The Pud is in the Proofing

For the first time in months, I’m having a weekend without guilt. Before I wrote the headline for this posting, I checked Webster’s Collegiate to be sure there would be no double entendre there. It explained “pud” is short for “pudding” (in Great Britain, at least) so I’m off the hook. Even if it means the other thing you’re probably thinking about, that meaning also applies. In other words, I’m deep into this proof reading thing, and I’m having a pretty good time.

It’s official: the title of the book is Springfield Aviation. I respect the title. It was their call, and I’m okay with that. The process in which I will be happily re-engaged when this posting runs up the blogpole is fun. Why?

I’ve published reviews of probably 30 books in my career, and one of the things that seems to drive authors who have reponded to my reviews (not all do) CRAZEEE is my nit-picking, pointing out errors in nomenclature, punctuation, run-on sentences, the silly things editors usually weed out before the book hits the big presses. With my own book, being proofed by my own eyes, after my excellent editor has already contributed his expertise, I can nail those pesky critters that dodged his eyes. Seeing the proof with the type set and pages arranged as they will be in final product inspires me. What an opportunity! And you know something? I’ll miss a few too, probably inevitably, and a reviewer can pick away at the nits I missed but he or she catches. All’s fair in love and eating what you dish.

Proofing involves reading a two-page list of questions and simple directions and responding to them in red pen on the pages targeted. Some examples: Page 60, picture 088 — Is Mrs. Charles E. Becker’s last name known? and On page 58, picture 084:You say “F.A.F. Dallas.” What does F.A.F. stand for? Answers: No. (and) Fly Away at the Factory.

I’ve also had to rewrite a few captions to comply with suggestions. When I was writing them, I could not find a way to explain how I missed my only chance to fly from Southwest Airport because I was honest when the pilot asked me if I had my parents’ permission . . . without using first and second person personal pronouns. After the editor recommended I FIND a way . . . . I found a way. That’s what writers do. We find a way. And the book will be better for the astute recommendation and result.

Other captions were written a little too much from the hip with lingo I’d share with friends at The Barrel Head, lingo they’d understand, but phrases most of the public we hope will buy the book will not understand. Lingo that will confuse; not inform. Good suggestions all. Sometime you can be so into a subject you don’t know what your readers will grasp and what will be beyond their grasp. Early in the process of writing the book, I asked editor if I could include (in parenthesis) the civilian registration numbers and military serials of aircraft pictured. I said this would help historians and would not impede the reading. Editor agreed, suggesting I explain my plan in the intro so everyone would understand the idea. I did.

To my delight, only one of the 209 pictures was rejected, and that because the original image was too small, and enlarged, it was too fuzzy. Bob Frasco will never know how close he came to being in the book.

So I’m having fun. I don’t know when the book will hit the stands, but you can be sure, I won’t keep that news a secret from youse.

The pud is in the proofing, but that’s only the first dessert course in this multi-course serving. The cherry on the top of the ice cream will come in a few months.

Live long . . . . . . . . and proper.

PMA Resurrection: A Happy Half-day as “Herr Conger”

Two weeks ago, I learned in convivial conversation with the fine person who called to ask me to guest teach, that my temporary banishment from a prominent high school in 2007 had not been reinstated. The action (a combined slap on the wrist and checking account) was taken because I had sent too many female students to the office for disruptive classroom behavior. Had I known the consequences for my action or the unspoken limit, I would have gladly consented to the ongoing classroom chaos they created and eaten better for the rest of that year. When I talked with the sub line recently, I learned my name had not been removed from the “do not call the impatient old goat” list, and I asked that it be reinstated. WIth one or two exceptions, every experience at that school has been positive. And, with one or two exceptions, every school in Springfield School District 186 has rewarded my sincere efforts with positive outcomes and warm memories at days’ ends. Happily, the authorities put me back on the “call the impatient old goat list,” and earlier this week, the call came.

“Mr. Conger, can you guest teach a half-day of German class at a (prominent highj school in the east and south quadrant of our fair city) starting in an hour and a half?”

“JAWOHL” I said, and gladly rushed into clean-up mode for the occasion.

I had not been in the school for almost two years, and my re-immersion into the”halls of motley zoomers to the rooms of trifle glee” as I headed for the main office made me wonder if claustrophobia is a common malady among sardines. The environment seemed strangely unfamiliar to me (like walking without crutches for the first time in weeks), but I was glad to be there. The guest-teacher coordinator in the office (one of my favorites) recognized me immediately and asked me where I had been so long. I told her the truth, and she was amazed. She had heard nothing of my brash intransigence; reassured me I was one of the favorites there.

The positive start got better when I arrived at the classroom. The quiet and order caught me by surprise. I had to look twice to be sure there were living students present. There were. The teacher, Mrs. Inadlo (not her real name exactly) was discussing a class project, and I simply sat back and drank it in after writing my name “Herr Conger” on the blackboard. She rewarded my arrival by giving me the last of the Eurobar candy bars her classes had sold for fund raisers. Later I ate it for dessert after cafeteria lunch of pizza slice and stewed apple slices washed down by Lipton White Tea. It was all ambrosia. And I kept the candy bar wrapper as a mimento, no bleeping kidding.

Thanks to Mrs. Inadlo’s fine blackboard instructions and the incredible maturity and focus of almost every student in the three remaining classes I guided, the day was a spring breeze of Positive Mental Attitude replenishment. Despite the generally positive outcomes this spring, my PMA tank was running close to empty, so the privilege of meeting these students and their excellent teacher could not have been better timed.

It would be too easy and premature to deduce that behind my elation was a Butternut White Bread complexion of the student populace in the German classes, but that was not the case. But minorities were in the minority for the two 1st year German and one 2nd year German classes I met. With perhaps two exceptions among the probably 70 students I met, all focused attentively and positively; not begrudgingly as though resentful of “da MAN” at the front of da room. Not one visibly resented me, and not one challenged me or giggled in the four restorative hours I spent at that fine school. The experience was similar to what I enjoyed guest teaching Latin class at a prominent central city high school earlier this year. I ALMOST wrote Mrs. Inadlo that I would sub teach her class for free any time she wanted a break, if I could only find a way to pay my real estate tax that way. But you know something? I don’t think she ever wanted a break from these students. Only a migraine headache she had suffered for two days running and the urging of the school office staff that she go home for the rest of the day precipitated her departure. I bet she looks forward to returning to these students . . . . . . probably just as much as I do.

At the end of each visit to a school, guest teachers complete a “green sheet” that tells management about each assignment and leave it in the office when we pick up our time card. We are asked if adequate lesson plans, class seating charts, etc. were provided, and there’s space for comments. Under comments I wrote words to the effect that in eight years of guest teaching, I had enjoyed no half day any more than the half day with Mrs. Inadlo’s German students. In my separate note to her I told her I half-felt I had missed my destiny: to teach German in high school. She may have thought I was just flattering her, but in truth I was saying something I believe today. If I had been a German teacher since college graduation, I’d be married today, probably with a few kids and grandkids and more than likely, not writing Honey & Quinine. Instead I’m a failed journalist, poet and folkslinger/songwrither.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Live long . . . . . . and proper.

Vachel East Round Two — Bloodied But Undefeated

Almost two weeks ago, as I was guest teaching at a prominent east side middle school, a history teacher Mr. P (not her real gender or initial) interrupted my class to invite me to speak “about Lincoln” in her class. I told her I had earlier visited Mr. Q’s (see previous parenthesis) class to talk about Vachel Lindsay; not Lincoln, but that I had recited a poem Vachel had written about him, and to focus on Abe, I could probably find two or three more connected to the “Great Enunciator” if that’s what she’d like me to do. That would be fine. She wrote down the date (”Friday, May 11″ — I’m not kidding, room number and time on a piece of paper, along with her home phone number and asked me to call her if something came up and I couldn’t come to her class. As mentioned earlier here, I declined a guest teaching opportunity to make ten times what I asked to be paid for my visit to her class because I believe my work with Vachel and poetry is more important than my capacity to guest teach. Since I was going to be talking poetry, I wore my colorful sport coat.

I arrived 15 minutes early, in case she had some extra time, and waited in the office exactly 15 minutes before she came down and walked with me to her class.

The nervous laughter from a few young people when I entered her class room was portentous. Some knew me as stern, mean Mr. Conger from classes I’ve guest taught, and in retrospect, I probably should have remembered I left a pot of hot water boiling on the stove at that moment, apologized and dashed out of the room without my check. BUT the show must go on, you know. I explained I had come to talk about Vachel Lindsay and recite some poems Vachel had written about Lincoln and a few more.

And I really needed the promised check.

So far so good. Reciting to middle school students allows me to educate them as well as amuse them, and their neutral stance during the education (they DID answer my questions and advanced the dialog) went south after I had recited Vachel’s “Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight” and “Nancy Hank’s, Mother of Abraham Lincoln” without a hitch.

Only when I inadvertently said something that prompted several to burst out laughing did things go WAAAY south. When I interrupted my train of thought to ask why they were laughing, no one answered. The regular teacher had left the room, leaving her student teacher holding a check between thumb and forefinger like it was a hand grenade with the pin pulled and a thumb keeping the detonation timer from running. The expressions on her face and the faces of a few of the students was somewhere between contempt and snarl.

“Ohmygosh, I left a pot on the stove!” . . . . . no . . . no . . . . no. . . . stay calm, reciterguy and just don’t let your hands get too close to their teeth.

I stopped mid-thought explaining their laughter suggested they would not enjoy the poem I was about to recite, so I’d recite another. And I recited Vachel’s “Kansas” followed by “The Proud Farmer” and finally “How a Little Girl Sang.” with appropriate introductory patter. The faces, the body language of the “audience” could have been captured in a photograph as I recovered from their laughter outburst, and if you took a picture as I finished my final poem, you could have held a photograph taken then over the photo taken earlier, and they would have matched perfectly. It was the kind of “stoic” that delivers no babies.

One of the students spoke “I thought you were going to talk to us about Lincoln!” I explained how their teacher and I had talked, she agreed that what I told her I could share would be okay, and that is what I had shared. Then I asked if anyone had any questions about Abe Lincoln.

And there were a few good questions that I answered to be best of my inability. One student asked if Tom Hanks was related to Abraham Lincoln’s mother Nancy Hanks. (I had shared that information — Nancy Hanks was Abe’s mom — introducing the first poem I recited. There were few more. I did tell them things they did not know about Abe — f’rinstance that Abe visited the house where Vachel lived before the Lindsays bought it and moved in, that the architect who designed Lincoln’s house also designed what became the Lindsay’s house. The students clapped politely when it was time for me to depart, and the student teacher walked me out the door and handed me my check from between her fore and index fingers. I felt like Napoleon riding out of Paris to board a slow boat to Elba.

As fast as I legally could, I drove to the bank and cashed the check before the absented teacher changed her mind. Was she expecting something other than what I told her I could do for her? It was obvious the students were. In solace, I have her note stating “Friday, May 11″ and still thank God and teacher for the opportunity.

I’m still processing the altercation — make that presentation — and I’m in no mood to tackle proof reading my Arcadia aviation history manuscript. I’m too busy licking my wounds. Better mine than theirs.

After cashing the check, I bought three new red-ink pens for tackling that book proof and a carton of chocolate chip ice cream because I had to get the aftertaste of Vachel East Round Two out of my system. Yes, I took a few hits, but that’s okay. I know I gave a few too.

And I’m looking forward to the next round. . . . . .

Live long . . . . . . . and proper.

Doin’ the “What Comes Nacherly”

Pictured above part: of my nearby turf, Springfield, Illinois, three blocks southwest of the State Capitol building last Sunday morning, Is this a nifty city or what?

Naw, this posting is not about that famous musical about the Juicy Fruit addict called “Annie Get Your Gum” . . . . (RIMshot); it’s about the second-most natural activity I enjoy and one of the few that require clothing at least some of the time. I call it “writing.”

A friend of mine, who missed his deadline for the neighborhood association newsletter I produce and edit (with the help of contributing writers and Capitol Blueprint) wrote to me after deciding to contribute nothing at all this month,”I guess VHNA is not as high on my priority list as it should be.” I responded, “I imagine there will be a day when I feel the same as you . . . . . . but I hope not.” For all of two or three days every month, producing our association newsletter is the number one priority in my froggy life. Why? Because it needs to be proofread and to the printer, back and distributed to about 10 block stewards no fewer than five days before our association’s monthly neeting. I volunteered for the gig, and when everything flows as it should, I am in my natural element.

There are times when I could fill the ten pages with my own rambling and pictures, but for the sake of our readers — paying members in the main — I will never be a yammering “prima llama” (Spanish translation; figure it out) in that newsletter, pontificating ad nauseum, . . . . I mean, HEY — THAT’s what BLOGS are for!

Since taking on the Arcadia book about Springfield aviation, Arcadia has asked me to write two more books for them. That’s high flattery to be sure, and one is a definite “will do” but I’m still playing catch-up after getting the manuscript draft to them in late April. The PROOF of that book arrived today (Thursday), and they want my feedback in a week. So plans for “catch-up” are on hold again. (sigh)

I almost want to say “It hasn’t helped that I’ve sustitute taught three of the past four days,” but it’s the only thing that HAS HELPED. That action is almost the only activity that keeps me this side of a refrigerator crate domocile. A full-time employer is the answer, but it’s a whale of a lot more elusive than it ought to be. Writing books (at least at this stage) doesn’t pet anything but my vanity. Same thing with the neighborhood association newsletter. An editor whose name you’d probably recognize, looked over the May issue of the NA nl, and said “I hope VHNA knows what an asset you are to that organization.” I wanted to say “Their appreciating my effort is almost beside the point. I work as hard as I do with it because I’m a writer who appreciates any opportunity to be doin’ the ‘what comes nacherly.’ I am made by doing it as well as I had hoped to do it, again, with the help of contributors and production people. My vanity is smooth from soft patting hands of words. My real estate tax bill is stark, naked condemnation!

There was a sign in classroom at Lincoln Magnet School where I taught Wednesday. It was all poetry, all day, a terrific class. I’ll tell you about it in a future blog. The sign said “You aren’t finished when you fail. You’re finished when you quit.” Foo dat ai yam . . . . I believe it.

Live long . . . . and proper.

Dodging the Candlelight Outcome

I wouldn’t have complained if I had not awakened this morning.

Before me is a neighborhood newsletter I must write this weekend, a task I warmly embrace usually. And I’m not dodging that. Some positive things happened with me during substitute teaching three days this week, that in any other week would have made for separate blog postings, just so I could brag about them. But the affirmation from middle school students, their teachers and equally kind high school students PALES in the black reality of bouncing some checks (my own stupidity in typical form and they’ve all been set right now) and paying almost 4/5 of my rent check so I would not be typing future blog postings in the cozy glow of a candle-lit office. I josh, of course. If my office had to be candle-lit, there would be no computer (I guess I could use the library but then I couldn’t heat water for bathing and I’d be eating nothing but peanut butter and jelly. . . . .). I am near catatonia dealing with all of this. Yesterday afternoon, coming off a fine day substitute teaching at a major central city high school, I paid my CWLP bill, stopped by County Market for a loaf of the cheapest white bread I could find, more peanut butter & strawberry preserves, a bag of Fritos chilli cheese corn chips, Catalina dressing and a 12 pack of Old Milwaukee.

Checked my e, responded to some positive correspondence from my book editor. He says the pictures and  text look fine. The proof is in productiion. I also heard from the publisher’s publicity department. Once I’ve made corrections to the proof, the PR department wants major input from me re places to sell the book, how much time I want to spend publicizing it (answer: 24 hours a day and not another minute more) and background info for their PR efforts. I think they want to make me look as good as Carl and Roberta Volkman who earlier this year published a fine book about Springfield monuments and memorials. I don’t think that’s possible (they had some decent cred BEFORE the book was pubbed; I’m going to have to pull what I can from under my sofa cushions and the corners of my kitchen counters that haven’t seen water since 2003. Anyhoo, it was very flattering, and it’s nice to know I did something right.

The correspondence was night enough to make up for my finances. Plus the extraordinarily sucky traffic in the city this week. If there was a single 20 mile an hour octogenarian or delivery truck on the street, I WAS BEHIND IT most of the time I was en route anywhere. I had to catch up with my sleep. During the final class Friday I had nodded off for about a half second. And everyone noticed. In my haze, seated in a corner of the room I noticed the regular teacher and three students looking directly at me. I jerked myself conscious and said, “I’m sorry, would you say again please?” The teacher, in the middle of the room, giving answers to a quiz said, “Would you answer the phone please?” “Absolutely!” I made a quick walk to the phone on her desk and took a note. Then apologized for “zoning out,” I then took a seat on a high, uncomfortable stool nearby and managed to (barely) stay awake for the remaining half an hour.”

So after the correpondence, not wanting to wait until 7:00 to eat, I made three sandwiches and ate them to the accompaniment of Old Milwaukee . . . . and fell asleep until almost midnight. I know this because Bill Moyers’ interview with Reverend Wright was concluding, and the clock TOLD me it was almost midnight. Wandered into the office and shut down the computer. I was neither fully awake nor particularly interested in becoming awake, so I went to bed and until 9:00 this morning passed from deep sleep to listening to the radio to sleep again. FINALLY arose when Car Talk came on and I knew I had to resume normal programming.

Earlier this week, I subbed at an east central middle school where I had earlier visited a class — at a teacher’s invitation and gross recompense of $10 — to talk about Vachel Lindsay and recite some of this fine poems. I was in  the middle of reading aloud from a terrific short story by Langston Hughes (entitled “Thank You Ma’am”) when another teacher came into the room, caught my attention and said she wanted me to come to her class . . . . . . and talk about Abe Lincoln. After apolotizing to the students for my interrupting the story, I determiend that the teacher who had invited me to hear class last week and told her about the Abraham Lincoln poem I had recited (Vachel Lindsay’s Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight) and from my beard, I guess she assumed I had done a LINCOLN presentation. I told her Vachel had written two poems relating to Abe which I would be happy to recite (the other is his Nancy Hanks, Mother of Abraham Lincoln), and I would be glad to talk about why Lindsay admired Lincoln. The teacher said that would be fine, and wrote her name on a slip of paper along with the time she wants me to come and her room number.

IF I get a call to substitute on the day I’m invited to her class, I will decline the sub opportunity. WHY? Why trade in what some might call patent insanity given the state of my finances? Because I believe what I share as a student of Vachel Lindsay benefits the students more than what I share as a substitute teacher, even it it nets me a small fraction of what I’d make if I substitute taught on that day instead.

At a prominent east side high school this week, as a reward to a class for good behavior, I recited Vachel’s The Little Turtle. We had some time, and they reacted so well to it that we learned it as a class, repeating it four or five times until we were reciting it as a chorus, and a darn fine chorus, I must say.  After the class dismissed, I was about to enter the teachers’ lounge when one of the young ladies from that earlier class, chatting with about five of her girl friends (all black, btw) saw me and entreated me to recite the turtle poem. Normally I don’t do tricks for students,  but there was joy in her eyes (not the usual disdain and contempt), and I responded with joy; recited the poem, to a close horizon of smiling students. They couldn’t believe the poem, that I would repond gladly as I did, and we had a great time for forty five seconds in the middle of a busy hallway during a mad dash for lunch. It was terrific!

First thing a student said to me as I was heading for my first class at a prominent north side high school Friday was “Mr. Conger, what are you teaching today?” and I said “Special Education.” He said, “We all hope you’ll sub in Latin class again. You’re our favorite substitute teacher.” I responded, “I’d sub in your Latin class every day of the week if I could. You’re a great bunch of students, and I enjoy that kind of company!”"
WHAT A RUSH! To be remembered that way!  Later in the day another student asked me the same thing.

There are days as a substitute teacher when I can’t wait to get out of school. There are other days, Friday for example, when I can’t want to go back. Bless ‘em all.

Live long . . . . . and proper.

Getting Civilized

Did I share this picture earlier? Dan N’s recent comments prompted this post. I was a course volunteer who stood at my assigned post at Spring at Scarritt and waved to the participants in Springfield Road Runners Half Marathon. It was a perfect day and everyone I encountered was top flight calibre.

There are 51 “barbers” in the Yellow Pages. I know this because I just counted them. I could drive to the addresses of the eight Springfield barbers who’ve cut my hair, starting with Jimmy Drew on Fourth and ending with Mike Duewer on Lawrence. I was surprised last Friday when I drove out for a fresh cut for the 15th Anniversary gathering of a local poets and writers club. He’s always been open . . . . until last Friday. There was a sign in the front door “Closed for Family Emergency.” Today I called to be sure he was there, and he was. So I drove out. He was clearly out of sorts, and when I asked him how he’s doing he explained he’s had three heart attacks since mid March! And here he was, on his feet! He’s not doing well; says it’s all his high cholesterol diet and genetic constitution. If you know Mike, you should visit him and wish him well. Keep those fingers crossed. He’s a good barber and a nice hummin’ bean.

I wanted a haircut for the same reason I put on clean Fruit of the Loom when I leave the house. If something happens, I want to look civil and clean when they start cutting off my clothes. WIth the book behind me, the wilting news that two freaking days before the next rent check and the likely news the renter upstairs will give me her 30-day notice of intent to leave, is effecting me a barking dog ouside my window when I’m trying to enjoy Nova on PBS. I don’t have room in my shrinking periphery for this kind of poo.  So what do I do? I hold onto the tiger. I don’t let go. I MUST FIND AN EMPLOYER because what I need is not going to fall from the sky.

When I was waiting for an elevator to take me to court for my minor traffic infraction a few weeks ago at the County Building, I ran into a valued acquaintance who is connected to the government scene. We had a fine 20 second chat, and the last thing he said was “Come see me.” I couldn’t consider calling him Wednesday to see if he has any time if I had not had the haircut. Now I can, I will make the call.

A few weeks ago, a project I thought was coming together for a regular but infrequent employer fell through. I had done the proposal writing, written some follow-up thoughts, but was sidelined with the aviation book. When I let her know I was ready to go full-bore with our project, I was told she had checked, and there was no money budgeted for it this year, I told her how sorry I was to know that because I had counted on that work to help pay my real estate tax. Her response was (I’m cordially certain was a heart-felt) “I’m so sorry.” and that was the end of it. Bye-bye boundless enthusiasm for the project and the repartee I thought was established. And how do I feel about THIS?

I’m so sorry.

At least I look like a grey-suiter from the ears up.  I like the grey-suit league and have enjoyed my time wearing my blue and green-hued sport coats and neck ware in concert wtih grey expectations. Cross your fingers for future action with the county.  

It’s time for me to do more than hold onto this tiger. It’s time to saddle break him.

Live long . . . . . and proper.

Can We Talk to Our Friends or Do We Have to Include the WORLD Too?

but fust a little ketch up . . .
   Had an “interesting” Sunday. Wrote the review for the Springfield Classical Guitar Society web site, grabbed some groceries and brought my space heater back to the office from summer storage in the basement. Enjoyed the PBS Nature program and the recruiting video PBS ran about life on a US Navy carrier. It seemed an hour of “gee whiz, this is kewl” directed to high school sophomores to keep them from dropping out before visiting their recruiter.  After a short nap starting 30 minutes into it, I resumed work in the office, made decent progress and hit a brick wall. I couldn’t send email! After fiddling with it for more than an hour — NOT the work I intended to engage — I picked up my phone headset and found NO DIAL TONE! More fiddling and no joy.

So I missed the chance to sub teach today DANG IT! FInally made it to bed about 5 am and slept until 9:10 this morning. Drove in the rain to a public phone at Handy Pantry to call AT&T repair in a drizzling rain. I was moderately drenched by the time my button punching was done. Internet service was restored by 1:30 today, but I still have no phone, DANG IT!

Barack’s preacher made a lot of sense today, judging from sound bites from his National Press Club address.. It’s time some thinking hummin’ beans from all colors of the rainbow acknowlege that. I’ll go first.

If you think #43 violates our privacy by tapping our phone lines, that’s not the tip of the iceboig. We have lost the freedom to say what we believe when we are talking with people we consider friends, brothers and sisters of our culture and members of our clubs. Can ANY American speak the thoughts which are the product of his or her life so far to people considered his or her “own” without being assailed by people from outside the circle? Are we entltled to circles of our own?  You would demand the freedom for your circle. Why not allow me the same freedom for mine?

When I hear a poet or aspiring poet make fun of poets who write rhyming poetry, I hold him accountable only to those he was epeaking to at the club meeting. If a prose writer who doesn’t like poetry assails the bloke for disparaging rhymers, I am inclined to say, “You were not invited to this conversation, so please get the fring-frang away from our dialogue because —  though your rampaging vanity tells you otherwise —  we are not having our discussion  so you can bullywhank it.”

Reverend Wright said words to the effect. “I have been called unpatriotic. I served in the (service) four years. Does that make me a patriot?  Dick Cheney never served in the military. Is he a patriot?”

To NOT permit us — Methodists, poets, classical musicians, gardeners, Dale Ernhart, Jr. fans — to talk about our subculture to those who embrace it is to censor us in a way that not even #43 would support, at least as long as we’re all evanglists and like hai lai. Reverend Wright is more correct about more than politicians and spectators have conceded so far. Has he said some really idiotic things? Absolutely. Though he claimed to be a preacher in his remarks and separated that profession from “politicians,” he is very much the politician who must balance people the way judges balance the perceived intent of the Constitutiion. Unless we live in a cave, we are all politicians. He addresses his constituents from the pulpit. The rest of us address our intended audiences from pulpits of our own making.

Walt Whitman wrote, “You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, or look through the eyes of the dead, or feed on specters in books. You shall not look through my eyes, either, nor take things from me. You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.”  John Wesley said almost the same.

Here’s an idea. You can talk to your friends without a Spanish Inquisition if I can talk to my friends as freely as you. Deal?

Seems like a deal to me. To you as well?

Live long . . . . . . and proper.

 

Moan My Loen

I have an arrangement with a friend across the street. Because I believe that buying a power mower for a task engaged as rarely — at max 20 times a year –, and because he has a safe place to store a power mower, and because I wanted to be a friendly cuss, I arranged to share my machine with him if he’d store it and keep it filled with fuel. Done deal; everyone’s happy.

Until I waited until this weekend to break out the old mower for a first cut of front and back and discovered it wouldn’t start after twenty or thirty yanks. Not only did friend agree to take it in for a tuneup and blade sharpening, he loaned me the push mower he was given by his almost-other half. As soon as George Stephanopoulus signed off this morning, I picked up the mower. An hour and a half later I finished mowing my front lawn. It’s not a big lawn. WIth a p;ower mower I’m done in 15 minutes tops. But the yard needed the attention, and I needed the excertise. Like voting, I consider yard maintenance a PRIVILEGE for those blessed tith the circumstance and capacity to do it. I’ve never complained about raking leaves, mowing lanss and trimming hedges . . . . . except from ages 10 to 19 when my parents asked me to do it. The power mower should be backinac tion next week. THEN I’ll mow my back yard.

It’s been a productive weekend without the book deadline staring me in the face for the first time since January. I’ve re-filed photos that have been awaiting my attention since 2006. It was a marathon effort, but now that I’m focusing more on aviation history, an essential effort. The filing waiting for me in the basement cabinets would choke a horse . . . . but it won’t choke me. It’s nice down there; cool. I worked up a sweat tidying up and rearranging things Saturday, and I enjoyed it. Made some real progress!

 If I cared to, I could pitch the TV nad do nothing but poetry, songwriting  and aviation things around here for the rest of my life, and I would except for two programs: The American Experience and Charlie Rose.  There are others, but those two are essential ingredients:”the cream in my coffee; the salt in my stew” (as the old Ray Coniff semi-hit used to say.

For the gold star of the week: what line follows that?

I won’t be really done with essential catching up until I write the review of the new Chanson du Soir CD I promised.  I have –as the great jazz artist’s wife Mrs. Davis must have once said — Miles to go before I sleep.

Live long . . . . . and proper.

A Change of Distraction

When I was 15 or 16, I sat down at the dining room table with pencil in hand, and instead of drawing an airplane, I looked at a snapshot of my smiling nephew Bobby Shymansky probably 6 at the time, and drew his portrait. It was a matter-of-fact thing. No walking into the living room and asking dad what he wanted me to draw, no guilty conscience at work beneath the surface; I simply drew him, and the final product - a simple pencil portrait drawn on a scrap of paper — was better than I expected, winning the approval of dad and the thanks of my sister whose son inspired my effort. It was a flash in the pan. I knew I could do that. A few months later, using a set of pastel chalks I had been given for Christmas, I created three colorful artistic pieces on sheets of large paper mom had brought home from work for me. I gave one to Diane Brancato, one to Reverend George Embry and eventually lost the one I kept. It was no big deal. I knew I could do it and I was satisfied; much the same as when my first aviation article written for money was published in the June 1978 issue of Aircraft Illustrated. THAT was a terrific high point of my life (it’s a world-wide-read magazine) but nothing possessed me to follow up with articles to everyone who might publish them. Only when I began writing Art Seen, my local arts column that ran in Illinois Times almost a year, did I think I had a future with the local arts community. My faith was unwarranted.

The column was cancelled for reasons I will share anywhere but here. I tried to capitalize on that “fame” by expanding the web presence I had launched (with the urging of a local artist/poet/friend) but it didn’t work out. I was mistaken to believe I could engineer a future for myself as an arts journalist. 

At my CIVAG web site, in recent weeks, I’ve asked for help to pay for the service; not my time. And following the screams of silence, I’m shutting it down. I have too many distractions, too many interests that take my time away from interests that bear fruit I can eat. I’m a hair bummed out over this. The saving grace of my ending this protracted spree of arts writing and photography for others is the reassurance that the many who didn’t engage me in that enterprise will also not engage me in its aftermath. The few friends from all this — Sonia Lang, Katherine Pauley, Mike Manning, Shirley Caldwell — will have been provided the promised presence they paid for by the time their work disappears from the artists’ web galleries. There will only be comfort and relief from the silence from the rest. At least I didn’t cheat anyone.

My focus now will be JOURNALISM, poetry and aviation history. The SCGS effort will continue, probably at a changed domain address, through the summer, and it will disappear also. I owe Chanson du Soir a review, and I’ll post it by this time next week. I MUST also keep the Conger family genealogy thing going. It’s a blood thing.

I’m bummed out by this. I surely enjoyed the company and conversation with the artists. But their support was more important than the good times I had chatting with them. I was with them, in part,  for the wrong reasons. When I can return — if I ever return to them, it won’t be because I have something to SELL THEM. It will be ONLY because I like them. Life is better that way. No hopes; no heartbreaks.

The story of my life.

Live long . . . . . and proper.

Mac(Murray)-Poetry’s Special Sauce

How sweet it WAS. TASTY!

If I experience another evening of poetry half as enjoyable as Wednesday night  (April 23) at the library of MacMurray College, I will consider all I’ve written, all I’ve learned, all I’ve practiced worth every minute! A lot of the satisfaction came from friends going in: faculty member Robert Seufert who recognized something in me worth sharing at his campus, the two students, Brett and Danielle, who came with him to the Museum of Funeral Customs presentation earlier this year (who lobbied to have me come over) and Susan Eilering, who traded e’s with me in the days leading up to the event AND transported me to and from. An incredible combination, not unlike the alligning of the planets, I think.

The audience was small, mostly poets who contributed to the school’s Spring 2008 edition of Montage, their literary and art anthology, revived  recently after some fallow years. Others included two people working at computers in a corner of our presentation room, who didn’t mind our being there, and a library helper who punched off the time clock so he could sit and listen, a nice fellow for sure. Also on hand was Julie, MacMurray’s PR person with a fine Canon EOS camera who took pictures and was an incredible cosmic delight in her own way. They were all planets, every one; not an asteroid or comet in the lot of them.

The plan was to introduce me first. Susan did. I would share poems for half an ow — half an hour if you prefer, , and contributors to Montage  would read after that. Spontenaety intervened, howeverly, and the enthusiasm tracked a different course. I didn’t recite for half an hour; I rambled almost twice that long. We took a break to enjoy a bounteous array of strawberries, cheese, crackers, snack sweets I don’t have names for and soft drinks. Then Montage contributors and Robert Seufert shared their fine writing in a round robin, one poem at a time format. It was great fun.

Immersed as I am in tweaking words I have read probably a thousand times, my listening skills have atrophied over the years that I’ve eschewed the Springfield literati; trading those testy times for the cozy comfort of fading sanity and PBS’ TV. It was terrific to WATCH and LISTEN again, to appreciate the variety of approaches and to share their pride in what they had created. There was no microphone. (I’m telling you, Susan has a good head for this kind of event.)

What did I recite? In order of presentation: Invitation/Conger, The Flute of the Lonely/Lindsay, Throwing in the Trowel/Conger (by request), On the Building of Springfield/Lindsay, A Curse for the Saxophone/Lindsay, Niagara/Lindsay, To the United States Senate/Lindsay, Keep Them Squirming/Conger, Tuff Tookas/Conger, Somehow It Comes Out of You/Conger (by request)  and Serenading the Wind/Conger. Following the fine presentations by the highly esteemed Seufert and dedicated students (alzo highly esteemed) Brett and Danielle prevailed on me to recite Simon Legree/Lindsay, which I did after sharing Vachel’s The Wizard In the Street.

To say, “I could not have asked for” doen’t come close to reality which is: I could not have dreamed of a sharper, keener, library director whose vision for fostering greater participation in the literary arts was a prime factor in the evening; a more convivial faculty advisor Seufert, and attentive, laughing, engaging students. If I had known these people when I had attended MacMurray College in the late 60s/early 70s, I would not have allowed myself to be hired away from school.

I believe that if I can hold onto my house (real estate tax: the Matterhorn of my life, is the only serious impediment) and  find an EMPLOYER in the month ahead or so, I am SURE I will return to Mac for more poetry.  Next time, I’ll take my guitar. 

I told Susan after walking around that fabulous library, that I’d like to come over to just find a table upstairs or even down, and just sit and WRITE. She says I’m welcome any time.  It’s a fertile karma kind of situation there; just remarkable.  All that needs to happen is bills paid and a car that can make the trip. The likelihood of either seems remote on a stormy Friday night.

In the meantime, I have some memories that could not have imagined two months ago, that I will cherish forever. Thank you MacMurray and citizens thereof. I hope we meet again!

Live long . . . . . . and proper.