Mari Collier's Blog, page 12
October 13, 2012
Horse Power
It seems I'm taking the easy way out today as I've nothing written for a Blog. This is a scene from my childhood.
When I was in the primary grades, I attended Gray Consolidated School in Gray, Iowa. It was about five miles from our farm. The mode of transportation was by bus over graveled or graded dirt roads. The school bus driver during my second grade was a man named Mr. Nicely. This struck my seven-year-old brain as something that brought happiness.
When he made the stop for to let my youngest brother and me off, he would make sure we were safely across the road before turning down the dirt road to continue his rounds. As an adult I've often wondered why he bothered waiting for us to cross the road as no one was going to be driving any faster than 30 or 40 miles in 1944. Some people were still driving Model A and Model T autos. No new vehicles had been built since the start of World War Two. Many farmers returned to using their tractors with metal wheels and that had steel lugs as treads. Any farmer that had a newer tractor with rubber tires ran the risk of not being able to use it if the tire were damaged. There were no new tires for tractors or autos. I remember some of the tubes on my oldest brother’s car looked like one big patch.
On the first day of school, I told my mother about Mr. Nicely’s name and how he watched us cross the road. She informed me that I needed to thank him nicely for such thoughtfulness. At the age of seven, one tends to be quite literal in following your parents’ instructions. The next day, I rehearsed over and over what I would say to Mr. Nicely. Of course, he followed the same routine.
As I stepped down from the bus, I said, “Thank you nicely, Mr. Nicely.” I thought he looked a little funny turning red so rapidly.
Later, at the PTA meeting in Gray, he told my mother about my thanking him and his struggle not to let me see him laugh. He was laughing when he told mother. I was slightly miffed when I heard it as I thought I had done the correct thing and adults laughing meant I had not.
All through the year, Mr. Nicely piloted the bus without incident. March in Iowa was like most: Snow, then snow melting, rain, ice, more snow, warmer weather and melting snow. It would be a challenge going to town to buy groceries and everyone made sure they had sufficient gasoline for farming by keeping a gasoline tank. The gas for the farm equipment was purple and delivered by truck. The allotment was quite high, but if any farmer were caught using purple gas in their automobile gas tank it was instant arrest. Like the rest of the populace, farmers had to use ration stamps to purchase gasoline for going to town or church.
By the end of March there were but a few lumps of snow left in isolated spots. The ground was spongy from melting snow and the plentiful spring rains. It was warm enough that mother let me wear knee highs instead of the hated long cotton socks.
As Mr. Nicely turned the corner and started down the dirt road without gravel, the bus slid into the ditch. No amount of gunning and trying to move forward or back made it budge. Mother appeared wondering why we hadn't returned to the house immediately.
“Tell Mr. Nicely I've gone for my husband,” was her command.
Papa appeared shortly as he drove down the lane and onto the graveled road with the iron monster that was our tractor. This thing had metal wheel and metal lugs on the wheels. Once hooked to the front of the bus, Papa put it into gear and tried to move forward. Nothing happened.
Mr. Nicely requested to use the telephone. We did not have one. He was directed to go over to the neighbor’s house a few yards down the road and use theirs.
“I’ll go hitch up the team while you’re doing that.”
Mr. Nicely shook his head and headed for the neighbors. Few believed that horses could do what a machine could not.
Mr. Nicely returned hanging on to the seat of the neighbor’s John Deere with rubber tires. Mr. Fredrickson had purchased it in 1941 prior to the attack on Pearl Harbor. They looked at Papa coming with our team as a madman and hitched the John Deere to the bus. The results were the same as with the iron monster. The bus remained mired in the red clay and dirt mud.
“Guess I’ll have to call the school, but thanks anyway. I thought sure it would move it.”
Papa brought our team over and proceeded to hitch them to the bus. Mr. Fredrickson and Mr. Nicely were shaking their heads at such folly.
A more mismatched team would have been difficult to find. Molly was older and slower, part Clydesdale and just as large as one. Betty was younger, but still less than middle-aged for a farm horse. Her background was part Morgan and part quarter horse. That meant she was at least two hands smaller than Molly. Her chest was a Morgan’s wide chest, but she had slimmer legs. If things went too slow in the fields, she would move the wagon before Papa had finished with the hay or corn. His powerful voice would be clearly audible for incredible distances as he yelled obscenities at her in both German and English.
Once they were hitched to the bus, Papa slapped the reins over their backs and shouted, “Yo up, Betty, Molly, up.”
The two horses leaned forward pushing their chests into the harness and felt the weight behind them and the resistance of the muck around their hooves. I watched their haunches descend in unison and the muscles tightened in their back haunches. Then their necks stretched out and it was like watching the stored strength in the muscles flow forward. Their steps were perfectly matched as they moved slowly, inch by inch as the bus began to move. Even to my eyes it was strange. I’d never seen them pull so evenly together.
Papa kept his voice low and guided them and the bus up onto the road. Both Betty and Molly were covered with foam and their muscles were quivering while they waited to be unhitched.
The thank yous and I didn't believe it could be done were profuse. Papa nodded and grinned and took Molly and Betty back to the barn for a rub down and probably an extra ear of corn or some other treat.
I had never been so proud of Betty and Molly and I never forgot that lesson in horse power.
When I was in the primary grades, I attended Gray Consolidated School in Gray, Iowa. It was about five miles from our farm. The mode of transportation was by bus over graveled or graded dirt roads. The school bus driver during my second grade was a man named Mr. Nicely. This struck my seven-year-old brain as something that brought happiness.
When he made the stop for to let my youngest brother and me off, he would make sure we were safely across the road before turning down the dirt road to continue his rounds. As an adult I've often wondered why he bothered waiting for us to cross the road as no one was going to be driving any faster than 30 or 40 miles in 1944. Some people were still driving Model A and Model T autos. No new vehicles had been built since the start of World War Two. Many farmers returned to using their tractors with metal wheels and that had steel lugs as treads. Any farmer that had a newer tractor with rubber tires ran the risk of not being able to use it if the tire were damaged. There were no new tires for tractors or autos. I remember some of the tubes on my oldest brother’s car looked like one big patch.
On the first day of school, I told my mother about Mr. Nicely’s name and how he watched us cross the road. She informed me that I needed to thank him nicely for such thoughtfulness. At the age of seven, one tends to be quite literal in following your parents’ instructions. The next day, I rehearsed over and over what I would say to Mr. Nicely. Of course, he followed the same routine.
As I stepped down from the bus, I said, “Thank you nicely, Mr. Nicely.” I thought he looked a little funny turning red so rapidly.
Later, at the PTA meeting in Gray, he told my mother about my thanking him and his struggle not to let me see him laugh. He was laughing when he told mother. I was slightly miffed when I heard it as I thought I had done the correct thing and adults laughing meant I had not.
All through the year, Mr. Nicely piloted the bus without incident. March in Iowa was like most: Snow, then snow melting, rain, ice, more snow, warmer weather and melting snow. It would be a challenge going to town to buy groceries and everyone made sure they had sufficient gasoline for farming by keeping a gasoline tank. The gas for the farm equipment was purple and delivered by truck. The allotment was quite high, but if any farmer were caught using purple gas in their automobile gas tank it was instant arrest. Like the rest of the populace, farmers had to use ration stamps to purchase gasoline for going to town or church.
By the end of March there were but a few lumps of snow left in isolated spots. The ground was spongy from melting snow and the plentiful spring rains. It was warm enough that mother let me wear knee highs instead of the hated long cotton socks.
As Mr. Nicely turned the corner and started down the dirt road without gravel, the bus slid into the ditch. No amount of gunning and trying to move forward or back made it budge. Mother appeared wondering why we hadn't returned to the house immediately.
“Tell Mr. Nicely I've gone for my husband,” was her command.
Papa appeared shortly as he drove down the lane and onto the graveled road with the iron monster that was our tractor. This thing had metal wheel and metal lugs on the wheels. Once hooked to the front of the bus, Papa put it into gear and tried to move forward. Nothing happened.
Mr. Nicely requested to use the telephone. We did not have one. He was directed to go over to the neighbor’s house a few yards down the road and use theirs.
“I’ll go hitch up the team while you’re doing that.”
Mr. Nicely shook his head and headed for the neighbors. Few believed that horses could do what a machine could not.
Mr. Nicely returned hanging on to the seat of the neighbor’s John Deere with rubber tires. Mr. Fredrickson had purchased it in 1941 prior to the attack on Pearl Harbor. They looked at Papa coming with our team as a madman and hitched the John Deere to the bus. The results were the same as with the iron monster. The bus remained mired in the red clay and dirt mud.
“Guess I’ll have to call the school, but thanks anyway. I thought sure it would move it.”
Papa brought our team over and proceeded to hitch them to the bus. Mr. Fredrickson and Mr. Nicely were shaking their heads at such folly.
A more mismatched team would have been difficult to find. Molly was older and slower, part Clydesdale and just as large as one. Betty was younger, but still less than middle-aged for a farm horse. Her background was part Morgan and part quarter horse. That meant she was at least two hands smaller than Molly. Her chest was a Morgan’s wide chest, but she had slimmer legs. If things went too slow in the fields, she would move the wagon before Papa had finished with the hay or corn. His powerful voice would be clearly audible for incredible distances as he yelled obscenities at her in both German and English.
Once they were hitched to the bus, Papa slapped the reins over their backs and shouted, “Yo up, Betty, Molly, up.”
The two horses leaned forward pushing their chests into the harness and felt the weight behind them and the resistance of the muck around their hooves. I watched their haunches descend in unison and the muscles tightened in their back haunches. Then their necks stretched out and it was like watching the stored strength in the muscles flow forward. Their steps were perfectly matched as they moved slowly, inch by inch as the bus began to move. Even to my eyes it was strange. I’d never seen them pull so evenly together.
Papa kept his voice low and guided them and the bus up onto the road. Both Betty and Molly were covered with foam and their muscles were quivering while they waited to be unhitched.
The thank yous and I didn't believe it could be done were profuse. Papa nodded and grinned and took Molly and Betty back to the barn for a rub down and probably an extra ear of corn or some other treat.
I had never been so proud of Betty and Molly and I never forgot that lesson in horse power.
October 5, 2012
Research
If you are under the impression that writing science fiction removes the need to do research, you would be wrong. It isn't just a matter of creating new worlds and technology as there must be logic and science within the confines of the tale.
My two published novels happen to be science fiction, but there are located in the United States during a violent time of our history. Two different beings from different planets are trapped here. Both of them have added their genes to ours. Both want to leave. Only one has the spaceship, but he lacks the knowledge. The two aliens are enemies and neither will compromise.
I've always been an avid history reader and felt it would be no problem to write a factual background. How wrong can a person be?
Every date had to be checked. Small things like the invention of screens, the threshing machine (would you believe 1846), bag balm, linoleum, stagecoach routes, the start of a seminary, and even the staffing of forts in the Texas frontier.
Two of the above mentioned items had to be edited out of the stories. The third one that is nearing completion is Earthbound.
To find the answers to all of the above, I used my history books and the online resources. The searches became fascinating journeys into our history. One I just found today. By the 1840s, apple jack was no longer the main choice of beverages in a bar. Rum, whiskey, and beer were replacing a mainstay of American drinking habits.
For my short stories I've read the published accounts of experiments with transferring physical objects to a different location, harmonics, medical procedures, and energy production with solar, fuel cells, and the production of plastics.
The research became a fascinating read. One that I enjoyed as much as reading a novel.
I'll admit that history and archaeology are my favorite nonfiction reads. What is your choice?
My two published novels happen to be science fiction, but there are located in the United States during a violent time of our history. Two different beings from different planets are trapped here. Both of them have added their genes to ours. Both want to leave. Only one has the spaceship, but he lacks the knowledge. The two aliens are enemies and neither will compromise.
I've always been an avid history reader and felt it would be no problem to write a factual background. How wrong can a person be?
Every date had to be checked. Small things like the invention of screens, the threshing machine (would you believe 1846), bag balm, linoleum, stagecoach routes, the start of a seminary, and even the staffing of forts in the Texas frontier.
Two of the above mentioned items had to be edited out of the stories. The third one that is nearing completion is Earthbound.
To find the answers to all of the above, I used my history books and the online resources. The searches became fascinating journeys into our history. One I just found today. By the 1840s, apple jack was no longer the main choice of beverages in a bar. Rum, whiskey, and beer were replacing a mainstay of American drinking habits.
For my short stories I've read the published accounts of experiments with transferring physical objects to a different location, harmonics, medical procedures, and energy production with solar, fuel cells, and the production of plastics.
The research became a fascinating read. One that I enjoyed as much as reading a novel.
I'll admit that history and archaeology are my favorite nonfiction reads. What is your choice?
September 26, 2012
Females in Novels
Romance and mysteries reign supreme for well selling novels. It doesn’t matter if they are contemporary, historical, paranormal, fantasy or some other cross genre as long as the heroine and hero find true love.
I find it difficult to write them. My heroines behave differently; at least differently than the few Romance novels I’ve read. My mother-by-marriage loved them. Sometimes she would insist that my husband and I read them because they were such wonderful books. Lanny completed one. After that he never bothered. I read three or four of them and noticed there seemed to be a formula.
The heroine would have a misunderstanding with the eventual true love. There would be three sexual encounters before they would resolve their differences. The encounters would endanger the heroine or create other problems. I will admit some of the history was well researched, but at other times it was shoddy. No, the ones I read weren’t meant to be alternate history.
This is an excerpt from Before We Leave. It illustrates what I mean about my female characters behaving differently:
Six-year-old Randall was sitting on the fireplace hearth bent over a Dickens’s novel. She really didn’t think he could understand much of it, but was secretly afraid he understood far too much.
Melissa looked at Randall and then at her mother. “Why can’t I go back outside and play with Kendall?”
“Because he plays too rough for a young lady like y’all. Let’s find your colored chalk and y’all can draw something. Maybe Randall will help y’all with your numbers or alphabet.”
Antoinette didn’t think other children learned as rapidly as her first and last born. She wasn’t sure a governess would be sufficient this fall. Miss Ambrose was to return in September. Lorenz had mentioned he would look for a teacher after the drive. One was needed.
Antoinette felt the Rolfe children would benefit as much as her own. It seemed Marty Rolfe was the only one receiving any instruction and that was in the ways of the wild from his grandfather. She shuddered at the thought.
The clatter of hooves, gunfire, men’s shouts and women’s screams interrupted her thoughts. Randall looked up at her, and his eyes widened.
“Mama, do y’all want me to find Pawpaw’s rifle? It’s danger.”
Antoinette looked out the huge front window and saw six horses. Two were heading for the house and four were racing for the barn and bunkhouse area.
“No, come with me both of you!” She picked up Melissa and ran to her bedroom and put Melissa and Randall in the closet.
“Don’t move. Randall, take care your sister. Be still, very, very still. Shh. Don’t come out of there until I say it’s all right!” Her voice was stern, insistent.
There wasn’t time to grab one of the larger guns from the office and she pulled her derringer from her purse and ran to the rocker by the window. From the table beside the rocker, she picked up her embroidery and covered the derringer with the linen scarf she was working on.
Thank goodness the bed is made ran through her mind. She heard the man coming up the porch steps and wished she had had time to be sitting in the parlor. She did not want Randall to come out to protect her. Thank God it was Randall in the closet and not Kendall. Kendall would be arguing with her.
The man didn’t really knock at the door. He kicked against it and walked in. Julia had been in the kitchen, but must have run.
Antoinette walked to the open bedroom door with the linen strewn with a field of pink and blue flowers draped over her right hand and the needle in her left hand.
The man was clad in denims and a dirty, sweat-stained calico shirt. His grey hat was wide brimmed and two guns hung on his hips. Obviously, someone had told him the men were gone. He needed a bath, and Antoinette stilled a gag from the stench of him.
“Hallo, pretty lady. Greet the new man of the house. We’re taking over…”
Antoinette pulled the trigger.
Before We Leave is available at Amazon http://www.amazon.com/Before-We-Leave...
Barnes & Noble http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/befor...
and iBookstore http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/befor...
I find it difficult to write them. My heroines behave differently; at least differently than the few Romance novels I’ve read. My mother-by-marriage loved them. Sometimes she would insist that my husband and I read them because they were such wonderful books. Lanny completed one. After that he never bothered. I read three or four of them and noticed there seemed to be a formula.
The heroine would have a misunderstanding with the eventual true love. There would be three sexual encounters before they would resolve their differences. The encounters would endanger the heroine or create other problems. I will admit some of the history was well researched, but at other times it was shoddy. No, the ones I read weren’t meant to be alternate history.
This is an excerpt from Before We Leave. It illustrates what I mean about my female characters behaving differently:
Six-year-old Randall was sitting on the fireplace hearth bent over a Dickens’s novel. She really didn’t think he could understand much of it, but was secretly afraid he understood far too much.
Melissa looked at Randall and then at her mother. “Why can’t I go back outside and play with Kendall?”
“Because he plays too rough for a young lady like y’all. Let’s find your colored chalk and y’all can draw something. Maybe Randall will help y’all with your numbers or alphabet.”
Antoinette didn’t think other children learned as rapidly as her first and last born. She wasn’t sure a governess would be sufficient this fall. Miss Ambrose was to return in September. Lorenz had mentioned he would look for a teacher after the drive. One was needed.
Antoinette felt the Rolfe children would benefit as much as her own. It seemed Marty Rolfe was the only one receiving any instruction and that was in the ways of the wild from his grandfather. She shuddered at the thought.
The clatter of hooves, gunfire, men’s shouts and women’s screams interrupted her thoughts. Randall looked up at her, and his eyes widened.
“Mama, do y’all want me to find Pawpaw’s rifle? It’s danger.”
Antoinette looked out the huge front window and saw six horses. Two were heading for the house and four were racing for the barn and bunkhouse area.
“No, come with me both of you!” She picked up Melissa and ran to her bedroom and put Melissa and Randall in the closet.
“Don’t move. Randall, take care your sister. Be still, very, very still. Shh. Don’t come out of there until I say it’s all right!” Her voice was stern, insistent.
There wasn’t time to grab one of the larger guns from the office and she pulled her derringer from her purse and ran to the rocker by the window. From the table beside the rocker, she picked up her embroidery and covered the derringer with the linen scarf she was working on.
Thank goodness the bed is made ran through her mind. She heard the man coming up the porch steps and wished she had had time to be sitting in the parlor. She did not want Randall to come out to protect her. Thank God it was Randall in the closet and not Kendall. Kendall would be arguing with her.
The man didn’t really knock at the door. He kicked against it and walked in. Julia had been in the kitchen, but must have run.
Antoinette walked to the open bedroom door with the linen strewn with a field of pink and blue flowers draped over her right hand and the needle in her left hand.
The man was clad in denims and a dirty, sweat-stained calico shirt. His grey hat was wide brimmed and two guns hung on his hips. Obviously, someone had told him the men were gone. He needed a bath, and Antoinette stilled a gag from the stench of him.
“Hallo, pretty lady. Greet the new man of the house. We’re taking over…”
Antoinette pulled the trigger.
Before We Leave is available at Amazon http://www.amazon.com/Before-We-Leave...
Barnes & Noble http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/befor...
and iBookstore http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/befor...
September 20, 2012
Birthdays
Yesterday I celebrated my birthday by working at the Old Schoolhouse Museum in the morning. In the afternoon, I wrote, picked up my granddaughter, and met my daughter at the restaurant. My daughter bought the meal for the celebration.
It did set me to thinking about the different ways different people celebrate. I grew up on a farm and had but one birthday party while at home. That was when I was twelve.
Urban living changed my customs. Our children had their own "cake" and decorations for the cake while growing up. The neighborhood children would gather for a party, and of course, the cake and punch. When they were older we took one (per request)to the Cheese Factory and the other (per request) to a pizza parlor. Both had a friend with them. My parents were horrified at the expense.
Our celebrations seemed rather inexpensive compared to the parties that some people were throwing for their children. Most of our birthday celebration in Phoenix were family related. In Washington, it was still family, but there were no surrounding brothers or sisters with their families. The family there was just us and my mother-in-law who lived with us.
I'm sure people that live in a community with their family all around them still do the old fashion celebrations with the extended family. At least I hope that part of life has not been lost.
It did set me to thinking about the different ways different people celebrate. I grew up on a farm and had but one birthday party while at home. That was when I was twelve.
Urban living changed my customs. Our children had their own "cake" and decorations for the cake while growing up. The neighborhood children would gather for a party, and of course, the cake and punch. When they were older we took one (per request)to the Cheese Factory and the other (per request) to a pizza parlor. Both had a friend with them. My parents were horrified at the expense.
Our celebrations seemed rather inexpensive compared to the parties that some people were throwing for their children. Most of our birthday celebration in Phoenix were family related. In Washington, it was still family, but there were no surrounding brothers or sisters with their families. The family there was just us and my mother-in-law who lived with us.
I'm sure people that live in a community with their family all around them still do the old fashion celebrations with the extended family. At least I hope that part of life has not been lost.
September 14, 2012
Odd Bodkins
This is a four star review written about Once A Frog Always A Frog:
Though I'm still trying to figure out what a 'bodkins' is, I found this story captivating. For awhile I was deep in the Midwest, in muggy, steamy weather, wading through tons of frogs! The author has a quick wit, and a way of writing earthy characters. A fun read!
The phrase is based on a 16th century euphemism. The original words are Ods Bodkins. This was their way of saying God's Body in polite company. To say God's Body aloud was considered a curse. Shakespeare used Ods Bodkins in his plays and everyone knew his meaning. During the several centuries since the fifteen hundreds odd bodkins came to mean an oddly shaped body.
There was no place on smashwords.com for me to inform the reader what the wording meant. It was a term I had heard growing up in rural Iowa. The story is set in rural Iowa and the voice of the people I had heard speaking returned to me.
I try diligently to make sure that everyone understands my stories. I'm glad it didn't spoil the story itself for the reader.
Though I'm still trying to figure out what a 'bodkins' is, I found this story captivating. For awhile I was deep in the Midwest, in muggy, steamy weather, wading through tons of frogs! The author has a quick wit, and a way of writing earthy characters. A fun read!
The phrase is based on a 16th century euphemism. The original words are Ods Bodkins. This was their way of saying God's Body in polite company. To say God's Body aloud was considered a curse. Shakespeare used Ods Bodkins in his plays and everyone knew his meaning. During the several centuries since the fifteen hundreds odd bodkins came to mean an oddly shaped body.
There was no place on smashwords.com for me to inform the reader what the wording meant. It was a term I had heard growing up in rural Iowa. The story is set in rural Iowa and the voice of the people I had heard speaking returned to me.
I try diligently to make sure that everyone understands my stories. I'm glad it didn't spoil the story itself for the reader.
September 8, 2012
Lost and Found
The recent necessary reconstruction of my library/office space meant everything was packed away. Different bookcases were added to one wall which meant I had to go through years of accumulated papers not in my file cabinet.
My daughter will thank me as I threw away stacks of unneeded saved items. Then I struck gold. Years ago, before computers, I had started stories that I knew needed editing, but put them aside as new stories wanted to be written. I thought they had been lost in our move to the desert.
The stories had been written and were no longer in my mind and I could not remember the words or the characters names. Eleven years ago when I unpacked the boxes of papers and books to put in the new bookcases, the papers were put on a bottom shelf while I spent days arranging my novels, history, archaeology, biographies, children's books (yes, I'd saved them), and cookbooks. The papers were forgotten as more papers accumulated.
I'm now busy editing about seven "old" stories. They are as twisted as my current tales. I'll post one for a free read one of these weeks.
My daughter will thank me as I threw away stacks of unneeded saved items. Then I struck gold. Years ago, before computers, I had started stories that I knew needed editing, but put them aside as new stories wanted to be written. I thought they had been lost in our move to the desert.
The stories had been written and were no longer in my mind and I could not remember the words or the characters names. Eleven years ago when I unpacked the boxes of papers and books to put in the new bookcases, the papers were put on a bottom shelf while I spent days arranging my novels, history, archaeology, biographies, children's books (yes, I'd saved them), and cookbooks. The papers were forgotten as more papers accumulated.
I'm now busy editing about seven "old" stories. They are as twisted as my current tales. I'll post one for a free read one of these weeks.
September 2, 2012
Mind Games
What kind of mind games do you play? We all do whether we admit it or not. It's one way to keep the brain active and working in different areas.
When I played Tetris,Type B,I noticed I was able to gauge distances far better than previously. It was a great help in driving. Now I play computer puzzle games like Mahjongg Master 4. Sunday morning, the Sunday paper arrives and gives me the Sunday Crossword Puzzle. It usually takes until Wednesday to complete it. Yes, I'm one of those annoying people who uses a ballpoint pen. Other people prefer math games. Sudoku has many fans.
When I hit a "bump" while writing my stories, I'll stop and play a game of Spider Solitaire. My mind drifts and by the end of one game, the story is back on a smooth road.
So what do you use to play your mind games? I'd love to hear from you.
When I played Tetris,Type B,I noticed I was able to gauge distances far better than previously. It was a great help in driving. Now I play computer puzzle games like Mahjongg Master 4. Sunday morning, the Sunday paper arrives and gives me the Sunday Crossword Puzzle. It usually takes until Wednesday to complete it. Yes, I'm one of those annoying people who uses a ballpoint pen. Other people prefer math games. Sudoku has many fans.
When I hit a "bump" while writing my stories, I'll stop and play a game of Spider Solitaire. My mind drifts and by the end of one game, the story is back on a smooth road.
So what do you use to play your mind games? I'd love to hear from you.
August 25, 2012
Editing
Somehow I was the one that edited the upcoming Desert Writers Guild anthology. Our editor had her lost her flash drive with the copy, but she had forwarded the completed version to me as a back up. Let me say I hate editing.
What should have been a simple process turned into a nightmare. Two ladies had so many errors that there were corrections on every page. There was not time to give it back to them to correct. Both manuscripts were filled with misspelled words and incomplete sentences. It was a shock as both of these ladies are good story tellers. I came to the conclusion that they had hurried to submit the stories before our deadline and did not use the spell or grammar check.
When you write make sure you use the tools available. Read your work aloud and re-edit. If possible, have someone else edit your story before turning it in for publication.
What should have been a simple process turned into a nightmare. Two ladies had so many errors that there were corrections on every page. There was not time to give it back to them to correct. Both manuscripts were filled with misspelled words and incomplete sentences. It was a shock as both of these ladies are good story tellers. I came to the conclusion that they had hurried to submit the stories before our deadline and did not use the spell or grammar check.
When you write make sure you use the tools available. Read your work aloud and re-edit. If possible, have someone else edit your story before turning it in for publication.
August 24, 2012
My Twisted Tales
This one isn't twisted. It's from my childhood. HORSE POWER
When I was in the primary grades, I attended Gray Consolidated School in Gray, Iowa. It was about five miles from our farm. The mode of transportation was by bus over graveled or graded dirt roads. The school bus driver during my second grade was a man named Mr. Nicely. This struck my seven-year-old brain as something that brought happiness.
When he made the stop for to let my youngest brother and me off, he would make sure we were safely across the road before turning down the dirt road to continue his rounds. As an adult I’ve often wondered why he bothered waiting for us to cross the road as no one was going to be driving any faster than 30 or 40 miles in 1944. Some people were still driving Model A and Model T autos. No new vehicles had been built since the start of World War Two. Many farmers returned to using their tractors with metal wheels and that had steel lugs as treads. Any farmer that had a newer tractor with rubber tires ran the risk of not being able to use it if the tire were damaged. There were no new tires for tractors or autos. I remember some of the tubes on my oldest brother’s car looked like one big patch.
On the first day of school, I told my mother about Mr. Nicely’s name and how he watched us cross the road. She informed me that I needed to thank him nicely for such thoughtfulness. At the age of seven, one tends to be quite literal in following your parents’ instructions. The next day, I rehearsed over and over what I would say to Mr. Nicely. Of course, he followed the same routine.
As I stepped down from the bus, I said, “Thank you nicely, Mr. Nicely.” I thought he looked a little funny turning red so rapidly.
Later, at the PTA meeting in Gray, he told my mother about my thanking him and his struggle not to let me see him laugh. He was laughing when he told mother. I was slightly miffed when I heard it as I thought I had done the correct thing and adults laughing meant I had not.
All through the year, Mr. Nicely piloted the bus without incident. March in Iowa was like most: Snow, then snow melting, rain, ice, more snow, warmer weather and melting snow. It would be a challenge going to town to buy groceries and everyone made sure they had sufficient gasoline for farming by keeping a gasoline tank. The gas for the farm equipment was purple and delivered by truck. The allotment was quite high, but if any farmer were caught using purple gas in their automobile gas tank it was instant arrest. Like the rest of the populace, farmers had to use ration stamps to purchase gasoline for going to town or church.
By the end of March there were but a few lumps of snow left in isolated spots. The ground was spongy from melting snow and the plentiful spring rains. It was warm enough that mother let me wear knee highs instead of the hated long cotton socks.
As Mr. Nicely turned the corner and started down the dirt road without gravel, the bus slid into the ditch. No amount of gunning and trying to move forward or back made it budge. Mother appeared wondering why we hadn't arrived at the house.
“Tell Mr. Nicely I’ve gone for my husband,” was her command.
Papa appeared shortly as he drove down the lane and onto the graveled road with the iron monster that was our tractor. This thing had metal wheel and metal cleats on the wheels. Once hooked to the front of the bus, Papa put it into gear and tried to move forward. Nothing happened.
Mr. Nicely requested to use the telephone. We did not have one. He was directed to go over to the neighbor’s house a few yards down the road and use theirs.
“I’ll go hitch up the team while you’re doing that.”
Mr. Nicely shook his head and headed for the neighbors. Few believed that horses could do what a machine could not.
Mr. Nicely returned hanging on to the seat of the neighbor’s John Deere with rubber tires. Mr. Fredrickson had purchased it in 1941 prior to the attack on Pearl Harbor. They looked at Papa coming with our team as a madman and hitched the John Deere to the bus. The results were the same as with the iron monster. The bus remained mired in the red clay and dirt mud.
“Guess I’ll have to call the school, but thanks anyway. I thought sure it would move it.”
Papa brought our team over and proceeded to hitch them to the bus. Mr. Fredrickson and Mr. Nicely were shaking their heads at such folly.
A more mismatched team would have been difficult to find. Molly was older and slower, part Clydesdale and just as large as one. Betty was younger, but still less than middle-aged for a farm horse. Her background was part Morgan and part quarter horse. That meant she was at least two hands smaller than Molly. Her chest was a Morgan’s wide chest, but she had the slimmer back legs of a quarter horse. If things went too slow in the fields, she would move the wagon before Papa had finished with the hay or corn. His powerful voice would be clearly audible for incredible distances as he yelled obscenities at her in both German and English.
Once they were hitched to the bus, Papa slapped the reins over their backs and shouted, “Yo up, Betty, Molly, up.”
The two horses leaned forward pushing their chests into the harness and felt the weight behind them and the resistance of the muck around their hooves. I watched their haunches descend in unison and the muscles tightened in their back haunches. Then their necks stretched out and it was like watching the stored strength in the muscles flow forward. Their steps were perfectly matched as they moved slowly, inch by inch as the bus began to move. Even to my eyes it was strange. I’d never seen them pull so evenly together.
This time Papa kept his voice low and guided them and the bus up onto the road. Both Betty and Molly were covered with foam and their muscles quivering while they waited to be unhitched.
The "thank yous" and "I didn’t believe it could be done" were profuse. Papa nodded and grinned and took Molly and Betty back to the barn for a rub down and probably an extra ear of corn or some other treat.
I had never been so proud of Betty and Molly and I never forgot that lesson in horse power.
When I was in the primary grades, I attended Gray Consolidated School in Gray, Iowa. It was about five miles from our farm. The mode of transportation was by bus over graveled or graded dirt roads. The school bus driver during my second grade was a man named Mr. Nicely. This struck my seven-year-old brain as something that brought happiness.
When he made the stop for to let my youngest brother and me off, he would make sure we were safely across the road before turning down the dirt road to continue his rounds. As an adult I’ve often wondered why he bothered waiting for us to cross the road as no one was going to be driving any faster than 30 or 40 miles in 1944. Some people were still driving Model A and Model T autos. No new vehicles had been built since the start of World War Two. Many farmers returned to using their tractors with metal wheels and that had steel lugs as treads. Any farmer that had a newer tractor with rubber tires ran the risk of not being able to use it if the tire were damaged. There were no new tires for tractors or autos. I remember some of the tubes on my oldest brother’s car looked like one big patch.
On the first day of school, I told my mother about Mr. Nicely’s name and how he watched us cross the road. She informed me that I needed to thank him nicely for such thoughtfulness. At the age of seven, one tends to be quite literal in following your parents’ instructions. The next day, I rehearsed over and over what I would say to Mr. Nicely. Of course, he followed the same routine.
As I stepped down from the bus, I said, “Thank you nicely, Mr. Nicely.” I thought he looked a little funny turning red so rapidly.
Later, at the PTA meeting in Gray, he told my mother about my thanking him and his struggle not to let me see him laugh. He was laughing when he told mother. I was slightly miffed when I heard it as I thought I had done the correct thing and adults laughing meant I had not.
All through the year, Mr. Nicely piloted the bus without incident. March in Iowa was like most: Snow, then snow melting, rain, ice, more snow, warmer weather and melting snow. It would be a challenge going to town to buy groceries and everyone made sure they had sufficient gasoline for farming by keeping a gasoline tank. The gas for the farm equipment was purple and delivered by truck. The allotment was quite high, but if any farmer were caught using purple gas in their automobile gas tank it was instant arrest. Like the rest of the populace, farmers had to use ration stamps to purchase gasoline for going to town or church.
By the end of March there were but a few lumps of snow left in isolated spots. The ground was spongy from melting snow and the plentiful spring rains. It was warm enough that mother let me wear knee highs instead of the hated long cotton socks.
As Mr. Nicely turned the corner and started down the dirt road without gravel, the bus slid into the ditch. No amount of gunning and trying to move forward or back made it budge. Mother appeared wondering why we hadn't arrived at the house.
“Tell Mr. Nicely I’ve gone for my husband,” was her command.
Papa appeared shortly as he drove down the lane and onto the graveled road with the iron monster that was our tractor. This thing had metal wheel and metal cleats on the wheels. Once hooked to the front of the bus, Papa put it into gear and tried to move forward. Nothing happened.
Mr. Nicely requested to use the telephone. We did not have one. He was directed to go over to the neighbor’s house a few yards down the road and use theirs.
“I’ll go hitch up the team while you’re doing that.”
Mr. Nicely shook his head and headed for the neighbors. Few believed that horses could do what a machine could not.
Mr. Nicely returned hanging on to the seat of the neighbor’s John Deere with rubber tires. Mr. Fredrickson had purchased it in 1941 prior to the attack on Pearl Harbor. They looked at Papa coming with our team as a madman and hitched the John Deere to the bus. The results were the same as with the iron monster. The bus remained mired in the red clay and dirt mud.
“Guess I’ll have to call the school, but thanks anyway. I thought sure it would move it.”
Papa brought our team over and proceeded to hitch them to the bus. Mr. Fredrickson and Mr. Nicely were shaking their heads at such folly.
A more mismatched team would have been difficult to find. Molly was older and slower, part Clydesdale and just as large as one. Betty was younger, but still less than middle-aged for a farm horse. Her background was part Morgan and part quarter horse. That meant she was at least two hands smaller than Molly. Her chest was a Morgan’s wide chest, but she had the slimmer back legs of a quarter horse. If things went too slow in the fields, she would move the wagon before Papa had finished with the hay or corn. His powerful voice would be clearly audible for incredible distances as he yelled obscenities at her in both German and English.
Once they were hitched to the bus, Papa slapped the reins over their backs and shouted, “Yo up, Betty, Molly, up.”
The two horses leaned forward pushing their chests into the harness and felt the weight behind them and the resistance of the muck around their hooves. I watched their haunches descend in unison and the muscles tightened in their back haunches. Then their necks stretched out and it was like watching the stored strength in the muscles flow forward. Their steps were perfectly matched as they moved slowly, inch by inch as the bus began to move. Even to my eyes it was strange. I’d never seen them pull so evenly together.
This time Papa kept his voice low and guided them and the bus up onto the road. Both Betty and Molly were covered with foam and their muscles quivering while they waited to be unhitched.
The "thank yous" and "I didn’t believe it could be done" were profuse. Papa nodded and grinned and took Molly and Betty back to the barn for a rub down and probably an extra ear of corn or some other treat.
I had never been so proud of Betty and Molly and I never forgot that lesson in horse power.
