You Asked For It…Not Really, But Here It Goes, Anyway

One of the great sages, symbols of an era, and arguably the finest singer of the twentieth century, Francis Albert Sinatra, came out of retirement on several occasions to treat his fans to another dose of his impeccable style.  During one of these lapses, I had the good fortune to obtain tickets to see one of those final performances. Though his range had contracted and his rasp was thicker with years of cigarette smoke coated vocal chords, the evening remains memorable nearly forty years later. The question remains, however, why would anyone give up even one day of retirement?

Authors Jane Porter, Suzanne Redfearn and Anita Hughes
at Canyon Hills Library in Anaheim.

I’m glad you asked that question. Since my retirement nearly two years ago in the spring of 2012, I spent a year substitute teaching, volunteered to lead along with my wife a reading club for adults with down syndrome, tutored a high school junior to improve his writing skills, served as a judge of youth writing at the county fair and am slated to be a board member of my synagogue for the coming year. A year ago I gave up the substitute teaching to focus on my writing.

I looked up from my book to snap this sunset.

Last month I had the privilege of attending the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books at the University of Southern California campus. After one of the panel sessions, I introduced myself to one of the authors, James Magnuson, who in addition to being the director of the Michener Center for Writing at the University of Texas is a native of Wisconsin and fellow graduate of the university in Madison. His warmth and congenial discussion of the homeland and becoming grandparents was a treat, but he topped it off by having me send a copy of my manuscript to him.

Simon

Last Saturday, we attended an author’s forum at a local library. Three authors, who write mainly women’s romance and suspense, discussed the writing process, getting published, and their books.  While their genre is different from my own, the steps they took to become authors, their journeys to find a literary agent and getting their books published, as well as the motivation necessary to continue the craft were all the same as what I find myself mired in currently.  One thing they all stressed was the need to continue to write.  A goal I had heard before and was repeated several times that day is to write a thousand words a day.  That’s about twice the length of my usual post at this blog or between three and four double spaced pages.

Another important area they said writers need to focus their energies on is reading.  So, while Debbie snapped her photos of the sunset at Laguna that evening I read a portion of Magnuson’s latest novel, Famous Writers I Have Known. It also led me to the decision that while we are in Wisconsin I will focus my efforts on reading and relaxing, while getting to know our new grandson (see last week’s post).  When we return on May 29^th I will catch up on writing this blog.   

Everything You Always Wanted to Know and We’re Afraid to Ask

To find the meaning of life some people
say you must read between the lines.

Many people search for the meaning of life.  Some find it through religion, whether that’s a personal connection with a Deity or a spiritual awakening following rituals with or without clergy assisting. Others find it through nature, which could be a breathtaking sunset or an ant carrying a peanut shell ten times its size back to its home in the crack in the sidewalk.  Still others, like those of us who participate in the blogosphere, find it in the miracle of creation.  Stunned by the fact intelligent beings actually derive satisfaction from spending their time reading or viewing the dribble we blogafile pundits spew into the social mediated world, we discipline ourselves to tap away on our keyboards with determined inspiration.

Simon's parents
await his arrival.

So, since you found yourself here, either out of habit, because one of my three followers recommended you give us a look, or perhaps you accidentally clicked on a link your niece warned you not to go near, I am going to share with you the actual meaning of life. It’s birth. For some of you existentialists this answer probably seems quite ineffectual.  You’re saying, “But birth is just a point on the continuum of life; he could just have well said death or reincarnation.”  Sorry, I know we are all headed there, but even if, as some believe, our salvation can only be realized through death, or you plan to come back as an even greater being in the next life, these are but attributes and not the ah-hah moment. Birth is the ah-hah moment.

My grandson Simon.

Like most of you, well all of you if you’re being honest, I don’t recall my birth.  We search for it, or something like it, when we meditate in my yoga class.  My mother informs me my uncle took her to the hospital because my father could not get back from work on time. The weather was misty and my grandmother slipped on some black ice—not uncommon in Milwaukee in February.  The umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck, but I understand that, too, is not that uncommon. However, the moment I slid down the birth canal or was pushed out is less than a blur—it’s lost.

As you might have guessed, there’s a reason for all this meaning and birth story.  While we don’t remember our own birth, we remember the birth of our children, even decades later.  Hopefully women only have a limited recollection of labor, because if men were required to be the sex giving birth world population would soon reach zero.  As the partner who stood around and played “coach” for the delivery of my three daughters, I marvel at the miracle.  A few hours ago, my oldest delivered a 7 pound 8 ounce 20 incher named Simon.  In due course we’ll discuss what he remembers about the experience. But, when the phone rang and his mother told me I had a grandson, and tears ran down the cheeks of his grandmother as we heard some of his first cries, I knew why I am alive.

A Blog Walks Into a Bar…

The three dots after Bar is called an ellipsis, but you already knew that—otherwise there would be no sense in calling this satire.  Originally, I planned to tell everyone—yes, that’s you—about winning the Southern California Writers’ Association Will Write for Food contest, but decided not to when I discovered the last winner they posted was February.  When my winning essay does get posted I will post a link to it here.  In the meantime, this week will be devoted to that most satirical of all enterprises, the blog.

Writers shop this market for fresh ideas to put
in their blogs (Photo courtesy iStock.com).

Blog is actually shorthand for weblog.  Apparently, back in the nineties, when the web, known as the world wide web (that’s where the www comes from, but even that has become archaic), was fresh and new, some websites were created with the sole purpose of listing links to noteworthy sites.  In a way, these early links provided the infrastructure for the modern Internet and gave rise to portals like Yahoo, Bing and Google.

In the evolutionary process, actual thoughts and information began to replace the list and the links were more purposely designed to create a conversation.  Sometimes these conversations were just a virtual form of dialogue among friends, or people with similar interests, like movies, television shows, sports, politics, knitting and food. In other instances, it was professionals or business people providing a service for their customers, like chiropractors, accountants, grocers and shoe sales people.

The window on the right of the near side is where I
hammer out these gems (Photo courtesy iStock.com).

Besides winning the writing contest this month, attending the SCWA meeting last Saturday gave me the opportunity to hear an enlightening presentation by a young adult author, Elana K. Arnold.  Her blog elanakarnold.blogspot.com features questions she receives about writing and her review of other authors’ work.  Then, there’s Caleb Jacobo, a member of SCWA who has a blog he subtitles, Welcome to My Public Writing Journal at calebjacobo.com and features everything from his economic and political philosophy to middle grade stories.  Another member of SCWA, who self-published her memoir about taking her teenagers to Belize for a year, Freeways to Flip Flops and promotes it at Costco, has a blog, Gutsy Living: Life’s too short to play it safe at soniamarsh.com that includes webinars on ways to market the next great book.

A blog with which I share a special relationship—it’s written by my nephew is These Things I Know at joshrank.blogspot.com who also migrated from the frozen tundra of Wisconsin to Southern California with a momentary detour to Atlanta. His talents expand beyond the blogosphere to a couple of self-published novels, playing guitar and banjo, vocals and brewing a mean cup of java.

How a writer feels after finishing another post
for his blog (Photo courtesy iStock.com).

Finally, if you like to travel, either in the physical world or via virtual or electronic conveyance, then I would highly recommend venturing with my editor, Lisa Findley. Lisa, who I’ve never met in the physical world, but has assisted in bringing my novel to fruition, is currently on her second leg of a world tour.  You can join her in Peru through her blog Greetings from a Stowaway at lisafindley.com if you hurry.

So, do yourself a favor (no I’m not being satirical) and visit these blogs. Be sure to come back and let me know what you think in our comment section.  If you happen to find some other wonderful blogs along the way please share them with us, too.   

Remembering to Leave the Door Open for Elijah

Last year the Spring holidays—Easter and Passover—sneaked in at the tail end of March rather than the more acceptable and weather cooperative (although this year all bets are off with the continuing saga of cold and snow in places not California) month of April.  For some of the more secularly challenged readers, and those who may have missed a few of their religious school classes, the two holidays are linked through a notable historical event.  According to Christian doctrine, right before Jesus was crucified on the cross he met with his disciples at a feast known as The Last Supper.  Most historians, Christian, Jewish and secular alike, acknowledge that since it occurred at the start of Passover (and Jesus had practiced Judaism), the meal was most likely a seder.

Matzos go well with Passover wine.

Consulting the Hebrew calendar, I discovered the first day of Passover coincided with what in secular America has become known as Tax Day.  Jewish accountants from sea to shining sea wanted to know what they had done to deserve such a fate. Being a flexible Reform Jew, I chose to skip the first night in favor of the second.  Jewish days, which are plotted on a lunar calendar, start at sunset of the previous day (which makes perfect sense if you are following a calendar dependent on the moon that rises when the sun sets).  Traditional inflexible Orthodox Jews have seders on the first and second night of Passover.  Reform Jews usually have their seders on the first night with an option on the second night.  I knew my brother, a CPA with his own practice for more than 30 years, was not going to quit work until too late the night prior (Monday) to the final day of filing.   He did manage to complete his 300 filings and more than another 150 extensions, so he could join us at a reasonable hour—around 7:00 (Tuesday)— for the four questions and the three thousand year old ritual of reciting the story of Moses and our people breaking free from slavery, the exodus from Egypt after a bunch of plagues and the splitting of the Red Sea.

Gefilte fish with horseradish on top.

In this ancient story, handed down from generation to generation, and from rabbi to rabbi, each one more intelligent than the last adds an additional layer of insight into the fabric of the tale and what it means.  The most profound symbol of Passover is the shank bone that sits on the seder plate and represents the Paschal lamb that was sacrificed and whose blood stained the doors of the Jewish homes, so the angel of death would pass over (thus, the name) these homes while killing the first born son of every other home in Egypt—the most severe of the plagues. However, the most familiar of the holiday symbols is matzoh.  The unleavened bread, which is often confused with crackers, symbolizes the kind of bread the Jews were forced to eat in the desert after they fled Egypt without allowing time for the bread to rise.  To honor this wonderful food I am once again posting the brilliant 20 Things to Do with Matzoh by Michelle Citrin and William Levin.

There are also two substances: horseradish with its sinus clearing strength that symbolizes the tears shed by the slaves and charoseth, a mixture of apple, nuts and wine that is supposed to resemble the mortar placed between the bricks as they built the pyramids for the pharaohs. Then, there’s gefilte fish.  It’s not really a symbol, just a tradition built on grinding the fish at the bottom of the river, blending it with other fish and putting it in a jar. With enough horseradish, it tastes fantastic.

We, also leave the door open a crack so Elijah, the prophet, can join us.

Of course, Sunday there will be eggs, chocolate bunnies and jellybeans for Easter.

You’ve Got To Be Kidding

One thing I learned moving to Southern California from the Midwest is given the human condition we find ourselves capable of complaining about nearly anything.  In my first month here I learned some natives wish there were more cloudy days.  All right, sunshine may get a little tedious at times.  Then, someone started complaining about the humidity. In this part of the country humidity, if you can call it that, arrives in winter.  Most of the time it hovers in the seventy to eighty percent range. When it reaches ninety people start to complain and threaten to leave for the dry lands of Arizona or Nevada (only later did I learn those places have monsoons). Most summers in the Midwest the humidity hovers in the low nineties and in the South its almost always-pushing one hundred percent. The concept of stickiness never really arrived in California before the invention of polyester.

Photo courtesy of DebbieDoesPhotography.Blogspot.Com

Another complaint heard from those who migrated here from other regions is the lack of four seasons. Now, that’s ridiculous. Anyone who looks up on the six days the smog isn’t blocking the view of the mountains can tell you the peaks have snow on them in the winter.  In fact, if you venture up to the higher elevations, even if you don’t plan on skiing, you are likely to find snow on the ground, a true testament to winter existing in Southern California.  The other seasons are a little subtler.

Photo courtesy of DebbieDoesPhotography.Blogspot.Com

For instance, the temperature in fall plummets from the eighties and occasional ninety-degree days of summer to a much cooler seventy degrees.  Instead of forests filled with color, there are eight liquid ambers (I think it’s a designer maple created especially for trendy Californians) that lose their leaves and the dozen people whose lawns are covered, myself included, complain vigorously about having to rake.

There are definitely more clues to the arrival of spring. For those individuals into racing the tracks open for a new season, and if you prefer the four-wheel kind the city of Long Beach hosts an impressive Grand Prix. Of course there is the start of our national pastime with three major league teams—the Dodgers, Angels and Padres—holding their home openers during the last two weeks.

Unlike the rest of the country where spring brings rain and life to the earth, it marks the end of our wet season and a return to irrigation both in farmers’ fields and urban landscapes.  Being in the third year of a drought the desire to see more rain fill up water tables and reservoirs finds Southern Californians petitioning to extend the season before they start complaining about restrictions on the days and amount of water they can provide their lawns.

The rebirth of nature inspires many lines of poetry, one of my favorites being:

Spring has sprung

The grass has riz

Oh, how pretty

The flowers is

Photo courtesy of DebbieDoesPhotography.Blogspot.Com

While the change in temperature is less drastic with thermometers moving from highs in the upper sixties and low seventies into the mid-seventies and low eighties, we always run a chance for an early preview of summer, like we did earlier this week.  When the warmth of the sun caused me to open my windows and the mercury (do they still use the stuff in conventional thermometers; I’m just too digital) touched ninety, my wife first moved to the shade and a short while later came inside complaining it was too hot. You’ve got to be kidding.