G. Russell Overton's Blog, page 3
March 23, 2018
The Summer of 1972
I was just thirteen years old, and it was the end of what had been a fairytale childhood. Everything was changing. I was growing into adolescence, my sister was getting married at the end of summer, and Dad was frolicking with an old high school flame.
We lived on the outskirts of a small, sleepy resort town in northeastern Oklahoma. I spent my summer break fishing, exploring the woods around our house, and playing with a neighborhood kid that I found somewhat annoying. Every time I suggested something for us to do, he had to get permission from his “mommy.” People thought my Mother was overprotective, but I never had to get permission to play catch in the front yard. He did. Usually I just yelled in the front door, “Mom, I’m going for a bike ride with Gary.” She would yell back for me to be home by supper. He had to go ask his mother, who would then ask exactly where we were going, how long we would be gone, and what we planned to do. When I diverted from the filed and approved travel plan, he complained. This was the era before helicopter parenting was the norm.
I somehow adopted my Dad’s entrepreneurial spirit. I had the bright idea one day early in the summer that I could make a lot of money mowing neighborhood lawns. Ours was an isolated neighborhood occupied by mostly older and retired people. Gary’s family was the only family with children. I noticed one day an older neighbor huffing behind his lawn mower. That night I asked Dad to “give” me the money to buy a lawn mower. He smiled, “I won’t ‘give’ you the money, but I’ll loan you the money, which you can pay back by mowing our lawn for the rest of the summer. You have to be responsible for gas, oil, and maintenance.”
I was convinced I was about to become the next Andrew Carnegie. Oklahoma summers are hot, hellishly hot, and our neighborhood was built on a hillside overlooking Grand Lake, one of Oklahoma’s many reservoirs. The terrain was rocky and uneven. The neighbors were happy to hand over their lawn care to me. After a few weeks I understood why. By the end of summer my new lawn mower was scrap, and I had used every cent of profit keeping it operational. The only thing I had gained was a keen understanding of the concept of hard work.
When I wasn’t mowing lawns or playing with Gary, I rode my bike around the neighborhood and extended countryside handing out McGovern for President flyers. I had no love for President Nixon. One night Dad asked me why I supported McGovern. I explained that I was, at the young age of thirteen, convinced that Nixon was a liar and a scoundrel. Like many young people, I thought the Vietnam War was wrong and should come to an end. I agreed with McGovern’s support for the Equal Rights Amendment and most of everything else he advocated. Dad asked me how I came to these convictions, and I explained that I had listened to the news, read newspaper articles, and read McGovern’s platform statements. Dad smiled and said, “I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t made this decision without thinking it through. Don’t ever let anyone tell you how to think.”
Aside from the old high school sweetheart, Dad had other secrets. Our house sat on a slope that went down to an inlet on Grand Lake. One day my sister noticed two men in a bass boat fishing just off our shore. She commented that she had seen these same men fishing out there every day for the past week. Mom said, “I suppose they just found a nice fishing spot. Let’s go to Tulsa today to look at wedding gowns.”
I began to notice those same two men fishing at the same spot every day. Sometimes I fished on the shore and even waved at them. Occasionally they waved back, but usually stayed rather aloof. I didn’t pay much more attention to them. Many years later Dad told us who they were and why they were there. They were F. B. I. agents, and they had been there to protect us.
Dad was the general manager of the largest resort in the region. It had two championship golf courses, several restaurants, a marina, airport, condos, and all the amenities people would expect from such a place. It was a sprawling complex and had room and plans to grow. This was in the era long before Indian casinos, and gambling was taboo throughout most of the country.
The mob in Kansas City, which was less than two hundred miles away, thought Grand Lake was a prime location for operational expansion. In their due diligence they bought several local politicians and some law enforcement. They set up a small gambling operation in town, probably as a trial operation to see if they could get away with it.
When the mobsters were sure enough of themselves, they approached Dad. They scheduled a meeting with him to “suggest” that he allow gambling and prostitution operations at the resort. Dad’s immediate reaction was to contact an old friend at the F. B. I. Dad always had “old friends” like that when he needed a favor. The favor this time was to keep the mob out of his resort and to kick them out of northeastern Oklahoma. Dad wore a wire for his next several meetings with mob representatives. The end result was the arrest and conviction of several politicians and the ultimate expulsion of the mob from our little corner of Oklahoma.
By the end of summer the men in the fishing boat were gone. My sister’s wedding took place in August, and shortly thereafter Dad moved out to pursue a relationship with his tramp. Everything changed, and at some point along the way I had found the need to begin scraping fuzz off my cheek with a sharp piece of steel.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
We lived on the outskirts of a small, sleepy resort town in northeastern Oklahoma. I spent my summer break fishing, exploring the woods around our house, and playing with a neighborhood kid that I found somewhat annoying. Every time I suggested something for us to do, he had to get permission from his “mommy.” People thought my Mother was overprotective, but I never had to get permission to play catch in the front yard. He did. Usually I just yelled in the front door, “Mom, I’m going for a bike ride with Gary.” She would yell back for me to be home by supper. He had to go ask his mother, who would then ask exactly where we were going, how long we would be gone, and what we planned to do. When I diverted from the filed and approved travel plan, he complained. This was the era before helicopter parenting was the norm.
I somehow adopted my Dad’s entrepreneurial spirit. I had the bright idea one day early in the summer that I could make a lot of money mowing neighborhood lawns. Ours was an isolated neighborhood occupied by mostly older and retired people. Gary’s family was the only family with children. I noticed one day an older neighbor huffing behind his lawn mower. That night I asked Dad to “give” me the money to buy a lawn mower. He smiled, “I won’t ‘give’ you the money, but I’ll loan you the money, which you can pay back by mowing our lawn for the rest of the summer. You have to be responsible for gas, oil, and maintenance.”
I was convinced I was about to become the next Andrew Carnegie. Oklahoma summers are hot, hellishly hot, and our neighborhood was built on a hillside overlooking Grand Lake, one of Oklahoma’s many reservoirs. The terrain was rocky and uneven. The neighbors were happy to hand over their lawn care to me. After a few weeks I understood why. By the end of summer my new lawn mower was scrap, and I had used every cent of profit keeping it operational. The only thing I had gained was a keen understanding of the concept of hard work.
When I wasn’t mowing lawns or playing with Gary, I rode my bike around the neighborhood and extended countryside handing out McGovern for President flyers. I had no love for President Nixon. One night Dad asked me why I supported McGovern. I explained that I was, at the young age of thirteen, convinced that Nixon was a liar and a scoundrel. Like many young people, I thought the Vietnam War was wrong and should come to an end. I agreed with McGovern’s support for the Equal Rights Amendment and most of everything else he advocated. Dad asked me how I came to these convictions, and I explained that I had listened to the news, read newspaper articles, and read McGovern’s platform statements. Dad smiled and said, “I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t made this decision without thinking it through. Don’t ever let anyone tell you how to think.”
Aside from the old high school sweetheart, Dad had other secrets. Our house sat on a slope that went down to an inlet on Grand Lake. One day my sister noticed two men in a bass boat fishing just off our shore. She commented that she had seen these same men fishing out there every day for the past week. Mom said, “I suppose they just found a nice fishing spot. Let’s go to Tulsa today to look at wedding gowns.”
I began to notice those same two men fishing at the same spot every day. Sometimes I fished on the shore and even waved at them. Occasionally they waved back, but usually stayed rather aloof. I didn’t pay much more attention to them. Many years later Dad told us who they were and why they were there. They were F. B. I. agents, and they had been there to protect us.
Dad was the general manager of the largest resort in the region. It had two championship golf courses, several restaurants, a marina, airport, condos, and all the amenities people would expect from such a place. It was a sprawling complex and had room and plans to grow. This was in the era long before Indian casinos, and gambling was taboo throughout most of the country.
The mob in Kansas City, which was less than two hundred miles away, thought Grand Lake was a prime location for operational expansion. In their due diligence they bought several local politicians and some law enforcement. They set up a small gambling operation in town, probably as a trial operation to see if they could get away with it.
When the mobsters were sure enough of themselves, they approached Dad. They scheduled a meeting with him to “suggest” that he allow gambling and prostitution operations at the resort. Dad’s immediate reaction was to contact an old friend at the F. B. I. Dad always had “old friends” like that when he needed a favor. The favor this time was to keep the mob out of his resort and to kick them out of northeastern Oklahoma. Dad wore a wire for his next several meetings with mob representatives. The end result was the arrest and conviction of several politicians and the ultimate expulsion of the mob from our little corner of Oklahoma.
By the end of summer the men in the fishing boat were gone. My sister’s wedding took place in August, and shortly thereafter Dad moved out to pursue a relationship with his tramp. Everything changed, and at some point along the way I had found the need to begin scraping fuzz off my cheek with a sharp piece of steel.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
March 13, 2018
Grammar and Me
The post-millennial assault on the English language intensifies. The battle is no longer just about split infinitives, dangling participles, and Oxford commas. In recent years proper use of pronouns, subject-verb agreement, and correct article choice threatens to transform English into an unintelligible cacophony of gibberish. There was a time not too long ago when the following sentence would have been considered laughably ignorant, “Me and them went to an tractor pull.” Now sentences like this appear in news articles (real news sources), and a day rarely passes when I don’t hear these usages in common speech. Even my word processor’s grammar check only found one problem with that sentence (there are four problems).
I have been pondering this trend of linguistic devolution, trying to understand why and how it is happening. I could simply dismiss it as the “trumping” of America; the same ignorant rubes that voted for the 45th president are the same ones ruining the English language. I certainly would like to blame all sorts of ills on that “basket of deplorables,” but the problems go far beyond their limited mental capacities.
The most obvious source of trouble is with the crisis in our educational system. It is painfully obvious that even in schools with adequate funding children are not learning the basics of English. I am not sure why this is happening, though. Is it because K-12 curricula emphasize math and science over English and history? Is it because English is being taught differently? Is it standardized testing? Funding is always a problem in education, but even in poorly funded schools, it is possible to teach children the basics of grammatical construction.
Technology is certainly a factor. When children come of age reading and writing things like, “U R my <3” it is no surprise that they cannot construct an intelligible sentence. I understand that the struggle between technology and culture is constant. Culture demands new and innovative technology, while technology changes culture in ways that are irreversible. Still, there is a social imperative that we resist those trends that threaten to undermine the foundations of our society.
I am not suggesting a reactionary grammar Gestapo, but I am suggesting that credible news organizations should hire journalists that can read and write English correctly. Educational systems should reevaluate their priorities. Just fifteen minutes less computer time and fifteen minutes more in grammar and composition could make a significant impact. Most importantly, parents should teach their children to speak proper English. My Mother vigilantly guarded my speech patterns, correcting me whenever I strayed. For that and much more I am forever grateful.
There is another aspect of the grammar wars that is even more troubling. It is the fact that many of those assaulting grammar are the same ones embracing a dangerous ideology. I am not sure if it has a name, but I will call it “singularity.” It is not quite the same thing as fascism or Nazism. It is an offshoot of American individuality and the Horatio Alger myth, a perversion of Ayn Rand’s objectivism. Consider the message conveyed in the sentence, “Me and him went to a movie.” The first problem is the case issue, using objective pronouns in place of subjective pronouns. The second problem is word order. The sentence should read, “He and I went to a movie.” I remember my parents and grandparents teaching me that a construction like “me and him” was an expression of selfishness.
When people use aberrant constructions, like the examples used so far in this blog, they are sending a direct message. It is a statement to the world that they are singular individuals with their own rules. They do not care about rules of grammar. They do not care about social or cultural institutions or norms. It is a form of sociopathy. They are, in effect, anarchists and if they are left unchecked, they will destroy much more than the English language.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
I have been pondering this trend of linguistic devolution, trying to understand why and how it is happening. I could simply dismiss it as the “trumping” of America; the same ignorant rubes that voted for the 45th president are the same ones ruining the English language. I certainly would like to blame all sorts of ills on that “basket of deplorables,” but the problems go far beyond their limited mental capacities.
The most obvious source of trouble is with the crisis in our educational system. It is painfully obvious that even in schools with adequate funding children are not learning the basics of English. I am not sure why this is happening, though. Is it because K-12 curricula emphasize math and science over English and history? Is it because English is being taught differently? Is it standardized testing? Funding is always a problem in education, but even in poorly funded schools, it is possible to teach children the basics of grammatical construction.
Technology is certainly a factor. When children come of age reading and writing things like, “U R my <3” it is no surprise that they cannot construct an intelligible sentence. I understand that the struggle between technology and culture is constant. Culture demands new and innovative technology, while technology changes culture in ways that are irreversible. Still, there is a social imperative that we resist those trends that threaten to undermine the foundations of our society.
I am not suggesting a reactionary grammar Gestapo, but I am suggesting that credible news organizations should hire journalists that can read and write English correctly. Educational systems should reevaluate their priorities. Just fifteen minutes less computer time and fifteen minutes more in grammar and composition could make a significant impact. Most importantly, parents should teach their children to speak proper English. My Mother vigilantly guarded my speech patterns, correcting me whenever I strayed. For that and much more I am forever grateful.
There is another aspect of the grammar wars that is even more troubling. It is the fact that many of those assaulting grammar are the same ones embracing a dangerous ideology. I am not sure if it has a name, but I will call it “singularity.” It is not quite the same thing as fascism or Nazism. It is an offshoot of American individuality and the Horatio Alger myth, a perversion of Ayn Rand’s objectivism. Consider the message conveyed in the sentence, “Me and him went to a movie.” The first problem is the case issue, using objective pronouns in place of subjective pronouns. The second problem is word order. The sentence should read, “He and I went to a movie.” I remember my parents and grandparents teaching me that a construction like “me and him” was an expression of selfishness.
When people use aberrant constructions, like the examples used so far in this blog, they are sending a direct message. It is a statement to the world that they are singular individuals with their own rules. They do not care about rules of grammar. They do not care about social or cultural institutions or norms. It is a form of sociopathy. They are, in effect, anarchists and if they are left unchecked, they will destroy much more than the English language.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
January 24, 2018
Russ’s “Pearly Mae” Barley Soup
I suppose just about any topic and any genre of written communication is game for a blog. That said, I decided to share a favorite soup recipe with my fans, friends, and readers. Those who know me personally know that soup making is one of my hobbies. As with any hobby, soup making requires patience, dedication, time, and effort. Unlike many other hobbies, soup making is not terribly expensive, but if you are not willing to put in the time or the work, you might as well open a can off the grocery store shelf. I share this recipe freely, while retaining the copyright, so, if you share it with others, please acknowledge my authorship.
Soups are great for fall and winter. Some soups are meant to be served as part of a multi-course dinner. Others are meant to be a meal in their own right. My “Pearly Mae” Barley Soup is a hearty soup that stands alone as a meal. The key ingredient is pearled barley, which always makes me think of a certain twentieth century vocalist (hence the name). The first thing you need in order to do this soup right is a music delivery system (preferably a turntable, but I suppose your smartphone will suffice) and a healthy collection of mid-century jazz (preferably on LP). If you are not using LPs, you’ll have to have some kind of timer or alarm clock.
This recipe will fill twelve large bowls of soup. With the effort that goes into a soup like this, it doesn’t make sense to make a small amount. Most soups hold up in the freezer for long periods of time, so I like to make enough to get several meals and still have some left over to freeze in small containers. I also think that soups come out better in large quantities – ten quarts is more forgiving than two if you use a little too much salt.
Let’s get started:
Things You Will Need in the Kitchen:
1. A large soup pot with a lid that fits securely, preferably 16-20 quart
2. A large skillet with a lid, preferably seasoned cast iron
3. A cutting board
4. A sturdy sharp knife
5. A large spoon, preferably wooden
Ingredients (Note that some quantities are given in approximate amounts. Feel free to adjust as needed):
1. Pearled barley, 1 cup
2. Fresh beef bone, preferably a femur cut into 2-3” lengths
3. Stew meat, 2-3 lbs. Use either sirloin or top round, trimmed and cut into small squares. Make sure the meat is lean and free of gristle and excessive fat.
4. Spanish onions, about 8 small to medium onions, peeled and sliced thin into half-round slivers
5. Butter, about half a stick
6. Olive oil, about ¼ cup
7. Celery, two stalks, washed and diced into bite size chunks
8. Carrots, about 2 lbs., washed and diced into bite size chunks
9. Kosher salt, about 2 tblsp altogether
10. Fresh ground black pepper, about 2 tsp
11. Dry mustard, about 2 tsp
12. Thyme, about 1 tsp
13. Dry sage, about 2 tblsp
14. Rosemary, about 1 tsp
15. Bay leaf, about 3-5 leaves
Instructions:
1. Make the broth. A good rich broth is the key to any successful soup. Do not use bouillon cubes. If you must, buy the quarts of premade beef broth, but prepare to be disappointed. A good broth requires time and patience, but not a lot of work. To make a proper broth, put about 3 quarts of water in your soup pot with the beef bone (use enough water to make sure the bones are completely covered), add the bay leaves and a liberal amount of salt. Turn on high heat and bring to a rolling boil. Keep the bones moving with your spoon until the water begins to boil to avoid scorching. Reduce heat and allow to simmer vigorously for a minimum of 5 hours. The longer it can simmer, the richer your broth will be. If you can do it a day ahead and store the broth safely, even better. You will have to add water periodically to keep the water level consistent. If you are listening to LPs, add about 2-4 cups of water between each record (about 40-60 minutes).
2. While the broth is making you can sauté the meat and onions. Place butter and olive oil in the skillet and turn heat on low until the butter is melted. Add onions and salt and raise heat to high or medium high. Stir constantly with a wooden spoon until onions are clear. Add half of all remaining spices, holding the remainder for later use. Add the meat chunks and keep stirring until the meat is browned on all sides. Add about a half cup of water, reduce heat to a slow simmer, and cover. Let simmer for about two LPs (about two hours), stirring periodically. When the meat is fork tender you can turn off the heat. If your broth is still cooking, set aside and hold.
3. While the broth simmers in the pot and the meat simmers in the skillet you can prepare the carrots and celery. After they have been washed and diced, set them aside in a large bowl.
4. Assemble the soup. When you are certain that the broth is ready (the bones will be clean and white and the marrow will be spent), remove and discard the bones and bay leaves. Add the meat and onions, including all contents from the skillet. Bring to a soft boil for about one side of an LP (about twenty minutes). Add the carrots, celery, and remainder of seasonings. Bring to a soft boil and simmer on low for about one more LP (about an hour). Add the barley and simmer on low for about one and an half LPs (about ninety minutes). Continue adding water as needed and desired for a "soupy" consistency.
5. When the barley is tender, remove from heat and serve immediately. A warm baguette makes a nice complement to the soup, but your favorite crackers will do nicely as well.
Please let me know if this recipe made you want to belt a chorus of Hello Dolly!
https://www.bluewatertales.com
Soups are great for fall and winter. Some soups are meant to be served as part of a multi-course dinner. Others are meant to be a meal in their own right. My “Pearly Mae” Barley Soup is a hearty soup that stands alone as a meal. The key ingredient is pearled barley, which always makes me think of a certain twentieth century vocalist (hence the name). The first thing you need in order to do this soup right is a music delivery system (preferably a turntable, but I suppose your smartphone will suffice) and a healthy collection of mid-century jazz (preferably on LP). If you are not using LPs, you’ll have to have some kind of timer or alarm clock.
This recipe will fill twelve large bowls of soup. With the effort that goes into a soup like this, it doesn’t make sense to make a small amount. Most soups hold up in the freezer for long periods of time, so I like to make enough to get several meals and still have some left over to freeze in small containers. I also think that soups come out better in large quantities – ten quarts is more forgiving than two if you use a little too much salt.
Let’s get started:
Things You Will Need in the Kitchen:
1. A large soup pot with a lid that fits securely, preferably 16-20 quart
2. A large skillet with a lid, preferably seasoned cast iron
3. A cutting board
4. A sturdy sharp knife
5. A large spoon, preferably wooden
Ingredients (Note that some quantities are given in approximate amounts. Feel free to adjust as needed):
1. Pearled barley, 1 cup
2. Fresh beef bone, preferably a femur cut into 2-3” lengths
3. Stew meat, 2-3 lbs. Use either sirloin or top round, trimmed and cut into small squares. Make sure the meat is lean and free of gristle and excessive fat.
4. Spanish onions, about 8 small to medium onions, peeled and sliced thin into half-round slivers
5. Butter, about half a stick
6. Olive oil, about ¼ cup
7. Celery, two stalks, washed and diced into bite size chunks
8. Carrots, about 2 lbs., washed and diced into bite size chunks
9. Kosher salt, about 2 tblsp altogether
10. Fresh ground black pepper, about 2 tsp
11. Dry mustard, about 2 tsp
12. Thyme, about 1 tsp
13. Dry sage, about 2 tblsp
14. Rosemary, about 1 tsp
15. Bay leaf, about 3-5 leaves
Instructions:
1. Make the broth. A good rich broth is the key to any successful soup. Do not use bouillon cubes. If you must, buy the quarts of premade beef broth, but prepare to be disappointed. A good broth requires time and patience, but not a lot of work. To make a proper broth, put about 3 quarts of water in your soup pot with the beef bone (use enough water to make sure the bones are completely covered), add the bay leaves and a liberal amount of salt. Turn on high heat and bring to a rolling boil. Keep the bones moving with your spoon until the water begins to boil to avoid scorching. Reduce heat and allow to simmer vigorously for a minimum of 5 hours. The longer it can simmer, the richer your broth will be. If you can do it a day ahead and store the broth safely, even better. You will have to add water periodically to keep the water level consistent. If you are listening to LPs, add about 2-4 cups of water between each record (about 40-60 minutes).
2. While the broth is making you can sauté the meat and onions. Place butter and olive oil in the skillet and turn heat on low until the butter is melted. Add onions and salt and raise heat to high or medium high. Stir constantly with a wooden spoon until onions are clear. Add half of all remaining spices, holding the remainder for later use. Add the meat chunks and keep stirring until the meat is browned on all sides. Add about a half cup of water, reduce heat to a slow simmer, and cover. Let simmer for about two LPs (about two hours), stirring periodically. When the meat is fork tender you can turn off the heat. If your broth is still cooking, set aside and hold.
3. While the broth simmers in the pot and the meat simmers in the skillet you can prepare the carrots and celery. After they have been washed and diced, set them aside in a large bowl.
4. Assemble the soup. When you are certain that the broth is ready (the bones will be clean and white and the marrow will be spent), remove and discard the bones and bay leaves. Add the meat and onions, including all contents from the skillet. Bring to a soft boil for about one side of an LP (about twenty minutes). Add the carrots, celery, and remainder of seasonings. Bring to a soft boil and simmer on low for about one more LP (about an hour). Add the barley and simmer on low for about one and an half LPs (about ninety minutes). Continue adding water as needed and desired for a "soupy" consistency.
5. When the barley is tender, remove from heat and serve immediately. A warm baguette makes a nice complement to the soup, but your favorite crackers will do nicely as well.
Please let me know if this recipe made you want to belt a chorus of Hello Dolly!
https://www.bluewatertales.com
January 13, 2018
Update: Particularly Dangerous Work: Part 2, Lost at Sea
Dear Friends, Fans, and Readers,
I am excited to announce that today I finished the first draft of "Particularly Dangerous Work: Part 2, Lost At Sea." I know those of you who have read and enjoyed part 1 will be excited at this news. This is just the first draft, so the manuscript has a great deal of editing to undergo before it will be ready for publication. I don’t have a publication date yet, but I am hoping for this summer, perhaps on the anniversary of the release of part 1 (part 3 will likely come the following year).
Finishing a manuscript, even in draft form, is always a moment to celebrate. There is a sense of personal accomplishment that goes with it: I finished something; it is no longer a half-baked idea floating around in my list bucket; all my hard work accomplished something of significance. Tonight, at least for tonight, I can relax without having to worry about what trouble a particular character might get into tomorrow.
I used to think, and I am sure many people think, that authors are half crazy. Perhaps some are crazier than others, but I understand why. Authors must immerse themselves into the world of their characters. There is a moment when we begin to think of fictional characters as real people. In a sense I know my characters better than I know any of my friends or family. I know how they will react in certain situations. I know their most intimate thoughts. Historical fiction only adds to the craziness. I have to interconnect the lives of real people with the lives of fictional people. Think of a toddler with an imaginary friend sitting at the family dinner table.
I won’t offer any spoilers for part 2, but I will offer a few teasers. The story picks up right where part 1 left off. I suppose it may have been obvious that I would do this, and I intended to make it obvious. Though nothing is certain until it happens, I have the idea that after part 3 is published, I might combine all three parts into one large volume. We’ll see.
As far as the story is concerned it should be obvious that parts 2 & 3 will continue through the remainder of the war years. Students of World War II should have a pretty good idea of what Rodrigo is getting into at the end of part 1, and I don’t think they will be disappointed. The title of the series explains exactly what kind of work Rodrigo performs, and it only intensifies in part 2.
If part 1 is on your “to read” list, now is the time to do it. You will want to be ready for Rodrigo’s thrilling adventures of part 2 when it is released! . . . OK, I know that was just a cheesy plug for people to go out and buy my book, so, go out and buy my book!
https://www.bluewatertales.com
I am excited to announce that today I finished the first draft of "Particularly Dangerous Work: Part 2, Lost At Sea." I know those of you who have read and enjoyed part 1 will be excited at this news. This is just the first draft, so the manuscript has a great deal of editing to undergo before it will be ready for publication. I don’t have a publication date yet, but I am hoping for this summer, perhaps on the anniversary of the release of part 1 (part 3 will likely come the following year).
Finishing a manuscript, even in draft form, is always a moment to celebrate. There is a sense of personal accomplishment that goes with it: I finished something; it is no longer a half-baked idea floating around in my list bucket; all my hard work accomplished something of significance. Tonight, at least for tonight, I can relax without having to worry about what trouble a particular character might get into tomorrow.
I used to think, and I am sure many people think, that authors are half crazy. Perhaps some are crazier than others, but I understand why. Authors must immerse themselves into the world of their characters. There is a moment when we begin to think of fictional characters as real people. In a sense I know my characters better than I know any of my friends or family. I know how they will react in certain situations. I know their most intimate thoughts. Historical fiction only adds to the craziness. I have to interconnect the lives of real people with the lives of fictional people. Think of a toddler with an imaginary friend sitting at the family dinner table.
I won’t offer any spoilers for part 2, but I will offer a few teasers. The story picks up right where part 1 left off. I suppose it may have been obvious that I would do this, and I intended to make it obvious. Though nothing is certain until it happens, I have the idea that after part 3 is published, I might combine all three parts into one large volume. We’ll see.
As far as the story is concerned it should be obvious that parts 2 & 3 will continue through the remainder of the war years. Students of World War II should have a pretty good idea of what Rodrigo is getting into at the end of part 1, and I don’t think they will be disappointed. The title of the series explains exactly what kind of work Rodrigo performs, and it only intensifies in part 2.
If part 1 is on your “to read” list, now is the time to do it. You will want to be ready for Rodrigo’s thrilling adventures of part 2 when it is released! . . . OK, I know that was just a cheesy plug for people to go out and buy my book, so, go out and buy my book!
https://www.bluewatertales.com
January 5, 2018
Blue Water and White Winter
When I dreamt this past year of “a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know,” I understood full well that an old fashioned, snow laden holiday would likely mean a winter season intense with precipitation and cold temperatures. I don’t really mind, though. People think I’m crazy, maybe I am, but I enjoy a snowy winter.
I moved to Michigan from Oklahoma when I was twenty-five. It was the beginning of summer, and I immediately fell in love with the vast expanse of the Great Lakes, the towering forests, and pristine sandy beaches. That summer I witnessed many sunsets at Sleeping Bear Dunes and Pyramid Point in Michigan’s Leelanau County. Both then and now I am awestruck with the natural beauty of the bright orange orb setting into the sparkling blue water against the foreground of beige sand.
When summer turned to autumn that first year, I was again stunned, this time by the brilliant colors of the forests. What I had experienced so far was like nothing I had ever seen. Not that Oklahoma is devoid of natural beauty – it has its own kind of charm. I am and always have been an Oklahoman first, and I will always be drawn to its red earth and big sky, but what I experienced my first year in Michigan was magical. There was something inside me that kept saying, “This is where you belong.”
I did then and do now feel a sense of belonging in Michigan. I think it must have something to do with water. I don’t put much stock in astrology, but I am a Pisces. I have always been drawn to water, which can be difficult in a place like Oklahoma. Yes, there are reservoirs and rivers, but all the water in Oklahoma would probably equate to the runoff from a rainy day in Michigan.
Water, in all its forms, has a soothing effect upon my soul. When I am depressed or angry, simply gazing upon Lake Michigan takes all those negative thoughts away. The sound of waves, whether gently lapping or violently crashing, calms and seduces me. When I am in a boat on the water, the rocking and rolling motion lulls me into placid contentment.
I admit that winter can be harsh. A place like Michigan, where the blue water turns into white snow and ice, demands a particular hardiness of its residents. This is not to say that people in other climates are not hardy, just a different kind of hardy. I could never tolerate summers in Oklahoma, but I’ll take whatever a Michigan winter has to offer.
Despite the harshness and sometimes dangerous chill of winter, I find something soothing in water when it turns from blue to white. Michigan in winter can be like a Currier & Ives print. Every neighborhood street with a fresh blanket of snow on the spruce and yew boughs, children building snowmen and snow forts, and the countryside farms hunkered down for the season with the smell of burning oak from their chimneys all bring out the romantic dreamers in the most cynical of humanity.
For my part, I find solace in the woods. With my skis strapped tight, I take off through a snow-packed trail, step-glide, step-glide, step-glide. I hear the snow crunch under my skis, rhythmically, soothingly. I slide through the woods and labor up a hill to the top where I see the trail descend to a valley. I take a deep breath, squat, and whoosh! Down the hill and on to the next challenge I go.
The lakes have their own kind of charm in winter. Sometimes they only freeze along the shore, but some years the lakes become a vast sheet of ice for miles, for as far as the eye can see. For those brave enough to venture onto the ice, the real treat comes at the point where the ice sheet ends. Where it is solid, it freezes thick, six feet or more. At the end of the sheet it’s like a cliff. From the edge of that jagged cliff and looking down six, ten, or more feet the lake is slush, tossing and swirling. Further out the water is still blue. It is both terrifying and thrilling.
When I dream of a white Christmas, though, it is not just about the romantic notions I might harbor. It is about hoping for balance in nature. Those years when winter comes late and leaves too early frighten me, and it seems those years come too frequently now. A year when it snows heavily on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day makes me think there is still time to fix the climate we have nearly wrecked. For as long as I can, I will keep dreaming of blue water and white winters.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
I moved to Michigan from Oklahoma when I was twenty-five. It was the beginning of summer, and I immediately fell in love with the vast expanse of the Great Lakes, the towering forests, and pristine sandy beaches. That summer I witnessed many sunsets at Sleeping Bear Dunes and Pyramid Point in Michigan’s Leelanau County. Both then and now I am awestruck with the natural beauty of the bright orange orb setting into the sparkling blue water against the foreground of beige sand.
When summer turned to autumn that first year, I was again stunned, this time by the brilliant colors of the forests. What I had experienced so far was like nothing I had ever seen. Not that Oklahoma is devoid of natural beauty – it has its own kind of charm. I am and always have been an Oklahoman first, and I will always be drawn to its red earth and big sky, but what I experienced my first year in Michigan was magical. There was something inside me that kept saying, “This is where you belong.”
I did then and do now feel a sense of belonging in Michigan. I think it must have something to do with water. I don’t put much stock in astrology, but I am a Pisces. I have always been drawn to water, which can be difficult in a place like Oklahoma. Yes, there are reservoirs and rivers, but all the water in Oklahoma would probably equate to the runoff from a rainy day in Michigan.
Water, in all its forms, has a soothing effect upon my soul. When I am depressed or angry, simply gazing upon Lake Michigan takes all those negative thoughts away. The sound of waves, whether gently lapping or violently crashing, calms and seduces me. When I am in a boat on the water, the rocking and rolling motion lulls me into placid contentment.
I admit that winter can be harsh. A place like Michigan, where the blue water turns into white snow and ice, demands a particular hardiness of its residents. This is not to say that people in other climates are not hardy, just a different kind of hardy. I could never tolerate summers in Oklahoma, but I’ll take whatever a Michigan winter has to offer.
Despite the harshness and sometimes dangerous chill of winter, I find something soothing in water when it turns from blue to white. Michigan in winter can be like a Currier & Ives print. Every neighborhood street with a fresh blanket of snow on the spruce and yew boughs, children building snowmen and snow forts, and the countryside farms hunkered down for the season with the smell of burning oak from their chimneys all bring out the romantic dreamers in the most cynical of humanity.
For my part, I find solace in the woods. With my skis strapped tight, I take off through a snow-packed trail, step-glide, step-glide, step-glide. I hear the snow crunch under my skis, rhythmically, soothingly. I slide through the woods and labor up a hill to the top where I see the trail descend to a valley. I take a deep breath, squat, and whoosh! Down the hill and on to the next challenge I go.
The lakes have their own kind of charm in winter. Sometimes they only freeze along the shore, but some years the lakes become a vast sheet of ice for miles, for as far as the eye can see. For those brave enough to venture onto the ice, the real treat comes at the point where the ice sheet ends. Where it is solid, it freezes thick, six feet or more. At the end of the sheet it’s like a cliff. From the edge of that jagged cliff and looking down six, ten, or more feet the lake is slush, tossing and swirling. Further out the water is still blue. It is both terrifying and thrilling.
When I dream of a white Christmas, though, it is not just about the romantic notions I might harbor. It is about hoping for balance in nature. Those years when winter comes late and leaves too early frighten me, and it seems those years come too frequently now. A year when it snows heavily on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day makes me think there is still time to fix the climate we have nearly wrecked. For as long as I can, I will keep dreaming of blue water and white winters.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
December 7, 2017
From Here to Eternity
Today is December 7th. Seventy-six years ago Japan launched a surprise attack on the United States at Pearl Harbor. Our two countries were not at war, but it had been clear that war was imminent, both with Japan and Germany. Most of the rest of the world was already at war, and the attack on Pearl Harbor signaled the official entry of the United States into World War II.
Everything changed that day. Life in the United States changed. The course of the war changed. Life for civilians in other belligerent countries changed. Even the strategies of warring armies changed. Everything changed, and nothing would ever be the same again.
The United States had already been mobilizing for war. FDR’s “arsenal of democracy” soon became the most potent industrial war machine the world had ever seen. Within six months American made tanks were augmenting the Red Army’s effort to thwart the German invasion of Soviet Russia. American long range bombers added to the inventory of British bombers and pounded the Third Reich into rubble. American soldiers landed in North Africa and aided the British effort to drive out the German Afrika Korps.
It would take a little longer for the United States to flip the Japanese advantage. The damage wreaked at Pearl Harbor would be overcome, but it would take time. If there was any success in the Japanese strategy, it was in temporarily arresting American hegemony in the Pacific – but only temporarily.
In the United States, life became instantly difficult. The entire industrial capacity of the country converted to wartime production. The auto industry stopped making cars and shifted to military production. The rubber industry made tires for jeeps and planes. Oil, certain foodstuffs, and textiles were rationed or made completely unavailable to civilians. Curfews and blackouts ruled the night.
Women took jobs that had previously been reserved for men. They worked in airplane factories and shipyards. Women, who had been considered delicate flowers in 1940, worked as welders, riveters, and miners, proving once and for all that women could more than hold their own in a “man’s world.” Not too many years before the war, white Americans had been terrified at the thought of Native Americans and African Americans carrying guns, but wartime necessity demonstrated that minorities were just as brave and dedicated as any other American. The opportunity to demonstrate such characteristics generally did not extend to Japanese and German Americans imprisoned in internment camps.
American involvement in World War II posed certain moral challenges for the United States. Fighting Nazi racism seemed hypocritical when put up against American racism. However, it made Americans question certain social institutions, and, so long as Nazism was considered pariah, many Americans embarked on a long journey to eradicate racism. The American conscience relating to Jews was not awakened until the horror of Nazi anti-Semitism was fully exposed.
Even American military strategy faced certain moral challenges. The carpet bombing of Dresden and Hamburg did more damage on civilian targets than military targets. The atom bomb, of course, posed the ultimate moral challenge, one that has never really been settled. The damage and loss of life in Dresden, Hamburg, Nagasaki, and Hiroshima is staggering. It was the American Civil War General William Tecumseh Sherman, who said, “War is Hell,” but all belligerents in World War II inflicted a living hell upon their enemies, and none were innocent.
There are few single events in history that mark a sudden shift in global affairs. The opening shots of World War I and World War II certainly fit into this category. The French Revolution and Martin Luther’s Reformation rise to that level, perhaps the sacking of Rome. Even though Pearl Harbor was part of the World War II story, it, in and of itself, is one of those moments. Its anniversary is a day to remember unprovoked aggression, to honor those who died in the attack, and to reflect upon how it changed the world. It is a day to remember into eternity.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
Everything changed that day. Life in the United States changed. The course of the war changed. Life for civilians in other belligerent countries changed. Even the strategies of warring armies changed. Everything changed, and nothing would ever be the same again.
The United States had already been mobilizing for war. FDR’s “arsenal of democracy” soon became the most potent industrial war machine the world had ever seen. Within six months American made tanks were augmenting the Red Army’s effort to thwart the German invasion of Soviet Russia. American long range bombers added to the inventory of British bombers and pounded the Third Reich into rubble. American soldiers landed in North Africa and aided the British effort to drive out the German Afrika Korps.
It would take a little longer for the United States to flip the Japanese advantage. The damage wreaked at Pearl Harbor would be overcome, but it would take time. If there was any success in the Japanese strategy, it was in temporarily arresting American hegemony in the Pacific – but only temporarily.
In the United States, life became instantly difficult. The entire industrial capacity of the country converted to wartime production. The auto industry stopped making cars and shifted to military production. The rubber industry made tires for jeeps and planes. Oil, certain foodstuffs, and textiles were rationed or made completely unavailable to civilians. Curfews and blackouts ruled the night.
Women took jobs that had previously been reserved for men. They worked in airplane factories and shipyards. Women, who had been considered delicate flowers in 1940, worked as welders, riveters, and miners, proving once and for all that women could more than hold their own in a “man’s world.” Not too many years before the war, white Americans had been terrified at the thought of Native Americans and African Americans carrying guns, but wartime necessity demonstrated that minorities were just as brave and dedicated as any other American. The opportunity to demonstrate such characteristics generally did not extend to Japanese and German Americans imprisoned in internment camps.
American involvement in World War II posed certain moral challenges for the United States. Fighting Nazi racism seemed hypocritical when put up against American racism. However, it made Americans question certain social institutions, and, so long as Nazism was considered pariah, many Americans embarked on a long journey to eradicate racism. The American conscience relating to Jews was not awakened until the horror of Nazi anti-Semitism was fully exposed.
Even American military strategy faced certain moral challenges. The carpet bombing of Dresden and Hamburg did more damage on civilian targets than military targets. The atom bomb, of course, posed the ultimate moral challenge, one that has never really been settled. The damage and loss of life in Dresden, Hamburg, Nagasaki, and Hiroshima is staggering. It was the American Civil War General William Tecumseh Sherman, who said, “War is Hell,” but all belligerents in World War II inflicted a living hell upon their enemies, and none were innocent.
There are few single events in history that mark a sudden shift in global affairs. The opening shots of World War I and World War II certainly fit into this category. The French Revolution and Martin Luther’s Reformation rise to that level, perhaps the sacking of Rome. Even though Pearl Harbor was part of the World War II story, it, in and of itself, is one of those moments. Its anniversary is a day to remember unprovoked aggression, to honor those who died in the attack, and to reflect upon how it changed the world. It is a day to remember into eternity.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
November 14, 2017
Thanksgiving
For the first four decades of my life the annual Thanksgiving feast was my family’s signal event. Certainly we celebrated Christmas, New Year’s, Easter, and all the other major holidays, but there was something special about Thanksgiving. Though my grandparents, both of my parents and most of my aunts and uncles are gone now, I try to hang on to that tradition.
So far as I can tell, it was my maternal grandparents that started the tradition. My grandfather, Papa (pronounced “Pawpaw”) as we called him, was a farmer in Eastern Oklahoma. In the early twentieth century Papa’s vocation meant for a hard life and meager income. My grandparents had six children, four girls and two boys. During the Great Depression they took in other relatives, nephews and nieces, as well as the occasional hard luck case. They rarely had money for clothes or shoes, but they never went hungry because they grew their own food.
I think it must have been about the time that their children grew into adults that the Thanksgiving tradition became so important to my grandparents. My mother and her siblings came of age in the in the World War II years. Mother and her closest sister joined their older brother in San Francisco during the war to work in the Kaiser shipyards. There they welded Liberty ships (troop transports) for the Navy. After the war, most of the children came home to Oklahoma. It was mandatory for Mother and her siblings to get together at my grandparents’ house for Thanksgiving. When Mother and her siblings married and started their own families the number of participants grew (2 grandparents + 6 siblings + 6 spouses = 14 + 6 families x 2.5 children each = 29). My cousins and I ranged in birth years from 1943 to 1959 (I was the youngest). By the time I was a small child, my older cousins had started marrying and having children. It was nothing for a family Thanksgiving to include forty-five or more people.
As a child I was mesmerized by the flurry of activity that went into preparing such a Thanksgiving feast. My grandmother had grown too frail to do the cooking, especially for so many people, so Mother, her two closest sisters, and a sister-in-law stepped in to pull off a flawless family gathering. I would watch these four women bustle around the kitchen, roasting three large turkeys, mixing several large bowls of stuffing, whipping potatoes (by hand, of course), baking the yams, making the rolls (from scratch), and grinding the cranberries (with a hand-cranked device clamped onto a kitchen table). I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen – no one was unless asked to do a specific chore. On special occasions I was permitted to turn the crank on the cranberry grinder, but otherwise I was barred at the doorway.
Once the food was under control, the tables had to be set. There was the adult table, which was in the formal dining room. It was reserved for my grandparents, aunts, and uncles. Several other tables handled overflow. There was, of course, the inevitable kids’ table. The adult table was always set with my grandmother’s linen tablecloth. That tablecloth, with its intricate cutout design, is featured in many family photographs taken over the years. Mother kept it after my grandparents died, and I have it now.
I consider myself the family caretaker, not the owner, of my grandmother’s tablecloth. I use it on special occasions and will set my table with it this Thanksgiving. In so doing I will remember all of the Thanksgivings past, my grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. I will smile, but I will also likely have moistened eyes, just as I do in writing this story. As I remember and honor all those who have passed, I will also be thankful for their memories and all they taught me.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
So far as I can tell, it was my maternal grandparents that started the tradition. My grandfather, Papa (pronounced “Pawpaw”) as we called him, was a farmer in Eastern Oklahoma. In the early twentieth century Papa’s vocation meant for a hard life and meager income. My grandparents had six children, four girls and two boys. During the Great Depression they took in other relatives, nephews and nieces, as well as the occasional hard luck case. They rarely had money for clothes or shoes, but they never went hungry because they grew their own food.
I think it must have been about the time that their children grew into adults that the Thanksgiving tradition became so important to my grandparents. My mother and her siblings came of age in the in the World War II years. Mother and her closest sister joined their older brother in San Francisco during the war to work in the Kaiser shipyards. There they welded Liberty ships (troop transports) for the Navy. After the war, most of the children came home to Oklahoma. It was mandatory for Mother and her siblings to get together at my grandparents’ house for Thanksgiving. When Mother and her siblings married and started their own families the number of participants grew (2 grandparents + 6 siblings + 6 spouses = 14 + 6 families x 2.5 children each = 29). My cousins and I ranged in birth years from 1943 to 1959 (I was the youngest). By the time I was a small child, my older cousins had started marrying and having children. It was nothing for a family Thanksgiving to include forty-five or more people.
As a child I was mesmerized by the flurry of activity that went into preparing such a Thanksgiving feast. My grandmother had grown too frail to do the cooking, especially for so many people, so Mother, her two closest sisters, and a sister-in-law stepped in to pull off a flawless family gathering. I would watch these four women bustle around the kitchen, roasting three large turkeys, mixing several large bowls of stuffing, whipping potatoes (by hand, of course), baking the yams, making the rolls (from scratch), and grinding the cranberries (with a hand-cranked device clamped onto a kitchen table). I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen – no one was unless asked to do a specific chore. On special occasions I was permitted to turn the crank on the cranberry grinder, but otherwise I was barred at the doorway.
Once the food was under control, the tables had to be set. There was the adult table, which was in the formal dining room. It was reserved for my grandparents, aunts, and uncles. Several other tables handled overflow. There was, of course, the inevitable kids’ table. The adult table was always set with my grandmother’s linen tablecloth. That tablecloth, with its intricate cutout design, is featured in many family photographs taken over the years. Mother kept it after my grandparents died, and I have it now.
I consider myself the family caretaker, not the owner, of my grandmother’s tablecloth. I use it on special occasions and will set my table with it this Thanksgiving. In so doing I will remember all of the Thanksgivings past, my grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. I will smile, but I will also likely have moistened eyes, just as I do in writing this story. As I remember and honor all those who have passed, I will also be thankful for their memories and all they taught me.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
October 17, 2017
The Imploding Left
A few days ago I, quite unwittingly, conducted an experiment in the breakdown of civil discourse. On a popular social media platform I had posed a question for discussion regarding certain trends in English grammar, specifically with regard to certain pronouns. I won’t rehash the discussion that ensued, but let it suffice to say that opinions were sharp. What took me by surprise was how quickly the discussion devolved into the sort of nasty exchange one would expect from James Carville and Ann Coulter. What shocked me was the fact that all of the participants identified as leftist progressives.
This is not the first time in recent months I have noticed a breakdown in the ability of the Left to work together for a greater good. I would expect such things from the Right. Their coalition never has made any sense. What on earth do Christian fundamentalists, racists, stingy Tea-baggers, and greedy hedonists have in common? When they snap at each other I expect it to be vicious. When the Left starts throwing blows, it leaves me shaking my head. We are supposed to be the ones who promote equality, tolerance of ideas different from our own, empathy and understanding for people with different life experiences. We are supposed to be able to debate with civility and intellect.
At a time when we should be as unified as possible, it seems that we are fracturing worse than the other side. All three branches of the federal government and the majority of state governments are under extremist Right wing control. Yet we pick at each other over petty issues. Why, and why now? Perhaps it is because we have no leadership. Before this year we had a national leader who held us together, gave us hope in a brighter future. Since January the Progressive movement has had no banner around which to rally, except the banner of opposition to the current regime. Certainly there is plenty to oppose about the current regime, but being against something or someone is not a cause worthy of bringing people together. Yes, those of us on the Left can all agree that fascism is wrong, but what do we offer in its place? If the answer is a Left wing movement that hatefully argues over pronouns, I doubt we will garner much support.
The problem is not just a disagreement over pronouns. It actually goes much deeper and in a much more perilous direction. Recently fellow Progressives attacked Hillary Clinton for not condemning sexual assault quickly enough. Personally I think Hillary’s track record on such topics speaks for itself. It would be like criticizing the Pope for not asserting the divinity of Christ often enough. She didn’t need to make her position on sexual assault any clearer.
That particular attack revealed an element of the fracturing left that could quickly go in a direction much more dangerous than the regime we oppose. It is that tendency among extremists on both sides of the political spectrum to purge all but the “purest” elements of their movements. It would have been a Maximilien Robespierre beheading someone that disagreed with him about the use of pronouns. A Joseph Stalin might have shot someone that didn’t condemn Harvey Weinstein quickly enough or forcefully enough.
Democrats, Progressives, Leftists, Liberals, whatever label we go by, we should all agree on certain things. Language should never be used to oppress, regardless what grammatical rules a person chooses to follow. Sexual assault is never acceptable, but we condemn it in a manner we each find appropriate. What we should never do, especially in the name of Liberalism, is condemn each other for not being pure enough. I will not wear a scarlet letter simply because I choose to follow certain standard rules of grammar.
President Roosevelt (FDR) understood best how a Progressive coalition could govern. President Obama understood this too. If Obama had another four years, he might have forged a lasting coalition like FDR’s, and we certainly wouldn’t be in the mess we are now. The Roosevelt coalition was slightly left of center. It was just left enough to keep pulling the country towards greater equality, elimination of injustice, environmental responsibility, and away from the ravages of fascism. It was close enough to center to bring in a majority of the electorate. What we need now is the kind of Progressive leadership FDR and Obama gave us, and we need to sideline the would-be guillotine operators.
At a time when we have a lunatic carrying around the nuclear codes, and congressional leaders that are trying to figure out the most efficient way to snatch food from the mouths of starving children, the Progressive movement can ill afford this kind of internal bickering. The next election cycle is nearly upon us, and at least four Democratic Senate seats are in peril. Yes, we need to debate issues and debate them vigorously. Vigorous debate and personal attacks, however, are not one and the same. We must turn away from narrow minded, so-called Progressives that threaten our very existence. We must quickly find those leaders who will be worthy successors to Barack Obama.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
This is not the first time in recent months I have noticed a breakdown in the ability of the Left to work together for a greater good. I would expect such things from the Right. Their coalition never has made any sense. What on earth do Christian fundamentalists, racists, stingy Tea-baggers, and greedy hedonists have in common? When they snap at each other I expect it to be vicious. When the Left starts throwing blows, it leaves me shaking my head. We are supposed to be the ones who promote equality, tolerance of ideas different from our own, empathy and understanding for people with different life experiences. We are supposed to be able to debate with civility and intellect.
At a time when we should be as unified as possible, it seems that we are fracturing worse than the other side. All three branches of the federal government and the majority of state governments are under extremist Right wing control. Yet we pick at each other over petty issues. Why, and why now? Perhaps it is because we have no leadership. Before this year we had a national leader who held us together, gave us hope in a brighter future. Since January the Progressive movement has had no banner around which to rally, except the banner of opposition to the current regime. Certainly there is plenty to oppose about the current regime, but being against something or someone is not a cause worthy of bringing people together. Yes, those of us on the Left can all agree that fascism is wrong, but what do we offer in its place? If the answer is a Left wing movement that hatefully argues over pronouns, I doubt we will garner much support.
The problem is not just a disagreement over pronouns. It actually goes much deeper and in a much more perilous direction. Recently fellow Progressives attacked Hillary Clinton for not condemning sexual assault quickly enough. Personally I think Hillary’s track record on such topics speaks for itself. It would be like criticizing the Pope for not asserting the divinity of Christ often enough. She didn’t need to make her position on sexual assault any clearer.
That particular attack revealed an element of the fracturing left that could quickly go in a direction much more dangerous than the regime we oppose. It is that tendency among extremists on both sides of the political spectrum to purge all but the “purest” elements of their movements. It would have been a Maximilien Robespierre beheading someone that disagreed with him about the use of pronouns. A Joseph Stalin might have shot someone that didn’t condemn Harvey Weinstein quickly enough or forcefully enough.
Democrats, Progressives, Leftists, Liberals, whatever label we go by, we should all agree on certain things. Language should never be used to oppress, regardless what grammatical rules a person chooses to follow. Sexual assault is never acceptable, but we condemn it in a manner we each find appropriate. What we should never do, especially in the name of Liberalism, is condemn each other for not being pure enough. I will not wear a scarlet letter simply because I choose to follow certain standard rules of grammar.
President Roosevelt (FDR) understood best how a Progressive coalition could govern. President Obama understood this too. If Obama had another four years, he might have forged a lasting coalition like FDR’s, and we certainly wouldn’t be in the mess we are now. The Roosevelt coalition was slightly left of center. It was just left enough to keep pulling the country towards greater equality, elimination of injustice, environmental responsibility, and away from the ravages of fascism. It was close enough to center to bring in a majority of the electorate. What we need now is the kind of Progressive leadership FDR and Obama gave us, and we need to sideline the would-be guillotine operators.
At a time when we have a lunatic carrying around the nuclear codes, and congressional leaders that are trying to figure out the most efficient way to snatch food from the mouths of starving children, the Progressive movement can ill afford this kind of internal bickering. The next election cycle is nearly upon us, and at least four Democratic Senate seats are in peril. Yes, we need to debate issues and debate them vigorously. Vigorous debate and personal attacks, however, are not one and the same. We must turn away from narrow minded, so-called Progressives that threaten our very existence. We must quickly find those leaders who will be worthy successors to Barack Obama.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
October 9, 2017
A Day Not To Celebrate
Once again it is officially Columbus Day in the United States. I’ll repeat here much of what I’ve stated for years regarding this holiday. Celebrating the person of Christopher Columbus makes no sense and is an affront to indigenous peoples throughout the American continents. I’ll expand that to state that it is not just an affront to native peoples, but to anyone and everyone that has experienced tyranny of any sort. Add to that the fact that as a federal holiday, it makes no sense to observe.
The United States officially celebrates ten holidays each year. They are:
• New Year’s Day
• Martin Luther King, Jr., Day
• Washington’s Birthday
• Memorial Day
• Independence Day
• Labor Day
• Columbus Day
• Veterans’ Day
• Thanksgiving
• Christmas Day
With the exceptions of New Year’s Day, Columbus Day, and Christmas Day, our federal holidays have something significant to do with who we are as citizens of the United States. Martin Luther King, Jr., Day and Washington’s birthday honor two great Americans that lead a significant movement in the existence and growth of the United States. Memorial Day, Labor Day, Independence Day, and Veterans’ Day honor those Americans who fought with bravery and honor to defend the United States and to make a better life for all Americans. Thanksgiving is a moment for us to stop, take a breath, and express our gratitude for our families, the peace and tranquility we enjoy, or whatever it is that makes us unique as a people.
January 1st is celebrated the world over as New Year’s Day. It certainly is not unique to the American experience, but it is important to us. The one aspect of this holiday that speaks to us as a people is its insistence that we look forward. As a rule Americans are a forward looking people. We look to what new architectural gems we can build this year, how many solar panels we can construct this year, how many cases of cancer we can cure this year. New Year’s Day for us represents a moment to take stock of who we are right now and make a plan for what we can become in twelve months.
Some might wish that we didn’t celebrate Christmas. I’ll admit that. It is primarily a religious holiday. Celebrating it while officially ignoring Hanukakah, Ramadan, or Diwali, seems a bit narrow. However, for most Americans Christmas has taken on a particular meaning that goes beyond celebrating the birth of Jesus. It takes the essence of Christianity, the admonition to “love thy neighbor,” and gives both Christian and non-Christian the opportunity to give of oneself. Perhaps I am stretching a bit to justify a holiday I personally enjoy, but I guess that is my prerogative.
Some might argue that so many atrocities have been committed in the name of Christianity that we shouldn’t, as a nation, celebrate Christmas. Some might argue that it violates the First Amendment. All of those arguments are valid. On the other hand, and if I may stretch a bit further, the birth of Jesus represents a moment of innocence. The concept of a newborn child coming to bring peace and joy to a terribly flawed world is a message of hope we need now more than ever. Ultimately, for us as Americans, Christmas is an allegorical holiday giving us hope in those newborn children that will grow up and liberate us from the stranglehold of fossil fuels, heal our deep divisions, and build a United States that is free from inequality and injustice.
Columbus Day, on the other hand, has no place on the official American calendar. What exactly is it that we celebrate about Columbus? Are we celebrating a terrible navigator that accidently landed on the wrong continent? Are we celebrating the tyrant, who enslaved, tortured, and brutalized native populations and governed his own colony so horribly that his queen had him hauled back to Spain in chains? I hope not.
Some in favor of this holiday might suggest that it represents the coming together of peoples of two continents, that without Columbus there could be no United States. Despite the obvious flaws of such an argument, its premise is fundamentally flawed. Columbus and European colonization are facts of history, but if it is European colonization that we celebrate with Columbus Day, I want no part of that. Columbus represents the advent of a massive invasion of conquerors hostile to the peace and tranquility enjoyed by most Americans prior to 1492. It is the advent of the American holocaust.
The fact is that European technology and industry had reached a stage in 1492 that would have brought a flood of explorers to the American continents whether or not there had been a Columbus. Whether the invasion had been led by Hernan Cortez, Samuel de Champlain, or Henry Hudson the outcome likely would have been the same. Aggressive and technologically advanced Europeans would have brutally invaded the Americas and wreaked havoc on native cultures. How it happened is a matter of history, but not something to celebrate.
There is hope that we may soon jettison this relic of brutal colonialism. At present count three states and about sixty-two cities in the United States have replaced Columbus Day with Indigenous Peoples’ Day. Unlike Christopher Columbus, the people and cultures native to the Americas, especially North America, have made a historically significant contribution to the development of the United States. Whereas the U. S. Constitution draws heavily on English legal traditions and French Enlightenment thought, it also draws on Native American traditions of egalitarianism and localized autonomy. In fact, one might argue that the French Enlightenment was an extension of French colonial interaction with native North Americans. Most importantly, it seems fitting to take the honor away from a symbol of criminal brutality and hand it to his victims. The time has come for our federal government and the remaining cities and states to drop Columbus Day from our official calendars and replace it with an honorable alternative.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
The United States officially celebrates ten holidays each year. They are:
• New Year’s Day
• Martin Luther King, Jr., Day
• Washington’s Birthday
• Memorial Day
• Independence Day
• Labor Day
• Columbus Day
• Veterans’ Day
• Thanksgiving
• Christmas Day
With the exceptions of New Year’s Day, Columbus Day, and Christmas Day, our federal holidays have something significant to do with who we are as citizens of the United States. Martin Luther King, Jr., Day and Washington’s birthday honor two great Americans that lead a significant movement in the existence and growth of the United States. Memorial Day, Labor Day, Independence Day, and Veterans’ Day honor those Americans who fought with bravery and honor to defend the United States and to make a better life for all Americans. Thanksgiving is a moment for us to stop, take a breath, and express our gratitude for our families, the peace and tranquility we enjoy, or whatever it is that makes us unique as a people.
January 1st is celebrated the world over as New Year’s Day. It certainly is not unique to the American experience, but it is important to us. The one aspect of this holiday that speaks to us as a people is its insistence that we look forward. As a rule Americans are a forward looking people. We look to what new architectural gems we can build this year, how many solar panels we can construct this year, how many cases of cancer we can cure this year. New Year’s Day for us represents a moment to take stock of who we are right now and make a plan for what we can become in twelve months.
Some might wish that we didn’t celebrate Christmas. I’ll admit that. It is primarily a religious holiday. Celebrating it while officially ignoring Hanukakah, Ramadan, or Diwali, seems a bit narrow. However, for most Americans Christmas has taken on a particular meaning that goes beyond celebrating the birth of Jesus. It takes the essence of Christianity, the admonition to “love thy neighbor,” and gives both Christian and non-Christian the opportunity to give of oneself. Perhaps I am stretching a bit to justify a holiday I personally enjoy, but I guess that is my prerogative.
Some might argue that so many atrocities have been committed in the name of Christianity that we shouldn’t, as a nation, celebrate Christmas. Some might argue that it violates the First Amendment. All of those arguments are valid. On the other hand, and if I may stretch a bit further, the birth of Jesus represents a moment of innocence. The concept of a newborn child coming to bring peace and joy to a terribly flawed world is a message of hope we need now more than ever. Ultimately, for us as Americans, Christmas is an allegorical holiday giving us hope in those newborn children that will grow up and liberate us from the stranglehold of fossil fuels, heal our deep divisions, and build a United States that is free from inequality and injustice.
Columbus Day, on the other hand, has no place on the official American calendar. What exactly is it that we celebrate about Columbus? Are we celebrating a terrible navigator that accidently landed on the wrong continent? Are we celebrating the tyrant, who enslaved, tortured, and brutalized native populations and governed his own colony so horribly that his queen had him hauled back to Spain in chains? I hope not.
Some in favor of this holiday might suggest that it represents the coming together of peoples of two continents, that without Columbus there could be no United States. Despite the obvious flaws of such an argument, its premise is fundamentally flawed. Columbus and European colonization are facts of history, but if it is European colonization that we celebrate with Columbus Day, I want no part of that. Columbus represents the advent of a massive invasion of conquerors hostile to the peace and tranquility enjoyed by most Americans prior to 1492. It is the advent of the American holocaust.
The fact is that European technology and industry had reached a stage in 1492 that would have brought a flood of explorers to the American continents whether or not there had been a Columbus. Whether the invasion had been led by Hernan Cortez, Samuel de Champlain, or Henry Hudson the outcome likely would have been the same. Aggressive and technologically advanced Europeans would have brutally invaded the Americas and wreaked havoc on native cultures. How it happened is a matter of history, but not something to celebrate.
There is hope that we may soon jettison this relic of brutal colonialism. At present count three states and about sixty-two cities in the United States have replaced Columbus Day with Indigenous Peoples’ Day. Unlike Christopher Columbus, the people and cultures native to the Americas, especially North America, have made a historically significant contribution to the development of the United States. Whereas the U. S. Constitution draws heavily on English legal traditions and French Enlightenment thought, it also draws on Native American traditions of egalitarianism and localized autonomy. In fact, one might argue that the French Enlightenment was an extension of French colonial interaction with native North Americans. Most importantly, it seems fitting to take the honor away from a symbol of criminal brutality and hand it to his victims. The time has come for our federal government and the remaining cities and states to drop Columbus Day from our official calendars and replace it with an honorable alternative.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
September 22, 2017
On Plagiarism and Copyrights
I think, hope, that every credible author lives in mortal fear of inadvertent copyright infringement and plagiarism. I certainly would never willingly or knowingly steal someone else’s work, but there are those moments after writing a passage that I read back through it and think, “Hmmm, that’s familiar. Why?” After racking my brain, I finally realize that a newspaper article, a movie, or a TV commercial contained a particular phrase or concept. After deleting the errant passage, I start over, ever so careful to think it through in a way that is uniquely me and not someone else.
Like many authors I avoid reading similar works while I am trying to produce a manuscript. I can’t take the chance on another author’s writing voice influencing mine. If I were to sit down and read several Tom Clancy novels just before working on my next manuscript, I guarantee that my prose would look like Tom Clancy wrote it. Can’t do that. It is an imperative that when readers close the cover of my books for the final time, whether they love it or hate it, that they conclude, “Russell Overton wrote that.”
That is one reason I prefer the independent route to publishing. It is not great for sales or notoriety, but it preserves who I am as an author. I fear that the editorial staffs of the big publishing houses water down their authors’ prose so much that their voices get muffled in the process. Don’t get me wrong, if Random House approached me with a big-dollar contract I would seriously consider it. I’m just not actively courting them.
The editorial process is tricky. One must have editorial review, and it has to be done by people that can catch everything from spelling and grammatical errors to repeated words and phrases. Even with the best editorial efforts annoying problems can slip by undetected. A good editor will also catch voice issues that seem out of character for the author – a clear indicator of inadvertent plagiarism. An overzealous editor, however, can not only kill a writer’s style, but can turn a manuscript into his own work, a kind of reverse plagiarism.
I always look forward to the list of “banished words” published by Lake Superior State University. I have even submitted words to them to consider for banishment. Reading the list is a humorous exercise in observing linguistic decay, but it serves another more serious function. By identifying those words that have been culturally wrecked by “mis-use,” “over-use,” and “general uselessness” writers can strengthen their ability to keep their prose unique.
The most annoying occurrence is when I’ve written a passage, no one has read it or reviewed it, and it suddenly appears, nearly verbatim, in a movie, book, or other media outlet. There have been those moments when, if I hadn’t kept my manuscript so closely guarded, that I would have sued for copyright infringement. I then have to second guess myself, “Where did I get the idea?” Regardless, I have to go back and rewrite that passage.
Writing is fun and rewarding. It is a great way to let off steam and regenerate one’s spirit. If I feel like punching someone in the nose, I can do it without incurring any assault charges. If I feel like harassing Nazis I can do it without incurring the wrath of an idiotic president. Still, it is hard work. Carefully avoiding the Scylla and Charybdis of inadvertent plagiarism and copyright infringement requires a steady hand on the wheel.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
Like many authors I avoid reading similar works while I am trying to produce a manuscript. I can’t take the chance on another author’s writing voice influencing mine. If I were to sit down and read several Tom Clancy novels just before working on my next manuscript, I guarantee that my prose would look like Tom Clancy wrote it. Can’t do that. It is an imperative that when readers close the cover of my books for the final time, whether they love it or hate it, that they conclude, “Russell Overton wrote that.”
That is one reason I prefer the independent route to publishing. It is not great for sales or notoriety, but it preserves who I am as an author. I fear that the editorial staffs of the big publishing houses water down their authors’ prose so much that their voices get muffled in the process. Don’t get me wrong, if Random House approached me with a big-dollar contract I would seriously consider it. I’m just not actively courting them.
The editorial process is tricky. One must have editorial review, and it has to be done by people that can catch everything from spelling and grammatical errors to repeated words and phrases. Even with the best editorial efforts annoying problems can slip by undetected. A good editor will also catch voice issues that seem out of character for the author – a clear indicator of inadvertent plagiarism. An overzealous editor, however, can not only kill a writer’s style, but can turn a manuscript into his own work, a kind of reverse plagiarism.
I always look forward to the list of “banished words” published by Lake Superior State University. I have even submitted words to them to consider for banishment. Reading the list is a humorous exercise in observing linguistic decay, but it serves another more serious function. By identifying those words that have been culturally wrecked by “mis-use,” “over-use,” and “general uselessness” writers can strengthen their ability to keep their prose unique.
The most annoying occurrence is when I’ve written a passage, no one has read it or reviewed it, and it suddenly appears, nearly verbatim, in a movie, book, or other media outlet. There have been those moments when, if I hadn’t kept my manuscript so closely guarded, that I would have sued for copyright infringement. I then have to second guess myself, “Where did I get the idea?” Regardless, I have to go back and rewrite that passage.
Writing is fun and rewarding. It is a great way to let off steam and regenerate one’s spirit. If I feel like punching someone in the nose, I can do it without incurring any assault charges. If I feel like harassing Nazis I can do it without incurring the wrath of an idiotic president. Still, it is hard work. Carefully avoiding the Scylla and Charybdis of inadvertent plagiarism and copyright infringement requires a steady hand on the wheel.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
