Silent Eyes Are Okay by Me

Writers sometimes may believe they are just a voice in the wilderness heard by no one. That's okay by me because true writers have a need to write whether anyone cares to read it or not.  I checked my stats this morning on my blog "Fred's View" and apparently there are people who actually read it across the U.S. and in faraway places like Alaska, Poland, and China. Writers indeed have the power to touch people around the world, so I admire anyone with a string of published books and a large audience. The concern now is there is a bit more pressure on me to have something new to say. If I put a smile on one person or uplift someone's spirit, then silent eyes--not ever knowing who found my words interesting enough to read--that's okay by me.

How Does One Celebrate a 24th Anniversary (or a 34th)?

This blog post was actually written nearly ten years ago and read by few people. I'm happy to report that a decade later, Carol and I are still, holding hands, enjoying life, and, as you'll read, similarly ready to celebrate our 34th anniversary in the same spirit as our 24th.  

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I don't want this entire blog to be about tragedy and inhumanity, so let me switch gears to something more mundane.

Yesterday, August 23rd [2004], was our 24th wedding anniversary. We're planning a very special 25th next year, but the 24th is sort of an orphan when it comes to anniversaries. What is the traditional gift for your 24th? How about nothing! Look it up. There is no traditional gift for your 24th anniversary. You're on your own, buddy. Maybe you don't have to buy anything since presumably you'll need every penny for your 25th blowout. It was like saying to us, "Your 24th? Pfaw. That's nothing unless you make it to 25."  Hey, in this world, making it to another day is a blessing.

Oh, yes, I see that there is a "modern" gift--a musical instrument. Now, unless you're a concert pianist, or a rock 'n' roll star, or a musical producer, what kind of an anniversary gift is a musical instrument? My wife does not play a musical instrument. What do I say? "Happy anniversary, darling. Here is your grand piano as a token of our years together. Would you like me to build a shelf for it?" Or, "I've bought this lovely accordion for you. Perhaps you could serenade us with Parisian melodies while we enjoy that wonderful dinner you're going to cook." I even considered a juke box that plays rock 'n' roll songs from the 1950s, but it just didn't seem to fit the occasion.

But, of course, I did get her flowers. "If you put up with me for 24 years, you definitely get flowers!"  "You put up with me also," she replied with a note of concession. We still hold hands after 24+ years, so I guess that's a pretty good sign that we're doing better than most couples. After 24 years, if you have laughter in your life, you have love. 

We've never gotten hung up on tradition in the past celebrations. There was no reason to do so this year--especially since tradition doesn't seem to care about us this year. My wife came up with a wonderful solution. We both took the day off work, she from her kindergarten students and me from my writing and editing tasks. After a great lunch buffet at our favorite Indian restaurant, Passage to India, we drove north, just above the Indiantown Gap Military Reservation, although I don't know why they call it a reservation. Perhaps it's because those soldiers are forced to live there. After finding the directions in a rural part of the valley, we arrived at Hideaway Stables, which is a good name because I drove past it before realizing I'd gone to far ("If you get to the Boy Scout camp, you've gone too far.")

It's been 30 years since Carol was last on a horse, so I was quite surprised when I realized that she was quite serious about wanting to go horseback riding on our day. At first, I thought she was kidding, so I jokingly suggested that, if she likes, I could tie a feedbag to her face, which brought her familiar squeal of a laugh. For me, it's been quite a few years myself. My sister in Texas, understandably, has horses, but for us, there's not much room in the suburbs to tie a horse up to the lamp post. Ever since Superman (Christopher Reeve), who was a superb horseman, was paralyzed by a horse, the idea of horseback riding has not been a priority for me. Plus, when I was acting at Totem Pole Playhouse with Jean Stapleton, one of the leading men and two of the cast went into the woods riding. A deer bolted across the path of the lead horse, throwing the actor, who returned for the performance that evening looking as though he had been jumped and beaten up by an L.A. gang. He gave the performance of his life (along with a good amount of stage makeup) that evening and the audience never saw the brush burns on his face (too bad he wasn't doing Phantom of the Opera), nor the limp he had off stage.

For Carol, the last time she was on a horse, it kept trying to nibble her foot. Perhaps her white sneakers looked like a nice block of sugar. There's something about Carol's toes. When we visited Cypress Gardens in Florida years ago, a squirrel thought her toes looked like a lovely bunch of nuts and bit her toe. No blood or rabies shots, but we do have a photograph of the furry, gray perpetrator. Before we met, me once divorced and Carol twice divorced, (my wife, not the squirrel), men, for some reason, as Carol told me, liked to nibble her toes also. We've always been open enough to talk about anything with a complete lack of jealousy. I don't know if that squirrel was a male.

"The city slicker express has arrived," I announced to Ann at Hideaway Stables, which brought a laugh from her. Ann thought it was sweet that we decided to do this on our anniversary. But soon after we mounted the horses, under the supervision of a 16-year-old accomplished and patient trail leader, we quickly felt comfortable. It was like being atop a horse was in our genes, despite Carol being a born and raised Manhattanite. We were pleased that we were not led around the corral as though on a pony ride. We wanted the real experience. We were given the responsibility for our own horses, after all, they are living, feeling creatures that deserve our care. 

"Stay in line; follow the horse in front of you; don't walk too close to the edge of the bridge; don't let him eat the mountain laurel (our official state flower is poisonous to horses)."   

With our required riding helmets, boots, and blue jeans, we almost looked like we knew what we were doing. I remarked to Carol earlier that Indians were not required to wear helmets, saddles, and have all those regulations, but she pointed out that I would not go over very well at the stables wearing a loin cloth. Off we went for a one-hour trip through the woods and mountainside. That's just enough time to breathe in the experience of the open fields and dense woods, exercise the arms and legs controlling the horse without feeling crippled the next day, and to avoid saddle sores (now I know why cowboys wore chaps).

One could imagine days in the 1700s when there were no roads, or even carriage trails. The highways were worn, narrow trails through the woods. Thousands of people could travel that same trail, and aside from not much growing in the indentations of horse hoofs, mud prints, and turned rich top soil, there was all the rest of the forest where animals and plants can continue undisturbed. However, I don't think Daniel Boone would have made it from his birthplace in Pennsylvania to Kentucky and Tennessee if he had my horse, "D.J." At 23 years old, he was sweet tempered, but walked at a slow pace and did more than sniff the flowers. It's one thing to tell a rider to discourage a horse from eating the fauna that grow close to the trails, but it's quite another to pit the strength of a horse against the rein-tugging strength of a man. To D.J., it must have been like walking through a candy store where everything is free. As the horse moved quickly to the side of the trail to rip off a branch from a tree, or mow the lawn just below him when we crossed a field, my arms strained to pull him back to his senses and continue onward. I felt a little cruel trying to deny him his favorite snacks, but he seemed happy as we continued our slow walk as he nibbled up a tree branch as though he were drawing spaghetti into his mouth. Fortunately, the poisonous mountain laurel was at a higher altitude and our trail leader did not seem too upset at D.J. snacking. Carol's horse, "Alex," did the same thing, and her feminine arms, which were more used to herding our cats and dogs at home, were no match for a stallion. I wonder if this is how the Indians lost America. Perhaps their horses during great battles kept stopping to snack along the way to combat.

The weather was perfect. The temperature was perfect. And it was a perfect afternoon. We now feel like seasoned riders, or at least look forward to climbing on a horse again. We're even talking about repeating the experience, only this time taking the two and a half-hour ride into the woods with camping gear and food and setting up an overnight tent. I can picture the historic past now, with pioneer tents and Coleman stoves all over "Penn’s Woods." Well, at least were not traveling with a 35-foot trailer and calling it roughing it. I highly recommend a trail ride, even if for an hour or two. Take a day off work--or half a day--and go and support your local stables to help send those nice young women and men to state and national riding competitions! We came back and I said, "We're ready for nationals." Seriously, we may not be much better than novice riders nor ready to leap fences, but that unfounded fear that might have been inside our psyche for no good reason is completely evaporated. Sometimes the best way to deal with your fears is to face them.

By the way, as for those material anniversary gifts to each other, we decided to spend the money on redecorating our bedroom. Now what could be more romantic than that?

Fiction Still Requires an Author to Get the Facts Right

I believe authors must constantly be thinking ahead, even as they labor on the current novel, screenplay, short story, or book of poetry. For me, as I put the finishing touches on the current novel, the intricacies of the plot, the dialogue, and what happens in a scene are a combination of outlining the novel, giving the chapter titles, and the objectives along with spontaneity. Some of it is inspired by personal experience or observation of people. Some of it is imagined and entered in the very next paragraph or comes to mind while editing a previous draft. I often warn bystanders that they may written into the story and sometimes characters are compilations of different people I've met. I'm doing what most authors have always done.

Fiction can be completely imagined or based on real experiences. However, the setting, timeline, or logic of the story, if historical events are used, often must adhere to facts. A novel set among historical events needs to stick to known dates, places and, unless the plot's intent is to alter history, the casual facts of history--the background setting of the story--need to be researched and applied if the author is to be taken seriously. What the lead character does during that event can be total fiction, but, generally, what the public knows about the event should be truthful (exceptions noted).

Even as I work to polish the current novel, I've already been thinking about the next novel. The title and an opening scene set in 1750 BC are in my head. The book would be a romantic novel with a new twist on time travel. Of course, an author cannot give too much away so early in the process, but I'm very excited to the point where I see at least five books coming out of this story idea. Facts of science come into question. The most successful science fiction authors are able to successfully suspend disbelief, make us believe that the technology is possible, and, yet, never violate their illogical logic by introducing ridiculous tricks that contradict the science created in the story.  This is the primary problem in creating the possibility of time travel. Preparation for writing has required me to dig deeper into quantum physics and the theories of antimatter; take what has been proven at such places as CERN (Conseil Européen pour la Recherche Nucléaire); and weave the science into the plot without turning the book into a dry lesson in physics. The science is the bones of the story, but the plot is the flesh, and the lead character the heartbeat.

Bottom line, fiction is limitless and free compared to nonfiction, but aspects of writing still require the author to research and get the facts right in the same way that nonfiction writers must do. Otherwise, expect the book to end up in the 99-cent bookstore bins or among the selections at dollar stores.

Nursing home versus cruise ship...what's wrong with this picture?

So let's see, for those of a certain age (MUCH older than I am), the average cost for a private room at a nursing home is $6,965 per month. That works out to $41, 695 for a six-month stay. For $40,999, a person could sail with an inside cabin on an Oceania Cruises ship and visit five continents, 45 countries, and 45 islands--92 ports of call in all. That includes all meals, Vegas-style entertainment, swimming pools, whirlpools, and other extras. At the nursing home, you get food barely edible, a screw-you attitude from staff, and all the bingo and card games you can stomach for "only" an extra $1,696. What's wrong with this picture?

Ten things about me few people know (or possibly care)

I was not going to do this, but then a friend asked if I would reveal a few things about me few people know (including my hairdresser), sooooo....

1. Several generations of my family, including my parents were born in the Altoona/Blair County/Huntingdon County areas, but through a twist of circumstances, I was born in Camden, New Jersey. Shortly thereafter, we returned to Altoona. 

2. At age 9, I almost drowned in Pennsylvania’s Raystown Lake (before the dam was built). A hand around my wrist pulled me to shallow water. I still believe an angel pulled me to safety as I was swimming alone.

3. My fifth great-grandfather, John Gilley, an Irish immigrant in Maine, lived to age 124, married a 24-year-old at age 80, fathered ten children, and worked his farm until age 120. I thought it was just oral legend until I began reading about it in various history books, in Ripley’s Believe It or Not, and note that his organs were requested by Harvard Medical School for study after he died. His wife, by the way, lived to 92.  

4. Before I joined the Air Force during the Vietnam War, I was part of a rock band called J.D. & The Swanks. Before the days of androgynous rock, I performed one number in drag and got the biggest crowd reaction of the show. Our keyboard player, John Berkstresser, went on to become a well respected concert pianist, after serving in Vietnam as a fighter pilot. Guitarist and triplet brother of John’s, Jerry Berkstresser, also served our country as a helicopter gunner.

5. The day after enlisting in the Air Force, my Draft notice arrived. It took the Defense Department, my congressman, and the Pentagon to declare my enlistment valid. I went to Southeast Asia as an airman.

6. During military off duty hours, I taught English to Chinese nationals in Northeast Thailand. While there, I crashed a film set pretending to be Hollywood press. The director stopped shooting so the biggest stars in Thailand could pose for photographs while thousands of extras and spectators parted to let me through. I did it all for a star struck school girl. I still have photographic proof of the moment.

7. My first acting role (age 19) was Ensign Pulver in Mr. Roberts for  Altoona Community Theater in the historic Mishler Theatre (built 1906 and 1907) where the likes of Sarah Bernhardt (1911), the Barrymores , Houdini and many others once graced the same stage. Decades later, I wrote a feature story about the theater’s founder, Isaac Mishler. While taking photographs for the article, and climbing into the upper rafters above the dome, I photographed ghostly orbs. I’ve never released or published those images.    

8. I once ran for the state legislature. My liberal politics made it a suicide mission in a conservative district (actors need training somewhere). I learned a hard lesson about politics—honest people tell the truth, but they don’t get elected.

9. I met my wife Carol on a blind date arranged by a mutual friend. I was 7 years post-divorce, followed by the loss of a fiancé who drowned after a seizure, followed by a broken engagement, and countless dates. I was ready to give up on love. Carol had two divorces with really bad guys. She hadn't given up. She chased me until I caught her. I never went home after our first date. We’ve been married for 34 years.

10. Despite my love for and involvement in the arts--especially acting and music--I am also a science geek. I'm fascinated by quantum physics, astronomy, and most fields of science, and wanted to be an astronaut when I was a kid. Despite my understanding of concepts and theories, I lacked the math skills to even consider a career in science. However, this interest sparked an idea for my next novel—a romantic story with a new twist on time travel.

That's enough. I'm sorry if your eyes are glazed over.

About HEART IN THE JUNGLE, MEN IN THE MOON

     Many have been curious about my upcoming novel, Heart in the Jungle, Men in the Moon. Most authors borrow moments from their lives or derive ideas from the observation of friends, acquaintances, or even strangers. Characters can be based on specific people, or a compilation of personalities and incidents from a number of persons. Some friends may recognize themselves if they read this novel, but let me say up front with one final disclaimer. It is a work of fiction.

HEART IN THE JUNGLE, MEN IN THE MOON is a story of discoveries—about life, about love, and about a distant land. No matter how hard Frank Davis struggles to understand life and love, he cannot reach his dreams. In 1966, Frank, 19, leaves his hometown in west central Pennsylvania for the first time and, as an American soldier, spends a year in the jungles of Thailand during a time of war in Southeast Asia. While in this primitive land, he stands among lepers in the jungle to share a crude black and white television set broadcasting man’s landing on the moon. In the chaotic setting of a war-torn jungle and man’s conquest of a moon landing, Frank must make his own conquests over broken dreams, over love, and make his own discoveries about life while in a strange and distant land. Before arriving in Thailand, he encounters three women, one he loves, one who loves him, and one incapable of love but nearly destroys him with her insanity—all fated to fail through circumstance, tragedy, or faint heart. He gets caught in an anti-war riot, a super-secret operation in California, a Buddhist enlightenment in the heart of an ancient world, and as an unlikely hero, risks his life to rescues a Thai princess in a daring escape from a prison camp. During four years of his life, he completes the journey from boy to man and from naivety to wisdom, in life transforming experiences. When he comes home, Frank and his world are changed forever. Nothing would ever be the same. Years later, he stands alone at the monolith Memorial Wall of the Vietnam War in Washington. His emotions imprisoned for years, the floodgates of his suppressed tears open and he weeps--for friends who died and whose names he discovers on the wall, for paths to opportunities robbed from his life, for his misspent youth. In disbelief, he asks himself why his own name is not on that wall. Why was he spared? Perhaps it was to tell the story of a heart in the jungle of life, love, and war.

         Although some events in this book have some basis in fact, names have been changed and numerous incidents have been either fictionalized or consolidated into various characters in order to paint more easily a picture of emotion and consequences of events. The author makes no claim as to which events in the story are true and which events are not, except for obvious historical events. In short, this is a work of fiction and no claims to real events are made or implied. Any resemblance to real events or real persons is mostly coincidental. 
[For inquiries, write: fred@lauvermanagement.net]