Malcolm R. Campbell's Blog, page 63

An act of kindness

A text message from an unknownn number asked if I lost a wallet. I had. He had found it in a ditch, the place where wallets often end up when somebody steals them, pulls out the cash, and throws the remains out the car window.

We met at a well-known store a block from his house. He was scruffy, unshaven, riding an old bike like so many people I see along the highway. But he had my wallet. I looked through it and saw that everything was ther except for the cash.

They didn’t touch the credit cards, I said. Too much hassle, he said, lighting one of the cigarettes that probably helped keep im as thin as a rail. I told him I cancelled the cards within an hour of losing the wallet. Smart, he said. I said, well, as you can see, they cleaned out my cash, but can I give you something for your trouble. No need he said, but after hemming and hawing took the $20 and rode off down the highway after we shook hands.

When I wished him a happy new year, he indicated he’d be drinking. I said that worked for me as long as it was quality. We agreed that neither of us could afford quality but allowed as how we tried to avoid the swill.

We’re kindred spirits on that matter.

—Malcolm

Malcolm R. Campbell is the author of the satire “Special Investigative Reporter.” It’s definitely good for a few laughs.

‘What a pity she’s quoted more than she’s read’

The headline writer for the 2015 article “From literary heavyweight to lifestyle brand: exploring the cult of Joan Didion” added the following subhead: “The pioneer of New Journalism is used to sell biker jackets and clutch bags. What a pity she’s quoted more than she’s read.”

I  hope the subhead for her December 23rd obituary in The Guardian more accurately describes how she will be remembered: “Detached observer of American society and political life through her collections of journalism, novels and screenwriting.”

Yet, the fact that the proponent of the New Jounalism wrote more “I-was-there” nonfiction than fiction may be the reason I seldom saw any gushing statements on the social media from her fans about reading her latest article or book, or breathlessly waiting for her next one.

Even those who simply scanned her work and then quoted from it thought her prose–and the no-nonsence focus behind it–was the best in the business.

If you have neither read her nor quoted her, I hardly know where to start in recommending a place to start learning who she was. Perhaps, the novel A Book of Common Prayer and perhaps the collection of essays Slouching Towards Bethlehem.

If you truly get this quote from A Book of Common Prayer, then you understand (a fraction, perhaps) of herself and her focus: “You have to pick the places you don’t walk away from.”

But then I’m biased. I’ve followed her work from the day she started. If a cult surrounds her, I’m a member. And when I think of prose and want to show others examples of what prose can do, I turn to her books before all others.

—Malcolm

Malcolm R. Campbell is the author of the four-book Florida Folk Magic Series, available in one Kindle, money-saving volume. It’s about the place I don’t walk away from.

Happy Holidays

‘Happy Holidays” is about as generic as the old Christmas card standby “Season’s Greetings.” Years ago, I might have said “Merry Christmas,” but now the powers that be suggest we should be more inclusive of the many othe holidays celebrated during December, and I’m okay with

[image error]We’re usually the last people in the neighborhood to put up our tree and our outside decorations. Two other families in the area do what we do, considering the holiday to be the Twelve Days of Christmas starting on the 25th and running until 12th Night. We decorated our tree yesterday (mostly) and due to a long habit, will open gifts on Christmas Eve.

However we celebrate, we’re hoping for a gift of a better 2022 than the last two years. We want to step into a springtime without masks, mandates, and morbid debates. Along with that, it would be nice if the supply chain sorted itself out and that businesses had enough workers to get through the next 52 weeks at full steam.

Whether one delebrates the holidays this way or that way, we acknowledge that there are powers higher than ourselves that just might offer us some words of wisdom if we are listening, and I hope we are.

–Malcolm

Scattered Wednesday Nonsense

If my hearing weren’t shot, I’d be listening to Eva Cassidy’s music today. It’s been a week where jazz and blues from the best singer the world didn’t know about would have helped ease one’s cares away.Our ancient Buick has been acting more and more like an ancient Buick. This time is was a glove box latch that suddenly broke. That tiny light inside is impossible to get out but powerful enough to drain the battery. My wife finally found some tough-enough wire to hold to the door shut.We think of getting a new car, but are rather perplexed by the fact nobody’s making sedans any more. We were under the impresssion several years ago that people who don’t really need SUVs were going to stop buying them and change over to gas-efficient cars. Now America is SUV crazy. What the hell?I think I got tangled up in some bad karma last week when somebody stole my wallet. I left it on the store’s counter as juggling packages distracted me; a few minutes later, I want back for it and it was gone and nobody knew nothin’ about nothin’. Got all the credit cards stopped before anyone tried to charge an SUV. Got a new drivers license already. The photo is just as bad as the photo on the old license. I’m rather embarrassed to mention that my old wallet was stolen in a liquor store.Finished wrapping my wife’s Christmas presents today. Wow, that was close: almost didn’t get it done. They look like they were wrapped by somebody in an asylum during a session where folks work on fine motor skills.We’ve been watching a History Channel series called “The Toys that Built America.” I keep taking that literally and when I do, I can find parts of America that probably were actually built by toys. We follow that up by watching one of several engineering catastrophes series. The fact that so many things have fallen down can be accounted for by the fact Woody, Buzz Lightyear, and Mr. Potato Head did all the design work. So far, the producers of these shows haven’t noticed the connection.This year’s solstice was such a short day, I missed the whole thing. But that’s okay: Winter is my favorite season.I hope your cars are starting, your wallets are safe, your outgoing gifts are perfectly wrapped, and that you have a wonderful holiday season.

—Malcolm

Malcolm R. Campbell is the author of a bunch of novels which you can find by clicking on the name “Malcolm.”

Stopped by the seed and feed today. . .

To pick up gift wrapping materials in hopes I can wrap my wife’s presents before December 25th.  The hard-to-wraps gifts–like beef jerky and live bait—become stocking stuffers. Let me know if I missed any necessary gift-wrapping supplies:

[image error]BurlapDuct TapeBailing WireGorilla GlueVice GripsUnbleached MuslinBox with holes in it for surprise hamster gift (This year’s “big” present).Seed and Feed promo sweatshirt for Race Ready horse feed. I might wrap the hamster in it.A box of Mason jars. (They camouflage the diamonds, rubies, and gold jewelry.)Fire ants (for the gag gift).Palmetto bugs (for the other gag gift).Binder’s TwinePop rivetsKraft paperRope (right-handed laid three-strand).

The love with which we give our spouses’ Christmas gifts is often shown by the care taken to wrap everything. So I travel to the ends of the earth buying $10000000 worth of gift-wrapping materials for $38.30 worth of presents. Everyone does this, don’t you think?

I haven’t yet figured out how my wife can come into the living room, look at the presents beneath the tree, and instantly know which ones I wrapped. It’s a mystery to me.

—Malcolm

Just stop it!

[image error]Passed. When somebody dies, say they died. When you tell me they passed, I think they’re in the fast lane or they’re went past GO and collected $200. Kick the Bucket: Yes, say this if you want, but nobody says this any more so if you say it people will look at you funny. Of course, if they’re already looking at you funny, then you’re on your own.Dirt Shower. This is gross. Just stop it.Lost her Battle: Hmmm. Needless to say, everyone loses their battle sooner or later, but if somebody fights as dread disease for a long time, they get special treament in the obituaries when they take a dirt shower. However, don’t say, “Dirt showers for $100, Alex.”They met an untimely end. This presumes there’s such a thing as a timely end. Lived a long and happy life. Aw, isn’t this sweet? This is just another way of saying that being dead is okay because the guy/lady who kicked the bucket did a lot of good stuff, had fun, made money, had great sex, wrote twenty bestselling novels, &c. If you’re talking about a person who’s my age or younger, I don’t want to hear the long and happy life euphemism. Makes me think it’s time for me to do.Bite the Big One. The big what?Bought the Farm. Sometimes, people actually buy farms, so this leads to confusion. Just stop it!Number was up. I’ve always wondered where these numbers come from, like what is there a big lottery wheel or cosmic game of craps? The only good thing about this, is that if your number isn’t up, you can do any dangerous thing you want without worrying about biting the big one.Shuffled off the mortal coil. My goodness, are people still saying this who are (a) sane, (b) not perforning in a Shakespeare play, or (c) haven’t already passed? Was called home. I hear this at funerals which is one reason I avoid the kind of funeral where somebody’s likely to say this. Gave up the ghost. Look, this is pathetic and starts people talking about going to a conjure woman and getting protection against haints. Paint your door blue and old uncle Bill won’t haunt your ass.Got struck off the Chrismas letter list. Fortunately, fewer and fewer people are sending out Christmas letters these days and those who still do make the recipients wish the senders had been called home at the beginning of the year before they had time to do stuff to brag about in the letters. 

—Malcolm

 

 

Old Poems, Old Lines, Old Memories

In high school and college, our English/Literature professors included a lot of poetry. When I come across some of the best poems in the canon–The Waste Land, Leaves of Grass–I admire them today even though my favorite lines come from a smattering of other work.

I’m aware that Pulitzer Prize winning poet Sara Teasdale (1884-1933) was once popular and now appears unknown or ignored. Nonetheless, I’ve never forgotten “The Coin”:

Into my heart’s treasury
I slipped a coin
That time cannot take
Nor a thief purloin,
Oh better than the minting
Of a gold-crowned king
Is the safe-kept memory
Of a lovely thing.

I’m not sure how the powers that be rate Poe’s poetry today. Yet the first stanza of his “To Helen” sticks in my mind as one of the best stanzas I’ve read, especially the last two lines:

Helen, thy beauty is to me   Like those Nicéan barks of yore,That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,   The weary, way-worn wanderer bore   To his own native shore. My favorite poem is “Fern Hill” written by Dylan Thomas in 1945: Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
     The night above the dingle starry,
          Time let me hail and climb
     Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
          Trail with daisies and barley
     Down the rivers of the windfall light. This and the following verses are wonders and, perhaps a cautionary commentary on the paths our lives take. I identify quite strongly with this poem. Perhaps more peolple are familiar with his “Do not go gentle into that good night.” My generation more or less memorized it and saw it as dogma as age approached. Here are the first two verses: Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night. Like many who were in high school and college in the 1960s, I liked RodMcKuen’s bestselling poems. They seem dated now, but there was a time when everyone knew every word. As  we said then, his poem’s were a happening, fresh and new, as in “Listen to the Warm”: I was rich in those days, for a week I had everything. I wish I’d known you then.” Now, I think, my tastes run more toward the work of poet and sax player Joy Harjo, as in “She Had Some Horses”: She had some horses.She had horses who were bodies of sand.She had horses who were maps drawn of blood.She had horses who were skins of ocean water.She had horses who were the blue air of sky.She had horses who were fur and teeth.She had horses who were clay and would break What about you? Do you find yourself thinking–seemingly without foundation–of bits and pieces of poems you studied in school” They bring comfort to me like old songs. —Malcolm  Some have said that bits and pieces of my work are somewhat lyrical. Yes they are. Poetry’s influence is always in the background.     

Ooooo Child!

I’m glad my first book didn’t land on the New York Times bestseller list for 216 weeks like John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. I wouldn’t know how to answer the question, “What are you doing to do next?”

The answer probably would have been “nothing.” I couldn’t live up to my debut any more than an actor or actress winning an Oscar for their first movie. Well, I guess Marlee Matlin did that in 1987, but that would be too much pressure for me.

I placed the following quote on Facebook yesterday and nobody knew who said it or where it came from: “Tell me something honey, how come a white boy like you is drivin’ a old, broken-down, jiveass bruthuh’s heap like this?” Okay, even with 216 weeks on the bestseller list, fame is fleeting even if you’re a saucy drag queen named “Chablis”

This comes to mind since I’m re-reading the novel and it’s just as funny as it was 27 years ago. Berendt wrote The City of Falling Angels ten years later. One reviewer said the book was pretty good but didn’t have a compelling core story. See, this is what I’m talking about. His first book was too good.

Okay, but I think I’ve turned out enough novels to say that I wasn’t ruined by the response to my first book,–or my second, &c. So I’ve escaped the curse of a fantastic successful first novel. Now that I’m safe, I’m ready for the big time, and by golly, I’m going to work toward that without a character who walks an invisible dog or a drag queen who often exclaims, “Ooooo child!”

—Malcolm

While Malcolm R. Campbell doesn’t include invisible dogs in his novels, he’s okay with a cat as a narrator. After all, his three cats talk all the time.

Keep Berkeley’s Only Hospital Open

“Sutter Health intends to close Alta Bates Hospital – Berkeley’s only acute-care hospital —a move that would deprive our community of a critical facility which provides critical services to East Bay residents including but not limited to: labor and delivery, emergency services, and intensive care services. Sutter Health’s intention to close Alta Bates Medical Center will leave Berkeley and other cities along the I-80 corridor, and through the Caldecott Tunnel without access to full service, acute-care hospital. Closing Alta Bates will force tens of thousands of patients to seek care further away, endangering our health and safety.” —Save Alta Bates Hospital

Several Years ago Summit Health–owner of Alta Bates Hospital–said it would close the facility because that was cheaper than bringing it up to California’s current earthquake building codes. The hospital was founded in 1905 and years later moved to its current location on Ashby Avenue.

When Summit’s announcement was made, public officials, medical groups, and the public raised a ruckus. The noise has temporarily subsided since COVID issues are more urgent and are occupying everyone’s focus at present. Then, too, Summit said it might be 2030 before Alta Bates is closed.

Conversations are ongoing between Berkeley and Summit in hopes of finding a better answer than leaving the town without a hospital. Summit argues that in addition to costs, the hospital is too close to the properly lines for the work to be done. Maybe yes, maybe no. Perhaps the powers that be can craft a variance along with financial help.

According to Berkeley council member Sophie Hahn’s letter to Summit Health CEO Sarah Krevans, “The COVID-19 crisis is a wake-up call, reminding us of the dangers of too-few emergencyand intensive care beds. Wise public health measures and the cooperation of our community have kept infection rates manageable – so far – but with devastating economic impacts. The new surge in COVID infections is filling up hospitals once again, and capacity is threatened even in communities like ours, that have successfully implemented public health protocols.

“In addition to the current crisis, Berkeley and the entire East Bay are bisected by the
Hayward fault and vulnerable to earthquakes and catastrophic fires. If Alta Bates were to close, how many might be left without care in the next disaster?

“The closure of Alta Bates would compromise access during an emergency, and even
under normal circumstances would negatively impact healthcare for all East Bay
residents, in particular the elderly, working families, and communities of color.”

2030 is not eons away when it comes to major projects, so the state and city need to keep their eyes on this problem rather than a solution that’s worse than the dangers. Summit’s solution, telling people and ambulances to drive over to its Oakland facility is misguided.

Yes, I have a personal interest in this hospital because I was born there.

—Malcolm

Malcolm R. Campbell is the author of the mystery/thriller “Florida Folk Magic Series.” You can buy it in a four-in-one set on Kindle and save money.

I left my heart in San Francisco

My family lived in the San Francisco Bay area when I was born. I saw them later on visits while in elementary school and later as an adult. Two perspectives: family and city attractions through a child’s eyes and man’s eyes.

I father’s sister Vera lived up the hill from Mission Delores Park for most of her life, communting to and from work on the J Church Street car that ran along the park’s edge.  When I was in the navy, I lived in an apartment next to Mission Dolores Park a short walk from Vera’s apartment. When I wasn’t using my car, I also commuted in and out of town on that same old street car to the terminal where I mad connections for a bus ride across the Bay Bridge to Alameda where my ship was in port. That Naval Station is no longer there.

When I was a child, the family often visited my great Aunt Claire in a nursing home in the 1950s. She was still living in that same nursing home in 1968–all those years: hard to imagine. When I saw her in 1968, she was sharp and alert and spoke one minute about going across country in a covered wagon when the family moved west from Iowa and then about the policies of the Nixon admiistration that she didn’t approve of. She lived to be about 103 years old.

Lesa and I went to San Francisco on our honeymoon in 1987 and there was my old world in another incarnation, a married man “seeing” the cable cars, Golden Gate Park, and other sites from my wife’s perspective. Of course we sent to fisherman’s wharf, changed over all the years, and enjoyed the cable cars. And, we visited the family that was still around.

When I was young, I thought I’d end up living in San Francisco. I loved those wonderful hills. But as I grew older, the city grew out of reach: I could no longer afford it. The three-story aparment building where my aunt lived is now a private home worth around $2,000,000. And then, too, all  my employment offers were in the Atlanta area which is quite another world. And that includes California politics which have slid further to the left than I carew for.

Vera’s old house is still there with a blur from Google Street View. She lived on the top floor with a bay window that gave her pretty much the entire city to watch. Years ago, a short dead-end street ran behind the buildings so I always parked my car at the fourth floor level and walked in her back door. I’ve cropped the picture close to avoid showing the modern home built on the right that doesn’t match the neighborhood (and looks ugly).

I had plans for this house when I was little and didn’t know the ways of the world. I always thought it needed an elevator. In many ways, my heart resides in on 20th Street between Sanchez (where Vera lived) and Dolores (where I lived).

Unlike Tony Bennett, I can’t (on the advice of my lawyers) sing the old song for you, you know, the one about little cable cars climbing halfway to the stars, so this post is a brief taste of where I grew up off and on.

–Malcolm