Ruth Maxwell was my “Aunt Ruth”. She was brilliant, kind, compassionate, funny and an important influence on my life. I especially cherish the reconnection we made through our shared passion for writing during the past 3 years. Her book “Suicide: Living With The Question” was life changing and I was honored and humbled when she asked me to write a review of it. Her most recent book “The Peshtigo Greenhorn” is a historical novel documenting the Peshtigo Fire which took place the same night as The Chicago Fire and consumed an estimated 1.5 million acres or 2,400 square miles in northeastern Wisconsin and Upper Michigan. Thousands of men, women and children perished. Both books are available on Amazon. http://www.amazon.com/The-Peshtigo-Greenhorn-Ruth-Maxwell/dp/1490446842
Reading posts from “Ruth’s Blog” shed light on much of my own family history and helped me with my own “Family Tree Project.” I miss her, but continue to feel her presence and somehow, I know that she is really never too far away. She will continue to be an inspiration to me and I will never forget her. Love you Ruth!
When Flash Mob 2013 called for entries, I jumped in there just to be part of a mob. Not the kind of mob that involves irate villagers with flaming torches, but the other kind of mob, the good kind of mob. It’s something I’ve not had the opportunity to do since the heady student protest days in the 60’s.
I hoped by rubbing elbows in close quarters with so many fantastic writers their mojo might rub off on me. I thought what the Hell and sent in my quirkiest piece. One of my favorite pieces, freshly rewritten, but had never seen the light of day. I made believe I was a pitcher throwing a screwball, then a football QB heaving a Hail Mary pass. Or not.
Anyway, I was just happy to be in a mob and livin’ it up with all my fellow mobsters! Lightin’ cigars with hundred dollar bills. Struttin’ our stuff & shuckin’ and jivin’ in our zoot suits. You get the picture. Because I was preoccupied with intense summer solstice rituals (it’s Saturday bitches and it’s summer!) and because of the super moon, hugest.full moon.ever. I forgot to even check to see what was going on, and it was not until a friend called to congratulate me that I found out I’d won.
Thrift Shop Fedora
“You won!”
“Huh? What now? Who’s on first?”
“I called to congratulate you.”
Long pause.
“Um….congratulate me …. for ……. not getting arrested …what…what?”
“You won!”
Long period of speechlessness followed by ranting and raving.
It’s not like I’ve never won anything. I’ve won stuff. Lottsa stuff. A bike at a school blacktop carnival. A pie at St. Anthony’s parish festival. A bag of groceries. A two dollar lottery ticket. A karaoke contest in Tokyo. A bonus round on the slots at a casino in Cleveland. An arm wrestling contest. Yeah, I’ve won stuff. Lottsa stuff.
But to be honored in this event …. well, all I can say is
I am humbled, honored and giddy as all git out!
In the Cool of the Evening
Thank you Flashmob people and all my fellow mobsters!
FLASH MOB 2013 showcases more than 100 stories from more than 100 participating writers from all over the globe.
Click the link below to jump in with the Flash Mob
Driving into town daydreaming about the dream I had last night. Not the one about my father, but the one about designing a line of men’s wear made exclusively from potato skins with snappy names like Dudz from Spudz, Potato Pants and Tater Tees. I pass fluttery paper cornstalks, vineyards rusting under sullen skies, pickup trucks clustered at trail heads and men with shotguns creeping toward corn fields.
Walt Whitman’s redneck body double is in the diner, writing on a napkin at the counter. Could be a shopping list, directions to his hunting camp, or a new collection of radiant poems. Seems like I’m the only one in the place not wearing green and beige camo and a funky, little blaze orange pork pie hat. Where are the Fashion Police when you need them?
A man and a teenage girl stand at the counter, their hands are covered with blood.
The girl shows off a photo she just shot with her phone of the buck she just shot with her gun.
Walt Whitman says: “That’s a big deer sweetheart! How old are you anyway?”
“Fifteen, but my dad let’s me drive his pickup.” She leaves to wash her hands.
In the grocery store I spot a man in the produce department squeezing bananas. With his meticulously groomed white goatee and wire rimmed glasses, he’s a dead ringer for Sigmund Freud. I want to tell him about the dream I had last night. Not the one about my father, but the one about Henrietta swimming through a sea of roses.
I want to say: “Doctor, would you mind if I lie down on your couch over here by the tomatoes for just a few minutes? I need to tell you about my mother.”
Driving into town daydreaming about the dream I had last night. Not the one about my father, but the one about designing a line of men’s wear made exclusively from potato skins with snappy names like Dudz from Spudz, Potato Pants and Tater Tees. I pass fluttery paper cornstalks, vineyards rusting under sullen skies, pickup trucks clustered at trail heads and men with shotguns creeping toward corn fields.
Walt Whitman’s redneck body double is in the diner, writing on a napkin at the counter. Could be a shopping list, directions to his hunting camp, or a new collection of radiant poems. Seems like I’m the only one in the place not wearing green and beige camo and a funky, little blaze orange pork pie hat. Where are the Fashion Police when you need them?
A man and a teenage girl stand at the counter, their hands are covered with blood.
The girl shows off a photo she just shot with her phone of the buck she just shot with her gun.
Walt Whitman says: “That’s a big deer sweetheart! How old are you anyway?”
“Fifteen, but my dad let’s me drive his pickup.” She leaves to wash her hands.
In the grocery store I spot a man in the produce department squeezing bananas. With his meticulously groomed white goatee and wire rimmed glasses, he’s a dead ringer for Sigmund Freud. I want to tell him about the dream I had last night. Not the one about my father, but the one about Henrietta swimming through a sea of roses.
I want to say: “Doctor, would you mind if I lie down on your couch over here by the tomatoes for just a few minutes? I need to tell you about my mother.”
My Story “Fly the Friendly Skies” is in “real” the anthology of nonfiction from “Pure Slush.” Thank you editor and publisher Matt Potter for including my work in this wonderful collection from so many terrific writers!
I’m busier than a one legged man in an ass kicking contest. Yup. That’s me. I’m the one legged man. And I’m getting my ass kicked.
You know how some families over-share with those embarrassing annual family letters?
I mean, I’m looking at one now, staring at photos of absolutely unrecognizable people, asking “Who the HELL are these people?” (Although as I look at this closer I see that this letter DID go to the wrong address. ) Whoops. Sorry. My bad. I’ll just tape this up here, and here…..
Well, anyway, here’s my “over-sharing” holiday letter ~
“It was a dark and stormy night…” and I took a monster header down a steep muddy embankment in the pouring rain just after dark a week ago. I stepped on a patch of mud on the steep pitch in front of my next door neighbor’s house that was slicker than greased butter. (I know. That’s not a very good analogy) Before I even had time to think “Whoa, I can’t believe it’s not butter!” I was off my feet and in the air. One second I’m walking through a deluge, just minding my own business, taking in the evening air and then BAM! next second I’m rocketing downhill at the speed of light, like an Olympic luge racer, except for my left leg, which I left behind. Long story short ~ I watched in amazement as my left leg twisted into impossible shapes like a balloon at a children’s birthday party.
Fast forward ~ one week later ~
My physician calls with my MRI results. My ACL looks intact, (Which is wonderful.) He says I have an ACL like the steel cable that held the Hindenberg Zeppelin to the docking station ( No, wait ~ that’s not a good metaphor) but that my cartilage is toast ~ which makes me crave butter and honey.
My orthopedic consult was initially scheduled a month from now ~ A month? C’mon ~ seriously?
Of course an injury like this at this point in my life gives rise to many concerns and questions. One of the things that concerns me is that after only a few days, I have stopped asking most questions. Always one to ask “why?” or “how? or “what if?”, sadly, now I just seem to bark “Where the fuck is my cane????
Another of my burning questions is “How will this impact my fun?” I want to know whether or not I’ll be able to do a scheduled 5 day canoe trip down the Green River in Utah the first week in April. I’m one of the last of the hard core hopeless romantics and eternal optimists, but I’m looking for a shot of reality too. If the trip was tomorrow, the only way I could even get in any kind of boat would be for a Viking funeral ~ carried in a supine position by Viking maidens and set aflame on Seneca Lake while my cocker spaniels, Chauncy and Ollie stand at attention on the cliff and blow “Ricolah” from those really giant alpine horns. The Green River and Canyonlands is the real deal. It’s one thing for me to try and go all Robert Mitchum but another thing to possibly put the other 3 in my party at risk just because I’m trying to use up my last gram of testosterone and we’re out in the friggin’ middle of the marmot infested Utah wilderness and I’m suddenly all Burt Reynolds in Deliverance with my broken femur lashed to a canoe paddle while some one toothed hillbilly named Festus takes potshots at us from the cliff dwellings and my compadres are trying to haul my sorry ass out of there day after day.
But, I’m getting ahead of myself….
To prove that thing about the squeaky wheel….I guess whining is a good negotiation tactic. I whimpered and moaned my way from a consult a month away to tomorrow at 9 AM. (I hope I can get up in time!) Actually I sent an e mail. (I might have exaggerated just a teensy weensy bit.) I think I kinda described how I was using a rattlesnake as a tourniquet to staunch the bleeding from my femoral artery? (Too much?)
I guess my karma’s come back to haunt me.
“C’mon ya big baby, ya still got one good leg. Get back in there.” (Mike Maxwell – Legendary (in his mind) Youth Soccer Coach )
At least I have the internet to help me research this (and also scare the absolute bejeezus out of myself , overwhelmed by creeping paranoia as I self diagnose every other malady I come across in my scholarly Google research. For instance, I had no idea you could get those insidious brain eating amoeba from a knee injury. Who knew?
Sometimes ignorance is bliss. In the meantime, rehabilitation starts right at home in Big Skyy Country.
I was in one of those warehouse sized discount stores the other day when I came across a table stacked with books. One of my old favorites jumped right out at me and I picked it up. I was surprised to see a brand new printing of the Jack Kerouac classic On the Road.That book had a major influence on me as a teenager and young man. I remember finding that and copies of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer and Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged in a box of my Mom’s books that was stashed in our basement. These books had all been controversial for different reasons and I remember feeling like I had come across a secret cache of some kind of forbidden fruit.
Kerouac had the idea for On The Road in the late 40’s and finished his first draft on one continuous scroll in 1951, although it wasn’t published until 1957. As I held this new edition in my hand I couldn’t stifle my ironic amusement at seeing the latest edition of On The Road being marketed in a discount store with the phrase “NOW! A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE!” plastered all over the cover, along with glossy photos of the 20-something actors smiling with perfect teeth and stylishly coiffed hair who are presumably playing the roles of Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and Neal Cassady who were, in fact, unwashed, speed addled, pot smoking, besotted, penniless, rag tag vagabonds and not Barbie and Ken Dolls.
I admit to feeling some consternation that one of my own most revered icons from my wayward youth was NOW! A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE!Sacrilege, I say! Not really, but it’s a little like the way I felt when I figured out there was no Santa Claus, or that my Davy Crockett toys had been sold in a garage sale. The death of the 60’s was hard enough to take back then, but do you have to keep rubbing it in in 2012 by making On The Road into Beverly Hills 90210?
So, they finally came out with a film version of On The Road. Well, it took ’em long enough. Kerouac wrote the thing 61 years ago. By the way, what kind of advertising genius still calls films “motion pictures”? The Golden Age of Hollywood is long gone, my friend. A friend of mine told me today that Allen Ginsberg bobbleheads are part of the marketing campaign. Seriously? Must you? That’s just like pouring salt in the wound. If you’re going to do that, then it seems like a Walt Whitman teddy bear would be huge. Or how about a Charles Bukowski doll that smokes, drinks and curses?
I must admit, I am kind of curious about this “major motion picture.” However, I know I’ll be watching this one at home on Movies on Demand, amongst the trappings of my bourgeois lifestyle as I lay draped in velvet and sipping an insouciant cabernet that doesn’t bite back.
Just got a call from President Obama and Mr. Romney asking MY opinion and this is what I had to say, for what it’s worth:
I’m Out Like the Vapors
“Manifesto
If I am elected King, money shall grow on trees
and the on the bodies of beasts of the forest.
If I am appointed Chancellor, I shall institute a snooze button that stops time
until you’re good and ready to get up.
If I ascend to Kaiser, I shall decree Wednesday a day off with pay,
to recover from Monday and Tuesday and get ready for Thursday and Friday.
If I am elected King, every Monday will be the day before a 4-day holiday.
If I become Heap Big Boss of the Applesauce, gonna be some changes made!
If I am hired as Chief Event Coordinator, there will always be Free Beer Tomorrow!
If I am appointed as Dean of Hedonistic Studies, a Task Force will be formed to investigate reports that Mondays are being inappropriately used for work.
If I am elected to the Board of Bacchanalia, we will drink like Vikings until dawn
and still wake up fresh as daisies.
If I am appointed Commissioner of Physical Existence, I will roll out technology that makes it possible to DVR life so you can rewind for do-overs and fast-forward through the tedious parts.
If I ascend to Master of Time, Space and Dimension, you will be able
to adjust gravity to your own personal preference.
If I become Queen of the Roller Derby, I get an all-time automatic head start
all the way to the first turn.
If I am elected King, unicorns will run wild
on their own island off the coast of Virginia.
If I am chosen as All-Time Captain of Sandlot Baseball Games,
I get automatic first and last pick.
If I am appointed Head Honcho, I will amend Roberts Rules of Order to allow the use of high volume air horns and Professional Wrestling takedowns at all meetings.
If I rise to the rank of Commodore, everyone will get a free sailboat.
If I am chosen as Miss America, I will bring an end to world hunger
and negotiate world peace.
If I am elected King, daily naps will be the law of the land,
with overtime pay for dreaming.
Your Own Back Yard - Michael Gillan Maxwell 