G. Wayne Miller's Blog, page 16

#33Stories: Day 18, "Since the Sky Blew Off," a screen treatment with Drew Smith

#33Stories
No. 18: “Since the Sky Blew Off,” a screen treatment with Drew Smith
Context at the end of this excerpt.
Other entries in #33Stories at the Table of Contents. See you tomorrow!
Writers Guild of American registration no. 1946967





The movie opens with a catastrophic planet-wide natural disaster that destroys civilization as we know it, leaving a few “good” people and bands of savage Roamers who ruthlessly prey on them and each other…Pickup midway through Act I:

TWO GENERATIONS (about 40 years) PASS. 
The Dark Ages have settled on the world. A lawless landscape in which most traces of civilization are gone. No electricity, no Internet, no writing, no agriculture…
In this time, when the sky is mostly gone and CO2, methane and other gas levels are at dangerous levels, the atmosphere is poisonous. It affects health –– and mental health, progressively crippling the central nervous system and leading to loss of INDIVIDUAL MEMORY, minor at first but eventually terminal. The first, minor signs (forgetting where you left your keys, to use an example from our world) are in your teens; by your mid 20s, the signs are unmistakable (you begin to lose critical skills, such the ability to defend yourself against roamers); by 30, you are descending into senile dementia and in this eat-or-be-eaten world, you are eaten, by the younger generation. And if you somehow manage to survive, you are dead by 35, almost without exception. But there ARE exceptions – a few grizzled oldsters somehow survive, demented for the most part, wigged out, but alive (think of the lifelong chain-smoker who is still going strong at 80, rare as hell, but it happens).
Also lost is COLLECTIVE MEMORY. The memory of how life used to be in what is called “THE OTHER TIME” survives only in dribs and drabs of disjointed and unreliable oral stories and the occasional artifact that our protagonists will stumble upon in Act II (a burned-out movie theater, for example, or a wind-blown page of a book; think of the clues that CAVE ART give us today of our prehistoric ancestors).
No one celebrates the birth of a child –– it’s just a burden. In their savagery, many Roamers kill newborn babies, who are seen as a “drain’ on precious resources. (Think Chinese peasants drowning baby girls for real-life analogy.) 
No one has the time or inspiration for any kind of creative ART –– no painting, no poetry, no books, nothing. NO ONE CAN READ.
Importantly, in light of how our main characters “come to life” in ACT III, no one LAUGHS any more. LAUGHTER seems to have been bred out of the species.
INT. FORTIFIED COMPOUND ON CAPE COD – AFTERNOONMATHER, 30 years old, and RACHEL, 28 –– evidently a “couple” –– and two comrades, TRISTAN, 22, and SARAH, 23, live together in a crude shack near the shore. It is surrounded by rusty barbed wire, rocks, etc. It is cooler here than the interior, and the ocean, while poisoned, still produces (barely edible) fish, mainstay of the diet.We see that Mather is mentally the slowest of the four –– he’s in the “forgetting where I put the keys” phase. Rachel is not, yet. Being younger, Sarah and Tristan are still sharp, and Rachel and Mather are increasingly relying on them to keep their shit together. They are especially valuable when defending the compound.None of the four remember any longer how they came to be together –– prior to the previous four or five years, all is a blank. In other words, they have NO STORY.
INT. A NEARBY ROAMER COMPOUND – EVENINGA nameless female Roamer gives birth to a child. Male Roamers immediately kill it. This excites them. They whoop and holler and leave their compound, bent on destruction.
EXT. FORTIFIED COMPOUND ON CAPE COD – NIGHTThe Roamers attack the Rachel/Mather compound –– and this time, Tristan and Sarah are killed. Rachel and Mather barely escape with their lives and make their way on  a BICYCLE-BUILT-FOR-TWO (no more working cars or fuel) to BOSTON, in ruins…
EXT. BOSTON - DAYAs they behold the dead city, a flash of light atop the burnt-out John Hancock building catches their eye. Must be just the brutal sun, right, glinting off metal? Can’t be a person, can it? But it is –– it’s BIRDMAN, a grizzled, crazy man in his 70s beckoning them up. Rachel and Mather are leery. So Birdman sends down a carrier pigeon –– itself a startling development, as most birds have disappeared. The carrier pigeon has this message from Birdman:
I AM FRIENDLY. I HAVE FOOD. COME ON UP.But the two cannot read the message, of course. But it’s obvious that they can’t read. Watching through binoculars, Birdman realizes this. He shouts down that he has “GOOD FOOD, YOU MUST BE HUNGRY” (and they are), his voice carrying in the dead air. Warily, Rachel and Mather enter the skyscraper.
INT. JOHN HANCOCK BUILDING – DAYUp through the gloomy stairwells they go, questioning their judgment but so hungry they keep rising. As they get near the top, the encounter corpses of dead Roamers who have tried to get up here but were beaten back by Birdman.
EXT. JOHN HANCOCK BUILDING OBSERVATION DECK – DAYBirdman opens a steel door and lets them in. The air here is fresher, one of the secrets to Birdman’s existence. We see a street sign: CROW TOWN. Birdman has written “OLD” on it so that it now reads OLD CROW TOWN.
This is a place of marvels for Rachel and Mather. Birdman has a bunch of tame crows, including a talking crow (who says “Got birds?”), and a few songbirds he has managed to keep alive and reproductive. Rachel and Mather have never heard a songbird –– and they are amazed and soothed. For Birdman, the birds have become a substitute for people. He can talk to his crows. His mourning doves speak to the sadness of the world. Songbirds speak to joy… etc.
And he has chickens –– they produce the eggs that are the mainstay of his diet. Birdman collects rainwater, which he uses to grow a few hardy crops (the air is better here, remember) that he uses to feed himself and his birds. Birdman offers the couple eggs, which they enjoy –– for the first time.
As they eat, Birdman spins a yarn (or is it true?). He claims to recognize Mather – that’s why when he spotted him through his binoculars he invited him up. Birdman has never met Mather, but he looks exactly like a dear old friend of his, a man named LEONARDO. Birdman says that surely Mather is Leonardo’s grandson –– how else to explain the stunning similarity?
Rachel and Mather are skeptical –– until Birdman shows him an old photo of Leonardo, before the sky blew off. The similarity is truly remarkable. 
Birdman, in a shaman-like dialogue, claims that Mather’s arrival here has been pre-ordained. For just recently, a carrier pigeon arrived from Nordenland, to which Leonardo, a wealthy young man before the sky blew off, evacuated as civilization was dying. Rachel and Mather have heard rumors of this place, but until now believe it to be mythical, a sort of Nirvana that doesn’t really exist. Birdman shows the various messages the pigeons have brought: in summary, they claim that the earth’s atmosphere over Nordenland shows rising levels of natural O2, decreasing levels of CO2. Nature herself is responsible. (And our real-life planet earth has a long history of healing itself: returning from ice ages, for example; recovering from the massive meteor strike that killed the dinosaurs and paved the way for mammals to rule the planet; and regional recovery from the massive soot sent into the atmosphere by giant volcanic eruptions.)
Birdman speculates that this pristine air can actually reverse dementia. This is good news on an individual level, of course –– especially for Mather, who’s losing it rapidly –– and also on the larger level of hope for humanity. 
Birdman is too old to make the trip –– he’s happy here, anyway, crazy with his crows. But he urges Rachel and Mather to go –– what do they have to lose? Birdman has a map. He also has an old Polaroid camera, still working, and he takes a picture of him with the couple. Photography is a further marvel for Rachel and Mather.
Along with the photo (which will show proof of the couple’s meeting with Birdman), Birdman writes a letter of introduction to Leonardo.
And so Rachel and Mather set off…
-- 30 --

Context:
Of my many collaborations with Drew Smith, this may be my favorite -- and the lead, Birdman, one of my favorite fictional characters. It evolved from my short story of the same name, and over the many months we spitballed back and forth, we gave it varying names, “The Memory Bank” being one. Yes, this is another dystopian work, and it rings a true today as when we wrote it a few years back – perhaps more so, as climate change continues to jeopardize the planet and the life forms that inhabit it (for now, anyway).
And humor me as I open the old writer’s trunk to reveal another screen project, much older than “Since the Sky Blew Off” – a completed full script for “Wishers,” which I completed more than a quarter of a century ago. Less dystopian than pure science fiction, it has flavors of early Spielberg. Herewith the first six pages. As you can see, this is literally from the trunk:

#33Stories: Day 17, "Snyder," a screenplay with Drew Smith and Drake Witham

#33Stories
No. 17: “Snyder,” a screenplay with Drew Smith and Drake Witham
Context at the end of this excerpt.
Other entries in #33Stories at the Table of Contents. See you tomorrow!
Writers Guild of American registration no. 1184318




Near the beginning of the screenplay:


INT. OFFICE --- NEXT MORNING

LEONARD is back in the rat maze of cubicles, coffee cups and broken dreams. He’s getting an earful from an irate customer, simmering.

LEONARDYes, I understand that you’re frustrated. Well I do think there’s uh, hey I don’t think that language is necessary…
Close up on Leonard as we see his getting red. The caller’s ranting is indistinct except for the phrase “you lousy motherfucker!”

LEONARD That’s Uncalled for. No, NO I’VE  SPENT TEN MINUTES LISTENING TO YOUR  FEEBLE BRAIN FORM FOUL-MOUTHED INSULTS  AND NOW YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME. 
LEONARD catches himself. Realizes he’s already gone too far, might as well finish with a bang.

LEONARD (Cont’d) How dare you bring anyone’s mother  into this? I will have you know that  not only am I not lousy but your mother  was quite pleased and the only reason  I haven’t been back is that her RATES  ARE MUCH TOO HIGH! Good Day, sir.
LEONARD slams the phone down only to see red light blinking, another call is waiting. He sighs and answers.

LEONARDCustomer Service. Can I help you?(beat) Well that’s an interesting insult to open a conversation with a complete stranger. Listen up you MORON, the next time you want take out anger by screaming at someone you don’t know or kick a dog or,or well,, just don’t. Instead walk up to a nearby wall and bang your head repeatedly.I’m NOT FINISHED YET. Bang your head untilyou either pass out or you see enough ofyour own blood that you can finger paintthis message – I’M A RUDE, SELF-IMPORTANT JACKASS! I’ll send you a dictionary to help with the big words.
LEONARD hangs up and hears an applause from his co-workers but doesn’t turn the light is red again.

LEONARDWho wants some customer service now?(beat) Oh I’m fine thank you. Thank you fornot asking, ma’am. May I call you ma’am?Thank you for being just like every other barely literate fool who has called over the past 17 years to dump your problemson us… Hello?
LEONARD looks at the phone. Clearly the woman has hung up.

LEONARDAnd then sometimes this job is easy.
Leonard is largely oblivious to the gathering crowd. SALLY is looking on but so is STELLA, the office busy body, PHIL, the suck-up, MARIA, the tart and WALLACE. He misses the gathering crowd ‘cause he notices that his co-worker FloReese is dealing with another pompous jerk. He also doesn’t see that the whole thing is being filmed.

FLOREESEI can get you a manager, Miss but I’mnot sure why you have…
LEONARDGive me that phone, FloReese.
FloReese pauses. She’s never really liked Leonard but she kinda likes what he’s doing today.

LEONARDFLOREESE!
Before she can give him the phone he grabs it from her.

LEONARDManager’s number? Sure I’ll give it toyou. I’ll give you his home number. Whydon’t you call him in the middle of thenight and see if he cares anymore than Ido. But before you make that call why don’tyou see if you can locate your daughter atthat hour before she repeats your doubtless mistake of filling the world with illegitimate spawn. Oh, you know what we’re running aspecial today on, on advice so I’ve got onemore for you – grab a pen. Start showing somelove for the people around you and maybe they won’t hate you and then you won’t have to beso nasty to everyone you encounter. Believeit or not, we are trying to help. Hold forthe manager’s number and in the meantime whydon’t you apologize to FloReese?
Leonard hands the phone back to FloReese and sees that a crowd has gathered around. Some are shocked, some are in awe and some are squarely in his sights.

STELLAReal professional Leonard.
LEONARDIt’s really professional. Not real. Really.But they probably didn’t teach much grammarat busybody school. For once STOP STICKINGYOUR NOSE IN OTHER PEOPLE’s BUSINESS.
Some of them gasp, a few laugh, notably PHIL, the suck-up.

LEONARDI don’t know what you’re laughing at Phil.You’re better than anyone at sticking you’re little brown nose all the way in. WHO WANTSSOME NOW?
Just then Al the boss walks around the corner.

ALWhat are you serving up Leonard, more ofthe vitriol you’ve been sharing with our customers. You’re unstable, you’re unlikable and you’re unemployable. Get your ass out of here.
LEONARDI’ll be expecting a nice severance. Butsince you’ve come all the way down to thefront lines for the first time in what…sevenyears I’d like to tell you, fearless leaderthat you have all the intelligence andcharisma of a fire hydrant. But I don’t eventhink a dog would want to piss on your sorryass. Good Day, yes I said Good Day, Sir.
LEONARD begins to gather his things, when FloReese motions toward him.

LEONARDSorry about that call, FloReese.
FLOREESENot at all. It was my sister.
LEONARDOh, I’m sooo sorry…
FLOREESEShe needed to hear it. Thank you Leonard.

Leonard walks out and the place erupts in applause.

Context:

Screenwriter Drew Smith and I have worked on many projects together, including the screen version of "King of Hearts" and a long-running collaboration, "The Memory Bank," variously titled "The Memory Bank" and "Since the Sky Blew Off," for my short story on which it is based.

More on "The Memory Bank" in Day 18.

Although we have come close, Drew and I have yet to see any of our collaborations hit the actual screen. We still have hope! But if you know anything about Hollywood, you understand that disappointment and heartache are a part of the game.

In "Snyder," we brought in my old friend Drake Witham, a former newspaper reporter who left the biz to pursue his dream of becoming a stand-up comic, which he did. We wrote "Snyder" in the early days of YouTube, but we had figured out, like many others, the power it would have. And so that is the beginning of the narrative arc of the script: "Loser" Leonard discovers a rare talent for stand-up, and a YouTube clip goes viral, catapulting the man onto the pages of Variety.

I still like this one. Thanks Drake and Drew (sounds like the name of a bad law firm!) for working on "Snyder." I had fun then, and reading it now pleases me still.

#33Stories: Day 16, "The Xeno Chronicles"

#33Stories
No. 16: “The Xeno Chornicles: Teo Years on the Frontier of Medicine Inside Harvard’s Transplant Lab””
Context at the end of this excerpt.
Other entries in #33Stories at the Table of Contents. See you tomorrow!

Originally published in 2005 by PublicAffairs/Perseus



The opening chapter, “Double Knockout,” of “The Xeno Chronicles”:

A twenty-one-pound pig

A cold day was dawning when Dr. David H. Sachs left his home and headed to his Boston laboratory, a few miles distant. He was praying that experimental animal no. 15502 -- a cloned, genetically engineered pig -- had arrived safely overnight from its birthplace in Missouri.

It was Friday, February 7, 2003.

Ordinarily a calm and measured man, Sachs had fretted for weeks over this young animal, whose unusual DNA might help save untold thousands of human lives. He worried about the weather, so frigid that Boston Harbor had iced over and pipes in the animal facility had frozen, fortunately without harm to the stock. He worried that the pig would become sick before getting to Boston. He had decided against transporting it by truck, for a winter storm could prove disastrous -- so then he worried about flying it up. What type of aircraft should they use? Commercial? Charter? Which airport in the congested metropolitan area would be safest?

``Use your best judgment,'' Sachs had told the staff veterinarian he had assigned to bring the pig north. ``Just don't lose this pig!''

An immunologist who trained in surgery, Sachs had distinguished himself in the field of conventional transplantation, in which human organs are used. His lab, the Transplantation Biology Research Center, was a part of Massachusetts General Hospital, where he was on staff. He was a professor at the Harvard Medical School. He belonged to the National Academy of Sciences's Institute of Medicine. He was fluent in four languages. He had written or co-written more than 700 professional papers. Science came as naturally to Sachs as breathing.

One achievement, however, still eluded him. For more than thirty years, Sachs had tried to find a way to get the diseased human body to accept parts from healthy animals.

Xenotransplantation, as cross-species transplantation was called, had the potential to save thousands of people who die every year because of a chronic shortage of human organs. Sachs envisioned a time when patients needing a new heart, liver or kidney would simply have their doctor order one up from the biomedical farm. Children born with defects and older people with all manner of ailment would benefit. Sachs himself was not motivated by money, but xeno could become a multi-billion-dollar business. You couldn't buy or sell a human organ, at least not in America and most countries of the world. But there were no laws in the U.S. against commerce in animal parts, although animal-rights activists and others believed there should be.

Many scientists over many years had tried to achieve what Sachs sought.

So far, the idea remained a dream.

A man of average height, Sachs was on a diet but still carried a few too many pounds, a fact he jokingly acknowledged when describing himself as ``chubby.'' With his full head of graying hair and his jolly face, the image of a Teddy bear came to mind -- an image that was reinforced when he laughed, which was often. Sachs favored button-down shirt, tie, khaki slacks, a rumpled suit jacket, and wingtip shoes. Unless you looked closely, you would not notice that his right foot was larger than his left, a remnant of his childhood when, at the age of 4 1/2, he contracted polio, the scourge of the 1940s. Sachs had spent weeks of his early childhood at Manhattan's Hospital for the Ruptured and Crippled, an institution on 42nd Street and Lexington whose very name evoked suffering. The doctors said he might never walk again. But he did, perfectly normally.

``It just never seemed possible to me that I wouldn't,'' Sachs said. ``It just seemed to me that I had to get over this problem. I've never had a defeatist attitude toward anything. I always feel that it's just a matter of being able to figure it out, make it work. That's my attitude toward everything.''

But Sachs could not stop the clock. He was past sixty now and increasingly conscious of his mortality.

``Only recently have I started to realize how finite my lifespan is,'' he said. ``Of course I've known that since I could think, but as you get older you realize that nobody lives past 100 and I'll be lucky if I get over eighty. So I don't have a hell of a lot of time left.''

In his darker moments, Sachs worried that he would never achieve his grand ambition. Experimental animal no. 15502 -- a creature small enough to fit into a baby stroller -- might well be the beginning of his last chance…

-- 30 --

READ the hardcover.

“The Xeno Chronicles” marked my return to medical non-fiction, and it was my second book with PublicAffairs – and the first there edited by the brilliant Lisa Kaufman. I dedicated it to “the three most incredible children, and the most incredible granddaughter: Rachel, Katy, Calvin and Isabella. I love you guys!!!” Did, do, and now we have two more youngsters in the family: Rachel’s second child, Olivia, and Katy’s first, Vivienne. Here, here!

Some of the reviews for “The Xeno Chronicles”:

"The xenotransplantation story has the makings of a Hollywood problem-picture blockbuster... Thought-provoking reading."
-- Booklist

 A selection of the Scientific American Book Club

 One of the three best Health Sciences books of 2005.
-- Library Journal, March 1, 2006.

"Dr. Samuel Johnson had James Boswell, and Dr. Sachs has G. Wayne Miller. The author has written a page-turner with good humor and elan, a memorable account of a fine scientist and his team on the cusp of life-saving research."
-- Boston Globe, Sept. 21, 2005.

"Xenotransplantation has the potential to radically transform medical practice, and Miller notes the financial stake pharmaceutical companies have in this research. But he focuses on the human issues... Miller always keeps readers' attention focused squarely on the hopes being placed on this research."
-- Publishers Weekly, April 11, 2005.

"Miller takes a broad, balanced approach."
-- Chicago Tribune, July 31, 2005.

"If you have any curiosity about how human beings could outfox illness in the 21st century, this is a must read... Miller sketches a vivid portrait of the pioneers in a field of science wracked by ethical issues."
-- Providence Journal, June 5, 2005.

"The writing is fluid and fun, and Miller systematically portrays a smart scientist who's never going to quit trying."
-- Wilson Quarterly, Summer 2005.

 "Miller tells the story of this research and its leading figure, David H. Sachs, as he races to finish his controversial experiments before funding runs out."
-- Washington Post, June 12, 2005.

"Miller's flair for a dramatic story and a brilliant cast of characters make this a gripping read."
-- Library Journal, July 2005.

"The xenotransplantation story has the makings of a Hollywood problem-picture blockbuster. Thought-provoking reading."
-- Booklist, June 1, 2005.

"Miller, a staff writer at The Providence Journal,provides a you-are-there narrative of a scientist's attempts to make a breakthrough in the field of organ transplantation."
-- Book News, 2005.

 "Miller creates a vivid, personalized account of a controversial arm of biomedical science and delves into the ethics of exploiting animals for the sake of people."
-- Science News, Sept. 10, 2005.

#33Stories: Day 15, "Men and Speed"

#33StoriesNo. 15: “Men and Speed: A Wild Ride Through NASCAR’s Breakout Season”Context at the end of this excerpt.Other entries in #33Stories at the Table of Contents. See you tomorrow!
Originally published in 2002 by PublicAffairs/Perseus
  
pp. 1 to 4, Chapter One: The Guru and the Kid
On the afternoon of Saturday, July 8, 2000, a man who looked barely old enough to drive climbed into a car designed to race at almost a third the speed of sound. Kurt Busch and thirty-three other drivers fired up their engines. Bone-rattling noise rocked New Hampshire International Speedway and the air smelled suddenly burnt.
From the grandstands, the luxury boxes, and atop the campers and motor homes lining the hill behind the backstretch of the mile-long track, a sellout crowd of some ninety thousand fans watched. Most were getting their first glimpse of Busch, a tall, slender, twenty-one-year-old with a boyish face who only eight months before had earned his living fixing broken pipes. If they knew anything about the kid, it was that he drove ferociously and with uncommon skill -- and that his talent, while still raw, had earned him the backing of one of the most powerful men in American motorsports.
Polite and impeccably mannered off-track, and gifted with an easy humor, Busch became transformed when he took the wheel of a racecar. He drove at the edge – out in that rarefied zone between fearlessness and craziness, the place where speed kings thrive. No track intimidated Busch. No race seemed unwinnable at the green flag, regardless of where he started.
He was starting in fifth place today in this NASCAR Craftsman Truck Series race -- behind the series leader and three veterans, two of whom had begun their careers before he was born. As Busch fastened his belts, checked his gauges, and otherwise connected with his machine, he reviewed his strategy, which involved conserving his tires, which would give him track advantage, and a commitment to racing clean. Busch would go eyeball-to-eyeball with an opponent if need be -- would crawl to within a quarter inch of someone's bumper to bully him out of the way, if need be -- but he was determined to avoid contact.
Kurt Busch in 2001. Three years later, he would be champion.Contact preoccupied everyone that July afternoon in Loudon, a small town in central New Hampshire. NASCAR racing is among the most violent of the motorsports: virtually no race passes without cars wrecking, often in fiery collisions that thrill fans. Protective gear, custom seats and steel caging ordinarily protect drivers -- but concrete and speed can be lethal. Just twenty-six hours earlier, popular driver Kenny Irwin Jr. had died while practicing at this track, whose nickname, The Magic Mile, now seemed a cruel joke. The throttle on his 720-horsepower car stuck at full speed, rendering meaningful braking impossible, and Irwin hit the Turn Three wall head-on at 160 miles per hour. The impact destroyed Irwin's vehicle and fractured the base of his skull, destroying his brain. A virtually identical crash on Turn Three had killed another well-known young driver, Adam Petty, grandson of stock car legend Richard Petty, only two months earlier.
Busch and his competitors circled the track behind the pace car, swerving in and out of file like hornets startled from a nest -- a maneuver that warms tires, improving grip. The field took the green flag and now the noise, fueled by 110-octane gas and the absence of mufflers, exceeded a jet on takeoff. For the moment, Busch pushed Turn Three from his mind. The race known as the thatlook.com 200 had begun. Half a million dollars was at stake.
Standing with Busch's crew on pit road, owner Jack Roush watched his newest protégé blister the mile-long oval.
A short man who favored button-down shirts, cuffed khaki pants and a straw fedora -- an outfit that made him an eccentric in a world of oil and grease -- Roush had built the largest motorsports operation in America. But Roush, fifty-eight, was renowned for more than his racing achievements. Bearer of a master's degree in mathematics, he had taught college physics. He had founded and remained chairman of a $250 million engineering firm, Roush Industries, of which Roush Racing was a subsidiary. He enjoyed piloting his own corporate jet, and he was about to purchase three 727 airliners to move his race teams around the country -- -but he felt deeper passion for his P-51 Mustang, a World War II fighter plane that he’d bought, restored, and now used to perform aerobatics, frequently with someone he wanted to thrill riding expectantly (if not nervously) in back.
Before one such adventure, Roush talked to the home office on his cell phone while conducting a pre-flight inspection of his plane, which was parked at an airport near his racecar-building shops in Concord, North Carolina, just outside of Charlotte. Freshly painted in its original colors and sporting its original name -- Old Crow, bestowed by Bud Anderson, the war hero who'd flown it in combat -- the P-51 sparkled in the midday sun. Roush shed his fedora and pulled a flight suit over his shirt and pants, then removed two parachutes from the trunk of his Lincoln and handed one to his passenger.
"Only two reasons you'd need it," said Roush. "One is if we catch fire. The other is a mid-air collision."
Jack Roush's passenger that day. After explaining the basics of operation as he understood them, Roush noted that he had never used a parachute. "I don't believe in practicing for something you only do once," he said, grinning.
The plane rattled and shook as it sped down the runway, and, after a final shudder, lifted like an eagle into the blue. Roush cruised northwest, turning the plane upside-down as he passed over the business headquarters of Roush Racing, where the mahogany walls gleam and the employees wear suits. A few moments later, having determined that he had the airspace all to himself, Roush executed maneuvers that he described in an animated monologue over the plane's intercom: a barrel roll, an aileron roll, a four-point victory roll, an enormous loop. At this point, having repeatedly achieved five Gs, a force that can flood the body with adrenaline, Roush leveled off and headed toward a friend's farm, which he buzzed at treetop level. Only then did Roush confide that he'd never taken lessons in aerobatics, but had figured things out himself.
But automobiles, not aircraft, had remained Roush's foremost obsession since childhood, when he got his first taste of speed…

Context:
NASCAR. Really?
Yes, really.
Every author needs to write at least one sports book, right?
Well, maybe not. But I wanted to, and after some thought, settled on motorsports, whose speed and ultimate risk-taking participants fascinated me. I also like fast cars (and would return to them, in a later book about a much earlier era, “Car Crazy,” coming on Day 30).
Through a combination of luck, determination and the good fortune to meet the great Jamie Rodway, who worked for Roush, I succeeded in winning Jack Roush’s permission to be embedded for an entire season with his NASCAR team of veterans Mark Martin and Jeff Burton, and rookie Kurt Busch and young driver Matt Kenseth, both of whom would later become champions.
So I travelled the country during the 2001 Winston Cup (now Monster Energy) season – a season that began with the death of legendary seven-time champion Dale Earnhardt at Daytona. I said good morning to him before that race, and snapped a picture…

Dale Earnhardt, befroe the race at Daytona in which he died.Quite a year – and with tracks like Talladega, in Alabama, quite a number of places I otherwise likely would never have visited. I drove a bit myself, too: somewhat recklessly and with my first taste of pure speed in one of Jack’s Stage 3 Mustang convertible that hits sixty in 4.3 seconds and tops out at some 170 miles per hour. That day-long ride, from Knoxville, Tennessee, and on into Lexington Kentucky, with Jack in the passenger seat, remains etched in memory. What a day. I should note that Jack never offered to hand me the wheel again: hitting 120 mph during rush hour on a highway into Lexington was not, shall we say, law-abiding. But damn, it felt good.


“Men and Speed” was my first book for PublicAffairs, and editor Paul Golob took a workable manuscript and elevated it into a critically acclaimed book. PublicAffairs would later publish two more of my books -- “The Xeno Chronicles,” coming on Day 16 of #33Stories, and “Car Crazy” –and Lisa Kaufman would edit them. Thanks again, Paul and Lisa, and thanks publisher Clive Priddle.

Some of the reviews for “Men and Speed”:
 A BOOK-OF-THE-MONTH CLUB SELECTION
"Eye-opening and provocative...revealing the humanity of these daredevils may be Miller's greatest accomplishment." -- Daytona Beach News-Journal, June 29, 2003.
"One of the strongest narrative sports books since John Feinstein’s classic A Season on the Brink." -- Editorial Board, BOMC, July 30, 2002.
"Thrilling." -- Boston Globe, July 3, 2002.
"An edge-of-your-seat read." -- Providence Journal, June 2, 2002.
"Recommended." -- Library Journal, June 1, 2002.
"Miller's insights into the economic, technological and emotional workings of a top team are fresh and valuable." -- New York Times, May 26, 2002.
"Mesmerizing... The moving stories of bravery, winning, and defeat, and the exploration of the addictive nature of speed make this a must-read: not only for race fans, but for non-enthusiasts who will finally understand once and for all what all the fuss is about." -- Writers Write, The Internet Writing Journal, May 2, 2002.
"A no-B.S. account of a season in NASCAR. Enjoyable, straight-ahead and smart." -- Paul Newman, actor and racer.
"If you're a racing fan and you've often wondered when you look down on pit road or in the garage area what those guys are talking about -- here's your chance to find out. MEN AND SPEED is awesome." -- Benny Parsons, Winston Cup champion and NBC broadcaster.
"New people with new perspectives, new ideas, have joined the throngs at America's superspeedways to take new, fresh looks at NASCAR, the fastest-growing sport on the commercial radar screen. Thankfully, G. Wayne Miller is one of them. He latched a ride through the 2001 season with the Roush Racing team and the result, MEN AND SPEED, tells the late-comers what the noise is all about. Sit down. Buckle up. Take the 288-page ride and kiss the beauty queen at the end. And enjoy." -- Leigh Montville, former Sports Illustrated writer, and author of AT THE ALTAR OF SPEED.
"If you want to learn about NASCAR, talk to the best, Jack Roush! If you want to learn about faster speeds, talk to Jack again! I have flown with Jack in his P-51 Mustang at more than 400 mph. He is as good as they come. And writer Wayne Miller captures the essence of Jack, NASCAR, and speed in his book MEN AND SPEED." -- Gen. Chuck Yeager, subject of Tom Wolfe's THE RIGHT STUFF.
"A title race fans will be talking about for years to come." -- Bob Schaller, StockCarCity.
Praise for Miller's last book, KING OF HEARTS, about another group of daring risk-takers:
"Breathless, spirited and dramatic." -- Mark Bowden, author of Black Hawk Down.
"Gripping." -- Los Angeles Times.
"You'll find yourself surfacing every few chapters to remind yourself it's nonfiction." -- amazon.com

#33Stories: Day 14, "My Adult Life"

#33Stories
No. 14: “My Adult Life”
Context at the end of this excerpt.
Other entries in #33Stories at the Table of Contents. See you tomorrow!

Begun in 1994, completed 2000, never published.




MY ADULT LIFEA novel in 19 chapters



© Copyright 2000 G. Wayne Miller



Chapter Seventeen.

Dad had retired to a house in Buck's Harbor, twenty minutes out of Blue Hill on Eggemoggin Reach. It was across the road from the water: a traditional white Cape with an incongruous picture window so the previous owner, a summertime deacon at Saint Luke's, could keep an eye on his boat. The deacon had left Sea Watch, as the place was known, to Dad in his will. Dad had lived there a decade now. I'd visited only twice.

I knocked and my father opened the door.

``Hello, son,'' he said. He sounded as if he'd been expecting me. I wasn't sure I liked that.

``Hello, Dad.''

``Come in,'' he said. A fire burned in the fireplace and I smelled a roast in the oven. Dad hung my coat and I followed him into the kitchen.

``Hungry?'' he said. ``I was just about to have my dinner.''

``No thanks,'' I said.

``I hope you won't consider me rude if I eat.''

``Not at all
.''
``You reach my age,'' he said with a smile, ``and the noon meal takes on new meaning. Can I get you coffee?''

``Coffee would be fine.''

Dad set the table and served. He moved slower than the last time I'd seen him, when he visited Marblehead last spring. He'd suffered a minor stroke over the summer, an event he shared with me only after he was out of the hospital, and you could see it was still affecting his coordination.

``Let me help you,'' I said when he had trouble removing the roast -- it was veal -- from the oven.

``No need to,'' he said, ``I manage just fine.''

Dad made gravy, and finished the cream sauce for his baby onions, and zapped a pan of sweet potatoes in butter and maple syrup in the microwave.

``All that fat's bad for the heart,'' I said.

``Nixon and Johnson were bad for the heart,'' Dad said with a smile. ``A little cholesterol is nothing by comparison.''

I remembered all those Sunday afternoons, the Pax Universum creeps making themselves at home while Dad fussed in the kitchen with his veal, or turkey, or leg of lamb, or ham. Dad would say grace, and over dinner, he'd kick off discussion of one of their pet issues. The topic often was war, but not always. Dad had been first in his class at the Harvard Divinity School, and he could expound on Thomas Aquinas, Kierkegaard, More, Fox, a bunch of other philosophers and theologians I steered clear of in college. His peacenik friends couldn't get enough, and after Mom died, when there was no one to move things along, there were Sundays Dad's sessions went late into the night. I'd come back from Sally's or Bud's, and they'd still be there, drinking decaffeinated coffee and going around and around, as if they really did believe a bunch of do-gooders from small-town Maine could change the world.

``I suppose I needn't ask how you are,'' Dad said when he was seated. ``You can't pick up a paper or turn on the boob tube these days without seeing something about you.''

``It's been an experience,'' I said.

``You know what my first reaction was?''

``I won't even guess.''

``I thought: I haven't seen that bottom since his diaper days!'' He laughed, and I couldn't help laughing, too. I'd forgotten how funny my father could be, when he was in the mood.

``Seriously,'' he went on, ``my first thought was: My son's not a murderer. That's what I told the officers who came by.''

``When were they here?''

``Two days ago. I refused to answer any of their questions. `You'll need a judge's order before I say another word,' I told them. Turned out not to be necessary, judging by this morning's headlines.'' Dad rose. ``Ice cream?'' he said. He'd barely touched his dinner. ``I've got Ben and Jerry's.''

``No thanks.''

``You should eat something. Stress is not good on an empty stomach. The acid eats the lining away.''

``I appreciate the advice,'' I said, ``but my appetite's had a mind of its own lately.''

Dad cleared the table and rinsed the dishes and I thought of the dishwasher I'd offered to get him and the wide-screen TV and satellite dish and VCR and everything else. He'd refused it all.

``I was up in the attic a little while ago,'' he said, ``poking around for the manger scene. I happened onto your train set. Do you remember it?''

``Of course I do.''

``It's a Lionel. Still runs -- I know, because I tested it. I thought Timmy might like it.''

``I'm surprised you saved it,'' I said.

He paused, and in that deep voice of his said: ``I should have saved more.''

I knew what he was referring to -- my glove and bat, the posters of Tony C., my baseball magazines and Red Sox programs. He threw everything out during a sudden fury in the spring of 1968, when I was hounding him to get back into ball -- everything but my scrapbook, spared because I'd left it at Sally's. I know how cruel Dad's reaction sounds, and the truth is, it was cruel. Dad was never angrier, before or after -- never close. Something snapped and he became someone else, a raging monster who terrified me, until my anger set in. I never forgave him, despite his apologies and what he did the very next day, which was go out and buy replacements for everything. Thirty years, and I was still pissed.

``I was terribly wrong, you know,'' Dad said.

I shrugged. ``We all make mistakes.''

``Some far more grievous than others,'' Dad said. ``Is it too late to apologize?''

I didn't know if he'd forgotten how often he already had, or if maybe he believed an apology was mandatory whenever the subject came up.

``No,'' I said, ``it's not too late.''

``I'm sorry.''

``We were both different then.''

``I wish I could do it over.''

``You know the bitch of it?'' I said. ``You can't.'' I didn't intend it as a cheap shot -- I was thinking of Sally, and me, and my son.

``No,'' Dad said, ``but it's never too late to seek forgiveness. Or to forgive.''

I didn't reply. I was certain Dad was going to quote Scripture, but he didn't. I wondered if his memory was failing, or if he only wanted to move along.

The dishes were done. We went into the living room and Dad threw a stovelength onto the fire and went to the china cabinet for a bottle of brandy I didn't know he kept. I could see the harbor through the picture window, barely. The storm was settling in for real now and no one was on the water. I looked at Dad's desk, cluttered with large-type books, receipts and cancelled checks, many to charitable organizations and the Episcopal Church. ``Almost tax time,'' Dad said, and I remembered when I was 13, how he'd been arrested for withholding that portion of federal taxes he calculated went to Vietnam. Only the diocesan lawyer's intervention had gotten him out of jail, after a highly publicized weekend during which, not for the first time, I wanted to run away and never return.
Dad set the brandy and two glasses down.

``Care for one?'' he said. ``I'm not sure it's the best thing on an empty stomach. Nor am I sure it's the worst.''

``Why not,'' I said.

``Mama would have liked this view. There isn't a prettier spot on the coast of Maine. She loved the water, your mother did. She always said it put her at peace. Do you remember?''

``How could I forget?''

``It's thirty-two years next Christmas,'' Dad said. ``Hard to imagine you could miss someone so much after so long. The choir sang at service this morning. When I closed my eyes, I could almost hear her voice. Do you remember our Christmas days?''

``Like yesterday.''

``How I cooked while she played her beloved piano?''

``I visited her grave this morning,'' I said.

``Did you see my wreath?''

``Yes.''

``Thank God. There's been a terrible problem with vandals lately. I'd hate for Mama to be without her wreath on Christmas.''

My eye traveled to Mom's piano: an ancient Kimball upright that had been handed down from her grandmother. Mom always dreamed of owning a baby grand, but she never complained that circumstances did not allow her one. What she did was put a pickle jar on the mantel and squirrel away spare change, pennies and nickles, mostly, for her ``Steinway Fund,'' as she called it. She died before it was full. Dad used what was there to buy her tombstone.

We sat in silence then, for I don't know how long. I finished my brandy and Dad his and he poured us another. We'd never shared a drink before, never mind two.

``Go on,'' he urged, ``it'll fortify you.''

``For what?''

``For climbing Blue Hill.''

I thought he must have been kidding, or in the beginning stages of Alzheimer's, or drunk. But to my knowledge, Dad had never been drunk, and he wasn't acting it now. He didn't sound the least bit senile. He sounded resolute, as if he'd pondered this a very long time. And there was no mistaking his eyes. They were as steely and defiant as the day IRS agents led him out of Saint Luke's in handcuffs while a photographer for the Daily News snapped away.

``You're kidding,'' I said.

``No,'' he said, ``I'm serious.''

``It's a blizzard out there.''

``City living's spoiling you,'' Dad said, smiling. ``What this is is a good old Downeast snowstorm, no more, no less. Now, I intend to climb Blue Hill. If you won't accompany me -- well, I guess I'll have no choice but to go it alone.''

****

We parked at the base of the mountain. Dad struggled leaving the car and I doubted he'd have been able to get out if I hadn't been there. And I thought, only half in jest: Where is Officer Bill when you need him? He'd put a stop to this, right quick.

``This is worse than when we left the house,'' I said as Dad got his balance.

``Maybe to a city slicker.''

``This is crazy.''

``You've more than made your point,'' Dad said, stern for the first time. ``Now let's go -- the day's getting away from us. Don't lock your doors, I'm afraid the locks will freeze.''

We made respectable progress the first few hundred yards, a stretch that is gently sloped. Dad walked unassisted and the pines surrounding us broke the wind and the snow hadn't drifted much, was only a smooth three or four inches deep. We nipped from a flask Dad had filled with his brandy and we were determined in our silence. It was one-thirty on the kind of wintry afternoon night is impatient to fall.
A bit further, we hit a deadfall. Dad tried getting over it by himself, but it was too much -- even he conceded that after a clumsy try that left him sputtering. I straddled the trunk and as Dad swung his body over, I bore his weight. He was thinner than I remembered and I thought, although it was probably only my imagination, that I could feel the brittleness of his bones. ``Damn arthritis,'' he said, then quickly added: ``Don't take that to mean I want to turn back. This is actually easier than I expected.''

A bit further still, we were on an open stretch of mountain. The wind had piled the snow to more than two feet in places and knocked down a row of pines. A ranger would have had trouble getting through.

``I don't know, Dad,'' I said.

``It gets easier past here,'' he declared.

``How do you know?''

``The Big Guy told me,'' Dad said. I grinned, but he didn't; he really meant it. ``Let's take a five-minute breather,'' he went on, ``then give it all we've got. We'll make the top by three.''

We took shelter behind a boulder. Dad drank deeply from his flask. I wanted to tell him that alcohol and sub-freezing temperatures were a deadly mix, but he'd had his fill of my observations. His face was flush, whether from effort or wind or both I could not tell, but I didn't mention that, either. I didn't tell him how worried I was that his gloves, and mine, were soaked. I listened to the wind and it sounded like the wildcats I always imagined awaited us on our family climbs more than three decades ago. The snow was so heavy I did not notice, until Dad was set to push off again, that just beyond this boulder was the path leading to Mom's grandfather's blueberry field.

I lost my grip bringing Dad over the last deadfall and he surely would have broken his hip if the drift hadn't cushioned his fall. I said nothing and neither did Dad, but his face showed pain. He put his arm around my waist and we hobbled on, under a canopy of pines that was strangely still and unblanketed with snow. Ten minutes more, we reached the summit.

``After all I've given Him,'' Dad said, dead-seriously, ``the Big Guy owed me.''

There is a firetower at the top of Blue Hill and a ranger's hut and, on good days, the finest coastal vista south of Bar Harbor. We found the leeward side of the hut and I eased Dad down. His lungs sounded like Timmy's, or Mom's on her final climb. Brandy brought him around. His breathing returned to normal and a satisfied look crossed his face. I wonder if he really would have attempted this without me, I thought, but didn't ask. I waited for him to speak and hoped it would be soon, for afternoon was starting to surrender to dusk.

``This was Mama's favorite spot in this world,'' he finally said -- like I didn't know. ``I think she really believed on a clear day, you could see forever.''

``You just about can,'' I said.

``Our first kiss was here,'' Dad said, ``on a day like that. I was still in divinity school.''

Dad had never shared this with me and although I wouldn't have stopped him, I didn't want him to go on. He didn't. His eyes grew distant and I could see he came here regularly in his mind.

``You were the apple of her eye,'' he said. ``I was always afraid she'd spoil you, but she'd have none of it. `It's impossible to spoil those you love,' she used to say. It was the only issue we ever had words over. The only one.''

``You did what you thought was right,'' I said.

``No,'' he said, ``I was a coward.''

``Coward? You went to jail for your beliefs.''

``Those were easy beliefs -- that senseless killing and wars are wrong. Only the Nixons and Johnsons of the world don't see that. My cowardice was with you. I wanted control.''

``You were protecting me.''

``No,'' Dad said, ``I was smothering you. Long after it was time, I wouldn't let go.''

``I was a brat,'' I said. ``I probably would have been with Mom, too, if she'd lived.''

``You had the most powerful imagination,'' Dad said. ``So unlike me. I was afraid of it. Instead of encouraging you, I tried to rein you in. That was wrong. What was more wrong was thinking I could live my dreams through you.''

I remembered the first anniversary of Mom's death. The bishop came to Saint Luke's to concelebrate her service, and afterwards, Dad hosted a reception. He and the bishop disappeared for a spell and I happened on them, alone in the vestibule. The bishop was tearing into Dad for his anti-war activities -- how the publicity was hurting collections and bringing dishonor to the Presiding Bishop and Executive Council. ``If you want a future,'' the bishop said, ``the shit stops now.'' I almost fainted, hearing a bishop talk like that. ``I can't,'' my father said. ``The war is wrong.''

And the bishop said: ``You do understand the Council has very high hopes for you.''

 And Dad said: ``I have to do what's right.''

And the bishop declared: ``Then so be it. I hope you like it here.''

 Only much later would I understand what had slipped away, forever, from my father that day.

What detached from him became affixed to me, however wishfully, until after I'd left for college. I would receive my doctoral degree in divinity and be ordained in the Episcopal faith. I would not be content with a small-town parish, but would take an assignment in a city. I would climb the church hierarchy, using my growing influence for social causes: working to end poverty, racism, hunger. I would be savvier than Dad was, more diplomatic, and I would make it to bishop, but I wouldn't be satisfied there. The longer my father protested Vietnam the more he became convinced change on the big issues could come only from Washington. And so one day I would be a Senator, even if it meant leaving the priesthood, and I would chair powerful committees and my words would move mountains. Dad never spelled this scenario out so definitively, but the gist of it became abundantly clear over time. It didn't seem to matter that there was an inverse correlation between his desires and mine -- that the harder he pushed, the more I ran.

``I've been doing all the talking,'' Dad said. ``It's your turn now.''

``I guess I don't have much to say.''

``Please,'' Dad said. ``I didn't drag us up here in a blizzard for one of my sermons.''

We laughed. ``So it is a blizzard!'' I said.

``Maybe a little one.''

``Really, I think you've said it all.''

``I know you too well to believe that,'' my father said.

I reflected a moment and said: ``Okay. You want to know the biggest thing?''

``Hollywood.''

``No,'' I said, ``baseball.''

``That would have been my second guess.''

``You were mean.''

``That wasn't my intent.''

``And not just mean -- destructive and mean.''

``That was the last thing I intended. I was thinking only of you. Kids get badly hurt -- even die -- every year in baseball.''

``And a thousand times more get hurt crossing the street.'' I was getting angry. ``What kind of logic is that?''

``I didn't say it was logical,'' my father said softly. ``I've already conceded I was over-protective.''

``Bullshit,'' I said. ``You were jealous.''

``Of my own son?'' He was incredulous.

``You didn't make it in baseball and so you weren't going to let me.''

``You're dead wrong,'' Dad said. ``Nothing ever made me prouder than watching you play.''

``Well, it doesn't matter now,'' I said.

``I'm sorry, Mark. I wish I could change how you feel. But I'm giving it to you straight.''

The last light was draining from the sky and the wind had picked up another notch. I figured we had five minutes, ten at most, before we had to start down or face true peril.

``I visited another grave this morning,'' I said. ``Sally took me. Sally Martin.''

``She said me she might.''

``She told you?''

``Yes. In the confessional. I've known about Jake since before he was born.''

I was stunned. I still had the capacity for that.

``How come you didn't tell me?'' I asked.

``I wanted to, sorely -- but I had my vows. And Sally was explicit that if anyone shared her secret, it be her. It's been a heavy burden for me to carry so long. Far heavier, of course, on Sally. Except for her parents and cousin and the undertaker, I'm not sure who, if anyone, even knows Jake existed. Sally is a very strong woman. Stubborn, but strong.''

``I'll never get over it,'' I said.

``No moral being could.''

``I would've come back immediately if I'd known. Sally doesn't believe me, but it's true. I'm not saying I would've married her -- I mean, maybe I would have, I don't know. But I think of him, the things we could've done...'' I trailed off, my thoughts scattering with the wind.

``I suspect you blame yourself in some way,'' my father said. ``You shouldn't. The Lord gave us Jake and the Lord took him, for reasons known best to Him. As I've said all too many times, the Big Guy can work in strange and mysterious ways.''

``Was he christened?'' I asked.

``Yes. By me, in a chapel in Bangor.''

``So he's happy now.''

``And will be for all eternity -- he's at the Lord's side. Does that help, even a little?''

``Yes,'' I said.

``He was the image of you.''

``Do you think he would have liked me?''

``He would've liked the person I'm talking to now.''

In the movie version of my adult life, of course, this is where Dad would have hugged me. Tears in my eyes, I would have accepted his embrace, and the words would have rushed out of us, words of forgiveness and acceptance, a blessing on us both. But my father said nothing. We did not hug.

``Do you know about Timmy, too?'' I finally said.

It was the most unexpected development of our marriage, how close Ruth had grown to Dad -- although, the better you knew Syd, the more you understood. Ruth was the one who made sure my father visited Marblehead every spring. She was the one who kept asking him to live with us. I don't want to imagine how far my father and I might have drifted apart without Ruth.

Dad nodded.

``You've never mentioned that, either.''

``There's been no need to,'' he said. ``You're a wonderful father. There's not a single thing I'd change.''

``You're mocking me.''

``I'm as serious as I've ever been.''

``Not even all the toys and the ballfield and the pool?''

``Not even all the toys and the ballfield and the pool. Ruth is a fortunate woman. And you are a fortunate man.''

``How could I have forgotten?''

We both laughed at that -- crazy, fool's laughter the storm swiftly carried away. There was much I felt compelled to tell my father now, but it was almost dark; even if we started down immediately, our descent would be treacherous.

``We should do this more often,'' my father said. He was grinning.

``Maybe next time in a hurricane,'' I said, and we laughed.

I helped Dad to his feet, but he didn't start off immediately. He drew my attention to a heart and arrow carved into the hut. My parents' initials were faded, but legible.

``Forty-nine years they've lasted,'' Dad said. ``I don't know what I'd do if the Park Service replaced the hut.''

``I'd haul you up here to carve them again.''

Dad reflected a moment. ``Mama would be proud of you,'' he said, and while I didn't agree, I kept my objections to myself.

****

Carolers were moving through downtown Blue Hill when we arrived and Dad identified them as the Saint Luke's choir. ``You were in that choir,'' he said. ``Sally, too.''

``I remember.''

``They're singing at Saint Luke's for the Christmas Eve concert,'' Dad said. ``Would you care to go?''

``Not this year,'' I said. ``I have some important matters to attend to.''

``Then stop here,'' Dad said in front of Merril & Hinckley, ``but keep that heater running, my bones are still freezing.'' I helped him out of the car and he went in -- alone, at his insistence.

When he returned, he handed me an envelope with Ticketron labeling. ``Sorry it's not wrapped,'' he said.

The envelope had three tickets to a Red Sox-Yankees game in June. They were bleacher seats.

``Our favorite homestand,'' I said.

``How long since we've been?''

``Twenty-five years, at least.''

``Does Timmy hate the Yankees as much as us?''

``More,'' I said. ``It must run in the family.''

Suddenly, my father was crestfallen. ``Stupid me,'' he said.

``What?''

``I forgot you have season tickets.''

``Not anymore,'' I said. ``I'm getting rid of them.''

``Really? Why?''

``Too expensive,'' I lied.

Dad brightened: ``Well, merry Christmas, son.''

``Merry Christmas, Dad.''

-- 30 –

Context:

I began writing “My Adult Life” in the late 1990s, during the dot.com era, as the internet world was transitioning from dial-up to fiber optic, the world we know today. Virtual reality was leaving the labs for the cineplex and home, and video games were advancing from Pong to Xbox. Like so many others, I was fascinated by and pondered how the internet would continue to transform modern life. We seemed to be accelerating to warp speed.

We also, as a culture, were becoming entranced with ourselves. The term “selfie” was yet to be coined (that apparently was in 2002), but with the rising popularity of the digital camera, folks were increasingly taking picture of… themselves. That was nothing new – since the advent of photography, in the 1800s, self-portraits were common – but digitalia made it so much easier. Social media as we know it today was about to dawn and narcissism, recognized since antiquity, was about to pervade the land.

Sound familiar?

 So, yes, “My Adult Life” was prescient. In key respects, it rings as true today as in 2000, when I finished it.

But that is only the cultural backdrop to this novel. Beginning as parody and finishing as parable, “My Adult Life” is an exploration of fidelity, family and the power of memory and pull of the past. It speaks to an era, but more so, by the end, to honor and truth.

And it is set in Massachusetts and Maine.

SO, what happened to "My Adult Life"?

I ran it by a top editor at a top New York publisher, and he said, ah, well, not quite for me. Could have tried elsewhere, but while I had put considerable time and energy into “My Adult Life,” I was putting more of my capital into my other writing. You know, that stuff that pays the bills.

So into the trunk “My Adult Life” went. Perhaps, one day, the trunk will open. More than this novel is in it: for another, “Paper Boys,” come back on May 21 for #33Stories no. 21).

#33Stories: Day 13, Remembering Mom

#33Stories
No. 13: “Mary M. Miller, 1919 – 2005: A Eulogy”
Context at the end of this excerpt.
Other entries in #33Stories at the Table of Contents. See you tomorrow!

Delivered at the funeral of Mary M. Miller, Wednesday, March 30, 2005, St. Joseph Church in Wakefield, Mass.
Originally published in 2005 on my website. 

Wedding Day: Mary (Maraghey) and Roger Linwood Miller.
MARY M. MILLER, 1919-2005
A Eulogy

More than two years ago, I stood here eulogizing my father. I spoke about how he was a wonderful man who worked uncomplainingly, was a good father, and who devoted his life to my mother and his three children. He was all of that -- but he was very different from my mother. He was more easily explained.

My mother was an extraordinarily complicated person, and many of the people here understand what I mean. I suspect her early life played a role. Mother never went on at great length to me about her background, but this is what I have gleaned. She was born many years ago -- she never wanted to disclose her age, so I'll simply say she was closer to 90 than 80 -- to parents who had immigrated in the early 1900s to Boston, the neighborhood of Charlestown specifically, from county Waterford, Ireland, home of a crystal manufacturer whose products she could only afford much later in life, and then only in limited quantity.

By any standard, Mother's early life was harsh. The Maragheys had no money, a plight that was compounded when my grandfather died, leaving Mom and her brother to a mother then forced to take a night job as a cleaner to support her children. My mother and uncle received their Christmas gifts from Globe Santa. Coal heated their small flat, and I remember Mom saying there were nights when the fire went out and they huddled under blankets to keep warm there in the shadow of Bunker Hill.

And then Mother contracted tuberculosis, at about the age of ten. She was sent to a sanatorium and for a year or more, she was an orphan, left to the care of strangers. She recovered and went home -- to a stepfather, about whom I know very little. Mother graduated from high school first in her class but never went to college, as she surely would have today. It was the Great Depression, and working-class women were rarely encouraged to seek greater advancement. Instead, at the time she met my father, she was a secretary at the John Hancock Life Insurance Co. Had she come of age today, I bet she would have become an executive, perhaps a CEO.

My mother as a young woman. She had survived tuberculosis.

Instead, she became a suburban mother -- what today we would call a soccer mom.

My sisters have their own recollections, but one of my favorites is of her helping me learn the Russian alphabet, with its many strange Cyrillic letters, as a high school freshman. I remember even earlier, as a third- or fourth-grader when we sat in the living room of our old house reading the dictionary, with the intent of studying a page a day until we were done the whole book. I don't recall that we ever finished, but I remember aardvark, abalone, and so forth. I'm guessing those hours spent with a Webster's are the reason my writing colleagues at The Providence Journal still sometimes ask me to spell words and correct grammar. The written word was sacred for my mother. Thanks, Mom: I have made a living out of it.

Mother taught the virtues of honesty, sincerity, sobriety, conviction, justice, hard work, higher education -- and of chicken soup when you had a cold. She loved Masterpiece Theater and the BSO and the Museum of Fine Arts, but also yard sales, which was one of her many contradictions. Until she stopped driving, she drove like Jeff Gordon, which I always admired. She liked the color purple.

She liked her cats -- although to be honest, I didn't much, and always harbored fantasies of putting one in the microwave. Mother made great casseroles and roast-beef dinners and, once upon a time, magnificent apple pies and currant jam. She always made breakfast and packed a good lunch. She liked talk radio, the late David Brudnoy especially. She had strong political opinions, mostly conservative -- so where did I come from? She valued reading -- all manner of books and the Boston Globe, which she, like my father, read cover to cover every day. Professionally, I guess Mom and Dad were my roots.

Mother also loved her grandchildren: one, Greg, who is MaryLynne's; two, Nate and Matthew, who are Lynda's; and three, Rachel, Katy and Cal, who are mine. They're all here today to commemorate the woman they called Seany.

Ironically, Seany wound up at the same nursing home where my father went. The last time I saw her before her hospitalization this month, I visited with Rachel and her incredible baby, Isabella, the first Miller great-grandchild.

Mother was delighted. I remember her smile. In her closing days, she could still appreciate beauty and goodness.

Mary Miller with grandson Cal, my son, age two.

As a younger woman, Mother was a strict disciplinarian. She was always blunt: this was not a woman with a poker face or a future at a United Nations peace table. Her waters ran deep. One waded through then at one's peril.

But she had many dear friends -- two of the best of whom, Kelly and Jerry, visited her daily for the three weeks after her stroke, and another two, Don and Blanche, who could not be here today. Although Mother never had much money, she was always generous in her contributions to charities, and the biggest of those was the Catholic Church.

I have no scientific basis on which to state this, but I bet, with the exception of clergy, she attended Mass more frequently than any Catholic here today. Her devotion grew, of course, from the old-world Irish traditions in which her immigrant parents were raised. As society changed and the church did, too, she maintained that devotion. By the end, she had her quarrels with her religion -- she would have liked women priests, for example -- and she was ashamed of certain events that have happened, but she still kept to the basic tenets of Roman Catholic Christianity. She believed in her Lord.

One thing, however, troubled her deeply -- I don't think torment is too strong a word -- as long as I can remember. She feared of her fate in the afterlife: despite her devotion, despite what logic might have told her, she just could not shake the old images of fire and brimstone. Her deathbed was not the time to ask where she stood on the matter in the final hours of her life, so I can't tell you where she finally believed she was headed.

But I can say that if you seek guidance in signs, as I sometimes do, it is no coincidence that she died on Easter Sunday, the day of resurrection, rebirth, and the promise of the new spring -- a day of hope and beauty like her great-granddaughter Isabella, that wonderful baby.

I believe Mother has gone to the good place, where even now she is enjoying the tranquility that sometimes escaped her in this life. Be peaceful, Mom, we love you.

-- 30 --

Context:

Since writing and delivering this eulogy, we have lost another mother in the family: my sister Linda, who died on May 5, 2015. But we also have been blessed with the addition of two wonderful new members of the family, who may be mothers themselves someday: Rachel’s second child, Olivia, and Katy’s first, Vivienne.

Today, though, holding good thoughts of my mother, and my late mother-in-law, Daisy Gabrielle, the amazing mother of my amazing wife, Yolanda. Happy Mothers Day!

Mom and Dad, WW II, when Dad was in the Navy.

#33Stories: Day 12, "King of Hearts"

#33Stories
No. 12: “King of Hearts: The True Story of the Maverick Who Pioneered Open Heart Surgery”
Context at the end of this excerpt.
Other entries in #33Stories at the Table of Contents. See you tomorrow!

Originally published in 2000 by Random House.



Prologue: Red Alert. pp. 3 to 7 of "King of Hearts":

ON THE DAY that some feared he crossed over into madness, the surgeon C. Walton Lillehei woke at his usual hour, six o'clock. He ate his ordinary light breakfast, read the morning paper, kissed his wife and three young children good-bye, then drove his flashy Buick convertible to University Hospital in Minneapolis. The first patients of the day were already unconscious when Lillehei dressed in scrubs and entered the main operating area.

It was March 26, 1954.

Lillehei walked into Room II, where the doctors who would assist him were preparing two operating tables for the baby and the adult who would soon be there. Nearly all of the doc¬tors were young—younger even than Lillehei, who was only thirty-five. Most were residents—surgeons still in training who were devoted to Lillehei not only because he was an outstanding surgeon, but also because he seemed to live for risk and he overflowed with unconventional new ideas.

Lillehei checked on the pump and the web of plastic tubes that would connect the adult to the baby. He confirmed that two teams of anesthesiologists were ready, that the OR supervisor had briefed the many nurses, and that the blood bank was steeled for possible massive transfusions.
He confirmed that the adult—who was the baby's father—had not changed his mind about their being the subjects of this experiment, which no doctor had attempted before.

It looks good, said Lillehei. I think we're ready to go.

Elsewhere in University Hospital, a nurse roused the baby.

Thirteen-month-old Gregory Glidden was an adorable boy with big ears and a fetching smile that had endeared him to the staff during the three straight months they had cared for him. He was unusually scrawny, but at the moment there was no other outward sign that he was sick. His appearance was deceiving. Gregory had been born with a hole between the lower chambers of his heart—a type of defect that no surgeon had ever been able to fix. In fact, Gregory was dying. Dr. Lillehei doubted he would last the year.

Unlike many nights in his short life, Gregory had slept well and he awoke in good spirits. The nurse cleaned his chest with an antibacterial solution and dressed him in a fresh gown, but she could not give him breakfast; for surgery, his body had to be pure. A resident administered penicillin and a preoperative sedative, and the baby became drowsy again. Then an orderly appeared and spoke softly to Gregory about the little trip he would be taking—that he would travel safe in his crib, with his favorite toys and stuffed animals.

Baby Gregory GliddenOne floor below his son, Lyman Glidden was also headed for surgery. His wife, Frances, had come by to see him off, and as they waited for Lyman to be wheeled away, they were thinking not only of Gregory. They were remembering their daughter LaDonnah, who had been born with the same defect as their little boy. Somehow LaDonnah had survived, in relatively good health, until the age of twelve. Then, in the spring of 1950, she became gravely ill, and one night that September, she died in her sleep.

The Gliddens could never forget finding her body, cold and rigid in her bed.

It was half past seven. In the operating room next to Lillehei, Chief of Surgery Owen W. Wangensteen was cutting into a woman he hoped to cure of cancer. Wangensteen had not checked on Lillehei, nor had he told the young surgeon yet of the ruckus that had developed yesterday afternoon, when another of Universitys Hospital’s powers —Chief of Medicine Cecil J. Watson, an internist often at odds with Wangensteen —had discovered what Lillehei intended to do.

Watson already knew that Lillehei had joined the quest to correct extreme defects inside the opend heart —a race that so far had produced only corpses, in Minneapolis and elsewhere. He knew of Lillehei’s dog research —of hos the surgeon and his young disciples regularly worked past midnight in their makeshift laboratory in the attic of a university building. He’d heard of Lillehei’s new open heart technique, in which the circulatory systems of two dogs were connected with a pump and tubes; thus joined, the donor dog supported the life of the patient dog, enabling Lillehei to close off the vessels to the patient dog’s heart, open the heart, and repair a life-threatening defect. But until yesterday afternoon, when today’s operating schedule had been distributed, Watson had not known that Lillehei —with Wangensteen‘s blessing —was taking cross-circulation into the operating room.

This was madness!

Watson went to University Hospital's director, who alone had authority to stop an operation. The director summoned Wangensteen, and the three men had it out.

How could such an experiment be allowed? Watson demanded to know. For the first time in history, one operation had the potential to kill two people. Yet, paradoxically, how could the Gliddens refuse? They lived in the north woods of Minnesota, where Lyman worked the mines and Frances stayed home with their many children. They lacked the guidance of a human-experimentation committee, for none existed in 1954. They would never consult a lawyer, for they were willing to try almost anything to spare their baby their daughter's fate.

And was it any wonder that Wangensteen had blessed Lillehei? Of all the resplendent surgeons on Wangensteen's staff, Lillehei was unquestionably the crown prince—the most likely to bring the University of Minnesota a Nobel prize, which the chief of surgery all but craved. Blue-eyed and blond—a man who liked all-night jazz clubs and pretty women—brilliant Walt could do no wrong in Owen's eyes.

The chief of medicine was appalled. Had they forgotten the girl who had preceded Gregory Glidden in University Hospi¬tal's Room II, poor Patty Anderson, who'd been lost in a river of blood?

Gregory was brought into Room II and transferred to one of its two operating tables. His crib with his toys and stuffed animals was sent back into the hall and he was in the company of masked strangers. A doctor placed an endotracheal tube down his throat and turned the gas on.
Asleep, Gregory was stripped of his gown and left naked under the glare of hot lights. How small he was—smaller than a pillow, smaller than most laboratory dogs. His heart would be a trifle, his vessels thin as twine.

All set? Lillehei said.

The people with him were.

Lillehei washed Gregory's chest with surgical soap. With a scalpel, he cut left to right on a line just below the nipples.

Observers in Room II's balcony leaned forward for a better look. On the operating room floor, a crowd of interns and residents climbed up on stools.

Lillehei split the sternum, the bone that joins the ribs, and opened a window into Gregory with a retractor.

Nestled between his lungs, Gregory's plum-colored little heart came into view. It was noisy; with his hand, Lillehei felt an abnormal vibration.

Still, the outside anatomy appeared normal: the great vessels were in their proper places, with no unnatural connections between. So far, no surprises.

It looks okay, Lillehei said. You may bring in the father now.


-- 30 –


READ the paperback

READ on Kindle

LISTEN to the audiobook


Context:

The fourth book (after “Toy Wars”) published by Jon Karp at Random House before he left to head another house, Twelve, “King of Hearts” has its roots in the first Jon bought, “The Work of Human Hands.” The protagonist of tha, Dr. Hardy Hendren, invited me to a lecture by a surgeon I had never heard of, Walt Lillehei, at Children’s Hospital a few years after it was published. I went.

Almost from the moment Walt began speaking, I was mesmerized. And when he began showing slides of his work in the Wild West that was heart surgery in 1950s, I was hooked. Over dinner at the Harvard Club that evening – Hardy had deliberately seated me next to Walt – I asked Walt if anyone had every written a book about him and his pioneering work.

Well, no, not really, Walt said. Been mentioned in a few books, but that was about it.

Would he agree to let me write one?

Well, sure, Walt said. He really was that easy-going.

Walt Lillehei with an early patientI could not believe my luck. I was deep into the writing of “Toy Wars” and could not get immediately to St. Paul, where Walt lived, and Minneapolis, where he’d done most of his work – but we agreed that every Saturday morning, I would interview him by phone, tape recorded running, until I could. Renown Children’s Hospital lung surgeon Craig Lillehei, one of Walt’s sons and someone I knew from “Work,” used to joke that I talked more often during that time to his dad than he himself did.
Eventually, I made it to Minnesota – several times – where Walt opened his life, his records, his patents, everything, to me. It was pure gold.

Walt was sick by the time I finished the first draft of “King of Hearts” and he would die just a few months later. But I sent him that draft for his check on accuracy, and he indeed read it. He found a few incorrect minor details but otherwise blessed the book and said it had wonderfully captured him, his work, the work of others and that era. He did insist, however, on what he considered a more important correction:

I had the wrong name of the bar he frequented near New York Hospital-Cornell Medical Center in Manhattan where he later was Chief of Surgery.

It was The Recovery Room, Walt said.

I made the correction.

And that, too, tells a lot about the wonderful and wonderfully complex person who was Walt, whose work directly – and indirectly through the many surgeons he trained, and later generations trained by them – saved more lives than one could ever calculate.

King of Hearts was a critical and commercial success, and I always thought it work nicely on screen, as either a feature-length movie or TV series.

We had some nibbles over the years, and my screenwriting partner Drew Smith and I wrote scripts and treatments, but to date, all talk, no action. I still have great hopes, since surely one day someone in a position to make it happen will agree that there has never been quite a real-life drama like the narrative, nor a character like the protagonist, the man who became a dear friend, Walt Lillehei. RIP Walt. No one like you ever.

BUT as I often am reminded, fate is a funny thing. About a year ago, I was contacted by a young journalist from China, Caroline Chan, who was working with a documentary crew from CCTV, China Central TV, the main state television broadcaster in China. The crew was working on a series about the history of medicine for what can be called CCTV’s Discovery Channel – would I like to participate, bringing the story of “King of Hearts” to the screen?

Yes! And so, long story short, I travelled to Minnesota for four days last summer and we shot at multiple locations, including the home of Mick Shaw, one of Walt’s early survivors. It was an amazing moment for all of us.

You can learn about that and more on the King of Hearts Facebook page. 

Watch for the episode later this year or next – no date yet – on CCTV. Here is the English-language CCTV site: http://tv.cctv.com/cctvnews/
And while I have lost touch with most of the other still-living people from King of Hearts, I would like to mention, as I did in the book, that the Glidden family, given their economic circumstances, had never been able to afford a proper tombstone for young Gregory. They accepted my offer to help pay for it, and I penned his epitaph: "His little heart changed the world."

Some of the reviews for King of Hearts:

"Exhaustively researched, novel-like... Few people outside of medicine have heard of Lillehei, and few remember the sweaty-palmed suspense of open heart surgery's early years. It is fortunate that Lillehei has posthumously found Miller to rectify his anonymity. The resulting tale grips like a surgical clamp and doesn't let go."
-- Forbes magazine, January 24, 2000

"The Invention of open-heart surgery is an epic tale of caution and recklessness, genius and serendipity, selflessness and megalomania. Until now, it was a story available only to readers of scholarly books and journals. With King of Hearts, G. Wayne Miller has given this great story to the rest of us... And he has written King of Hearts with clarity, simplicity and grace."
-- Associated Press, February 14, 2000

"The wrenching stories of these children, the sacrifices of their parents, and researchers' incredible experimental efforts to divert blood from damaged hearts using dog hearts or the living bodies of donors make for riveting reading... Highly recommended for all readers."
-- Library Journal, January, 2000

"G. Wayne Miller has written one of those books that makes you wonder why no one had done it before. The remarkable story of flamboyant heart surgeon Walt Lillehei's pioneering work in open-heart surgery clearly ranks with the most important of modern times, and Miller has told it in a breathless, spirited, and dramatic way in King of Hearts... It is science writing at its best."
-- Mark Bowden, Philadelphia Inquirer, May 7, 2000

 "King of Hearts is The Right Stuff of open heart surgery."
-- Jonathan Harr, author of the bestselling A Civil Action

"Wayne Miller's book is a roller-coaster account of this extraordinary man's life and achievements. By moving back and forth in time, he builds suspense and keeps the reader turning pages to see what miracle will next come from Lillehei's hands. It reads like the best of suspense novels."
--Decatur Daily,, December 31, 2000

"The book is ultimately a story of triumph against all odds."
-- Asian Cardiovascular & Thoracic Annals, Vol. 9, No. 1, 2001

"With gripping detail, Miller's book takes the reader inside the hospital's walls back in the 1950s and 1960s. He shows us anxious parents waiting to see if their desperately ill children would be the lucky ones that Lillehei could save. His heart surgeries were high-wire acts performed without a net. And with the instincts of a good showman, his academic lectures included photos of his grateful patients, not shot in hospital gowns, but dressed in cowboy and cowgirl outfits."
-- Los Angeles Times, March 6, 2000

"There are a lot of good stories to tell from the `country of hearts' (as the cardiologist and poet John Stone has called it). But these are more than simply good stories. Important ethical, emotional and financial dilemmas -- sometimes all three--are posed by the narratives of innovation in heart medicine."
-- Washington Post, Sept. 3, 2000

"The beauty of these fascinating tales lies in the detail and the personal interactions of the players. By means of interviews, datacollection, and other extensive research, the author conveys the essence of the early days of open-heart surgery...King of Hearts extensively chronicles the life of its main character and weaves together significant contributions of many other pioneers ofcardiac surgery. The author's end notes are a bonus. They contain a wealth of detail on events, equipment, and people involved in theformative days of open heart surgery."
--Journal of the American Medical Association, June 21, 2000

"This book by G. Wayne Miller is a thorough and entertaining biography of Walt Lillehei presented fromhis own perspective as well as that of his patients and his contemporaries. The reader gets a real sense of theadventure, the urgency, the excitement, and the disappointments of laboratory and clinical research during the exciting first two decades of cardiac surgery...Those who knew Walt Lillehei will agree that his scientific fervor and accomplishments, his brilliant laboratory studies and bold clinical innovations, his flamboyant style,his sometimes troubled but always colorful personal life, and his work-hard, play-hard character are all accurately represented."
--New England Journal of Medicine, June 29, 2000

"Highly recommended for all audiences."
-- Choice Magazine, July 2000

"No ordinary biography, King of Hearts is breathless reading--you'll find yourself surfacing every few chapters to remind yourself it's nonfiction."
-- amazon.com, February 4, 2000

"Dr. Walt Lillehei was one of the unsung heroes of surgery in the 20thcentury. King of Hearts is a fascinating and suspenseful inside portraitof how this pioneer blazed a trail for all heart surgeons. It is a storyof historical importance, and Wayne Miller tells it with precision andgreat spirit."
-- Dr. Christiaan Barnard, heart transplant pioneer


"Fascinating medical history... Miller tells Lillehei's story with elegance and an immediacy that keeps the medically complex story from getting boring...This medical pioneer was far from a moral paragon, but Miller never allows his subject's deficiencies to detract from the glory of his medical accomplishments. In fact, the contrast between Lillehei's personal and professional lives spices up King of Hearts considerably."
-- The Fort Worth Star-Telegram, June 18, 2000

"The book may be read on several levels -- as a medical thriller, a historical record, or a fascinating personality study.Indeed, in its grand themes of life and death, power and temptation, it is reminiscent of a Greek tragedy, whose herorepresents humanity itself.''
-- Texas Heart Institute Journal,, Vol. 27, No. 2, summer, 2000

"Chief among its pioneers was the intense and flamboyant Minnesota surgeon Dr. C. Walton Lillehei, whose story Miller tells here in thriller style. Miller, a staff writer for The Providence Journal, re-creates the anxietiesand excitement of an era poised on the brink of astonishing technologicaladvances... Miller's fast-paced and scrupulously researched account revealsboth the exhiliration and the tragedy of Lillehei's story."
-- Publishers' Weekly, December 20, 1999

"Miller skillfully describes the years of research that finally led Lillehei to his first cross-circulationoperation on a human... a sturdy telling.''
-- The Boston Globe, May 12, 2000

"An unflinching, blood-and-guts look at the science and despair of modernopen-heart surgery, framed by a biography of a giant in the field, Dr. C.Walton Lillehei... With the medical profession under financial siege,Miller's breathless, suspenseful reminder of thelife-and-death-but-mostly-death drama of medical research, as well as thepathological risk-takers that drive it forward, could not have come at a moreopportune time."
-- Kirkus Reviews, January 1, 2000

"Miller calls himself 'one lucky writer,' and anyone who picks up his informative and enjoyable biography of pioneering heart surgeon C. Walton Lillehei can become one lucky reader."
-- Booklist, January 2000

"The book reads more like a perfectly written thriller than it does a nonfiction book -- one page into the story and you'll be absolutely riveted by the unfolding drama."
-- Writers Write recommended book, February 2000

"The book may be read on several levels—as a medical thriller, a historical record, or a fascinating personality study. Indeed, in its grand themes of life and death, power and temptation, it is reminiscent of a Greek tragedy whose hero represents humanity itself, vulnerable to flaws and errors in judgment. Aimed at a lay audience rather than at medical professionals, King of Hearts will be enjoyed by all who relish a gripping narrative."
-- Dr. Denton A. Cooley, legendary Texas surgeon, writing for Texas Heart Institute Journal, 2000; 27(2): 224–225

"Miller casts his "King of Hearts" as a romantic tale of a flawed and passionate genius."
-- Minneapolis Star-Tribune, March 5, 2000


"What Miller has done is recapture the high drama of the race to work inside the human heart."
-- Providence Sunday Journal, January 30, 2000

"(An) engaging work of modern medical history."
-- Winnipeg Free Press, April 16, 2000

"An epic writ in blood."
-- East Brunswick (N.J.) Home News Tribune, February 20, 2000

"Highly recommended reading for parents, adult patients, and medical professionals!"
-- Mona Barmash, Children's Health Information Network, February 21, 2000

"This compelling book by Wayne Miller has beautifully captured the intense drama of the fifties and sixtieswhen everything was happening... not to be missed by anyone involved in heart surgery and by all who aspireto be complete heart surgeons."
-- Indian Journal of Thoracic and Cardiovascular Surgery, June 2000

"Written in the form of a fast-paced, dramatic thriller, this book is sure to rivet your attention... In this elaborately researched work, (Miller) has captured the magical moments that were those early days of heart surgery."
-- Heart Beat Healthzine, January 2000

Recommended non-fiction title.
-- Barnes&Noble.com, week of March 6, 2000

#33Stories: Day 11, "Toy Wars"

#33Stories
No. 11: “Toy Wars: The Epic Struggle Between G.I. Joe, Barbie and the Companies That Make Them”
Context at the end of this excerpt.
Other entries in #33Stories at the Table of Contents. See you tomorrow!

Originally published in 1998 by Random House.


“Lucky Pennies,” the first chapter of “Toy Wars,” pp. 3 to 5:

Alan G. Hassenfeld had no appetite for breakfast when he awoke the morning of February 14, 1996, after a long night of little sleep. Only cigarettes and coffee interested him. He dressed in a blue suit and favorite pair of loafers, pinned a purple button to his lapel, kissed his wife goodbye, and walked alone in bitter cold from the Waldorf-Astoria to The Pierre, a hotel thirteen blocks away. Through his socks, his feet were in contact with the seven lucky pennies he'd found recently on the streets of New York. They gave him some small measure of comfort for the ordeal ahead.

Hassenfeld recognized many of the hundred or so people in The Pierre's Grand Ballroom, a cavernous chamber outfitted with velvet drapes, mirrors and crystal chandeliers below a gold-trimmed ceiling. They were mutual fund managers, institutional investors, and analysts employed by the host of the Eleventh Annual Toy and Video Game Conference, William Blair & Company, a Chicago investment firm.

Some considered Hassenfeld a capable, even exemplary, captain of industry. Others believed he was chairman and chief executive officer of Hasbro Inc., America's 423rd largest public corporation, only because a Hassenfeld had headed the firm since its founding early in the century. They couldn't understand why a man of his stature wore rubber bands as bracelets, and a scarf indoors in winter -- but rarely a necktie or jacket, or even a shirt with a collar. They didn't share his humor, which could be uncommonly silly for a man of forty-seven. And they remained incensed that Hassenfeld and his board three weeks ago had rejected a merger offer from longtime rival Mattel that would have brought shareholders more than $53 for stock that had been languishing near $30. What was wrong with him? He, his sister and his mother, a strong-minded woman who'd been a member of the board for thirteen years, had stood to gain almost $600 million themselves! Not only had he rejected the offer -- in doing so, he had opened Hasbro to a withering attack that, in the darkest moments, seemed certain to destroy it.

What was wrong with him? He, his sister and his mother, a strong-minded woman who'd been a member of the board for thirteen years, had stood to gain almost $600 million themselves!

The lights dimmed and Hassenfeld took the podium. With his wire-rim glasses and full head of untameable brown hair, he looked as if he could just as easily be lecturing on Faulkner or Twain, two of his favorite authors.

"Good morning," he began, his voice slightly tremulous, but only to someone listening for it. "Today we are here to review our 1995 performance and share with you Hasbro's outlook for 1996 and beyond. For that reason, I will not be talking about the now-ended Mattel proposal."

Looking to the last row, Hassenfeld saw Mattel's two leaders. Chairman and CEO John W. Amerman was a slender man of average height whose white hair, baritone voice and expensive tailoring projected an image of someone considerably larger; at sixty-four, his passions were golf, German shepherds, and Thoroughbred horses. Sitting to his left was Jill E. Barad, forty-four, who had risen to chief operating officer and president largely on her success with Barbie, a doll that promised glamorous fantasy to little girls and handsome bonuses to executives. Worldwide sales of Barbie the previous year had reached $1.4 billion, an extraordinary feat no other toy of any kind had ever accomplished. Amerman and Barad were unusually attentive, for today was the first time this year Hassenfeld had faced the industry's powers. Mattel insiders pictured themselves as sharks, and the agony they'd caused Hasbro over the last month -- the battering punishment that had pushed Hassenfeld and his inner circle to exhaustion, if not the verge of breakdown -- had more than confirmed that reputation. Even if Alan didn't discuss Mattel's spurned offer, Amerman and Barad might learn more clues about the damage they'd inflicted. No telling when they might be tempted to strike again.

Even before launching its stunning takeover attempt, with a fax to Hassenfeld the morning of January 16, precisely two hours after he'd returned from winter vacation, Mattel had become the new darling of the toy industry. Its flagship brands -- Barbie, Fisher-Price, Hot Wheels, and Disney -- were all vigorous, helping the company to end 1995 with its seventh consecutive year of record sales and earnings. No toy company had ever made $358 million, but one had come close. Only two years ago, at this same conference, Hassenfeld had reported the largest revenues and earnings in Hasbro's history. Without gloating, which was not his style, he'd reminded Wall Street that a thousand shares of Hasbro stock purchased for less than $15,000 in 1982 would have been worth almost $1 million twelve years later. He'd joked about his mother's approval of such arithmetic and shown a slide of his greatest philanthropic achievement: a newly opened children's hospital, in his hometown, that bore his company's name.

Two years ago, Mattel had been in second place, a position that vexed its corporate soul...

-- 30 --

READ the hardcover

READ the paperback

Context:

After dedicating my first non-fiction book, “The Work of Human Hands,” to my firstborn children, “Rachel and Katy, the two best children in the world, love you always!”, I dedicated “Toy Wars” to my last child and only son, Cal: "To G. Calvin Miller, my American beauty. May you forever keep a story in your heart."

I wrote "Toy Wars," as my two books before (and several after), in the study of our home then in rural Pascoag, R.I. I built that study, along with another addition to the house on Eagle Peak. Those were very busy days!


“Toy Wars”  was the third book of mine that Jon Karp bought and edited and the fourth sold by my longtime literary agent, Kay McCauley. It garnered what we fondly call rave reviews, see below.

The result of some two years’ immersion inside Hasbro, it also brought me into almost daily contact with chairman and CEO Alan Hassenfeld, grandson of one of the company’s founders, and Al Verrecchia, who succeeded Alan at the helm of the company. I have remained close to both men to this day – and they are featured in the Toy Wars sequel, completed but not yet published (more on that on Day 32).

And there was more to come for “Toy Wars”! In September 2016, it was announced that the book will become an Amazon limited series, with an A-List creative team of director Seth Gordon, screenwriter and showrunner Josh Schwartz, actor and writer Josh Gad, and screenwriter Ryan Dixon. I will executive produce. Stay tuned on this one – and a giant thanks to my longtime screen agent, Michael Prevett of Rain Management Group. He has stuck by me for many years now, during that long slog that often accompanies the Hollywood side of the book thing. Finally, finally, it seems his support and talent will come to fruition…





Some of the review for “Toy Wars”:

NUMBER ONE BEST-SELLER, HARDCOVER/PAPERBACK LIST
-- Providence Sunday Journal, March 1, 1998.

NUMBER THREE BEST-SELLER, HARDCOVER NON-FICTION LIST
-- New York Post, Februray 22, 1998.

"A superb book about the bloodthirsty business of making toys.''
-- Ottawa Citizen, April 19, 1998.

 "Here's a story that has everything: strong, handsome men, beautiful and equally strong women, corporate intrigue and family secrets."
-- USA TODAY, February 23, 1998.

"Miller has created a script straight out of a Hasbro cartoon tie-in: the Good Guys vs. the Bad Guys in a struggle for World Dominance... Miller's decision to hang his narrative on the good Hasbro vs. evil Mattel theme does give the story a sense of drama and urgency."
-- Chicago Tribune, April 5, 1998.

"Gripping... few recent business books can rival the extraordinarily intimate portrait TOY WARS paints of Hasbro CEO Alan G. Hassenfeld and his family... a book that, with its rich character depictions, often reads more like a novel than a business tome."
-- Business Week, February 16, 1998.

 "A story of power, greed, corruption, philanthropy, love and loyalty, Toy Wars is an exceptional telling of the extraordinary story of the brutal world of toys."
-- Writers Write, the Internet Writing Journal, March 1998.

"An absorbing, lively chronicle of a family-owned company and its inanimate offspring... entertaining and informative... engagingly written."
-- The New York Times, February 1, 1998.

"Fast-moving... a star-struck account of the Hasbro-Mattel conglomerate wars."
-- The New York Times Book Review, February 15, 1998.

 "At its finest, Toy Wars is a primer on the toy business that seems destined to enlighten the business-school marketing courses of the future."
-- The New York Times, Books of The Times, June 15, 1998.

"Glimpses into the cutthroat world that pits My Little Pony against the Lion King make for an engaging read."
-- Entertainment Weekly, March 27, 1998.

 "Miller has constructed a swiftly moving narrative with all the elements of a miniseries: a hero, Hasbro CEO Alan Hassenfeld; an antagonist, Mattel CEO John Amerman; a climactic battle, Mattel's hostile bid to annex Hasbro; and a resolution, from which the hero emerges transformed. Miller is a graceful writer with a mastery of structure."
-- The Baltimore Sun, January 25, 1998.

"TOY WARS is a book executed with superior writing and storytelling skill. It's about business success and failure, no doubt. But it is also a human look at top execs, their personalities and their emotions... Miller understands the value of toys, and not just in a financial and corporate sense."
-- Toy Shop, The Toy Collector's Marketplace, April 24, 1998.

 "Fascinating... the boardroom back-stabbing provides many of the juicy highlights in this wildly entertaining book."
-- The New York Post, February 15, 1998.

"A fast-paced, well-developed, suspenseful narrative."
-- Library Journal, February 15, 1998.

 "(A) novel-like expose about Hasbro and its war with Mattel... you can't help but be fascinated."
-- Newsday, February 15, 1998.

"A compelling tale."
-- Forth Worth Star-Telegram, February 15, 1998.

"Fascinating."
-- Cleveland Plain Dealer, April 26, 1998.

"Miller's genre of choice for his toy-and-nail struggle is corporate soap opera, fitting for a cast of characters focused on buyouts and buy-ups, downsizing and rightsizing, syndication and Hollywood-ization, bonuses, stock options, and compensation in the millions, and whose bedside reading is not Peter Pan but Reengineering the Corporation."
-- Philadelphia Inquirer, March 1, 1998.

"A book that, at the very least, has a readability factor that rivals the `play potential' of G.I. Joe."
-- Toronto Globe and Mail, March 28, 1998.

"A touching and almost classically tragic story of a toy-family dynasty, and an insightful and in some ways horrifying rundown of what's happened to the toy industry in the last few decades."
-- Toronto Sun, March 22, 1998.

 "More readable than many business books, and a must for anyone interested in the industry."
-- New & Notable selection, Barron's, March 2, 1998.

"Judging by Waye Miller's TOY WARS, the toy industry owes more than its latest products to George Lucas's 1977 film (Star Wars). It also seems to have pinched the script, with mighty empires battling for supremacy. It is a good story, and Mr. Miller tells it well."
-- The Economist (of London), March 14, 1998.

"Americans are endlessly fascinated by stories of the high-stakes, fast-paced corporate world, and G. Wayne Miller's inside view of Hasbro is an especially engrossing example of the genre."
-- Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, March 1, 1998.

"Miller is a shrewd writer who wrings every ounce of drama from his five-year behind-the-scenes account....With Miller's eye for detail and nuance, there are no empty suits here."
-- Publishers' Weekly, Starred review, December 22, 1997.

Small business and entrepeneurship editor's recommended book, Amazon.com.
-- Amazon.com. February 1, 1998.

"We defy you to find, in all the world, another book with an index that includes both Auschwitz and Mr. Potato Head."
-- New & Notable selection, Arizona Republic, February 1, 1998.

"TOY WARS is a great read... so enjoyable, it leaves the reader yearning for more."
-- Providence Business News, January 26, 1998.

"Toy Wars is a smoothly written look at where our toys come from. It gives the reader a penetrating, and not always flattering, account the process that determines what collectors and children alike will buy. Hasbro's G.I. Joe may be a fictional soldier, but Toy Wars introduces us to the company's own corporate soldiers and generals whose very real battles in boardrooms and shareholder meetings have their own kind of victories, defeats, casualties, and heroes.''
-- Mania Magazine, March 13, 1998.

"A record vital to the preservation of toy world popular culture in the years and millenium to come."
-- Action Figure Digest, January 1998.

"Hours of fun for business-epic junkies of all ages. Miller, a writer at the Providence Journal-Bulletin, has wisely chosen his subject: an industry dependent on quirky creativity as well as extensive market research and hype, but ultimately at the mercy of youngster's whims... (his) five years of access to toy giant Hasbro has paid off in a visibly well-informed narrative."
-- Kirkus Reviews.

#33Stories: No. 10, "Wolf Hill: An Essay About a Boy"

#33Stories
No. 10: “Wolf Hill: An Essay About a Boy”
Context at the end of this excerpt.
Other entries in #33Stories at the Table of Contents. See you tomorrow!

Originally published in 1997 on my blog, http://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/

My son George Calvin Miller on his second birthday.
WOLF HILL: An Essay About a Boy

We avoid the woods in summer. We don't like bugs, the ticks and mosquitoes especially, and anyway, we're drawn to the beach at Wallum Lake, which is just up the road. But early October finds us eager for the first killing frost. It came this year at the customary time, when the sugar maples are at their peak and the oaks are only beginning to turn. The temperature at dawn read 29 or 30 degrees, depending on the angle the thermometer was viewed. I figured if any of my city friends asked, I'd say 29.

By late afternoon, it had warmed to almost 50. The sky was cloudless and the breeze had shifted to the south. I put on my boots and vest and helped Cal, who is almost three, on with his. Our vests have large pockets, very important for walks in the woods. We went through the backyard and onto the cart path that ascends Wolf Hill, a fanciful name in the nineties, even for a rural town like ours. Cal's first priority was equipping himself with a stick. He found one about two feet long, and another slightly larger, which he gave me. ``Little boys need big sticks,'' he observed. I wholeheartedly agreed.

Many years ago, when a farmhouse graced the top of Wolf Hill, the path could accommodate vehicles; one, a bus, ended its last journey up there and its rotting remains continue to be a source of wonderment to all who happen upon it. Every year the mountain laurel and pine claim more of the path, and this year was no exception, but there was still plenty of room -- more than sufficient, I informed Cal, for another good flying- saucer run this winter. Cal insisted on taking the lead and, unlike our last walk, in April, he refused assistance getting past deadfalls. He went under, or around, and then stopped to reveal the appropriate route to me. ``Dad, come on over here,'' he said at one point, ``that's a safe place to get by.''

We climbed, past the inevitable stone walls, still remarkably intact, if mostly overgrown. The air seemed fresher as we continued, the light through the foliage stronger, and soon enough we'd reached the peak. Only a cellar hole is left of the farmhouse, destroyed some thirty years ago in a fire of suspicious origin. Rusting machinery, barrels and bed frames are strewn about, and the woods are slowly claiming them, too. We marveled together at a sight as strange as grape vines entwined around a bed frame, and I tried explaining how a house not unlike our own had been reduced to ruin, but I don't believe I succeeded, nor did I really try. I steered Cal's attention to the only grass on Wolf Hill, a small, sunlit remnant of lawn. We picked wildflowers, the last of the season. I did not know the species. They had thirteen petals and came in two shades: lavendar and white. The frost had not touched them. Cal was more interested in mushrooms. He'd been keen on mushrooms since our last swim at Wallum Lake, when he found ones as big as my hand that had materialized overnight beneath a picnic bench. He also gathered acorns, which he proposed to feed to squirrels, a word he still had difficulty pronouncing.

From the cellar hole, we descended to the quarry. I cautioned Cal not to run, but he explained that he was not -- this was skipping. I wanted to carry him or at least hold his hand; instead, I took a breath and was silent on the matter. The quarry has not been worked since the 1800s, but if you look around town, you will see many foundations made of its imperfect granite. Our own front steps, I am sure, came from here. Water has long filled where men once labored, of course, and a century's worth of sediment covers the bottom, making it impossible to gauge true depth (although we have tried, with our sticks). When Cal is a little older, I will tell him -- as I did his sisters -- spooky stories of the goings-on here when the moon is full. For now, we concern ourselves with water. It had not rained in over a week, and the stream that empties the quarry was dry. Our April walk was during a nor'easter, and we got soaked playing in the waterfall, but it was gone now, too. Cal was worried it would never return, but I reassured him it would, with the next steady downpour.

The shadows were lengthening and the temperature was edging down. An inventory of our pockets disclosed sticks, pebbles, acorns, flowers, mushrooms and a bright yellow leaf, which Cal had selected for his mom. We left the quarry and made our way back to the cart path through a stand of towering Balsam firs, unlike any other on Wolf Hill. When the girls were small, long before Cal was born, we found this place. It resembles a den, and the forest floor is softly carpeted and often dotted with toadstools -- certainly a spot, I allowed, where elves dance under the starry sky. Honest? Rachel and Katy were wide-eyed. There was only one way to know for sure, I said: Some fine summer night, we would have to camp out here, being careful to stay awake until midnight. We never did. Rachel is in high school now, and Katy, four years younger, is sneaking looks at Seventeen. Cal listened with great interest at the prospect of seeing elves. He was tired, and as I carried him home, I promised we'd camp out next summer, bugs and all. I intend to ask Rachel and Katy if they'd care to join us.

-- 30 --

Context:

Along with everything else, I occasionally write book reviews and dabble in the art of the essay. This is one of my favorites, for the memories it so strongly invokes. Cal is 24 now – hard to believe – and a wonderful young man gifted with intelligence, humor and uncommon wisdom who swells his father’s heart with pride, as do Rachel and Katy. But he wasn’t yet three when I wrote this essay, on a sparkling New England fall day. I was putting the finishing touches on Toy Wars that autumn (more on Toy Wars tomorrow) and I wanted a break from the heavy lifting so I wrote. Yeah, I know, some people golf…

Here's another photo of Cal on his second birthday, a few months before I wrote “Wolf Hill”:

Who doesn't LOVE birthday cake?!
That's my late mother with Cal on his 2d birthday.

And my later father, the same day.I wrote and delivered eulogies for both of my parents, Mary Maraghey Miller and Roger Linwood Miller.

Every year on the anniversary of my father’s death, I republish another favorite essay, about him, a kind and gentle soul and someone who often visits me in my dreams. He's doing fine!

Finally, for today, “It Could Have Been Any One of Us,” an op-ed for The Providence Journal that I wrote in early 2016 about the then-breaking news of rape and sexual abuse of students at private schools in the Northeast. It describes growing up during the era of abuse by priests in the 1960s and 1970s (and later) in the Archdiocese of Boston (think “Spotlight”), where I attended parochial and Catholic prep school and was an altar boy.

#33Stories: No. 9, "Coming of Age"

#33Stories
No. 7: “God Can Be a Cruel Bastard”
Context at the end of this excerpt.
Other entries in #33Stories at the Table of Contents. See you tomorrow!

Originally published in 1995 by Random House.


The beginning of Chapter One of “Coming of Age,” pp. 3 to 6, "Total Godhead":


"Welcome to the first edition of Total Godhead. We at T.G. Headquarters open our arms and hearts to all of you who wish to read our wonderful paper."
-- Terry Gimpell, editor.

Dave Bettencourt was pale when he came into the senior quad that September afternoon. He spoke solemnly, which was not like him at all.

"Chief knows it's us," he told Brian Ross. "Chief" was Steve Mitchell, their principal.

"How'd he find out?" Brian said.

"He called the cops."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"Jesus."

Burrillville High had never seen an underground newspaper before. In the two days since theirs had materialized in lockers throughout the school, Dave and his staff had kept to the shadows. No one could figure out who was behind this publication with the bizarre name, Total Godhead. Maybe it was Satanists, as one girl speculated. Maybe it was a teacher who'd gone over the edge. Maybe troublemakers from out of town or, more likely, some loser kid on drugs.

Even a careful reading didn't provide an answer. Each of Total Godhead's 13 articles was bylined -- with names like Toilet Duck, A. Nonymous and Sum Yung Gi. The only clue that looked legitimate was a local post office box, through which Godhead hoped to solicit fan mail, subscription orders, and gifts. Among the suggested gifts were Elvis stamps and condoms, "unused, of course."

"What did the cops do?" Brian asked Dave.

"Went to the post office. They traced it to my dad."

"They can do that?"

"They did it."

"Now what?"

"I don't know."

There was funny stuff in Godhead -- you'd have to be a dweeb not to get it. Like the story about meatball stomping, or the one about the human bludgeoned by baby seals. But some of Godhead was irredemably tasteless. One article was an ode to obscenity -- a gratuitous listing of such items as rectal thermometers, nasal fluids, roadkill, and hairy gnome scrotums, whatever they were. One article was inspired by "Cop Killer," the controversial song by black gangsta rapper Ice-T. One reprinted the lyrics from "Rape Me," a song by Nirvana, Kurt Cobain's band.

No one could figure out who was behind this publication with the bizarre name, Total Godhead. Maybe it was Satanists, as one girl speculated. Maybe it was a teacher who'd gone over the edge. Maybe troublemakers from out of town or, more likely, some loser kid on drugs.

Another piece slammed classmates -- by name and with exacting physical descriptions, lest there be any doubt of who was being savaged. "I'm sick of the way you dress," is how one boy was ridiculed. "What the heck is it with the little beard thing?" went the attack on another kid…

Dave and Brian withdrew to a corner of the quad, where they might have privacy while figuring out what to do next. The quad was nothing like what its Ivy League-sounding name suggested -- only a rectangle of lawn with scraggly shrubs, a single tree, and a manhole cover that boys (never girls) periodically and with great ceremony pried off, as if something rare and wonderful lurked in the darkness below. The quad's sole furnishings were a trash barrel, a rusted barbecue grille and two picnic benches decorated with obscenities and declarations of undying love. But permission to hang out there was a senior privilege, and even on inclement days seniors flocked to it, if only to flaunt their status to underclassmen.

Another senior privilege was hosting this Friday's get-acquainted dance, an annual hazing. Since lunch, the mood in the quad had been giddy as seniors made their plans. Could they get away with hosing down the freshmen? Coating them with Crisco oil, catsup, or WD-40? Freshmen were clueless -- you could do make them kiss your naked butt if you wanted to. The challenge was determining the precise location of the line that Chief and his assistant principal wouldn't let you cross.

Dave and Brian's privacy didn't last. It was just too obvious: something was going down, something with a better buzz than a dance.

"What's going on?" said Joel Waterman, Dave's best friend.

"We got caught."

"You're shitting me."

"Uh-uh," Dave said. "Chief called the cops."

"What do we do now?"

"I don't know. Maybe just forget about it."

"We can't do that."

"Did he say what he was going to do?" Joel said.

"No."

That wasn't a good sign.

"I think we have to talk to him," said Jason Ferguson.

And Ferg was right: if Godhead was to go forward, they really had no choice. Off they went: seven boys led by Dave, out of the quad and into the administrative wing of Burrillville High, home of the Broncos, a public school with 825 kids in a town of almost 17,000.

Chief did not look amused when the boys got to his office. He looked bigger than he was -- and he already was very big, a six-three, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man who sometimes wore a full feathered headdress when teaching students about his people, the Penobscot Indians of Maine.

"We're the staff of Total Godhead," Dave said.

"Come in," Chief said.

He closed the door…

-- 30 –


READ on Kindle.

READ the paperback.


Context:

“The Work of Human Hands” had just been published when I began working on “Coming of Age,” in the summer of 1993. Amazingly, it seems now in retrospect, the authorities in Burrillville, R.I., where I was living in the village of Pascoag, had granted me permission to spend an entire academic year at the public high school.

So I did, following a bunch of seniors who became the central characters of the book. With free roam of the school, I attended classes, ate lunch in the cafeteria, went to sports events, and hung out with some of these seniors at their homes and in the community. I even rated the honor of inclusion in the yearbook, with photo and story.


And when that yearbook was published, many in the graduating class signed it.


I must say that year was more enjoyable than my own senior year of high school, half of which I spent off-campus as an intern in a microbiology lab at the Massachusetts College of Pharmacy on Longwood Avenue in Boston, near a certain children’s hospital I would feature in “The Work of Human Hands” (no, I did NOT intend to become a microbiologist, but that, too, is a story for another time).

As enjoyable as writing “Coming of Age” was, it did not sell well and it received mostly lukewarm reviews. Jon Karp at Random House had bought it after “Human Hands” and he surely was disappointed in the lackluster sales. But he stuck with me, buying what would become “Toy Wars,” which review- and sales-wise would be everything “Coming of Age” was not.

A sampling of the reviews:

"A welcome surprise."
-- Louisville Courier-Journal.

"G. Wayne Miller's fearlessly titled Coming of Age is a fascinating non-fiction account... by stripping adolescence of its oft-exaggerated melodrama, Miller reveals the everyday beauty of its bittersweet, mundane simplicity."
-- Citypaper.net.

"Not many books that focus on so-called normal teenagers have been published. Even fewer have been successful journalistically. Prior to reading A Tribe Apart, I placed just two in the masterpiece category -- Coming of Age: The True Adventures of Two American Teens, by G. Wayne Miller (1995), and South of Heaven: Welcome to High School at the End of the Twentieth Century, by Thomas French (1993)."
-- Philadelphia Inquirer.

"An upbeat story of adolescents who live in a tough world."
-- Christian Science Monitor.

"Perfectly nice."
--Washington Post.

"An intimate report... B+."
--Entertainment Weekly.