboard bow, starboard bow;

there’s Klingons on the starboard bow, scrape ’em off, Jim.

Star Trekkin’ across the universe,

On the Starship Enterprise under Captain Kirk.

Star Trekkin’ across the universe,

Boldly going forward, and things are getting worse!

Engine room, Mr. Scott:

Ye cannae change the laws of physics, laws of physics, laws of physics;

ye cannae change the laws of physics, laws of physics, Jim.

Ah! We come in peace, shoot to kill, shoot to kill, shoot to kill;

we come in peace, shoot to kill; Scotty, beam me up!

It’s worse than that, he’s dead, Jim, dead, Jim, dead, Jim;

it’s worse than that, he’s dead, Jim, dead, Jim, dead.

Well, it’s life, Jim, but not as we know it, not as we know it, not as we know it; it’s life, Jim, but not as we know it, not as we know it, Captain.

There’s Klingons on the starboard bow, starboard bow, starboard bow;

there’s Klingons on the starboard bow, starboard bow, Jim!

Ye cannot change the strength of the engines.

It’s worse than that, it’s physics, Jim.

Bridge to engine room, warp factor 9.

Och, if I give it any more she’ll blow, Cap’n!

Star Trekkin’ across the universe,

On the Starship Enterprise under Captain Kirk.

Star Trekkin’ across the universe,

Boldly going forward ’cause we can’t find reverse.

Star Trekkin’ across the universe,

On the Starship Enterprise under Captain Kirk.

Star Trekkin’ across the universe,

Boldly going forward, still can’t find reverse.

The Great American Rake Off

Just gonna post this here for posterity…

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The limits of genre

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Hi, everyone. I know it’s been a while since I blogged here. But I have been writing.

And editing. And then writing again. And, yes, in multiple genres. That’s my philosophy. That’s what you get if you read my writing.

I think I’ve probably written about this before, but I find myself increasingly disliking current writing styles. Short paragraphs. Bad grammar. No internal monologue. Things blowing up.Vampires and teenagers.

So much writing these days is determined by marketers and booksellers. Fair enough, they need to make money so they can stay in business.

But as a writer, I don’t like being told to put my stories into one box or another.

When asked what genre he writes, Neil Gaiman famously responded, “I don’t know. I write stories.”

That sounds about right.

So, yes, I have written stories with baseball players. College students. Dysfunctional families. Gay lovers. Unidentified car drivers. Cloned soldiers.

Martians.

To me, the themes and the characters are as important as the action and the plot. If I don’t know who the characters are, what they believe, what their relation to other characters is, then why would I care if anyone of them get blown up in the first five pages?

So I’m an older writer. So I’m not a WYSIWYG author. Pulp novels are forgotten in five years. I want my readers to remember my writing after fifty years, and come back to them again and again.

I hope that makes sense!

Destiny in the Future: A tribute

[image error]On October 29, 2018, my mother Linda A Langworthy Apple died.

On October 31, 2018, I discovered an unpublished science fiction book in my mother’s dresser. The manuscript was buried under high school and nursing school yearbooks and diplomas.

I think it’s time for it to be published.

To be fair, my mother did tell me about it a few years ago. She claimed she had written a “Star Trek” fan novel when the original series was on NBC in the late 1960s. But it was “adolescent romantic garbage.” And she refused to let me read it.

I don’t know how much fan fiction was around in 1968 (the manuscript is undated but in one version of Chapter 1 the story begins on May 29, 1968, which was the day after her high school graduation). But I wonder if this story may have been one of the very first.

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Yet unpublished. Vanity presses of course existed, but my mother didn’t have the money. And, as she stressed twice, at least, she felt she didn’t have the talent for fiction writing. Not to mention that NBC (and later Paramount and now CBS) would no doubt have prevented publication of an unauthorized Star Trek novel.

So she scrubbed all the Trek references, and left it unedited and unpublished in the original typewriter paper package. But she kept it through at least five house moves: Lansingburgh to Troy, two different apartments in Troy, then to Berne, and finally to Warrensburg.

Clearly, she was emotionally attached to this manuscript, despite feeling it was “garbage.”

I knew my father was a professional writer (drivers’ manuals, press releases, tons of reports and newspaper columns) but I always wondered where my desire for fiction writing had come. Now I know.

So I’m retyping the manuscript to Destiny in the Future, with an eye to publish it as a paperback and ebook, in my mother’s name, by her birthday next June.

There’ll be a Preface to explain a few references in the story and give some overall background to the time period in which it was written (yes, the dialogue and descriptions are very ’60s), including some religious details (she was definitely a Believer, and it shows throughout the story). The book will also include a few variations of Chapter 1 (she never seemed to have decided on which version to use, so I’m making a best-guess). Typos will be fixed (she had used an old-fashioned typewriter borrowed from her father, and then handwritten some changes as well). I’ll keep the story, unedited, in my mother’s voice. There are a few rough spots that personally I would have edited had the story been my own. But this is my mother’s story. The way she intended it to be read.

Also included will be an aborted attempt at another novel, which featured a blind English student teacher falling in love with a black African-American neighbor (risqué for even the ’60s) and a brief biography.

Of my mom. Because she was a complicated, intense person, and she deserves a tribute. It’s the least I can do – with any and all proceeds donated directly to her favorite spot in town, Richard’s Library, from which she borrowed literally hundreds of books.

Stubborn. Opinionated. Passionate. Loyal. Demanding. Unyielding. Romantic.

I hope you will find the story to be an apt tribute to her.

(NB. I will resume posting about family history momentarily. This past week – in which I wrote my own mother’s obituary – has been excruciatingly difficult for my family. Tragedy brings family together, but it also breaks the heart and taxes the spirit.)