Mark Myers's Blog, page 38

Interview with Mark Myers

Reblogged from Elizabeth Delana Rosa:

Bio:

As the father of four daughters, Mark Myers spends his days in a frilly pink world lined with ballet slippers and much drama. Oddly enough, his favorite thing to write about is mischievous boys and the trouble they cause. He cut his teeth as a boy and little brother in Louisville, Kentucky but now resides in Georgia with his wife, daughters, two overweight retrievers and a manipulative cat with no name.

Read more… 906 more words

It was a slow news day and I got interviewed.

White Boy Time

I grew up during integration and got bused in the 9th grade from the suburbs to Central High School in downtown Louisville.  I don’t recall any problems or issues except for getting caught hanging a dissected fetal pig in the stairwell.  But that had nothing to do with the racial tension of the times.  While there, I joined the wrestling squad with a friend named Paul.  Neither of us had ever wrestled.  But there we stood on the first day with our puny arms and legs jutting out of our singlets, the only freshman on the matt and the only white kids on the team.   None of that ever mattered; I had a ball that season.

Unfortunately, I had to practice every day with a senior named Marcus who introduced me to all kinds of takedowns and submission holds, as well as Jheri Curl.  (It was the 80’s, after all.)  Marcus had a very likeable manner, always quiet and unassuming while he wrecked me on the matt.  The funniest thing happened toward the end of each practice.  The team captain, Leonard, kept the clock and at precisely 4 pm, he would yell, “White boy time!”  This because Paul and I had to leave early to catch the TARC bus back the burbs.  Marcus would free me of whatever death grip he was working on at the time and the whole team always gave us a cheer as we left.

I count myself fortunate to have been raised in a home where color was never an issue.  Thank you, Mom and Dad.  I am blessed to have had experiences like the wrestling team and a stint in the army to show me a man’s heart and metal are infinitely more important than his skin.  So recently when my barber made an overtly racist comment to me after my third time in his chair, I walked out, determined never to return.  I really thought we were past that.

It didn’t take long to find a new barber shop nearby when I needed my next haircut.  I pulled in the crowded shopping center and walked through the tinted glass door, looking for a place to sign in.  By the time I got to the counter, I realized I was being stared at by about thirty people in the shop.  Ironically, I was the only white guy.  Kinda funny after the reason for my switch.  White boy time, again.

Time froze as it is apt to do awkward situations until a guy from behind the counter asked, “You want a cut?”

“What’s the wait?” I asked.  After all, it was crowded.

“About as long as it will take you to get in this chair,” he said.

It took about three seconds and I got a good cut from Bennie.  I’ve been back a few times.  Turns out he is from Ohio, grew up on the Reds and King’s Island like me and has a precious baby girl.  Nice guy, Bennie.  We have a lot in common.  I like talking to him more than the guy down the street.

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr Day.  I urge you to meditate on his brilliant I Have a Dream speech and other writings regularly and invite you down here to Atlanta to visit The Martin Luther King, Jr., National Historic Site.  It is a good thing to honor such a man.

I Need a New Barber

I grew up during integration and got bused in the 9th grade from the suburbs to Central High School in downtown Louisville.  I don’t recall any problems or issues except for getting caught hanging a dissected fetal pig in the stairwell.  But that had nothing to do with the racial tension of the times.  While there, I joined the wrestling squad with a friend named Paul.  Neither of us had ever wrestled.  But there we stood on the first day with our puny arms and legs jutting out of our singlets, the only freshman on the matt and the only white kids on the team.   None of that ever mattered; I had a ball that season.

Unfortunately, I had to practice every day with a senior named Marcus who introduced me to all kinds of takedowns and submission holds, as well as Jheri Curl.  (It was the 80’s, after all.)  Marcus had a very likeable manner, always quiet and unassuming while he wrecked me on the matt.  The funniest thing happened toward the end of each practice.  The team captain, Leonard, kept the clock and at precisely 4 pm, he would yell, “White boy time!”  This because Paul and I had to leave early to catch the TARC bus back the burbs.  Marcus would free me of whatever death grip he was working on at the time and the whole team always gave us a cheer as we left.

I count myself fortunate to have been raised in a home where color was never an issue.  Thank you, Mom and Dad.  I am blessed to have had experiences like the wrestling team and a stint in the army to show me a man’s heart and metal are infinitely more important than his skin.  So recently when my barber made an overtly racist comment to me after my third time in his chair, I walked out, determined never to return.  I really thought we were past that.

It didn’t take long to find a new barber shop nearby when I needed my next haircut.  I pulled in the crowded shopping center and walked through the tinted glass door, looking for a place to sign in.  By the time I got to the counter, I realized I was being stared at by about thirty people in the shop.  Ironically, I was the only white guy.  Kinda funny after the reason for my switch.  White boy time, again.

Time froze as it is apt to do awkward situations until a guy from behind the counter asked, “You want a cut?”

“What’s the wait?” I asked.  After all, it was crowded.

“About as long as it will take you to get in this chair,” he said.

It took about three seconds and I got a good cut from Bennie.  I’ve been back a few times.  Turns out he is from Ohio, grew up on the Reds and King’s Island like me and has a precious baby girl.  Nice guy, Bennie.  We have a lot in common.  I like talking to him more than the guy down the street.

 

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr Day.  I urge you to meditate on his brilliant I Have a Dream speech and other writings regularly and invite you down here to Atlanta to visit The Martin Luther King, Jr., National Historic Site.  It is a good thing to honor such a man.

The Book is Always Better

My wife and I are voracious readers.  She has introduced me to a whole world of classic English literature over the past 25 years as that was her major.  So it naturally follows that our daughters love to read as well.  When we go to the beach, we each pack five or six books and sit on the sand reading – not your typical beach family.  One of our girls is dyslexic and we made an early assumption that reading would always be torture for her.  Fortunately, we were wrong as she powered through her challenge and reads more than any of us.

So what happened last night was pure joy to me.  The younger three asked me to get a specific movie from Netflix that is based on a YA book they’ve all read.  I say “based on” because evidently only the title and a couple of characters are the same as the book.  I sat in the room with them while they laughed at, compared, criticized, and completely trashed the movie.  It was hysterical.  I can’t tell you how many times they rolled their eyes at their mother or I when we said, “the book is always better.”

Now they know!

That’s the beauty of books.  They create vivid imagery that a movie can rarely duplicate.  I love that they are figuring that out and maybe along the way, they’ll see us old folks aren’t so out of touch.

 

Napoleon Bonaparte said,  “Show me a family of readers, and I will show you the people who move the world.”

 

I have only been able to come up with a couple of movies that I thought were better than the book: Congo and The Pelican Brief.  I have opinions as to why, but was curious if anyone else had examples.  I’d love to hear any.

A Pursuit of Misguided Passions

In a surprise turn of events, I’ve been compared by my eldest daughter to Neil Patrick Harris.  Unfortunately, it isn’t for his good looks, charm, or wit.  No, I’ve been compared for something else entirely.  Her new favorite show is How I Met Your Mother.  I’ve never watched it, but she tells me that I remind her of Barney because, and I quote, “You come up with dumb ideas and pursue them passionately.”

Accused of this, I asked the family for examples thinking there might be one or two that came to mind and I could dismiss the charge as teenage overdramatics.  Instead, what followed at the dinner table was a litany of hair-brained schemes I’ve had over the years.  While my aged mind flutters from one to the next, their young memories file and categorize every crack-pot idea I’ve ever had.  I was astounded at how long the list grew and had to agree, many of them were pretty stupid.

Take for instance, my attempt to woo a cat to live with us.  In my defense, I didn’t know he belonged to a neighbor.  I met him on my porch one night and started feeding him…and named him…and read to him.
The running kilt and 5k run dressed up as Jonah complete with a sign saying, “Repent Ninivites!”
My attempt to prove the existence of Chupacabras (which still goes on).
Food came up often.  Don’t let me around a chocolate fountain – the last time I discovered chocolate-covered Shrimp and hushpuppies (Yum!).  Topping the food category were the Twinkie Dog and Spice Cream, both served at Uncle Bubba’s Hot Dog Emporium.
Llamas in the Basement – a cheap imitation of Goats on the Roof in Tiger, GA, only bigger…and subterranean.
There was the notorious failed Labor Day kitten capture of a feral cat at my office.
Goodwill Hawaiian shirts worn on a mission trip to every continent. (2 down, 3 to go)
The #PartyMark ear bud holders.
My annual attempts to lure and slap a pelican during our beach vacations.

Last but not least: 2021 - The Year of No Pants.  Before you get the idea that I plan on joining a nudist camp, I plan on being pantless appropriately.  There are plenty of coverings officially called: Unbifurcated Garments.  Kilts, togas, dashiki, gho, sarongs, kimonos, Fustanella, tunics, Männerrock (literally translated as man-skirt) would all be used to cover whilst I remain pantsless.  I’ve got it all planned for the year after my youngest daughter leaves for college.  I thought that would make them worry a little less about the ramifications of coming home to find Daddy lounging happily in his unbifurcated garments. This is genius!  Or as NPH says:

LEGEN- wait for it – DARY!

Misguided passions?  I think not.  I prefer the term visionary!

See you in 2021!

The Colonel’s First Story

Readers constantly remark that Clarence J. Birdwhistle is their favorite character.  I’m always happy to hear this because frankly, he’s my favorite as well.  Ironically, my initial concept for the book portrayed him as a complete and utter fraud.  After developing him and integrating him into the little town however, I decided I liked him too much for him to be anything but the kind, respectable gentleman he seemed to be.  So the theme of the book took a drastic shift and I’m glad.

Colonel Birdwhistle hails from Chelmsly, England, but joined the British Army in his youth and spent his entire career in colonial Africa.  After his retirement from the service, he left England on a whim and ended up in Portsong, Georgia.  A lifelong bachelor, he had never spent much time around children.  But with the increase of his celebrity as the exotic stranger in the quiet town, he suddenly became very popular among the youngest crowd.

Over the next several weeks, I will be presenting an excerpt from Virgil Creech Takes a Swipe at Redemption, in which the Colonel makes his storytelling debut from his favorite yellow bench.

“Excuse me,” interrupted the voice of a lady to his right.

Being a gentleman, the Colonel rose instantly.  On the way up he opened his eyes and coughed to regain his voice, “Hello, madam.”

“Excuse me, but I’m Mrs. Dobrey and I believe we met at the Ladies Tea just the other day,” said the lady.  “Colonel Birdwhistle, isn’t it?”

“Quite right, ma’am,” he replied with a bow.  “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“Why thank you, sir.  I was absolutely fascinated by your stories,” she said.  “I have always wanted to travel abroad and see some of the things you talked about.  To think, you’ve sat in Europe and Africa, while I’ve never left this state.  It’s a fine state and a fine place, don’t get me wrong, but I should like to see something outside of it some day.  That’s not wrong, is it?” she said without leaving the slightest pause for answer.  “I mean if one wants to travel, it doesn’t mean that there is something wrong with the place she lives.  It just means that there are more interesting places to be.  Excuse me, I didn’t mean ‘more’ interesting.  That was a mistake.  I only meant that there are ‘other’ interesting places.  Yes, that’s it.  Other interesting places.  Don’t you agree?”

The Colonel said he did, but really didn’t know what he was agreeing with.  While she talked, he was able to take in the thin lady in front of him.  She was really somewhat of a mouse actually — very small with round glasses perched on an active nose.  Every time she talked, the glasses bounced on her face, and it seemed that they were rarely still.

“I love Portsong, I really do,” she continued.  “There are all sorts of fine things to be seen here.  But Africa.  It really flutters the mind, doesn’t it?  All of the animals and the danger.  It’s really quiet romantic to ponder.  You must have had wonderful adventures while you were there.”

“Why yes…” he started to say but was cut short as the glasses leapt again.

“There isn’t much adventure here,” she continued.  “But it is a fine place, really.  Such a fine place.  I wouldn’t want to be from any other place in the whole world, if you ask me.  But I would like to hear more about the places you’ve been.  Actually, I was telling my boy, Leon about you just the other day, and he said he would love to meet you.  Do you mind if I bring him over here?”

“Of course not, madam,” he replied.  But she was already gone.  She was a fast little mouse.

Part 2 coming soon…

Pride and Dog Poop

After a rainy Saturday, the weather here is nice today.  So I went to our local greenway for an eight miler.  I’m not in marathon shape at present, but I’m still  running a few times a week.  Anyway, the greenway runs through some very low lying, swampy areas and can be extremely wet after a good rain.

On this occasion, there were patches of ice on the boardwalk that nearly caused me to slide.  I made it through fine and got about a 1/2 mile away when I saw a gaggle of women runners coming my direction.  I quickly wiped the snot and slobber off of my face and straightened my form to show off my best running posture before they got too close.  Just as I was about to gallantly warn them about the icy conditions, my left foot hit a pile of dog poop carelessly left on the trail.

So instead of being a heroic herald to these ladies, I was comedic relief.  Oh, it didn’t end with a small slide.  I gave them a full highlight reel of Shaggy and ScoobyDoo slipping on a banana peel and nearly knocked a couple of them over as my 210 lb frame came barreling through.

So even before church today, I learned two things:

1.  A man’s pride shall bring him low…    (Proverbs 29:23)

2.  People really should clean up after their pets.  These stands are out there every 1/2 mile or so.

Seeing Lovely

The oddest thing happened.  My wife put this picture of our family that had been taken on Christmas Eve up on ‘TheFacebook’ and it got over 100 likes.I realize that’s not odd.  People are typically nice and will like anything that scrolls along their wall.  What I found odd were some of the comments about how one child looked exactly like me, another looked like my wife, and this one is so tall, etc.  I found myself scrutinizing the photograph like an FBI criminologist to see if what they said was right.  Turns out, some were.  How has it escaped me that my youngest looks like my wife?  Or her sister’s smile is just like mine?  The oldest two used to resemble us, but don’t so much anymore.  I think that’s new, isn’t it?  I see these people every day – how am I missing these details?  What else am I neglecting to see?

Also strange was the number of times a picture including me was described as beautiful, gorgeous, or lovely.  I’ve long given up on being beautiful, and I’m okay with it.  I’d honestly rather be “rugged”, or “dashing” or something else that sounds equally outdoorsy and masculine.  Okay, so I do know that I’m blessed to be standing between a beautiful wife and four equally beautiful daughters.  A thorn among roses, as it were.  The comments were for them and me by association.  I get that.  But do I miss even that sometimes?  Like I said, I see them every day – the highlight reel and behind-the-scenes looks.  Am I so dense as to miss such beauty God has put in my life?

But we all miss it sometimes, don’t we?

I had to snap this picture of the blood-red sky on the ride in to work a few weeks ago.  Gorgeous, unique, stunning.  But is the crystal blue sky I see every other day any less beautiful?

 

 

 

 Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.

Philippians 4:8

I enjoy the flow of the verse and maybe too often miss the instruction.  Think…  Think on these things.  Don’t just let them happen around me.  God has placed lovely things all around you and me.  When all I can see is base, unjust, and ugly, I will choose to think on lovely things.  Oh, and I’ll look at my girls more too!

The Only Sled in Town

The one and only sled in Portsong belonged to Johnny DeLongo and sat idle for most of the first year he lived in town.  His father, Marco, a genius at research, had moved the family down from the Bronx after accepting the position of head engineer at the Swanson Glassworks.  Acceptance into Portsong life was not reciprocated for the youngster, who found himself different at every turn.

On his first day of school, he mistakenly assumed everyone was a Yankees fan and hailed Babe Ruth as the greatest baseball player of all time.  Little could he know that Ty Cobb was a local hero from a town nearby and the radio station serving the Portsong area in 1926 broadcast only the Detroit Tigers.

His thick New York brogue did nothing to aid his prospects.  He had to repeat himself every time he offered an answer to the teacher, prompting snickers from his classmates.  He was constantly told to slow down or just stared at with blank faces when he tried to speak.

The place he felt most different was church.  Raised a good Catholic, Johnny had no idea what to make of his first service at the Goose Creek Country Church.  Instead of a robed, tranquil priest crossing himself and speaking Latin, Johnny sat in the hard pew and watched the antics of the animated Reverend Josiah Crane.  The poor child decided the preacher was speaking some strange derivative of English while he slapped the pulpit, waved his arms, wailed loudly, and pounded out his sermon.  When the piano began playing, I Surrender All, Johnny was ready to surrender whatever necessary to get out of the old, stuffy church.

But his misfortune changed on the first day it snowed.  The white stuff surprised the other boys, but seemed ordinary enough to Johnny, who retrieved his trusty Flexible Flyer from the cellar and joined the marching boys headed toward Curaban Point.  He fell in line next to the only boy who had tried to be nice to him thus far – a boy name Henry Lee.

“What’s that thing?” Henry asked

“Itza sled,” Johnny replied, looking at the scrap of tin the boy held.  “Ain’t you got one?”

“No,” lamented Henry.  “It’s never snowed before.”

“What?” cried Johnny, wondering what that could possibly mean.

“Not since I’ve been alive,” Henry said matter of factly.  “Is that thing fast?”

“Sure is! Gave the ruddahs a fresh coat a wax this morning.  It’ll haul!”

Johnny’s tempo had picked up in his excitement and Henry didn’t quite understand him, but he let it go.  The two plodded along, talked, laughed, and genuinely enjoyed each other’s company until they reached the summit of the hill and found Virgil Creech waiting with an old shovel to ride.

“Hey-ho, Henry,” he called to his friend before turning his nose up at Henry’s company.  “Whatcha doin’ with him?”

“He’s okay, Virgil.  Just new here.”

Virgil looked the new boy from head to toe, his eyes finally coming to rest on the red metal and polished wood of the sled.  “What’s that thing?” he asked.

Johnny laughed, still surprised at these boys and their ignorance of sleds.  “Itza sled.  You wanna take it down?” he offered.

Virgil’s eyes grew wide, “Ya mean it?”

“Shoo-wah, climb on,” replied Johnny as he slid the rudders into place on the powder.

Virgil discarded his shovel and was belly-down on the sled in an instant.  With a slight push he left behind only a glee-filled scream for the others on top of Curaban Point.  Every boy on the hill gathered around as Virgil trudged back up with sled in tow.  He merrily answered a dozen questions about the ride and hesitantly offered the sled back to Johnny, who didn’t take it.

“You wanna go?” Johnny asked Henry.

Henry took him up on the offer, as did every other boy present.  In fact, Johnny never got to touch the sled that day, but enjoyed the acceptance as the Portsong boys looked past his newness for the first time and realized he was just a kid, like them.  Even Virgil decided he liked this new kid, no matter how funny he talked.

If only grown-ups could come together so easily over a trivial thing such as the only sled in town.

2013 – I Did What?

Some random thoughts from Portsong on the year that was.

Woke up 365 times – I will never take that for granted.
Celebrated 21st anniversary of marriage to Mrs. Perfect, the most patient woman in the world.
Got to build three theater sets at Lambert High School, where the kids call me #PartyMark and mercifully treat me like I’m not too old  (even though I usually don’t have my hearing aids in while I’m working, so I can’t even hear them).
Although I’m not in marathon shape anymore, I cranked out enough 10 and 12 milers to know I could get there again.
Made a friend named James while working with a homeless ministry that provides blankets, socks, and gloves any night the temp goes under 30 degrees.  I pray for you daily, brother.
Published my first book, Virgil Creech Takes a Swipe at Redemption.  Reviews are positive thus far, some from people I’m not related to!
Got Shadowbanned by Reddit – really means nothing, but it sounds so cool.
Started this blog in October, which has been viewed 1623 times by people in 36 countries, and somehow has 90 followers. Finally hit the last continent with a reader from Brazil in December.  Being a geography nerd, this little map thing makes me so very happy!

Held a Virgil Gives Back event where December proceeds were so donated to Heart for Africa.  Sales were so embarrassingly low we had to round (way) up to make the donation worthwhile – but it was fun to organize.
In pursuit of readers, I joined an amazing group called Clean Indie Reads, interacted with a book-reading ape, and have made cyber-friendships with talented writers from all over the world.
Built a following of 1626 on Twitter, almost exclusively made of people trying to hawk books just like me.
Am one of the only men on Pinterest, the only grown-up on tumblr, and I now have a cursory knowledge of MS Word formatting, Digg, Stumbleupon, and Bitly.
On a personal note, I’m thrilled to have accomplished the goal of printing my first book.  It is something I’ve always wanted to do and the third I’ve written, with the others locked away.  I don’t enter this world of publishing with expectations of fame and fortune, but I do have an expectation of experience.  Thus far, I’ve not been disappointed.  On some level, we all want to be heard.  If you’re still reading this, thanks for hearing me – I hope I can return the favor.

Blessings for a wonderful 2014!