Carlene Havel's Blog: Carlene, page 11
October 12, 2012
1960 Short Story
Hop in the time machine and enjoy a short historical story about the 1960s…
Every girl in my high school wanted to belong to the popular clique, but that required being pretty and appealing to the opposite sex. Alternatively, there were the fast girls, who wore piles of makeup. Some even bleached their hair. Most smoked an occasional cigarette in the girls’ bathroom, and all were rumored to have done it. I wasn’t sure what “it” was, but no matter. My hawk-eyed parents would never let me wear enough paint and powder to run with this crowd. By default I drifted into a small group of self-styled smart girls. We thought of ourselves as studious, since never having a date leaves a lot of time for hitting the books. Smart girls did homework during study hall instead of passing notes to reveal who liked whom.
Athletes wore their letter jackets on the day they were awarded. For the remainder of the year, the jackets would be worn by the popular girls. A boy who wore his own jacket in the hallway thereby signaled he had broken up with his popular girlfriend. In a week or so the trophy would pass to another member of the in-crowd. The previously disgraced male of the species could resume hauling a double load of books. He would again fit in.
I’m still not certain why I signed up for a semester of physics. The interesting sound of the word may have been enough. It sounded collegiate, pretentious, self-important--so me. Maybe it was because only seniors could take physics, or it could be I cherished the ambition of solidifying my standing as a smart girl. Regardless of the reason, on the first day of school, first period, I reported to Mr. Krause’s physics class.
The bell rang, and the formidable Mr. Krause strode in. He was a great bear of a man with a wide, Teutonic face, and a shock of unruly white hair. His eyeglasses looked like the bottoms of coke bottles mounted on wire rims. They magnified his eyes into great blue blobs. There never had been, never would be, any discipline problem in Mr. Krause's classroom.
Taking a seat behind his desk, Mr. Krause straightened his tie and began to speak. His voice was deep and strong, with just the slightest trace of the Old Country lingering. He spoke deliberately, making eye-contact with each student. “Physics is the study of matter and motion. It is the foundation of the discipline of mechanical engineering. It is not a class for girls.” He stopped talking, and my heart stopped beating. The ten boys smirked.
JoAnne Wilson made the unfortunate selection of a desk on the front row, directly in front of Mr. Krause. His eyes locked on hers with an intensity that would melt asbestos. JoAnne blushed. She averted her eyes. She fidgeted. After what seemed forever, she quietly closed her notebook, stacked her books, picked up her purse, and left. Everyone knew JoAnne's next stop would be the school office, where she would drop physics.
If Mr. Krause turned to me next, I would surrender. At seventeen I did not have the backbone to take on a teacher, particularly Mr. Krause. Instead, he turned his head to the side of the room opposite me and blew a blizzard of visual icicles toward Kitty Blackwell. While I was frantically trying to decide what to do, a hitch-your-wagon-to-a-star decision came to me. If Kitty went, I would follow her out the door. If she toughed it out, I would stay too.
Other Katherines were Kathy or Kate, but Miss Blackwell was always Kitty. She was a member of the most elite girls’ group, the chosen few who were both smart and popular. Kitty was a cheerleader, the steady girlfriend of a football star. Her family had money and social status. With no apparent effort, she made excellent grades. Most enviable of all, Kitty was beyond pretty. She was beautiful, gorgeous, stunning.
This girl had been stared at before, and she knew exactly how to handle it. She met Mr. Krause’s gaze not defiantly, but coquettishly. Without dropping her eyes, she slowly began to smile at him. I did not know the word seductive, but recognized the concept in action nevertheless. So did the ten young men in the room. So, apparently, did Mr. Krause. He reddened ever so slightly and dropped his glare. Perhaps he mistook me for one of the boys, or maybe he knew the game was over. In any case, he never looked in my direction. Kitty stayed. Therefore, I stayed.
I’ll say this for old Mr. Krause; he didn’t fudge on grades. The students who knew the answers passed the tests. At the end of the semester there were five A’s in the class. Kitty breezed to hers with her usual aplomb. I worked like a dog for mine.
Not long afterwards, bras were burning, women were marching, and teachers like Mr. Krause were hastily retiring. An awakening started for me on that September morning, when I began to understand quiet perseverance is a possible right answer to unreasonable exercise of authority. Could that be the basis of mechanical engineering? Anyway, that’s what Mr. Krause taught me in high school physics.
Every girl in my high school wanted to belong to the popular clique, but that required being pretty and appealing to the opposite sex. Alternatively, there were the fast girls, who wore piles of makeup. Some even bleached their hair. Most smoked an occasional cigarette in the girls’ bathroom, and all were rumored to have done it. I wasn’t sure what “it” was, but no matter. My hawk-eyed parents would never let me wear enough paint and powder to run with this crowd. By default I drifted into a small group of self-styled smart girls. We thought of ourselves as studious, since never having a date leaves a lot of time for hitting the books. Smart girls did homework during study hall instead of passing notes to reveal who liked whom.
Athletes wore their letter jackets on the day they were awarded. For the remainder of the year, the jackets would be worn by the popular girls. A boy who wore his own jacket in the hallway thereby signaled he had broken up with his popular girlfriend. In a week or so the trophy would pass to another member of the in-crowd. The previously disgraced male of the species could resume hauling a double load of books. He would again fit in.
I’m still not certain why I signed up for a semester of physics. The interesting sound of the word may have been enough. It sounded collegiate, pretentious, self-important--so me. Maybe it was because only seniors could take physics, or it could be I cherished the ambition of solidifying my standing as a smart girl. Regardless of the reason, on the first day of school, first period, I reported to Mr. Krause’s physics class.
The bell rang, and the formidable Mr. Krause strode in. He was a great bear of a man with a wide, Teutonic face, and a shock of unruly white hair. His eyeglasses looked like the bottoms of coke bottles mounted on wire rims. They magnified his eyes into great blue blobs. There never had been, never would be, any discipline problem in Mr. Krause's classroom.
Taking a seat behind his desk, Mr. Krause straightened his tie and began to speak. His voice was deep and strong, with just the slightest trace of the Old Country lingering. He spoke deliberately, making eye-contact with each student. “Physics is the study of matter and motion. It is the foundation of the discipline of mechanical engineering. It is not a class for girls.” He stopped talking, and my heart stopped beating. The ten boys smirked.
JoAnne Wilson made the unfortunate selection of a desk on the front row, directly in front of Mr. Krause. His eyes locked on hers with an intensity that would melt asbestos. JoAnne blushed. She averted her eyes. She fidgeted. After what seemed forever, she quietly closed her notebook, stacked her books, picked up her purse, and left. Everyone knew JoAnne's next stop would be the school office, where she would drop physics.
If Mr. Krause turned to me next, I would surrender. At seventeen I did not have the backbone to take on a teacher, particularly Mr. Krause. Instead, he turned his head to the side of the room opposite me and blew a blizzard of visual icicles toward Kitty Blackwell. While I was frantically trying to decide what to do, a hitch-your-wagon-to-a-star decision came to me. If Kitty went, I would follow her out the door. If she toughed it out, I would stay too.
Other Katherines were Kathy or Kate, but Miss Blackwell was always Kitty. She was a member of the most elite girls’ group, the chosen few who were both smart and popular. Kitty was a cheerleader, the steady girlfriend of a football star. Her family had money and social status. With no apparent effort, she made excellent grades. Most enviable of all, Kitty was beyond pretty. She was beautiful, gorgeous, stunning.
This girl had been stared at before, and she knew exactly how to handle it. She met Mr. Krause’s gaze not defiantly, but coquettishly. Without dropping her eyes, she slowly began to smile at him. I did not know the word seductive, but recognized the concept in action nevertheless. So did the ten young men in the room. So, apparently, did Mr. Krause. He reddened ever so slightly and dropped his glare. Perhaps he mistook me for one of the boys, or maybe he knew the game was over. In any case, he never looked in my direction. Kitty stayed. Therefore, I stayed.
I’ll say this for old Mr. Krause; he didn’t fudge on grades. The students who knew the answers passed the tests. At the end of the semester there were five A’s in the class. Kitty breezed to hers with her usual aplomb. I worked like a dog for mine.
Not long afterwards, bras were burning, women were marching, and teachers like Mr. Krause were hastily retiring. An awakening started for me on that September morning, when I began to understand quiet perseverance is a possible right answer to unreasonable exercise of authority. Could that be the basis of mechanical engineering? Anyway, that’s what Mr. Krause taught me in high school physics.
October 11, 2012
Meet Charlotte
I really like Charlotte, although I have to admit she can be a little crazy. We first got to know each on a trip to Washington—not the state, our nation’s capitol. I was looking for a roommate to share hotel expenses for the counseling psychologist convention. So a mutual friend put us in touch. We saw each other face-to-face for the first time at the airport, when we caught our flight to D.C. Since our seats were several rows apart, we didn’t get to visit until after we landed.
I’ve done a lot of travelling, and I could tell right away Charlotte and I would be compatible. She didn’t walk in the room, turn the TV to her favorite channel, and crank up the volume. When a roomie does that, I know we’re in for a bumpy ride. I noticed she didn’t fill up more than half of the vanity countertop or take more than her share of the drawer space—I hate it when someone does that, don’t you? She was considerate enough to make the bathroom neat after her shower. I’d have to say making her bed every morning was overkill. Charlotte is compulsively neat, but it’s okay because she makes fun of herself over it. And she didn’t seem to expect me to turn into a neat freak just because she happens to be one.
After we unpacked and settled in to our room, the next challenge was to find a place for dinner. The hotel restaurant didn’t serve an evening meal, now wasn’t that convenient? We headed across the street to a tiny mom-and-pop eatery with a lot of character and good food that didn’t cost an arm and a leg. It was a totally DC kind of place, DuPont Circle-ish if you know what I mean.
We were walking to the restaurant when some nasty-looking guy came up to us and asked for money. I was going to brush right by him, but she asked him why he needed money. I was thinking, Get a grip, Charlotte! He probably wants money for wine, booze, maybe even drugs.
Of course, the tramp said he was homeless and hungry, hadn’t had a meal in three days. I had a creepy feeling Charlotte was going to give him money--but she did something worse. She invited him to come and have dinner with us! I think I’m just as compassionate as the next person, but I was definitely not in the mood to share dinner with a street person.
When we started to go inside the restaurant, some little old fellow—it turned out he was the restaurant’s owner—came bouncing out of a back room yelling “He no come in here. That man no come. No come.” It took me a minute to realize the cause of the outburst was the homeless guy Charlotte picked up on our way in. When the restaurant owner wouldn’t give in, Charlotte told the wino if he would wait outside, she would buy him some food and bring it to him. By this time, I was already wishing I’d phoned for pizza delivery. But I sat in a booth while my new friend got a go-box and filled it at the buffet line. She even went outside a couple of times to talk to the homeless guy. Told me later it was to find out what he liked to eat!
After the weirdo went on his way with his big box of food, we sat down and ordered dinner. Strange thing is, Charlotte acted like nothing out of the ordinary happened. We talked about business, our kids, and normal stuff.
After the conference, we got on a flight that was absolutely packed. Every seat was taken, of course. We were in the back, across from the galley. Our seats didn’t recline, but that row in front of us sure did. Charlotte traded places with me so I could have the aisle, because I was getting claustrophobia in that middle seat. If sitting there like a sardine wasn’t bad enough, there was a huge storm system between here and Washington. That airplane bumped up and down like a stock market graph. When the flight attendants strapped themselves in their funny seats and stopped talking, I thought we were going to crash.
I had to wake Charlotte up to tell her we were going to die. Know what she said? “Let’s pray.” She held my hand and said a beautiful prayer for our safety and then she went right back to sleep. See what I mean about being a little nutty? How can you sleep if you’re about to die in a plane crash for crying out loud?
If you want to get to know Charlotte better, you can read more about her in “A Hero’s Homecoming” by Carlene Havel. Rich is in there too. I could fall in love with Rich in a New York minute. My hero? Yessiree! But that’s another story. Like a lot of other yummy romances, “A Hero’s Homecoming” is available at http://www.prismbookgroup.com/AHerosH... or through Amazon and Barnes and Noble on line. Check it out. Maybe you’ll like Charlotte as much as I do.
I’ve done a lot of travelling, and I could tell right away Charlotte and I would be compatible. She didn’t walk in the room, turn the TV to her favorite channel, and crank up the volume. When a roomie does that, I know we’re in for a bumpy ride. I noticed she didn’t fill up more than half of the vanity countertop or take more than her share of the drawer space—I hate it when someone does that, don’t you? She was considerate enough to make the bathroom neat after her shower. I’d have to say making her bed every morning was overkill. Charlotte is compulsively neat, but it’s okay because she makes fun of herself over it. And she didn’t seem to expect me to turn into a neat freak just because she happens to be one.
After we unpacked and settled in to our room, the next challenge was to find a place for dinner. The hotel restaurant didn’t serve an evening meal, now wasn’t that convenient? We headed across the street to a tiny mom-and-pop eatery with a lot of character and good food that didn’t cost an arm and a leg. It was a totally DC kind of place, DuPont Circle-ish if you know what I mean.
We were walking to the restaurant when some nasty-looking guy came up to us and asked for money. I was going to brush right by him, but she asked him why he needed money. I was thinking, Get a grip, Charlotte! He probably wants money for wine, booze, maybe even drugs.
Of course, the tramp said he was homeless and hungry, hadn’t had a meal in three days. I had a creepy feeling Charlotte was going to give him money--but she did something worse. She invited him to come and have dinner with us! I think I’m just as compassionate as the next person, but I was definitely not in the mood to share dinner with a street person.
When we started to go inside the restaurant, some little old fellow—it turned out he was the restaurant’s owner—came bouncing out of a back room yelling “He no come in here. That man no come. No come.” It took me a minute to realize the cause of the outburst was the homeless guy Charlotte picked up on our way in. When the restaurant owner wouldn’t give in, Charlotte told the wino if he would wait outside, she would buy him some food and bring it to him. By this time, I was already wishing I’d phoned for pizza delivery. But I sat in a booth while my new friend got a go-box and filled it at the buffet line. She even went outside a couple of times to talk to the homeless guy. Told me later it was to find out what he liked to eat!
After the weirdo went on his way with his big box of food, we sat down and ordered dinner. Strange thing is, Charlotte acted like nothing out of the ordinary happened. We talked about business, our kids, and normal stuff.
After the conference, we got on a flight that was absolutely packed. Every seat was taken, of course. We were in the back, across from the galley. Our seats didn’t recline, but that row in front of us sure did. Charlotte traded places with me so I could have the aisle, because I was getting claustrophobia in that middle seat. If sitting there like a sardine wasn’t bad enough, there was a huge storm system between here and Washington. That airplane bumped up and down like a stock market graph. When the flight attendants strapped themselves in their funny seats and stopped talking, I thought we were going to crash.
I had to wake Charlotte up to tell her we were going to die. Know what she said? “Let’s pray.” She held my hand and said a beautiful prayer for our safety and then she went right back to sleep. See what I mean about being a little nutty? How can you sleep if you’re about to die in a plane crash for crying out loud?
If you want to get to know Charlotte better, you can read more about her in “A Hero’s Homecoming” by Carlene Havel. Rich is in there too. I could fall in love with Rich in a New York minute. My hero? Yessiree! But that’s another story. Like a lot of other yummy romances, “A Hero’s Homecoming” is available at http://www.prismbookgroup.com/AHerosH... or through Amazon and Barnes and Noble on line. Check it out. Maybe you’ll like Charlotte as much as I do.
October 9, 2012
A Bookstore Moment
Yes, truth is stranger than fiction. Things happen that no one would be bold enough to invent, to wit: I was browsing through a shelf of my favorite author’s writings when a bookstore employee asked me if I could help another shopper. It’s already getting weird, right?
“I’ll try,” I answered. “What’s the problem?”
“I’m looking for a Saint James Bible,” the customer said.
“Could you possibly mean King James?”
The man looked puzzled. “Who’s King James?” he asked.
“He was King of England in the 1600s. He sponsored the translation of the Bible into English. So we refer to that translation by his name.”
The clerk weighed in. “Oh, King James. He signed the Magna Carta.”
Looking around for the hidden camera, I said, “No, I think that king’s name was John.”
“Are you sure?” the clerk asked.
What does this have to do with the customer finding a Bible? “I’m pretty sure,” I replied. “John was a Plantagenet. They ruled centuries before the Stewart kings.”
The man had by now found the Bible he wanted to buy without anyone’s assistance, but he seemed interested in the conversation.
“Oh, I know who you mean,” the clerk said, slapping her forehead. “King James, the dude we fought against in the American Revolution.”
Why didn’t I walk away? “Wasn’t that George the Third?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said. “What year did all that happen?”
I started to create a time line. “The Magna Carta was signed in 1215. Elizabeth the First was the last Tudor and she died in 1603--”
“Would you excuse me? My beeper is going off.” With that, the clerk disappeared.
“Did you find what you wanted?” I asked the man. Somehow I felt responsible for him.
“Sure did,” he said with a big smile. “Have a nice day.”
Another satisfied customer
“I’ll try,” I answered. “What’s the problem?”
“I’m looking for a Saint James Bible,” the customer said.
“Could you possibly mean King James?”
The man looked puzzled. “Who’s King James?” he asked.
“He was King of England in the 1600s. He sponsored the translation of the Bible into English. So we refer to that translation by his name.”
The clerk weighed in. “Oh, King James. He signed the Magna Carta.”
Looking around for the hidden camera, I said, “No, I think that king’s name was John.”
“Are you sure?” the clerk asked.
What does this have to do with the customer finding a Bible? “I’m pretty sure,” I replied. “John was a Plantagenet. They ruled centuries before the Stewart kings.”
The man had by now found the Bible he wanted to buy without anyone’s assistance, but he seemed interested in the conversation.
“Oh, I know who you mean,” the clerk said, slapping her forehead. “King James, the dude we fought against in the American Revolution.”
Why didn’t I walk away? “Wasn’t that George the Third?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said. “What year did all that happen?”
I started to create a time line. “The Magna Carta was signed in 1215. Elizabeth the First was the last Tudor and she died in 1603--”
“Would you excuse me? My beeper is going off.” With that, the clerk disappeared.
“Did you find what you wanted?” I asked the man. Somehow I felt responsible for him.
“Sure did,” he said with a big smile. “Have a nice day.”
Another satisfied customer
Fidette's Recommendation
Bonjour, mes amis. No doubt you remember me? I’m a darling French poodle—is that redundant? My name is Fidette. No nicknames, please. I am far too sophisticated for such indignity. As you know, we French love romance—oui, even French canines. Especially French canines! My owner started reading a Christian romance and sacre bleu! I have found my soulmate.
I swoon for the golden retriever named Buster who makes his debut in “A Hero’s Homecoming”. My owner is in love with Rich Martino (the man she thinks is the hero) but any discerning doggie will realize Buster is the superior heartthrob. My dear, golden retrievers are so deliciously handsome, not to mention being the most romantic breed on the planet. Take a walk through the park with one some starlit evening and you will find out what I mean. Mon cher Buster is big and blond and loves to take charge--much like his master Rich. You humans think dogs assume the personalities of their owners, but little Fidette knows it’s the other way around.
For maximum joie de vivre you simply must read “A Hero’s Homecoming” to your dog. It’s available at http://www.prismbookgroup.com/AHerosH... or through Amazon. Be sure to underline the passages that mention Buster, then go back and read only the parts underlined again to your pet. Ah, your four-legged best friend will find Buster so irresistibly comme il faut. My owner thinks you will fall in love with Rich, also. He's all right for a guy who doesn't eat dogfood.
I swoon for the golden retriever named Buster who makes his debut in “A Hero’s Homecoming”. My owner is in love with Rich Martino (the man she thinks is the hero) but any discerning doggie will realize Buster is the superior heartthrob. My dear, golden retrievers are so deliciously handsome, not to mention being the most romantic breed on the planet. Take a walk through the park with one some starlit evening and you will find out what I mean. Mon cher Buster is big and blond and loves to take charge--much like his master Rich. You humans think dogs assume the personalities of their owners, but little Fidette knows it’s the other way around.
For maximum joie de vivre you simply must read “A Hero’s Homecoming” to your dog. It’s available at http://www.prismbookgroup.com/AHerosH... or through Amazon. Be sure to underline the passages that mention Buster, then go back and read only the parts underlined again to your pet. Ah, your four-legged best friend will find Buster so irresistibly comme il faut. My owner thinks you will fall in love with Rich, also. He's all right for a guy who doesn't eat dogfood.
October 8, 2012
My Hero
What is he like, that wonderful guy you envision as your till-death-do-us-part hero? I enjoy looking at handsome men--don't we all? But the fellow I could be on a desert island with for years has to be more than a pretty face. Humor, kindness, and intelligence definitely earn big points. I want a man of substance, whose character is never defined by vanity or a quest to be popular. A man of faith, who isn't embarrassed to admit God is bigger and better than himself. He may not know how to build a house, but he is capable of using a vacuum cleaner to clean one. Clean-cut looks and sculped abs are worth a few bonus points, provided they don't result in a puffed-up ego. Oh, yes, one more essential requirement: a gentleman who never says yes to the question "does this dress make me look fat?" And means it when he answers, "Of course not. You are always beautiful in my eyes."
October 6, 2012
Art for Art's Sake
For every Picasso, there are millions of unsuccessful painters. A few musicians become rich and famous, but most of us sing in the shower. It is possible to get on a national TV show and talk about your latest novel, but realistically it's not going to happen. So why write? Why not take up Bartelby's line and say, "I'd rather not"? In my opinion, authors write for one main reason--because we love it. Yes, everyone hopes for a best seller. Still, we are thrilled when Aunt Maude and Uncle Claude ask when another book will be available. If a musician sings alone in the woods, is there a sound? You betcha. As the paint stains the canvas, or the words stream onto the screen, the satisfaction comes from within. If an audience enjoys my output, that's wonderfully satisfying. If not, the pen scratches on nevertheless.
October 5, 2012
Print or EBooks?
In the classic movie Ghostbusters, everyone laughs when Egon (played by Harold Ramis) declares “Print is dead”. Good old Egon, intellectual but impractical. What was a humorous comment in 1984 now comes closer to reality every year. Despite some initial resistance, I have become quite comfortable with my Kindle. Fellow readers, I do not miss lugging a bag of books to every vacation destination. Yes, there are people who extol the virtues of turning the pages of a “real” book, but their numbers are shrinking. Consider the price differential between a hardback and the same work in electronic format. Once the initial investment in a reader is amortized, the financial benefit is obvious. Egon has gone from amusing nerd to prophetic marketeer. Who knew?
October 4, 2012
Sonnet of Comfort
A Sonnet of Comfort
Based on Isaiah 43: 1-7
Don’t be afraid
I have redeemed you.
I know who you are,
And you are mine.
I am with you.
I will take care of you.
I am your Savior.
You are precious to me.
I love you.
Don’t be afraid.
I never lose track of you.
You are called by my name.
I created you.
I am God.
Based on Isaiah 43:1-7
Based on Isaiah 43: 1-7
Don’t be afraid
I have redeemed you.
I know who you are,
And you are mine.
I am with you.
I will take care of you.
I am your Savior.
You are precious to me.
I love you.
Don’t be afraid.
I never lose track of you.
You are called by my name.
I created you.
I am God.
Based on Isaiah 43:1-7
October 3, 2012
Thank You!
My sincere thanks to everyone who entered the Goodreads giveaway of "A Hero's Homecoming". The signed copy is on its way to the winner (selected by Goodreads, FYI). I hope you enjoyed the anticipation of thinking you just might be the winner - I always do. The more contests you enter, the better become your odds of walking away with the prize.
October 2, 2012
What's In a Name?
Do names matter? I think so. Mine is "different" but must admit that's appropriate. I try to choose names that “fit” the characters in my books, because I believe name associations set up readers’ expectations about personality. Eudora is a name that was used in my family for generations, although not recently. While I might not call the heroine of a contemporary novel Eudora, that name would slip easily into a story set in the 19th century. Names can be tricky when the setting is historical, particularly for writers like me who like to draw inspiration from those interesting people who populate the Bible. Their genealogies are helpful in one respect, because the names are provided--and usually have an interesting meaning. Princess Michal's name, for example, can be roughly translated as "brook" or "little running brook". But what's to be done with a woman named Hoglah, one of the daughters of Zelophehad, son of Hepher? I cannot prove nicknames were or were not in use in ancient Israel, but I used one in "Daughter of the King". Ahinoam is an unusual name for us today, and there were two prominent characters by that name--Princess Michal's mother as well as the mother of King David's eldest son. Time for a little imagination, giving the wife the moniker of "Bird." Did it work? You know my standard answer to that question--Daughter of the King will be released this fall by Prism Book Group.
