Sue Merrell's Blog: Laughing for a Living, page 24

Be there and be square

      
Sometimes I feel like I'm riding the crest of a wave -- even when West Michigan isn't in the middle of a 100-year flood. I'm referring to the rising tide of would-be authors.
         "Celebrate the Mitten," Kent District Library's second annual writers' conference, was a sell-out today, with 200 people gathering at the Cascade Library to hear Michigan authors such as Mardi Link and D.E. Johnson talk about their craft, and publishing representatives from Arbutus Press and StoryLook Design offer advice for improving their work. I was pleased to be included on the panel with such talented, and successful writers.
        But I was also impressed by the writers who filled the audience: humorist Myron Kukla,  former Press food writer Kathy Carrier,  animal advocate Janet Vormitag, writing coach Tricia MacDonald. There was a poet trying to sort out how panels on copyediting and covers applied to her. A Pakistani filmmaker passed out DVDs of his latest work. A scientist said he needs an editor to help with words; a suited businessman easily won best dressed; a woman with a PhD in English bemoaned the lack of editing. They brought folders stuffed with their stories and drawings. One woman said she had written a musical, complete with script and songs, and just needed a theater to try it out. Another was trying to promote her beautiful hardcover book about the history of a lighthouse.
         I like to think the speakers provided some encouragement and answers for these hopeful scribes.  But none of us could offer the secret handshake for getting their creative treasures published and into the hands of the readers they so desperately desire.
        At the end of the day, the panelists gathered to sign and sell their books. Three people in a row asked if I could take credit cards. I don't. But Mardi Link plugged a quarter-size white plastic square into the top of her phone and in an instant she was doing business. So I learned something too. If I'm going to stay ahead of this flood of talent, I gotta be square.

Bye, bye 155

   
On a snowy February day more than 23 years ago I walked into the Press building at 155 Michigan St. for the first time. Today, on a sometimes sunny, sometimes snowy April day I walked those familiar halls for the last time.
     Like the mixed weather, I have mixed feelings about the end of an era. Of course, my era at The Press officially ended almost four years ago when I retired, but I continue to freelance. Now the building has been sold, the remaining newsroom employees -- copy desk and high school sports desk -- will move to new offices in Walker next week. The reporters have been operating out of the downtown hub for more than a year. 
   Today about 100 of us gathered for one last potluck. Oh, they always had the best potlucks. A few of the people who came today still work at the new M-Live media group that has replaced The Press. But most were folks like me who no longer work there but  have way too many memories in that building. '
   I remember coming down that elevator the night we bombed Iran the first time, back during Desert Storm, and I remember thinking, "Is this it? Is this the beginning of another World War?" Then one morning 10 years later when I boarded that elevator, another passenger said he had just heard on his car radio that a plane had flown into the World Trade Center. I went up to the newsroom and watched in disbelief as the towers crumbled. I've shared so much more than potlucks with those people.
    We gathered one New Year's Eve for Y2K, not sure if our computers would work through the night. Year after year we watched Santa parades line up by our parking lot, Festivals unfold on our doorstep and Celebration on the Grand fireworks explode overhead.
     For some of those there today like Pete Demaagd and Ann Wells, this is not the first building they have outlived. They said goodbye to the former buildings of The Press and The Herald. And I know that Publisher Dan Gaydou is right. The Press and M-Live Media Group are moving into an exciting new era.
     But that doesn't keep me from mourning the place where I spent so many hours for the past 20 years. Or from thinking that the flag flying at half mast in front of the building is symbolic of the loss I feel.
     Nevertheless, getting together with those friends is always a celebration. Who would have thought that one day the Honeytones, a local band composed of former Press writers Charley Honey and John Sinkevics and copyeditor Jerry Seim, would set up in the middle of the room and play while we danced?

Wet Tortugas

   The Dry Tortugas weren't very dry when we visited Tuesday.
Tracks for the cannons. Unlike the "dry" counties of the Bible Belt, the adjective doesn't mean the Tortugas don't approve of liquor sales. It comes from the fact that there is no fresh water on the island chain about 70 miles west of Key West. When Fort Jefferson was built there before the Civil War,  the plan to create a system of cisterns to  collect fresh water didn't work very well because it doesn't rain much there, and salt water seeped into the cisterns that were dug.
    But it rained Tuesday, and not that quick misty tropical rain that dries up almost as fast as it falls. It rained that cold, dreary all-day sort of drizzle. A rain like I expect  in England but never in the Keys. We saw more hours of rain on Tuesday  than in both the winters we've spent in the Keys put together.
     Nevertheless we had an enjoyable trip. The old brick fort is huge. It's surrounded by a moat walk that's like snorkling without putting your head in the water. The coral has built up along the moat wall and you can walk on top of it and just look down at beautiful plants and fish, like an aquarium at your feet.
      Fort Jefferson is most famous for being the prison for Dr. Samuel Mudd who was convicted of helping John Wilkes Booth assassinate President Lincoln. It was a Union fortress during the war, along with Ft. Zachary Taylor in Key West. But now it's a national park best known its bird nesting grounds.
You can walk around the fort on top of the moat wall.      

Countdown begins

The sun is setting on another winter in paradise    Yesterday wasn't just the ides of March. It was the three-month mark of our stay in the keys. We head for home in a little over two weeks.
    Yipes.
     There are still several things on my list that haven't been done. Like dinner at Square Grouper. Breakfast at Coco's. We haven't even made it to the Dry Tortugas.
      When we came down in December it seemed like we had plenty of time. We'll do that some day. And that too. We've done most the things that were on our list -- biking and kayaking and fishing, plus a play, a seafood festival, an art show, taking the bus to Key West and trying out several restaurants. We even did some great things that weren't on the list, such as the Key Deer Reserve Day Camp, a full-moon kayak trip and hearing author Tom Corcoran speak. But now as the final days count down, it's hurry, hurry, don't forget.
      I biked the path through the Saddle Bunch Keys today. Check that off.
      We are scheduled for the Dry Tortuga trip on Tuesday.
      We're frying up the fish in the freezer. Clearing out the pantry. And trying to find time to finish the books we brought and that Swedish weaving afghan that has been my TV time handiwork for two winters now.
        And I'm starting to make April appointments in Michigan. AD: After De Drive. I don't know if I'm ready for a chilly spring. But then it will be summer again and not enough time to do everything.
     

First Lady Fantasy

While Michelle's deep bangs and her Oscar appearance may be getting all the press, a one-woman stage show reminds us First Ladies have been graciously dodging slings and arrows for generations.

Tea for Three, written by Eric Weinberger and performed by Elaine Bromka, is playing to sold-out houses in Key West this weekend. I was able to nab a lone seat in the back row for my first theater visit of 2013.

In the 80-minute show, Bromka portrays the southern charm of Lady Bird Johnson, the regal reserve of Pat Nixon and the relaxed frankness of Betty Ford. She does a good job of capturing some of the mannerisms of each, enough to jog the memory and bring a smile of recognition. Perhaps her best moments are when Lady Bird talks like Lyndon or Pat mimics Dick, flashing a brief impersonation of the presidents and quickly transforming back to the First Ladies.

The script recalls a good sampling of events from the times and the differences between the three women. It's good to recall that Lady Bird, and women of her era, were proud to center their whole life on their husband's identity. Fans from Grand Rapids, would be delighted to hear Betty recalling her years as a model at "Herps." But if Tea for Three were to play Grand Rapids now, the right wing would shudder to recall that their favorite son, Gerald Ford, and his outspoken wife were from a time of  moderate, pro-choice Republicans who supported ERA and women's rights.

Time Marches On

Steve vacuuming up paint chips         What happened to February?
         One day it was January and the next thing I know, it's March.
          But March knows how to get your attention. You know what they say: In like a lion, out like a lamb. Of course, in the Keys, even a lion is a pussy cat. We're having a cold wave, which looks worse on the weather map than it feels, at least so far. It's about 70 and cloudy. Cool enough to wear long pants and long sleeved shirts. Not quite sweatshirt weather, but it will be tonight.
          I know this sounds like a mild complaint to those of you in northern climes where the cold front is bringing yet another snow storm. The problem with my new life...spending almost 4 months in Florida each year ... is that I forget that winter exists elsewhere. It's so easy to forget.
          We took advantage of today's chilly weather to finish scraping the fence. We are calling it the Tom Sawyer project. The place where we are staying is immaculate except for a peeling fence, so Steve and I decided to scrape and paint the front portion, sort of a thank you gift to the owners. Steve is nice that way. I also gathered up palm fronds today for tomorrow's pick up of yard waste.
           Feels like fall in Michigan.

The world primeval

      So still.
       The mangroves block the breeze. It is so quiet that even dipping my paddle in the water seems too noisy. So we sit still in some forgotten place. Some place where time stands still.
      The water is a looking glass into the fantasy world below. Grasses so straight they look like newspapers run through a paper shredder. Lacey ferns the color of manila envelopes. Sponges like giant vases, or huge Indian pottery or grey monster brains. And coral. Black and spindly. Or round like an underwater orange.
      A little jelly fish dances by doing its flirtatious Can-can.  Lime green fish, smaller than a pencil, flit through the water. And on the bottom, going nowhere, is a horseshoe crab barely distinguishable from the sand.
      We drift around a corner and my companion screams in surprise as a  great blue heron spreads its wings and lifts out of the woody legs of the mangrove. Ahead are three ibis, no four.
      Our paddles disturb the water surface enough that the stationary objects below seem to be moving. Even the shadow of the paddle takes on a watery personality. What's that black floating through the water? A sting ray? No, just a plastic bag which my companion fishes out with her paddle and carries home. We'll leave the mangroves the way they should be.
      Still.

Love hurts

 In honor of Valentine's Day,  I'm participating in a Blog Hop. Author A.F. Stewart has asked us to do a send-up of all the sappy sweetness of the day with something more startling, the rotten side of romance. You'll find a list of the other participating blogs at the end of my post.

I don't write horror, but you can't get more frightening than the truth.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways:

1 billion -- That's the number of women on the planet today who will be raped or beaten in her lifetime, according to www.onebillionrising.org

2.4 million -- That's the number of folks in bondage around the world, according to the United Nations' figures on Human Trafficking. The vast majority (80 percent) are being exploited for sex, ie slaves to love.
.
$90 -- For less than the cost of  Telefloral's Beautiful Bouquet of a dozen long-stemmed roses, you could buy the average sex slave on the Human Trafficking market.

 1.3 million-- That's how many women are physically assaulted by their lover every year  in the United States.  Almost as many men -- 835,000 -- are assaulted by their intimate partners.  Instead of chocolates for Valentine's Day, they get a black eye.



 For our final Valentine's Day countdown:
5 -- The percentage of rapes that result in pregnancy (Sorry Mr. Akin). A 1996 study in the American Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology reported that “among adult women an estimated 32,101 pregnancies result from rape each year.”

4 -- The average number of divorces every minute in the U.S. That means 6,646 divorces per day, and 46,523 divorce per week. The good news is the divorce rate is dropping. The Census Bureau says the divorce rate in 2005 (per 1,000 people) was 3.6 -- the lowest rate since 1970.. Of course, the marriage rate is also dropping.

 3 -- the number of women who will be murdered today in the United States by a husband or boyfriend.

2 -- As in minutes. Before Elvis can finish singing "Love Me Tender," another woman will be raped in America, according to The Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network.

Number 1 -- Domestic violence is the leading cause of injury to women, more than car accidents, rape and muggings combined. Statistically, the most dangerous man in the world is the one you are sleeping with.

Try to have a Happy Valentine's Day.

I made the cut!

      After a lifetime as a journalist, I've grown accustomed to seeing my name in print. You might say the thrill is gone. But I was never so excited to see my name as today when I opened up Amazon's list of books/authors being considered for this year's Breakthrough Novel Award. It's a long list. Amazon opened the contest to 10,000 . In the first round, the field was cut to 2,000 -- five categories with 400 in each. I thought the list would be posted when I woke up this morning and was disappointed to learn that the posting time would be about 9 a.m. Pacific -- or not until noon here on the East Coast. So I joined some friends for a day of sun and paddling kayaks around Bahai Honda State Park. I returned about 3:30 p.m. and found the list was indeed posted. I clicked on the mystery/thriller category and scrolled down page after page. It was alphabetical by first names and Sue is waaaaay down the alphabet. But to my delight, my name was there. So many books are being published these days that it's really hard to stand out in the pack. 2,000 contestants is still a pretty hefty pack, but I'm feeling just a little taller today.

Sharing the Shade

I got to the beach early today. Before 10 a.m. I claimed a prime parking spot right next to the entrance and set up my chair in the shade of the lone palm tree.
"Mind if I share your shade?" I asked a man who had placed his chair close enough to hug the tree.
"No, Ma'am," he said with a southern accent that seemed to explain his use of a courtesy title.
Before long his wife returned from walking their reddish Pomeranian. She chattered to her husband non-stop but I was busy eating my breakfast of two clementines. I'd been up for hours. Dropped Steve off at a fishing buddy's place at 8 a.m. so I could have the van, drove to Marathon and biked out to Pigeon Key. It's a pleasant ride on an abandoned highway, two miles out, two miles back, with the sun and sea all around. But by 10 a.m. I was famished.
       While I ate I watched a family set up camp in a sunny spot. A skinny Dad in his 20s headed to the water with a diapered toddler no more than 18 months waddling behind. Mom spread a bright turquoise sheet in the sand while a  woman in her 40s, probably Grandma, arrived with a pail-carrying boy of about 3. Mom was very pregnant. She pulled off her dark T-shirt to reveal a lime green striped bikini framing her huge baby bump. Dad was knee deep in the water tossing the little girl over his head so high that I feared for her safety. But she just giggled enthusiastically.
          By the time I finished breakfast and decided to spread a towel on the sand, the shade had shifted.  I was in the sun now and a group of three Spanish-speaking girls had moved into the circle of shade cast by the palm. They jabbered excitedly as I slathered on sun screen and laid back with a big hat covering my face. As I laid in the sun, I made a game of trying to eavesdrop on their conversation using the few words of Spanish I know.
           After a while I walked down the beach. One young man was traversing the bay standing on a paddle board. Another couple was trying to share a paddle board but kept tumbling off over and over and laughing like it didn't matter.A little boy was digging a hole in the sand like a dog burying a bone, pawing the ground furiously with his hands and throwing the sand into a pile between his legs. 
           By the time I returned, the Spanish-speaking trio had left so I moved my towel into the shade. Another couple had arrived and spread their towels in  the lacy fingers of shade but mostly in the sun. In the sun beyond, two couples were lined up on towels, chattering about restaurants. After a while the women decided to pose in the surf but the husband who was supposed to be shooting their photo kept having trouble with the camera. "A little to the left. You're too far out. Oh, I zoomed in too much. The women got tired of holding their playful pose. "Take the picture will ya!"
          A little after noon a family invaded determined to capture every available inch of shade. Grandma swept up some seaweed to clear off a spot for her towel. A white-bearded grandpa followed right behind, as well as a father in an Indiana Jones hat, a pair of kids clutching pink and blue inflated inner tubes and a mother clicking her camera. It was clear we couldn't all fit in the small circle of shade the palm provided.
          I got up and folded my towel. "If you want the shade, go ahead," I said. "I've had it all morning."
           It was time to pack up and go to lunch anyway.