M. Matheson's Blog, page 47
June 20, 2016
True Heroes 2.0
I wrote this piece several years ago while reflecting on the influences that my birth father's life and death, nearly fifty years ago, has had on me up until this day. Uselessly, I lived a maniacally dysfunctional life for far too many years after his death (decades actually). Thankfully, the story did not end like that. I was fortunate that another hero came along, and a second father bookended my life. He has also passed on but only after many sacrificial years of demonstrating what authentic heroes are comprised of and how they never die.To my birth father Elmore 'Matt' Matheson and my second father Howard 'Hank' Smoyer, this piece is dedicated.
My Birth Dad Left Christmas 1959
Dad 'Hank Smoyer' with Mom and three of my daughters
~~~True Heroes Never Really Die~~~~
Like a rain-soaked cloud on a stormy day, his death blanketed my mind infusing every pore. My breath felt strangled, and every hope abandoned leaving only sadness in its sloshing wake. My young soul simmered to bursting without any relief in sight.
My dad was gone. Goddamnit!
Ten-year-old boys are not equipped to suffer such a wrenching loss as death which seemed to me to be the main attraction that day. The closing act designed to erase my father’s life from this earth.Center stage stood the shiny casket amidst garish sprays of flowers you only ever see at horse races—and funerals. I sat neatly filed away between Mom and Grandma, and from there I could see the waxen features of Dad’s strong face protruding from the polished box. Archaic piped-in hymns kept the mood in the room at full-tilt grim, and Death’s boots stomped their indelible print into my miserably shattered soul.
We family members had been segregated well away from the larger gallery of—mere spectators—whose obligation was to be witnesses of our collective grief. A week later they would adjust their lives to do without Ellmore ‘Matt’ Matheson. Five decades (and counting) later he continues to occupy a front row seat in my day-to-day life.
Despite the drowning sadness of that day, my faith was at its peak; I clung desperately to a vain hope that Dad would shake himself awake and climb from that wretched box. Then we could go back home to the wonderful humdrum of our lives.
The crowd queued up to file passed the open casket.Not me. No, sir. No way.I WOULD NOT be part of that ghastly parade.
More than one well-meaning relative stopped. With a gentle pat on my hand and a few seemingly kind words, they attempted to coax me into coming along for a look at his corpse as if it was as easy as a trip to the zoo.What could they have been thinking?Was tradition so indispensable they found it necessary to heap even more torment onto such a young boy?
A horde of silent whispers grew in my head as I felt every spectator struggling not to look in my direction. Why couldn’t they see that I had the most skin in this game? And a game it seemed to me at the time.
Even though my family and friends were all around me, I felt utterly abandoned. The only person with enough care or courage to sit with me lay stretched out in that casket.He would have done so whether I was his son or not.
I was an only child, but now had less than nothing.Why had I been singled out to be cheated of my father?Where was God while my dad lay dying? (In a hospital room I was deemed too young to visit)What, besides pure evil (perhaps ignorance) could let a child bounce down such wicked tangents like the jagged rocks of death?
An unfamiliar rage crept like a wolf on the prowl and circled through the dark forest that I was not mature enough to see closing in on me. Life was no longer innocent.Hunched around its dying fire for warmth, my innocence, and ambient peace was stolen away in such small bites that I wouldn’t recognize what had happened till years later after anger bloomed with a life all its own.
It wouldn't be until twenty-five years following that the fiery bitterness would finally begin to cool. The treasure Dad had stealthily hidden away would finally get to see daylight.
Since that ugly day so long ago, I've amassed a growing corps of personal heroes, yet, compared to a father, they play only minor supporting roles in the story of my life. I look to them to spur my skill, talent, and gifting; to inspire me to strive in character and craft. But, the Drum Major stands his post ahead of them all, and Barely a day goes by without his lessons and examples working their way to the surface of my decisions, actions, and exploits. It’s incredible how much soul Dad was able to pack into the short ten years he guided my growing little life, almost as if he knew his time would be short.
If I die knowing my life had even half as profound an effect on my children and grandchildren as Dad had on mine, my life will have been well lived.
My earliest memory of Dad was when I was three or four years old. Somewhere in Europe, I was hanging from the doorway of a car and peeing into a malevolent rainstorm. He drew enough bravery from me that night to voluntarily dangle from an open door and do my business.
As years went on, he taught me the much more noble art of growing things. I sold produce to our neighbors, grown in my vegetable plot. Still clear in my mind is Dad helping me discover the mystery of black spots that showed up on the leaves of my plants: Charcoal in the soil. Today no one could accuse me of being a good gardener, but how many lessons in commerce, responsibility, and hard work grew in that little garden? Over time, those experiences would grow into factory management and eventual business ownership.
Dad was able to correct my pigeon-toed feet single-handedly by using simple, kind and consistent reminders not to walk like that.When I show my five-year-old son how to throw a ball, or I must admonish his behavior, Dad still whispers in my ear the right words to say.
On one of many spontaneous early A.M. fishing trips, I remember catching a crab, monstrous-looking by seven or eight-year-old standards. Its fearsome claws awed me, but Dad saw an opportunity for a lesson in courage."It's not as scary as it looks," he said."Put your finger in the pincers and see." I drew back and shrieked, "No!" but Dad exerted the mild pressure it took to get me to do anything he asked, and I put my finger in the claw. Of course, he was right. Just a little pinch. Today I know that most things are fiercer in appearance than in reality.
Anything Dad asked me to do, I would do. And defiance, so commonplace in young people today, was nearly inconceivable for me. His ‘suggestions’ had the power to pull daring, hard work and sacrifice from a timid little boy who would rather not be those things.
Running home one day, from the threats of a bully (older and taller than I) Dad turned me around and marched me back to face Dale Rudd. Up until the very moment that Dad said, “Fight him,” I fully expected he would take care of the menace for me. That battle looked more like a dance than a fight (I’m sure Dad knew it would). Lesson learned—Never back down from a threat, and the slightest temptation to do so sets me to thinking of Dad standing next to me.
He and I built a slot car track out in the garage. It was on a large board with pulleys that could be pulled up to the rafters and out of the way. How many simple things such as the use of tools and more complicated things like patience and persistence do you suppose that project taught me?
My fondest recollections include going to work with Dad during my summer vacations. He had retired after twenty-seven years in the Army and now worked for the Santa Ana Parks Department. Eating lunch with him and his coworkers made me feel much older than my seven years. I spent the day catching frogs while he worked. One day, we took the frogs home in Chinese food containers, and on the ride home in our cavernous four-door blue and white ‘55 Chevy they all disappeared. Those frogs were small but not minute. We never did find them. I imagine him telling that story in heaven and getting laughs all around.
Above all, I think Dad taught me to be kind. It was his standout trait and showed in everything he did. He never explained, it was just part of who he was. You could be sure not to mistake his kindness for timidity or weakness, though. He was never afraid to stand up for himself or an innocent victim of someone else's abuse. He had some strong views on world affairs that wouldn't be very user-friendly today.
In those days, a family outing could simply be to drive around the city or countryside. One of my greatest memories occurred during one of those. Dad accidentally hit and killed a small dog. I remember sitting in the car with Mom as he picked up that dead Wiener Dog and carried it through the neighborhood looking for its owners so he could tell them he was sorry. No further words should be needed here as a testament to his caring, kindness, and strength of heart.
If in the end, I turn out half as kind, compassionate, and brave as Ellmore H. Matheson, I'm good. The bitter memory of not being allowed to visit my dad in the hospital where he died sits aching in my head like an abscessed tooth. I was too young they said. I’m glad it’s not that way today. In that at least, our society has grown more compassionate.Paramedics’ vain attempts to force my dad to ride the gurney downstairs after a cardiac episode was the last time I physically saw him alive. His repeated remonstrances still ring in my head. Every day that he was in the hospital, I looked forward to talking to him on the phone. I don’t recall what we talked about, but I know both of us fully expected him to come home; until the day, I returned home to a gray room and a tearful mom.
"Sit here Mikey," she said patting the cushion next to her.
The day of his funeral is still clear as yesterday. I was 10-1/2 years old. No young son should have to bury his father. Unfortunately, for us in this violent, disease prone world, it happens much too often.
My unwillingness to view his body did not come from fear. I just refused to see my hero like that. He was Superman strong, and I knew without a doubt that he loved me. He had the answer to every question.
It has taken many years of life in the raw to learn that a hero like him could never actually die but lives on in every breath, decision and deed of my life.
Today he is just as strong if not stronger, and now forty-nine years down the road many of the seeds he planted in the first decade of my life are just now bearing their fruit. That’s a real hero and one that can never truly die.
EpilogueMany years later, I was an adult stuck in a tailspin; my mom married another great man. It took me several years to recognize and reconcile him as a father to me. But I am glad that I did.In discussing this thought with a good number of people, I found it hard to find more than a couple individuals (especially men) that had even one GOOD father in their life. I’ve had two and understand my tremendous great fortune.
While writing the original of this piece, my second father was battling cancer from which we all fully expected him to recover. He died just as I was finishing this piece.Howard “Hank” Smoyer earned the right to be called my Dad. He was not an ‘also ran,’ but another real hero that will never die.
Dad had a love for my Mom, Football, and History. Football never rubbed off on me, but his love of history fueled mine. He shared his books with me most notably the Aubrey-Maturin series by Patrick O'Brian, historical novels about the English Royal Navy set in the Napoleonic era. There was twenty-one in all; he would me mail me one and I would mail it back until I finished them all. The postage cost as much as the book, but we both enjoyed the system.He was Irish-Catholic to the core and loved Notre Dame.The minister who spoke at his funeral did not know him. Hank Smoyer was not a churchgoer, but knew his Bible and had a love for God.The minister interviewed the children of whom there are seven between my Mom's and his own, and came away with this picture:At the funeral, he said he'd gotten a crystal clear vision of Hank Smoyer and used this text:
Philippians 2:3Let nothing be done through selfish ambition or conceit, but in lowliness of mind let each esteem others better than himself.
There wasn't a dry eye in the house because everyone knew the minister had nailed it.
Dad was indeed selfless, sacrificial and concerned with others above himself. Even when people betrayed and stole from him, he never gave in to bitterness and never cut them off from his compassion.Towards the end of his life, no one knew how truly sick he was because he continued to cook, shop and take care of the household and the people around him.I am sure this is why he only lasted a couple of days at home on hospice care. He did not work well with being taken care of. He told me he had made his peace with God and to see first-hand his love for my Mom was inspiring. Theirs was a flaming hot romance to the end.
Mixed up in the midst of all my madness and trouble, God used two real men to sculpt my life, and they are carving away still.True heroes can never really die.
My Birth Dad Left Christmas 1959
Dad 'Hank Smoyer' with Mom and three of my daughters~~~True Heroes Never Really Die~~~~
Like a rain-soaked cloud on a stormy day, his death blanketed my mind infusing every pore. My breath felt strangled, and every hope abandoned leaving only sadness in its sloshing wake. My young soul simmered to bursting without any relief in sight.
My dad was gone. Goddamnit!
Ten-year-old boys are not equipped to suffer such a wrenching loss as death which seemed to me to be the main attraction that day. The closing act designed to erase my father’s life from this earth.Center stage stood the shiny casket amidst garish sprays of flowers you only ever see at horse races—and funerals. I sat neatly filed away between Mom and Grandma, and from there I could see the waxen features of Dad’s strong face protruding from the polished box. Archaic piped-in hymns kept the mood in the room at full-tilt grim, and Death’s boots stomped their indelible print into my miserably shattered soul.
We family members had been segregated well away from the larger gallery of—mere spectators—whose obligation was to be witnesses of our collective grief. A week later they would adjust their lives to do without Ellmore ‘Matt’ Matheson. Five decades (and counting) later he continues to occupy a front row seat in my day-to-day life.
Despite the drowning sadness of that day, my faith was at its peak; I clung desperately to a vain hope that Dad would shake himself awake and climb from that wretched box. Then we could go back home to the wonderful humdrum of our lives.
The crowd queued up to file passed the open casket.Not me. No, sir. No way.I WOULD NOT be part of that ghastly parade.
More than one well-meaning relative stopped. With a gentle pat on my hand and a few seemingly kind words, they attempted to coax me into coming along for a look at his corpse as if it was as easy as a trip to the zoo.What could they have been thinking?Was tradition so indispensable they found it necessary to heap even more torment onto such a young boy?
A horde of silent whispers grew in my head as I felt every spectator struggling not to look in my direction. Why couldn’t they see that I had the most skin in this game? And a game it seemed to me at the time.
Even though my family and friends were all around me, I felt utterly abandoned. The only person with enough care or courage to sit with me lay stretched out in that casket.He would have done so whether I was his son or not.
I was an only child, but now had less than nothing.Why had I been singled out to be cheated of my father?Where was God while my dad lay dying? (In a hospital room I was deemed too young to visit)What, besides pure evil (perhaps ignorance) could let a child bounce down such wicked tangents like the jagged rocks of death?
An unfamiliar rage crept like a wolf on the prowl and circled through the dark forest that I was not mature enough to see closing in on me. Life was no longer innocent.Hunched around its dying fire for warmth, my innocence, and ambient peace was stolen away in such small bites that I wouldn’t recognize what had happened till years later after anger bloomed with a life all its own.
It wouldn't be until twenty-five years following that the fiery bitterness would finally begin to cool. The treasure Dad had stealthily hidden away would finally get to see daylight.
Since that ugly day so long ago, I've amassed a growing corps of personal heroes, yet, compared to a father, they play only minor supporting roles in the story of my life. I look to them to spur my skill, talent, and gifting; to inspire me to strive in character and craft. But, the Drum Major stands his post ahead of them all, and Barely a day goes by without his lessons and examples working their way to the surface of my decisions, actions, and exploits. It’s incredible how much soul Dad was able to pack into the short ten years he guided my growing little life, almost as if he knew his time would be short.
If I die knowing my life had even half as profound an effect on my children and grandchildren as Dad had on mine, my life will have been well lived.
My earliest memory of Dad was when I was three or four years old. Somewhere in Europe, I was hanging from the doorway of a car and peeing into a malevolent rainstorm. He drew enough bravery from me that night to voluntarily dangle from an open door and do my business.
As years went on, he taught me the much more noble art of growing things. I sold produce to our neighbors, grown in my vegetable plot. Still clear in my mind is Dad helping me discover the mystery of black spots that showed up on the leaves of my plants: Charcoal in the soil. Today no one could accuse me of being a good gardener, but how many lessons in commerce, responsibility, and hard work grew in that little garden? Over time, those experiences would grow into factory management and eventual business ownership.
Dad was able to correct my pigeon-toed feet single-handedly by using simple, kind and consistent reminders not to walk like that.When I show my five-year-old son how to throw a ball, or I must admonish his behavior, Dad still whispers in my ear the right words to say.
On one of many spontaneous early A.M. fishing trips, I remember catching a crab, monstrous-looking by seven or eight-year-old standards. Its fearsome claws awed me, but Dad saw an opportunity for a lesson in courage."It's not as scary as it looks," he said."Put your finger in the pincers and see." I drew back and shrieked, "No!" but Dad exerted the mild pressure it took to get me to do anything he asked, and I put my finger in the claw. Of course, he was right. Just a little pinch. Today I know that most things are fiercer in appearance than in reality.
Anything Dad asked me to do, I would do. And defiance, so commonplace in young people today, was nearly inconceivable for me. His ‘suggestions’ had the power to pull daring, hard work and sacrifice from a timid little boy who would rather not be those things.
Running home one day, from the threats of a bully (older and taller than I) Dad turned me around and marched me back to face Dale Rudd. Up until the very moment that Dad said, “Fight him,” I fully expected he would take care of the menace for me. That battle looked more like a dance than a fight (I’m sure Dad knew it would). Lesson learned—Never back down from a threat, and the slightest temptation to do so sets me to thinking of Dad standing next to me.
He and I built a slot car track out in the garage. It was on a large board with pulleys that could be pulled up to the rafters and out of the way. How many simple things such as the use of tools and more complicated things like patience and persistence do you suppose that project taught me?
My fondest recollections include going to work with Dad during my summer vacations. He had retired after twenty-seven years in the Army and now worked for the Santa Ana Parks Department. Eating lunch with him and his coworkers made me feel much older than my seven years. I spent the day catching frogs while he worked. One day, we took the frogs home in Chinese food containers, and on the ride home in our cavernous four-door blue and white ‘55 Chevy they all disappeared. Those frogs were small but not minute. We never did find them. I imagine him telling that story in heaven and getting laughs all around.
Above all, I think Dad taught me to be kind. It was his standout trait and showed in everything he did. He never explained, it was just part of who he was. You could be sure not to mistake his kindness for timidity or weakness, though. He was never afraid to stand up for himself or an innocent victim of someone else's abuse. He had some strong views on world affairs that wouldn't be very user-friendly today.
In those days, a family outing could simply be to drive around the city or countryside. One of my greatest memories occurred during one of those. Dad accidentally hit and killed a small dog. I remember sitting in the car with Mom as he picked up that dead Wiener Dog and carried it through the neighborhood looking for its owners so he could tell them he was sorry. No further words should be needed here as a testament to his caring, kindness, and strength of heart.
If in the end, I turn out half as kind, compassionate, and brave as Ellmore H. Matheson, I'm good. The bitter memory of not being allowed to visit my dad in the hospital where he died sits aching in my head like an abscessed tooth. I was too young they said. I’m glad it’s not that way today. In that at least, our society has grown more compassionate.Paramedics’ vain attempts to force my dad to ride the gurney downstairs after a cardiac episode was the last time I physically saw him alive. His repeated remonstrances still ring in my head. Every day that he was in the hospital, I looked forward to talking to him on the phone. I don’t recall what we talked about, but I know both of us fully expected him to come home; until the day, I returned home to a gray room and a tearful mom.
"Sit here Mikey," she said patting the cushion next to her.
The day of his funeral is still clear as yesterday. I was 10-1/2 years old. No young son should have to bury his father. Unfortunately, for us in this violent, disease prone world, it happens much too often.
My unwillingness to view his body did not come from fear. I just refused to see my hero like that. He was Superman strong, and I knew without a doubt that he loved me. He had the answer to every question.
It has taken many years of life in the raw to learn that a hero like him could never actually die but lives on in every breath, decision and deed of my life.
Today he is just as strong if not stronger, and now forty-nine years down the road many of the seeds he planted in the first decade of my life are just now bearing their fruit. That’s a real hero and one that can never truly die.
EpilogueMany years later, I was an adult stuck in a tailspin; my mom married another great man. It took me several years to recognize and reconcile him as a father to me. But I am glad that I did.In discussing this thought with a good number of people, I found it hard to find more than a couple individuals (especially men) that had even one GOOD father in their life. I’ve had two and understand my tremendous great fortune.
While writing the original of this piece, my second father was battling cancer from which we all fully expected him to recover. He died just as I was finishing this piece.Howard “Hank” Smoyer earned the right to be called my Dad. He was not an ‘also ran,’ but another real hero that will never die.
Dad had a love for my Mom, Football, and History. Football never rubbed off on me, but his love of history fueled mine. He shared his books with me most notably the Aubrey-Maturin series by Patrick O'Brian, historical novels about the English Royal Navy set in the Napoleonic era. There was twenty-one in all; he would me mail me one and I would mail it back until I finished them all. The postage cost as much as the book, but we both enjoyed the system.He was Irish-Catholic to the core and loved Notre Dame.The minister who spoke at his funeral did not know him. Hank Smoyer was not a churchgoer, but knew his Bible and had a love for God.The minister interviewed the children of whom there are seven between my Mom's and his own, and came away with this picture:At the funeral, he said he'd gotten a crystal clear vision of Hank Smoyer and used this text:
Philippians 2:3Let nothing be done through selfish ambition or conceit, but in lowliness of mind let each esteem others better than himself.
There wasn't a dry eye in the house because everyone knew the minister had nailed it.
Dad was indeed selfless, sacrificial and concerned with others above himself. Even when people betrayed and stole from him, he never gave in to bitterness and never cut them off from his compassion.Towards the end of his life, no one knew how truly sick he was because he continued to cook, shop and take care of the household and the people around him.I am sure this is why he only lasted a couple of days at home on hospice care. He did not work well with being taken care of. He told me he had made his peace with God and to see first-hand his love for my Mom was inspiring. Theirs was a flaming hot romance to the end.
Mixed up in the midst of all my madness and trouble, God used two real men to sculpt my life, and they are carving away still.True heroes can never really die.
June 13, 2016
Night Over Water by Ken Follett
Multi-layered and fascinating read.Crime, intrigue, espionage, instant romance, and fleeing spouses not to mention backstabbing business partners. This novel will not disappoint and is worth every penny whether you purchase the Kindle version or the paperback.
Night Over Water has it all, and Ken Follett has done a masterful job of weaving a story set on the brink of World War II.
The Pan American Clipper a transatlantic luxurious seaplane based on some nearly lost aviation history sets a captivating scene for this wonderful tale.
At no time during the story was the end predictable. A great tale.
Night Over Water has it all, and Ken Follett has done a masterful job of weaving a story set on the brink of World War II. The Pan American Clipper a transatlantic luxurious seaplane based on some nearly lost aviation history sets a captivating scene for this wonderful tale.
At no time during the story was the end predictable. A great tale.
March 31, 2016
True Heroes Never Die
I originally wrote this piece three years ago while reflecting on the ongoing effects of my birth father's life and death nearly fifty years ago. And, the maniacally dysfunctional life I lived for too many years after his death. The story did not end like that, thank God. I was fortunate that another hero came along, and my life became bookended by a second father. He also passed on, but only after many sacrificial years of demonstrating what authentic heroes are composed of and how they never die.To my birth father Elmore 'Matt' Matheson and my second father Howard 'Hank' Smoyer, this piece is dedicated.
July 2, 1960 My Fourth Birthday~~~True Heroes Never Really Die~~~~Like a rain-soaked cloud on a stormy day, his death blanketed my mind infusing every pore. My breath felt strangled, and every hope voided leaving only sadness in its wake. My young soul simmered to bursting, but without any relief in sight.My dad was gone. Goddamnit!Ten-year-old boys are not equipped to suffer a wrenching loss such as death. That was the main attraction this day. The closing act designed to erase my father’s life from this earth.Center stage surrounding the shiny casket stood garish sprays of flowers you only ever see at horse races—and funerals. From where I sat neatly filed away between Mom and Grandma, I could see the waxen features of Dad’s strong face protruding from the polished box. Archaic piped-in hymns kept the mood at a full-tilt grim, and Death’s boots stomped an indelible print into my miserably shattered soul.We family members were segregated well away from the larger gallery of—mere spectators—those obligatory witnesses to our collective grief. A week later they would adjust their lives to do without Ellmore ‘Matt’ Matheson. Five decades (and counting) later he continued to occupy a front row seat in my day-to-day life.Despite the drowning sadness of that day, my faith was at its peak; I clung desperately to a vain hope that Dad would shake himself awake and climb from that wretched box. Then we could go back home to the beautiful humdrum of our lives.The crowd queued up to file passed the open casket. Not me. No, sir. No way.I WOULD NOT be part of that ghastly parade.More than one well-meaning relative stopped, and with a gentle pat on my hand encouraged me to come along and view his corpse. What could they have been thinking? Was convention so indispensable they found it necessary to heap even more torment onto such a young boy?A horde of silent whispers grew in my head as one by one every spectator struggled not to look in my direction. Couldn’t they see that I had the most skin in this game?And they were worried about tradition!Surrounded by my family and friends, I felt utterly abandoned and the only person with enough care or courage to sit with me that day and say, "Everything will be alright," lay stretched out in the casket. He would have done so whether I was his son or not.I was an only child, but now had less than nothing. Why had I been singled out to be cheated of a father? Where was God while my dad lay dying? (In a hospital room I was deemed too young to visit)What, besides pure evil (perhaps ignorance) could let a child bounce down such wicked tangents as those jagged rocks of death? An unfamiliar rage crept like a wolf on the prowl circling through the dark forest closing in on me. Life was no longer innocent.
The Outlaw 1985Hunched around its slowly dying fire for warmth, my innocence, and ambient peace were stolen away in such small bites that I wouldn’t recognize what had happened till years after anger bloomed with a life all its own. It wouldn't be until twenty-five years later that the fiery bitterness would finally begin to cool. The treasure Dad had stealthily hidden away would finally see daylight.Since that ugly day so long ago, I've amassed a growing corps of personal heroes, yet, compared to a father, they play only minor supporting roles in the story of my life. I look to them to spur my skill, talent, and gifting; to inspire me to strive in character and craft. But, the Drum Major stands his post ahead of them all. Barely a day goes by without his lessons and examples working their way to the surface of my decisions, actions, and exploits. It’s incredible how much soul Dad was able to pack into the short ten years he guided my growing little life, almost as if he knew his time would be short. If I die knowing my life had even half as profound an effect on my children and grandchildren as Dad had on mine, my life will have been well lived.My earliest memory of Dad was when I was three or four years old. Somewhere in Europe, I was hanging from the doorway of a car and peeing into a malevolent rainstorm. He drew enough bravery from me that night to voluntarily dangle from an open door and do my business.As years went on, he taught me the much more noble art of growing things. I sold produce to our neighbors, born from my vegetable plot. Still clear in my mind is Dad helping me discover the mystery of black spots that showed up on the leaves of my plants: Charcoal in the soil. Today no one could accuse me of being a good gardener, but how many lessons in commerce, responsibility, and hard work grew in that little garden? Over time, those lessons would grow into factory management and eventual business ownership.
818 Mantle Lane Santa Ana, CA 1962
Dad was able to correct single-handedly my pigeon-toed feet by simple, kind and consistent reminders not to walk like that. When I show my toddler son how to throw a ball or I must admonish his behavior, Dad still whispers in my ear the right words to say.On one of our many spontaneous early A.M. fishing trips, I caught a crab, a monster by seven or eight-year-old standards. Its fearsome claws awed me, but Dad saw an opportunity for a lesson in courage."It's not as scary as it looks," he said. "Put your finger in the pincers and see."I drew back with a fearful, "No!" Dad exerted the mild loving pressure it took to get me to do anything, and I put my finger in the claw. He was right of course. Just a little pinch. Today I know that most things are fiercer in appearance than they are in reality. Anything Dad asked me to do, I would do. And defiance, so commonplace in young people today, was nearly inconceivable for me. His ‘suggestions’ had the power to pull daring, hard work and sacrifice from a timid little boy who would rather not be those things.Running home one day, from the threats of a bully (older and taller than I) Dad turned me around and marched me back to face Dale Rudd. Up until the very moment that Dad said, “Fight him,” I fully expected he would take care of the menace for me. That battle looked more like a dance than a fight (I’m sure Dad knew it would). Lesson learned- Never back down from a threat, the slightest temptation to do so sets me to thinking of Dad standing next to me.He and I built a slot car track out in the garage. It was on a large board with pulleys that could be pulled up to the rafters and out of the way. How many simple things such as the use of tools and more complicated things like patience and persistence did that project teach?One of my fondest recollections was going to work with Dad during my summer vacations. He retired from 27 years in the Army and now worked for the Santa Ana Parks Department. Eating lunch with him and his coworkers made me feel much older than my seven years. I spent the day catching frogs while he worked. We took the frogs home in Chinese food containers, and on the ride home in the cavernous four-door blue and white ‘55 Chevy they all disappeared. They were small but not minute. We never did find them.
Me and Grandkids 2010ishAbove all I think Dad taught me to be kind. It was his standout trait and showed in everything he did. He never explained, it was just part of who he was. You could be sure not to mistake his kindness for timidity or weakness, for he was never afraid to stand up for himself or a victim of another's abuse. He also had some very strong views on world affairs that wouldn't be very user friendly today.In those days a family outing could simply be to drive around, and on one of these Dad accidentally hit and killed a small dog. I remember sitting in the car with Mom as he picked up that dead Wiener Dog and carried it through the neighborhood looking for its owners so he could tell them he was sorry.If, in the end, I turn out half as kind and compassionate as Ellmore H. Matheson, I'm good.The bitter memory of not being allowed to visit my dad in the hospital where he died still sits aching in my head like an abscessed tooth. Too young they said. I’m glad it’s not that way today.In that at least our society has grown more compassionate.Paramedics’ forcing him to ride the gurney downstairs was the last time I physically saw my dad alive. His repeated remonstrations to allow him to walk down the stairs still ring in my head. Every day he was in the hospital, I looked forward to talking with him on the phone. I don’t recall what we talked about, but I know both of us fully expected him to come home. Until the day I returned home to a gray room and a tearful mom."Come sit here Mikey," she said patting the cushion next to her.The day of his funeral is still clear as yesterday. I was 10-1/2 years old. No young son should have to bury his father. Unfortunately, for us in this violent, disease prone world, it happens much too often.I wasn't frightened (in the squeamish sense) to view his body, but refused to see my hero so powerless. He was superman, strong and without a doubt loved me. He had the answer to every question. How could he do so from that box? It has taken many years of life in the raw to learn that a hero like him could never really die, but lives on in every breath, decision and deed of my life.Today he is just as strong if not stronger, and now 48 years down the road many of the seeds he planted in the first decade of my life are just now bearing their fruit. That’s a true hero, and one that can never really die.EpilogueMany years later, when as an adult I was stuck in a tailspin, my mom married another great man. It took me several years to reconcile him as a father to me. But I did.
From Left My Daughter Sheri, Brandy, Mom, Dad Hank, ChristalIn discussing this thought with a good number of people, I found it difficult to locate more than a couple that have had even one GOOD father in their life, and I’ve had two. I understand my tremendous good fortune.While writing the original version of this piece my second father was battling cancer from which I fully expected him to recover. He died just as I was finishing.Howard “Hank” Smoyer earned the right to be called my Dad. He was not an ‘also ran,’ but another real hero that will never die. It would take another story to tell you why.Mixed up in the midst of all my madness and trouble, God used two real men to sculpt my life, and they are carving away still, for true heroes never really die.
Tobias and I
July 2, 1960 My Fourth Birthday~~~True Heroes Never Really Die~~~~Like a rain-soaked cloud on a stormy day, his death blanketed my mind infusing every pore. My breath felt strangled, and every hope voided leaving only sadness in its wake. My young soul simmered to bursting, but without any relief in sight.My dad was gone. Goddamnit!Ten-year-old boys are not equipped to suffer a wrenching loss such as death. That was the main attraction this day. The closing act designed to erase my father’s life from this earth.Center stage surrounding the shiny casket stood garish sprays of flowers you only ever see at horse races—and funerals. From where I sat neatly filed away between Mom and Grandma, I could see the waxen features of Dad’s strong face protruding from the polished box. Archaic piped-in hymns kept the mood at a full-tilt grim, and Death’s boots stomped an indelible print into my miserably shattered soul.We family members were segregated well away from the larger gallery of—mere spectators—those obligatory witnesses to our collective grief. A week later they would adjust their lives to do without Ellmore ‘Matt’ Matheson. Five decades (and counting) later he continued to occupy a front row seat in my day-to-day life.Despite the drowning sadness of that day, my faith was at its peak; I clung desperately to a vain hope that Dad would shake himself awake and climb from that wretched box. Then we could go back home to the beautiful humdrum of our lives.The crowd queued up to file passed the open casket. Not me. No, sir. No way.I WOULD NOT be part of that ghastly parade.More than one well-meaning relative stopped, and with a gentle pat on my hand encouraged me to come along and view his corpse. What could they have been thinking? Was convention so indispensable they found it necessary to heap even more torment onto such a young boy?A horde of silent whispers grew in my head as one by one every spectator struggled not to look in my direction. Couldn’t they see that I had the most skin in this game?And they were worried about tradition!Surrounded by my family and friends, I felt utterly abandoned and the only person with enough care or courage to sit with me that day and say, "Everything will be alright," lay stretched out in the casket. He would have done so whether I was his son or not.I was an only child, but now had less than nothing. Why had I been singled out to be cheated of a father? Where was God while my dad lay dying? (In a hospital room I was deemed too young to visit)What, besides pure evil (perhaps ignorance) could let a child bounce down such wicked tangents as those jagged rocks of death? An unfamiliar rage crept like a wolf on the prowl circling through the dark forest closing in on me. Life was no longer innocent.
The Outlaw 1985Hunched around its slowly dying fire for warmth, my innocence, and ambient peace were stolen away in such small bites that I wouldn’t recognize what had happened till years after anger bloomed with a life all its own. It wouldn't be until twenty-five years later that the fiery bitterness would finally begin to cool. The treasure Dad had stealthily hidden away would finally see daylight.Since that ugly day so long ago, I've amassed a growing corps of personal heroes, yet, compared to a father, they play only minor supporting roles in the story of my life. I look to them to spur my skill, talent, and gifting; to inspire me to strive in character and craft. But, the Drum Major stands his post ahead of them all. Barely a day goes by without his lessons and examples working their way to the surface of my decisions, actions, and exploits. It’s incredible how much soul Dad was able to pack into the short ten years he guided my growing little life, almost as if he knew his time would be short. If I die knowing my life had even half as profound an effect on my children and grandchildren as Dad had on mine, my life will have been well lived.My earliest memory of Dad was when I was three or four years old. Somewhere in Europe, I was hanging from the doorway of a car and peeing into a malevolent rainstorm. He drew enough bravery from me that night to voluntarily dangle from an open door and do my business.As years went on, he taught me the much more noble art of growing things. I sold produce to our neighbors, born from my vegetable plot. Still clear in my mind is Dad helping me discover the mystery of black spots that showed up on the leaves of my plants: Charcoal in the soil. Today no one could accuse me of being a good gardener, but how many lessons in commerce, responsibility, and hard work grew in that little garden? Over time, those lessons would grow into factory management and eventual business ownership.
818 Mantle Lane Santa Ana, CA 1962Dad was able to correct single-handedly my pigeon-toed feet by simple, kind and consistent reminders not to walk like that. When I show my toddler son how to throw a ball or I must admonish his behavior, Dad still whispers in my ear the right words to say.On one of our many spontaneous early A.M. fishing trips, I caught a crab, a monster by seven or eight-year-old standards. Its fearsome claws awed me, but Dad saw an opportunity for a lesson in courage."It's not as scary as it looks," he said. "Put your finger in the pincers and see."I drew back with a fearful, "No!" Dad exerted the mild loving pressure it took to get me to do anything, and I put my finger in the claw. He was right of course. Just a little pinch. Today I know that most things are fiercer in appearance than they are in reality. Anything Dad asked me to do, I would do. And defiance, so commonplace in young people today, was nearly inconceivable for me. His ‘suggestions’ had the power to pull daring, hard work and sacrifice from a timid little boy who would rather not be those things.Running home one day, from the threats of a bully (older and taller than I) Dad turned me around and marched me back to face Dale Rudd. Up until the very moment that Dad said, “Fight him,” I fully expected he would take care of the menace for me. That battle looked more like a dance than a fight (I’m sure Dad knew it would). Lesson learned- Never back down from a threat, the slightest temptation to do so sets me to thinking of Dad standing next to me.He and I built a slot car track out in the garage. It was on a large board with pulleys that could be pulled up to the rafters and out of the way. How many simple things such as the use of tools and more complicated things like patience and persistence did that project teach?One of my fondest recollections was going to work with Dad during my summer vacations. He retired from 27 years in the Army and now worked for the Santa Ana Parks Department. Eating lunch with him and his coworkers made me feel much older than my seven years. I spent the day catching frogs while he worked. We took the frogs home in Chinese food containers, and on the ride home in the cavernous four-door blue and white ‘55 Chevy they all disappeared. They were small but not minute. We never did find them.
Me and Grandkids 2010ishAbove all I think Dad taught me to be kind. It was his standout trait and showed in everything he did. He never explained, it was just part of who he was. You could be sure not to mistake his kindness for timidity or weakness, for he was never afraid to stand up for himself or a victim of another's abuse. He also had some very strong views on world affairs that wouldn't be very user friendly today.In those days a family outing could simply be to drive around, and on one of these Dad accidentally hit and killed a small dog. I remember sitting in the car with Mom as he picked up that dead Wiener Dog and carried it through the neighborhood looking for its owners so he could tell them he was sorry.If, in the end, I turn out half as kind and compassionate as Ellmore H. Matheson, I'm good.The bitter memory of not being allowed to visit my dad in the hospital where he died still sits aching in my head like an abscessed tooth. Too young they said. I’m glad it’s not that way today.In that at least our society has grown more compassionate.Paramedics’ forcing him to ride the gurney downstairs was the last time I physically saw my dad alive. His repeated remonstrations to allow him to walk down the stairs still ring in my head. Every day he was in the hospital, I looked forward to talking with him on the phone. I don’t recall what we talked about, but I know both of us fully expected him to come home. Until the day I returned home to a gray room and a tearful mom."Come sit here Mikey," she said patting the cushion next to her.The day of his funeral is still clear as yesterday. I was 10-1/2 years old. No young son should have to bury his father. Unfortunately, for us in this violent, disease prone world, it happens much too often.I wasn't frightened (in the squeamish sense) to view his body, but refused to see my hero so powerless. He was superman, strong and without a doubt loved me. He had the answer to every question. How could he do so from that box? It has taken many years of life in the raw to learn that a hero like him could never really die, but lives on in every breath, decision and deed of my life.Today he is just as strong if not stronger, and now 48 years down the road many of the seeds he planted in the first decade of my life are just now bearing their fruit. That’s a true hero, and one that can never really die.EpilogueMany years later, when as an adult I was stuck in a tailspin, my mom married another great man. It took me several years to reconcile him as a father to me. But I did.
From Left My Daughter Sheri, Brandy, Mom, Dad Hank, ChristalIn discussing this thought with a good number of people, I found it difficult to locate more than a couple that have had even one GOOD father in their life, and I’ve had two. I understand my tremendous good fortune.While writing the original version of this piece my second father was battling cancer from which I fully expected him to recover. He died just as I was finishing.Howard “Hank” Smoyer earned the right to be called my Dad. He was not an ‘also ran,’ but another real hero that will never die. It would take another story to tell you why.Mixed up in the midst of all my madness and trouble, God used two real men to sculpt my life, and they are carving away still, for true heroes never really die.
Tobias and IMarch 5, 2016
EENY MEENY Book Review
Bone-Jarring * Brutal * IntenseGreat piece of crime fiction by M. J. Arlidge.
Not your usual fair (Cliche I know, but it's true)– Detective Inspector Helen Grace pursues a twisted serial killer. The story setting is the English coastal city of Southampton. Grace is a tough, determined police officer who rides a motorbike and prefers to travel through life alone; she nevertheless is beset by personal demons. The killer is kidnapping pairs of victims and torturing them in ways that to tell you would be a spoiler. The identity of the predator unveiled only in the last ten percent of the book comes entirely unexpected.
Much like an out of control car careening towards you on a rainy night, some aspects of this story can be seen coming; nevertheless, they were unique as fingerprints. Piece by jagged piece added up to a chilling razor-sharp tale, and the story never lagged. The cold brutality of the action was felt in every letter of sparing descriptions which were never gratuitous. At times, my stomach lurched at the vivid depictions. The only distraction or complication I felt was a purely American one, the British idioms lent realism but confused me more than once.
Great story.
Not your usual fair (Cliche I know, but it's true)– Detective Inspector Helen Grace pursues a twisted serial killer. The story setting is the English coastal city of Southampton. Grace is a tough, determined police officer who rides a motorbike and prefers to travel through life alone; she nevertheless is beset by personal demons. The killer is kidnapping pairs of victims and torturing them in ways that to tell you would be a spoiler. The identity of the predator unveiled only in the last ten percent of the book comes entirely unexpected.
Much like an out of control car careening towards you on a rainy night, some aspects of this story can be seen coming; nevertheless, they were unique as fingerprints. Piece by jagged piece added up to a chilling razor-sharp tale, and the story never lagged. The cold brutality of the action was felt in every letter of sparing descriptions which were never gratuitous. At times, my stomach lurched at the vivid depictions. The only distraction or complication I felt was a purely American one, the British idioms lent realism but confused me more than once.
Great story.
February 22, 2016
The Day The Mockingbird Died
Harper Lee, author of the nearly ubiquitous modern American classic, To Kill a Mockingbird, died Friday, February 19, 2016. But, of course, you know this already – unless you live in a cave – without a cell phone.
This article is not meant to be an encyclopedia of facts, for that you can go to Wikipedia. Still, I would like to throw out a few astounding facts.
If you went to High School any time since the 1960s, you could hardly escape without reading her iconic book, or at least, cheating and stealing the Cliff Notes. I missed out only because school seemed uninteresting and nefarious activities were the bigger draw at the time. I did read it later in life.
A 2008 survey of secondary books read by students grades 9–12 in the U.S. indicates the novel is the most widely read book in these grades. My granddaughter read Mockingbird when she was fifteen-years-old (now you know I'm an old codger), and she can engage anyone in a compelling debate on the merits of Harper Lee's first and almost only book. It is her favorite book of all time, and she is a voracious reader.
Miss Lee's second novel, Go Set a Watchman, was written in the mid-1950s and published in July 2015 as a "sequel" though it was later found to be Mockingbird's first draft.
As an Indie Author, this next one kills me, not as funny haha, but WHY-NOT-ME (I know the answer shush): Harper Lee won a Pulitzer for her first book. Granted, she deserves it.
Mockingbird, since 1960 has sold at least a million copies a year.
And, if all that is not enough, read the following paragraph from Wikipedia on the novel's contribution to the success of the Civil Rights movement. That alone makes Harper Lee's image worthy to be inscribed on Mount Rushmore:
I finished reading/listening to her second novel Go Set A Watchman (published fifty-five years after her first) on the same day she went off into eternity, and only learned the sad news of her death.
Parked outside of Starbucks, I was scrambling in the console for a napkin and a pen before looking online for a bit of text from Watchman (so I wouldn't have to scribble or type it myself).
The text that HITS me after listening to Doctor Finch slap Jean Louise (Scout from Mockingbird) hard enough to draw blood:
Bravo to the author. I'm not advocating violence against women, but that's a great line.
There's a lot of controversy surrounding Lee's second novel, and some people are whining that Atticus Finch, a pen and ink icon for good in the Twentieth Century, is discovered to be a racist (not a bigot but a racist–Read the book or get a dictionary). I saw a tweet saying that was a violation akin to Spielberg doing a sequel and having ET punch Elliot in the face. Perhaps.
Anyhow, Miss Harper Lee is a gift that will endure. As a writer or reader, you must, or I'll slap YOU to see what happens, admire her for earning a Pulitzer on her first book changing our world for good then publishing another fifty-five years later before riding quietly off into the sunset.
May we enjoy her gifts for years to come.
I am in awe.
Peace,
M
This article is not meant to be an encyclopedia of facts, for that you can go to Wikipedia. Still, I would like to throw out a few astounding facts.
If you went to High School any time since the 1960s, you could hardly escape without reading her iconic book, or at least, cheating and stealing the Cliff Notes. I missed out only because school seemed uninteresting and nefarious activities were the bigger draw at the time. I did read it later in life.
A 2008 survey of secondary books read by students grades 9–12 in the U.S. indicates the novel is the most widely read book in these grades. My granddaughter read Mockingbird when she was fifteen-years-old (now you know I'm an old codger), and she can engage anyone in a compelling debate on the merits of Harper Lee's first and almost only book. It is her favorite book of all time, and she is a voracious reader.
Miss Lee's second novel, Go Set a Watchman, was written in the mid-1950s and published in July 2015 as a "sequel" though it was later found to be Mockingbird's first draft.
As an Indie Author, this next one kills me, not as funny haha, but WHY-NOT-ME (I know the answer shush): Harper Lee won a Pulitzer for her first book. Granted, she deserves it.
Mockingbird, since 1960 has sold at least a million copies a year.
And, if all that is not enough, read the following paragraph from Wikipedia on the novel's contribution to the success of the Civil Rights movement. That alone makes Harper Lee's image worthy to be inscribed on Mount Rushmore:
The novel is cited as a factor in the success of the civil rights movement in the 1960s, however, in that it "arrived at the right moment to help the South and the nation grapple with the racial tensions (of) the accelerating civil rights movement". Its publication is so closely associated with the Civil Rights Movement that many studies of the book and biographies of Harper Lee include descriptions of important moments in the movement, despite the fact that she had no direct involvement in any of them. Civil Rights leader Andrew Young comments that part of the book's effectiveness is that it "inspires hope in the midst of chaos and confusion" and by using racial epithets portrays the reality of the times in which it was set. Young views the novel as "an act of humanity" in showing the possibility of people rising above their prejudices. Alabama author Mark Childress compares it to the impact of Uncle Tom's Cabin, a book that is popularly implicated in starting the U.S. Civil War. Childress states the novel "gives white Southerners a way to understand the racism that they've been brought up with and to find another way. And most white people in the South were good people. Most white people in the South were not throwing bombs and causing havoc ... I think the book really helped them come to understand what was wrong with the system in the way that any number of treatises could never do, because it was popular art, because it was told from a child's point of view."
I finished reading/listening to her second novel Go Set A Watchman (published fifty-five years after her first) on the same day she went off into eternity, and only learned the sad news of her death.
Parked outside of Starbucks, I was scrambling in the console for a napkin and a pen before looking online for a bit of text from Watchman (so I wouldn't have to scribble or type it myself).
The text that HITS me after listening to Doctor Finch slap Jean Louise (Scout from Mockingbird) hard enough to draw blood:
I never struck a woman before in my life. Think I'll go strike your aunt and see what happens. You just sit there for a while and be quiet.- Chapter 18Now that's a line that reaches up, grabs you by the shirt collar and slams your head into a wall.
Bravo to the author. I'm not advocating violence against women, but that's a great line.
There's a lot of controversy surrounding Lee's second novel, and some people are whining that Atticus Finch, a pen and ink icon for good in the Twentieth Century, is discovered to be a racist (not a bigot but a racist–Read the book or get a dictionary). I saw a tweet saying that was a violation akin to Spielberg doing a sequel and having ET punch Elliot in the face. Perhaps.
Anyhow, Miss Harper Lee is a gift that will endure. As a writer or reader, you must, or I'll slap YOU to see what happens, admire her for earning a Pulitzer on her first book changing our world for good then publishing another fifty-five years later before riding quietly off into the sunset.
May we enjoy her gifts for years to come.
I am in awe.
Peace,
M
January 26, 2016
Review: Ashley Bell by Dean Koontz
My last comments about 'Ashley Bell' from a previous post got turned on their head.
Early on she is set up as the amazing child of surfer parents whose life motto is, "What will be, will be."
From Amazon: "The girl who said no to death. Bibi Blair is a fierce, funny, dauntless young woman—whose doctor says she has one year to live."
BiBi makes you want to know her.
Her head is full of imaginings and deep thoughts that spin constantly and fill her diary. She has had supernatural occurrences by the age of six, which Koontz taunts us with by releasing a crumb at a time.
By the time she is eighteen, BiBi has published a successful novel, and her mind and talent are well recognized. It is her mind we are let in on, sometimes confused and made dizzy by its labyrinthine turns.
From the time she is struck down by cancer to the time she is running for Ashley Bell's life she is chased by a colorful cadre of connected villains. Throughout the entire tale, we are kept on the run.
BiBi, nor the reader, realizes that the alternate reality she is living in is not her first world. Not until the book has it's colorful manicured nails deeply embedded into your soul.
The setting was a pleasant treat for me, Orange County, California, a place I lived for much of my life. It was fun to run with BiBi on streets and freeways that I grew up on.
During her quest, we are only given as much information as BiBi has – not much at all.
The lack of insight works well with the story.Ashley Bell has many layers and more facets than a priceless diamond; to go on further would spoil the story.READ IT
"Don't get the idea I am not enjoying Ashley Bell, I am. "The novellas that made the run up to this epic novel paved the way for this story although there was only one character retained, Pogo. He is a brilliant, handsome and humble surfer-dude. Girls all go gaga over him which he seems not to notice. He is the best friend with no romantic ties to BiBi Blair the protagonist of this story.
Early on she is set up as the amazing child of surfer parents whose life motto is, "What will be, will be."From Amazon: "The girl who said no to death. Bibi Blair is a fierce, funny, dauntless young woman—whose doctor says she has one year to live."
BiBi makes you want to know her.
Her head is full of imaginings and deep thoughts that spin constantly and fill her diary. She has had supernatural occurrences by the age of six, which Koontz taunts us with by releasing a crumb at a time.
By the time she is eighteen, BiBi has published a successful novel, and her mind and talent are well recognized. It is her mind we are let in on, sometimes confused and made dizzy by its labyrinthine turns.
From the time she is struck down by cancer to the time she is running for Ashley Bell's life she is chased by a colorful cadre of connected villains. Throughout the entire tale, we are kept on the run.
BiBi, nor the reader, realizes that the alternate reality she is living in is not her first world. Not until the book has it's colorful manicured nails deeply embedded into your soul.
The setting was a pleasant treat for me, Orange County, California, a place I lived for much of my life. It was fun to run with BiBi on streets and freeways that I grew up on.
During her quest, we are only given as much information as BiBi has – not much at all.
The lack of insight works well with the story.Ashley Bell has many layers and more facets than a priceless diamond; to go on further would spoil the story.READ IT
January 20, 2016
No More Mister Nice Guy and The Big C
I look back with my jaw hanging wide open and must conclude that my Novel knew I was sick long before I or anyone else did. And, that leaves me to reason that there is a mysterious magic within the stories we write. No matter the genre or subject.
We would do well to look for the magic within what we read and write and learn to tune our ear to its enchanting song.Sometime in 2010, I had a great idea for a story which, as most of mine go, was intended to be short, the story not the idea, but rarely if ever do they end up that way. My words whether spoken or written have trouble staying confined to a box, and writers block is a malady I’ve yet to experience. The only way to keep my head from exploding is to write or speak the ideas that are always threatening to boil over.Writing, for me, works better and offends the least people.I’ve instructed my relatives that my headstone should read, Just One More Thing… including the ellipsis. Being such a loquacious individual, I love the ellipsis; It allows me continuing speaking long after I’ve shut my mouth. I could go on…
In 2010, I began work on a story about an Irish Civil War Soldier, Mike MacKenzie, and by mid-2011, I had the wireframe of a finished novel, No More Mister Nice Guy. Mike, who had started as the protagonist soon, took on a supporting role.In the story, Mike emerges unscathed from a horrific death at the Battle of Antietam1862 and becomes a timeless Priest or Chaplain, who walks the battlefields of the Civil War up through the wars of today. Even now I am unsure exactly what Mike is, a ghost, a spirit, or an immortal, even though he operates as all of these things at one time or another during the story.What Mike is for sure is a helper. He shows up where people are most desperate for a miracle, some he offers that supernatural help, others receive only words of advice that if heeded will turn the tide of battle and ultimately save lives. Some listen, some don’t. Those that refuse his help live the remainder of their lives in bitter regret.Instead of blathering on about Mike, here is a significant portion of Chapter Nineteen from my novel, No More Mister Nice Guy, the beginning of Father Mike MacKenzie or Lucky Mike as some call him.AntietamA Union Army cannon fired into an already mangled cornfield where southern soldiers were making their advance. The unique whistle announced that everything nearby was about to be ripped to bloody shreds, and there was nothing anyone, but Almighty God could do to stop it. The shell, a case shot, looked like two three-pound coffee cans packed with lead balls, nails, and gunpowder, and it landed with a thunk, sticking in the mud at the feet of a young recruit named Michael Patrick MacKenzie. Michael looked down at the unexploded shell and froze. His brain crackled like ice when hot sweet tea spills over it and, for the longest second of time, the shell just lay there. With a glimmer of hope, he prayed it was a dud, but explode it did. In a rainbow spray of orange, red, and gray matter, it spewed a rolling cloud of smoke and dust. Faithful to its promise, it tore everything within a hundred feet into ragged little pieces. The soldier’s nerves, raw and already jangled to numbness, were thrust once again into the burning coals of war.The survivors reluctantly rose from the blood-spattered dirt. Four of their comrades lay in tatters, dead; tiny curls of smoke issued from crescent-shaped tears in their lifeless bodies. And, as the dust cleared, an unlikely apparition appeared from the cloud.Stunned and breathless, soldiers stood and stared with disbelief at the phantom in a gunslinger’s duster. Caked with gray dust, fragments of metal, and human remains, Mike stood unscathed except for one crimson cut arcing smoothly around the soft part of his left cheek. Blood strained to drip from the slice.With his cap in one hand, brushing the grisly dust from his clothes, Corporal Memphis Hughson looked up into Mike’s face and, with his head cocked to one side, said, "What ‘n tarnation are you, boy?”Mike was unsure how to answer that question and stood expressionless, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if expecting some grand apocalyptic event. Other men close enough to have witnessed what happened remained speechless, afraid to move. Some fought back tears until they could taste the salt stinging their throats.Mike MacKenzie, the usual joker wise-ass of the group now had a face set and rigid, the look of living granite. His once muddy brown eyes were now a deep crystalline blue.Death had been cheated big time, and Mike was unsure how he felt. He knew that he had been in the midst of an explosion, but the sound didn’t register – only the quick blowing out of a lamp, his – and then, nothingness. Hard to describe. It was nothing, but he still had an awareness of the war raging around him, only muted and seen through a cloudy haze. His former fears and concerns for the next moment in the battle, his own survival, and that of his comrades, had been dislodged. If he had a mirror and dared look, he would have seen a reflection somewhat like he remembered, but now with grizzled leathery skin and the stoic look of granite. His once hazel-colored eyes were now frosty blue. He had gone in fresh-faced, scarcely out of his teens, and awoke moments later, looking as if he had witnessed decades, maybe centuries of struggles and wars. His once paramount cares, worries, and doubts had been canned as his mother did peaches; boiled, vacuum-sealed, and put high on a shelf out of the way, isolated from what he now sensed was his prime mover and reason to live. He owned it, but it needed time to develop fully. One minute it wasn’t and the next, it just was. The blues of the crisp, clear sky, even though fouled with acrid smoke and the smell of death, were more brilliant than he could ever remember. The green grass stained scarlet in so many places, stood up as if singing, and the reds... Well, the red was blood, and it was everywhere. The blood burned its signature deep into his mind and far down into the depths of his soul. The blood of men being needlessly spilled was the carrier of life, every drop more precious than all the gold in the world. He barely comprehended the grieving pain that now threatened to tear him in two.The new version of Mike MacKenzie stood frozen and looked out at the small crowd of disbelieving eyes that peeked from faces caked in grime. His voice boomed with anger that made them flinch.“Let’s finish this war today and get all this killing behind us!” A pure and righteous indignation cried for justice and screwed its way down into the soul of every man within earshot. Lieutenant Marcus Kirby spoke up with a drawl so slow that everyone leaned towards him, hoping his words wouldn’t drop to the ground before they reached their ears.“Mike’s right; let’s get all this killing past us.” And with that, he raised his bloodied white-gloved hand and waved it forward, leading them right into the nucleus of the battle. “The sooner we fight, the sooner we’re done or dead.” They all charged with renewed vigor, except Mike.Mike Mackenzie laid his guns and cartridge belt on a nearby stump; his saber he shoved in the dirt with such fury it rattled. He then walked head-on into the heart of the battle, disappearing into the midst of the maelstrom. That day, Mike tended to dozens of wounded and dying soldiers, and he finished without a scratch, earning the moniker Lucky Mike.That was Wednesday, September 17, 1862, at Antietam Creek, the bloodiest battle in United States history. No one came out the winner that day, and over 23,000 lives went out into eternity. Sadly, there was no decisive victory.The tales of Lucky Mike spread like a virus through camps on both sides, but stories being stories, they soon became well-embroidered tales, the stuff of legends. And, as is the way of legends, most fade away into the backdrop of time, except this one.Truth, he never ducked, he never flinched, and nothing ever hit him. He was often seen emerging from nowhere, walking out of the smoke towards a wounded soldier. Looking after the dying and hopeless wounded, he was known to sit for days with some worried mother’s son; in the end, the only witnesses were those he tended to. If you’ve made it this far, you deserve the rest of my story and why I think this book predicted my cancer and recovery.
In September 2011 with my first rough draft of NMMNG hanging from the can, I was diagnosed with Squamous Cell Carcinoma of the head and neck. What the doctors found was a metastasization of an original tumor which was never found. Up until then, I had no warning signs beyond swollen lymph nodes in my neck, no other symptoms until the treatment which nearly killed me. The doctors kill you to save you.
Two phrases still echo in my head: The first from my wife. She said as I poked my growing glands, “You should see a doctor about that,” to which I replied or didn’t with a shrug.The second from my primary care doctor, “Why did you wait so long?”The standard treatment opens your neck with as much finesse as an autopsy, strips all the lymph systems away, and sews you back up with burlap yarn followed by radiation and chemo. Oh, boy!I thank the Lord daily for the doctors who suggested deviating from the book and trying radiation and Chemo without surgery. The thinking was that if it didn’t work, they could still do the surgery.The surgery is VERY disfiguring. It snips nerves and muscles in your neck limiting mobility FOREVER. As for the scarring, think Nightmare before Christmas.
So, down I went waltzing into the pit of perdition. Arrogant as hell and ready to defy expectations, after three weeks of bug spray (Chemo) and radiation I was humbled. As the burning increased, not the mere feeling but actual third-degree burns on the inside of my esophagus, my voice was graced with a sexy whisper, and the hair on the back of my head and from my chin came off in clumps.
The cure arrived with truckloads of misery, and the farther it went, the farther away God seemed.To this day, I describe it like this:Jesus: Hey Mike, I’ve got to step out and get a newspaper, but I’ll be back.Mike: When will you be back?(Silence, as the door closes. Also, Mike doesn’t know it, but his writing muse has vanished also.)For a good year afterward, I could not see the evidence of or feel God's presence. He’s God, so I could either be bitter and blame Him, or I could blame Him with the understanding that he is the Ruler of the Universe and big enough to do what he wants.I kept at the things I knew to do, like praying and reading my bible, but still I could not conjure up his felt presence. I had to trust that he was there and hope He still had my back.
The last thing I’ll say on that sickness is, the all-pervading fatigue is the worst. It’s as if alien starships had sucked every speck of energy out of my psyche and dropped my emaciated body back to earth. Before I got sick, I thought, at least, I would have time to read. That joke was on me. Reading a book took more energy than I could summon.
My days were spent under a blanket watching the History Channel and NatGeo.There were a couple of pluses:The Big C was a heck of a diet plan. When your mouth, tongue, and esophagus are so dry and painful that swallowing a globule of spit is akin to climbing Mount Everest in the nude, it is easy not to eat. I went from being a fat guy to a thin guy. And even later after they took the feeding tube out of my stomach, eating was such a pain in the ass, I had to force myself to eat so that I wouldn't die of starvation.
I lost a good forty pounds, and I'm still much thinner than I was before cancer dropped in for a visit. People that haven't seen me for a while want to know my secret. It is not moral strength that keeps me thin; it is mechanics. Food is still hard to swallow sometimes, and random things get trapped where my airway meets my esophagus. I keep the weight off because of problematic eating, not nobility.
Okay Okay, settle down. I know. What the hell has that got to do with my book?The protagonist of No More Mister Nice Guy, Billy Hartman was just that, a NICE GUY, and he was sick to death of it. As writers, we write what we know, and we project ourselves into our work.Before my brush with death, so to speak, I had become sick and tired of being so stinking nice. I hated wearing the shirts with the logo of a boot-print on the back that said kick me. I was ready to punch someone in the nose just to lose that reputation. As an aside, at one time, before I gave my life over to Christ, I was a genuine bad guy and thrived on that (bad) image. I would break your face as soon as look at you. Keeping up that image was a lot of work. It's easier to be kind and caring.
Anyhow, in the book, Billy sets out to destroy the image that had been cast for him and it goes horribly wrong. In the process, he is dealt a death blow, and nothing but a miracle will save him. In comes Mike MacKenzie along with a couple of odd beings and they carry him to a MASH unit.
Billy has a miraculous and quick recovery from horrific wounds.He sets out on a quest to find Mike MacKenzie, and during that search, his life is restored to something real, vibrant, and full. The life Billy Hartman despised gets turned on its head as much or more than the circumstances around him. It becomes everything he ever wanted.
Same for me. The newer version of Mike Matheson is less willing to say yes just to be nice and make you happy. I like that. Also, I have a greater tolerance for negative things in my life and learned rougher but far superior form of graceAs I am sure most cancer survivors could tell you, the struggle and recovery are life changing.But, unlike anyone I have ever spoke with, they’ve not had their book foretell their future. I didn’t see it right away, but the revelation suddenly came when I revisited the manuscript.My first novel, No More Mister Nice Guy, has been described several different ways:C. S. Lewis meets Stephen King.The Chronicles of Narnia on steroids Rated R.The Pilgrim’s Progress with whiskey and guns.There are a hundred other back stories to the book; this is only one of them.Peace,M
We would do well to look for the magic within what we read and write and learn to tune our ear to its enchanting song.Sometime in 2010, I had a great idea for a story which, as most of mine go, was intended to be short, the story not the idea, but rarely if ever do they end up that way. My words whether spoken or written have trouble staying confined to a box, and writers block is a malady I’ve yet to experience. The only way to keep my head from exploding is to write or speak the ideas that are always threatening to boil over.Writing, for me, works better and offends the least people.I’ve instructed my relatives that my headstone should read, Just One More Thing… including the ellipsis. Being such a loquacious individual, I love the ellipsis; It allows me continuing speaking long after I’ve shut my mouth. I could go on…
In 2010, I began work on a story about an Irish Civil War Soldier, Mike MacKenzie, and by mid-2011, I had the wireframe of a finished novel, No More Mister Nice Guy. Mike, who had started as the protagonist soon, took on a supporting role.In the story, Mike emerges unscathed from a horrific death at the Battle of Antietam1862 and becomes a timeless Priest or Chaplain, who walks the battlefields of the Civil War up through the wars of today. Even now I am unsure exactly what Mike is, a ghost, a spirit, or an immortal, even though he operates as all of these things at one time or another during the story.What Mike is for sure is a helper. He shows up where people are most desperate for a miracle, some he offers that supernatural help, others receive only words of advice that if heeded will turn the tide of battle and ultimately save lives. Some listen, some don’t. Those that refuse his help live the remainder of their lives in bitter regret.Instead of blathering on about Mike, here is a significant portion of Chapter Nineteen from my novel, No More Mister Nice Guy, the beginning of Father Mike MacKenzie or Lucky Mike as some call him.AntietamA Union Army cannon fired into an already mangled cornfield where southern soldiers were making their advance. The unique whistle announced that everything nearby was about to be ripped to bloody shreds, and there was nothing anyone, but Almighty God could do to stop it. The shell, a case shot, looked like two three-pound coffee cans packed with lead balls, nails, and gunpowder, and it landed with a thunk, sticking in the mud at the feet of a young recruit named Michael Patrick MacKenzie. Michael looked down at the unexploded shell and froze. His brain crackled like ice when hot sweet tea spills over it and, for the longest second of time, the shell just lay there. With a glimmer of hope, he prayed it was a dud, but explode it did. In a rainbow spray of orange, red, and gray matter, it spewed a rolling cloud of smoke and dust. Faithful to its promise, it tore everything within a hundred feet into ragged little pieces. The soldier’s nerves, raw and already jangled to numbness, were thrust once again into the burning coals of war.The survivors reluctantly rose from the blood-spattered dirt. Four of their comrades lay in tatters, dead; tiny curls of smoke issued from crescent-shaped tears in their lifeless bodies. And, as the dust cleared, an unlikely apparition appeared from the cloud.Stunned and breathless, soldiers stood and stared with disbelief at the phantom in a gunslinger’s duster. Caked with gray dust, fragments of metal, and human remains, Mike stood unscathed except for one crimson cut arcing smoothly around the soft part of his left cheek. Blood strained to drip from the slice.With his cap in one hand, brushing the grisly dust from his clothes, Corporal Memphis Hughson looked up into Mike’s face and, with his head cocked to one side, said, "What ‘n tarnation are you, boy?”Mike was unsure how to answer that question and stood expressionless, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if expecting some grand apocalyptic event. Other men close enough to have witnessed what happened remained speechless, afraid to move. Some fought back tears until they could taste the salt stinging their throats.Mike MacKenzie, the usual joker wise-ass of the group now had a face set and rigid, the look of living granite. His once muddy brown eyes were now a deep crystalline blue.Death had been cheated big time, and Mike was unsure how he felt. He knew that he had been in the midst of an explosion, but the sound didn’t register – only the quick blowing out of a lamp, his – and then, nothingness. Hard to describe. It was nothing, but he still had an awareness of the war raging around him, only muted and seen through a cloudy haze. His former fears and concerns for the next moment in the battle, his own survival, and that of his comrades, had been dislodged. If he had a mirror and dared look, he would have seen a reflection somewhat like he remembered, but now with grizzled leathery skin and the stoic look of granite. His once hazel-colored eyes were now frosty blue. He had gone in fresh-faced, scarcely out of his teens, and awoke moments later, looking as if he had witnessed decades, maybe centuries of struggles and wars. His once paramount cares, worries, and doubts had been canned as his mother did peaches; boiled, vacuum-sealed, and put high on a shelf out of the way, isolated from what he now sensed was his prime mover and reason to live. He owned it, but it needed time to develop fully. One minute it wasn’t and the next, it just was. The blues of the crisp, clear sky, even though fouled with acrid smoke and the smell of death, were more brilliant than he could ever remember. The green grass stained scarlet in so many places, stood up as if singing, and the reds... Well, the red was blood, and it was everywhere. The blood burned its signature deep into his mind and far down into the depths of his soul. The blood of men being needlessly spilled was the carrier of life, every drop more precious than all the gold in the world. He barely comprehended the grieving pain that now threatened to tear him in two.The new version of Mike MacKenzie stood frozen and looked out at the small crowd of disbelieving eyes that peeked from faces caked in grime. His voice boomed with anger that made them flinch.“Let’s finish this war today and get all this killing behind us!” A pure and righteous indignation cried for justice and screwed its way down into the soul of every man within earshot. Lieutenant Marcus Kirby spoke up with a drawl so slow that everyone leaned towards him, hoping his words wouldn’t drop to the ground before they reached their ears.“Mike’s right; let’s get all this killing past us.” And with that, he raised his bloodied white-gloved hand and waved it forward, leading them right into the nucleus of the battle. “The sooner we fight, the sooner we’re done or dead.” They all charged with renewed vigor, except Mike.Mike Mackenzie laid his guns and cartridge belt on a nearby stump; his saber he shoved in the dirt with such fury it rattled. He then walked head-on into the heart of the battle, disappearing into the midst of the maelstrom. That day, Mike tended to dozens of wounded and dying soldiers, and he finished without a scratch, earning the moniker Lucky Mike.That was Wednesday, September 17, 1862, at Antietam Creek, the bloodiest battle in United States history. No one came out the winner that day, and over 23,000 lives went out into eternity. Sadly, there was no decisive victory.The tales of Lucky Mike spread like a virus through camps on both sides, but stories being stories, they soon became well-embroidered tales, the stuff of legends. And, as is the way of legends, most fade away into the backdrop of time, except this one.Truth, he never ducked, he never flinched, and nothing ever hit him. He was often seen emerging from nowhere, walking out of the smoke towards a wounded soldier. Looking after the dying and hopeless wounded, he was known to sit for days with some worried mother’s son; in the end, the only witnesses were those he tended to. If you’ve made it this far, you deserve the rest of my story and why I think this book predicted my cancer and recovery.
In September 2011 with my first rough draft of NMMNG hanging from the can, I was diagnosed with Squamous Cell Carcinoma of the head and neck. What the doctors found was a metastasization of an original tumor which was never found. Up until then, I had no warning signs beyond swollen lymph nodes in my neck, no other symptoms until the treatment which nearly killed me. The doctors kill you to save you.
Two phrases still echo in my head: The first from my wife. She said as I poked my growing glands, “You should see a doctor about that,” to which I replied or didn’t with a shrug.The second from my primary care doctor, “Why did you wait so long?”The standard treatment opens your neck with as much finesse as an autopsy, strips all the lymph systems away, and sews you back up with burlap yarn followed by radiation and chemo. Oh, boy!I thank the Lord daily for the doctors who suggested deviating from the book and trying radiation and Chemo without surgery. The thinking was that if it didn’t work, they could still do the surgery.The surgery is VERY disfiguring. It snips nerves and muscles in your neck limiting mobility FOREVER. As for the scarring, think Nightmare before Christmas.
So, down I went waltzing into the pit of perdition. Arrogant as hell and ready to defy expectations, after three weeks of bug spray (Chemo) and radiation I was humbled. As the burning increased, not the mere feeling but actual third-degree burns on the inside of my esophagus, my voice was graced with a sexy whisper, and the hair on the back of my head and from my chin came off in clumps.The cure arrived with truckloads of misery, and the farther it went, the farther away God seemed.To this day, I describe it like this:Jesus: Hey Mike, I’ve got to step out and get a newspaper, but I’ll be back.Mike: When will you be back?(Silence, as the door closes. Also, Mike doesn’t know it, but his writing muse has vanished also.)For a good year afterward, I could not see the evidence of or feel God's presence. He’s God, so I could either be bitter and blame Him, or I could blame Him with the understanding that he is the Ruler of the Universe and big enough to do what he wants.I kept at the things I knew to do, like praying and reading my bible, but still I could not conjure up his felt presence. I had to trust that he was there and hope He still had my back.
The last thing I’ll say on that sickness is, the all-pervading fatigue is the worst. It’s as if alien starships had sucked every speck of energy out of my psyche and dropped my emaciated body back to earth. Before I got sick, I thought, at least, I would have time to read. That joke was on me. Reading a book took more energy than I could summon.
My days were spent under a blanket watching the History Channel and NatGeo.There were a couple of pluses:The Big C was a heck of a diet plan. When your mouth, tongue, and esophagus are so dry and painful that swallowing a globule of spit is akin to climbing Mount Everest in the nude, it is easy not to eat. I went from being a fat guy to a thin guy. And even later after they took the feeding tube out of my stomach, eating was such a pain in the ass, I had to force myself to eat so that I wouldn't die of starvation.I lost a good forty pounds, and I'm still much thinner than I was before cancer dropped in for a visit. People that haven't seen me for a while want to know my secret. It is not moral strength that keeps me thin; it is mechanics. Food is still hard to swallow sometimes, and random things get trapped where my airway meets my esophagus. I keep the weight off because of problematic eating, not nobility.
Okay Okay, settle down. I know. What the hell has that got to do with my book?The protagonist of No More Mister Nice Guy, Billy Hartman was just that, a NICE GUY, and he was sick to death of it. As writers, we write what we know, and we project ourselves into our work.Before my brush with death, so to speak, I had become sick and tired of being so stinking nice. I hated wearing the shirts with the logo of a boot-print on the back that said kick me. I was ready to punch someone in the nose just to lose that reputation. As an aside, at one time, before I gave my life over to Christ, I was a genuine bad guy and thrived on that (bad) image. I would break your face as soon as look at you. Keeping up that image was a lot of work. It's easier to be kind and caring.
Anyhow, in the book, Billy sets out to destroy the image that had been cast for him and it goes horribly wrong. In the process, he is dealt a death blow, and nothing but a miracle will save him. In comes Mike MacKenzie along with a couple of odd beings and they carry him to a MASH unit.Billy has a miraculous and quick recovery from horrific wounds.He sets out on a quest to find Mike MacKenzie, and during that search, his life is restored to something real, vibrant, and full. The life Billy Hartman despised gets turned on its head as much or more than the circumstances around him. It becomes everything he ever wanted.
Same for me. The newer version of Mike Matheson is less willing to say yes just to be nice and make you happy. I like that. Also, I have a greater tolerance for negative things in my life and learned rougher but far superior form of graceAs I am sure most cancer survivors could tell you, the struggle and recovery are life changing.But, unlike anyone I have ever spoke with, they’ve not had their book foretell their future. I didn’t see it right away, but the revelation suddenly came when I revisited the manuscript.My first novel, No More Mister Nice Guy, has been described several different ways:C. S. Lewis meets Stephen King.The Chronicles of Narnia on steroids Rated R.The Pilgrim’s Progress with whiskey and guns.There are a hundred other back stories to the book; this is only one of them.Peace,M
January 11, 2016
Current Read Ashley Bell by Dean Koontz
I don't consider myself a big fan of Dean Koontz. Even though my genre tastes swing wide, he has never hooked me until the two novellas, Last Light and Final Hour, precursors to his epic novel, Ashley Bell.
I admit that Koontz's marketing ploy caught me. I was willing to risk $1.99 on the chance I might enjoy them. These two were five stars, off the hook, enjoyable reads. So I bought Ashley Bell when it came out. Ashley Bell is an excellent book, I am a third of the way through, but the novella's trumped the novel in my opinion. Mind you, I haven't reached the end, so I will reserve final judgement until then.Don't get the idea I am not enjoying Ashley Bell, I am. I'll give my reviews later.
Happy Reading,M. Matheson
January 8, 2016
...and the Smell of Old Leather
What is it with the smell of old leather? Do you love it or hate it?
Knowing me as a lover of words, Nichole, one of my five daughters (read 'em and weep (5)) gifted me a new journal for Christmas. All of those daughters are in their thirties and some are watching forty loom ever closer. I have journal's dating back to when most of them were in Middle School.
This new journal is leather-covered and smells grand.
Hi, my name is Mike. I am a journal keeper and leather smeller.
Journal keeping is becoming ever scarcer these days. Perhaps rare, only because they/we are often driven underground by mock and ridicule, seen as nerds choosing hovels and holes over the bright sunlight or hypnotic glare of a big flatscreen TV.
Electronic journal keeping has not won me over to the dark side – yet. Everything else can go electronic, and it has, but you will not get my paper and ink journal until you pry it from my cold dead hands.
Not to worry, I have fully embraced electronics, typing this blog post on my Mac over Starbucks Wifi, checking my iPhone for Twitter updates and feeding Instagram selfies via my iPad. Quick call the shrink; I am one sick puppy. Although, if I am sick, you better bring a big bus; there are a lot of us here.
Perhaps the feeling of legacy or durability drives my desire to see ink applied to paper by my hand. In a dark corner of my needy mind, my hope is that when I am dead and gone, some as yet unborn descendant will be crazy enough to dig through my effects and find a lasting nugget or two from the chronicles of my crazy life.
I love the smell of leather, mostly old leather. Searching the subject on Google, I found much to my disappointment that the smell is from the chemicals used to preserve the animal hide. Up until then, my brimming imagination pictured old pioneers stripping hides from majestic Bison and cattle to provide me with an olfactory treat.
The smell of leather promises danger and adventure, something that I lived a lot of in my younger more infamous days. During my outlaw biker days, the leather jacket was a second skin, and though I hate to admit it – GIANT MAN PURSE. Its pockets were full of carburetor parts, weapons and other illegal substances. Up until I experienced an awakening in Christ, there was even a new Gospel of John tucked away in one of the myriad pockets. The thing (the jacket) weighed a ton, and I loved its smell which was a lethal mix of whiskey, blood, oil, gasoline and sweat.
The odor of leather proffers the dream of big adventure much like reading a crime novel or riding a big motorcycle from the comfort of your living room chair.
Boil it down, and sniffing leather is a lot like reading a book, albeit fiction, but a book nevertheless.
And there you have it.
Peace,
M. Matheson
Knowing me as a lover of words, Nichole, one of my five daughters (read 'em and weep (5)) gifted me a new journal for Christmas. All of those daughters are in their thirties and some are watching forty loom ever closer. I have journal's dating back to when most of them were in Middle School.
This new journal is leather-covered and smells grand.
Hi, my name is Mike. I am a journal keeper and leather smeller.
Journal keeping is becoming ever scarcer these days. Perhaps rare, only because they/we are often driven underground by mock and ridicule, seen as nerds choosing hovels and holes over the bright sunlight or hypnotic glare of a big flatscreen TV.
Electronic journal keeping has not won me over to the dark side – yet. Everything else can go electronic, and it has, but you will not get my paper and ink journal until you pry it from my cold dead hands.
Not to worry, I have fully embraced electronics, typing this blog post on my Mac over Starbucks Wifi, checking my iPhone for Twitter updates and feeding Instagram selfies via my iPad. Quick call the shrink; I am one sick puppy. Although, if I am sick, you better bring a big bus; there are a lot of us here.
Perhaps the feeling of legacy or durability drives my desire to see ink applied to paper by my hand. In a dark corner of my needy mind, my hope is that when I am dead and gone, some as yet unborn descendant will be crazy enough to dig through my effects and find a lasting nugget or two from the chronicles of my crazy life.
I love the smell of leather, mostly old leather. Searching the subject on Google, I found much to my disappointment that the smell is from the chemicals used to preserve the animal hide. Up until then, my brimming imagination pictured old pioneers stripping hides from majestic Bison and cattle to provide me with an olfactory treat.
The smell of leather promises danger and adventure, something that I lived a lot of in my younger more infamous days. During my outlaw biker days, the leather jacket was a second skin, and though I hate to admit it – GIANT MAN PURSE. Its pockets were full of carburetor parts, weapons and other illegal substances. Up until I experienced an awakening in Christ, there was even a new Gospel of John tucked away in one of the myriad pockets. The thing (the jacket) weighed a ton, and I loved its smell which was a lethal mix of whiskey, blood, oil, gasoline and sweat.
The odor of leather proffers the dream of big adventure much like reading a crime novel or riding a big motorcycle from the comfort of your living room chair.
Boil it down, and sniffing leather is a lot like reading a book, albeit fiction, but a book nevertheless.
And there you have it.
Peace,
M. Matheson
January 5, 2016
Grammarly- A Truly Great Product
When I find a product that is useful, easy and a good deal, I get behind it 100%. The following is from Grammarly's Company Blog and I found it very useful. You should too.
If you CLICK HERE and go to my review of Grammarly you can enter a CONTEST to WIN a complimentary month of Grammarly Premium Service.
Or Click the banner on the lefthand sidebar and try Grammarly for free.
If you CLICK HERE and go to my review of Grammarly you can enter a CONTEST to WIN a complimentary month of Grammarly Premium Service.
Or Click the banner on the lefthand sidebar and try Grammarly for free.
