Aw Shucks, Old Age

It's going to be a busy week heading toward Thanksgiving and I have a jillion things to do today, so I thought I would have a guest instead of my usual Mondy offering. I am so thankful for the writers who share their work with us, and one of them, Roy Faubion, occasionally sends me a piece that I might deem worthy of including on my blog. What he doesn't realize, even though I keep telling him, is that anything he sends me is worthy of a spot here. He is a terrific writer. This particular piece resonated with me as it came in my inbox shortly after a few friends and I had been out to lunch and talking about the challenges of aging. We all feel so young on the inside, but the outside is beginning to show definite signs of wear and tear. Growing old is not for the faint of heart, and I think Roy sums up the emotional reactions of most of us who are a few years past 60.

And while we are all still young enough to enjoy it, let's have a danish to go with our morning coffee.  

 

Now here's Roy... 

One thing that puzzles me more than all the other things that puzzle me is where does middle age end and old age begin in a person’s life cycle?  As I mull this around in my brain, I experience a number of disjointed emotions which do not contribute much to my desire to make a determination of what age category in which I fit. Take as an example of my muddled thoughts, the image I have of old based on the old men and old women I see. I knew a man in his nineties who appeared to be in his early seventies. He sat tall and stood straight. His voice was clear and his mind was sharp as a tack. Was he old? I did not think so.

Or how about the old feller I met twenty-five years ago at a shindig featuring a lot of violins…fiddles they called them. The musicians were from eight to near a hundred, mighty good talent, I’d say. But one of them seemed particularly skilled with the bow, bringing sound to the stage that captivated everyone. I figured he was on his last leg in life, all wrinkled and dried out. Ninety years old was my guess. While we were sitting and visiting I had the opportunity to be so bold as to ask his age. Fifty, he responded with a toothless smile, and I added in my thoughts, darned proud of it.  He was younger than I. How about that?

 

Now here I sit, eighty years old by the calendar. I almost choke when I say it aloud. Eighty! Heck, I didn't even see it coming. One day I was sixty and gainfully employed, the next thing I know, I am eighty, losing track of what day it is and what I think I ought to be doing but don’t. And doctors? I surely did not know there were so many specializing in so much. There is one for my brain and one for my kidneys. The heart doctor lets me know it is time to see him, but he has to wait for me to visit the back doctor.  The tooth doctor is standing in line right behind eye doctor. About the time I think I am caught up with doctors my family doctor says, “Not so fast, old timer. It is time to take the little bottle and go in the bathroom.”

Well, I went in the bathroom even though I did not feel like going. It is just something old timers do. Sometimes through the last few years I would think I was not aging at all, until Medicare set in. That stuff will do you in! When I was gainfully employed I carried a small pocket notepad to keep up with my obligations. Now that I am retired, and have been for quite some time, it takes a three ring-binder with a planning calendar to keep up with the doctors’ appointments.

In the midst of all this I continue to say to myself, when I get old, I think I will slow down a bit.  Right now I have an appointment to test ride a Harley.

Image Courtesy of Harley Davidson Blog

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Roy Faubion has written columns for small-town newspapers for most of  his adult life. The first column was entitled Around The Sagebrush. Second was The Clodkicker. Finally, he arrived at a title and concept with which he is most comfortable, Ponderations from the Back Porch. Through the years of being a radio announcer (preceding the term Disc Jockey) and years of news reporting, and doing all the other jobs in the industry, he racked up enough experiences to shape a column of thoughts, remembrances, and often, true stories. He is married to Dr. A. Janet McGill, retired educator, and both are active members of their church. They are also members of the North East Texas Choral Society, a 100 plus member performance choir in Sulphur Springs, Texas.

My Kind of Club

Since my show opens tonight, I was thankful that my friend Slim Randles always has something I can share here on my blog when I am pressed for time. I'm not a huge fan of clubs or committees, so this one made me smile. Enjoy....
 
The Club didn’t last long.

It wasn’t the dues, which were nothing. It wasn’t being worried about being elected recording secretary or something if you missed a meeting. There were no officers, no directors and no meetings.

It was born of an idea that occurred to Doc one day. He said the members of the Mule Barn truck stop’s philosophy counter and world dilemma think tank should organize. After his third cup, Doc turned to the others and said sitting there having coffee day after day without any real purpose just didn’t seem right. Doc said, “There are so many things a real organization can do.”

“What would those things be, Doc?” Steve asked.

 “Giving shoes to orphans,” Doc said. “Or curing hunger in third world countries. Or we could watch TV and file complaints.”

Then Dud piped up. “Would we have to wear funny hats and have a secret handshake and a password?”

“Absolutely,” Doc said. “Otherwise, how would you know who was one of your brother club members and who wasn’t?”

Mavis said, “What’s your secret password? Regular or decaf?”

“I don’t think we should let women join,” said Bert.

 Nobody nodded until after Mavis had topped off the cups and had gone into the bowels of the kitchen.

“Okay,” Steve said. “Let’s get this straight. No meetings. No name for The Club, right? No officers. No dues to pay. All we have to do is give our shoes to some orphans, right?”

“And feed kids in third world countries.”

“I don’t know any kids in third world countries. Could we feed one or two around here, just to kinda e-e-e-ease into it?”

“I don’t think so,” said Doc. “We gotta come up with a third world country and then find out who’s in charge of feeding kids. Then we can send them something.”

“I move we adjourn this meeting,” said Steve.

“There are no meetings,” said Doc.

Since no one could name a third world country without a map or listening to National Public Radio, The Club died a quiet death.
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Brought to you by Saddle Up: A Cowboy Guide to Writing 

Danny's Sacrifice

Grab a donut to go with your morning coffee, or tea, and settle back to find out how Carole Bellacera came to write Incense & Peppermints, her novel about a combat nurse in Vietnam. She has graciously accepted the invite to be today's Wednesday's Guest, so let's make her feel welcome. While Carole is here, I'm over at The Blood Red Pencil blog having some fun with words.

Thanks so much for having me post on your blog today, Maryann. I'm grateful for the opportunity to talk about what it was like as I started this story. I don’t think I’ve ever been so terrified and intimidated in my life as I was while I was researching the book. For two years, I read every book I could find about women in Vietnam—and about the Vietnam War itself (The Vietnam War for Dummies was one of my favorites.)  I watched a documentary about the combat nurses who served so bravely there—Vietnam Nurses with Dana Delany, and I watched every movie I could find about the Vietnam War, including the entire series of Tour of Duty.

The more I read and watched, the more terrified and inadequate I felt.  How could I…a former medical technician in the Air Force, who served during the Vietnam War…but who didn’t know the slightest thing about serving during combat…how could I write this book?  What gave me the right to write this book?  Could I do justice to it, and be able to honor all the women who served there? 

I just knew I had to try. I felt directed to write this novel… by God, the Universal Spirit, Mother Goddess…whatever, I knew I had to do it. 

The inspiration first came from a photograph—the one of the marine on the lower left corner of the

cover. This boy had been my pen-pal in high school.  I came across this torn photo of him one day while I was reorganizing my photo albums. Honestly, I didn’t remember much about him. I knew his name was Danny and he was from Indiana. My best friend, Susie, had given me his address and told me he was going to Vietnam and would I write him? (I seem to recall he was a cousin or related to her family somehow.)

I was a flighty sixteen-year-old, and madly in love with a senior named Gary Baldauf. And perhaps the only reason I even agreed to write Danny was because he bore a remarkable resemblance to Gary. Of course, I knew there was a war going on somewhere in southeast Asia. (I’m not even sure, though, I knew Vietnam was in southeast Asia.) But the war hadn’t affected me. Oh, in the back of my mind, I guess I worried that Gary might be drafted and get sent there, but the chance was small. After all, he was heading off to college at Purdue. 

So that’s how I began writing chatty, scatter-brained letters to this “older man” who looked like my high school crush. I’m sure my letters were filled with all kinds of gems like how much I loved Mark Lindsay of Paul Revere and the Raiders, and how cute my new white go-go boots were, and how groovy I looked after drawing Twiggy eyelashes around my eyes and dotting freckles on my cheeks with eyeliner—following the how-to instructions in Teen Magazine. 

Danny replied to my letters, and even sent me the photo of himself taken in Vietnam, but I can’t tell you what he said. I have absolutely no memory of anything he wrote. When I think back on it, I believe I received only one or two letters. When they stopped coming, I didn’t think about it; I doubt if I even noticed or wondered. After all, I was 16…going to basketball games, and dances, and pep rallies. It didn’t even occur to me to worry about Danny and what may have happened to him. It was only after I found his photo a few years ago that it hit me. What had  happened to him? And how could I find out?  I didn’t even remember his last name. 

I turned the photo over and saw that half of it had been torn away. I knew he’d sent it to me like that because there hadn’t been another person in the picture. Only half of the inscription on the back was visible.

ny Bruce
Nam ‘69

Danny Bruce. That had to be his name. So I got online and did a web search. When a page popped up on my screen, my stomach dipped, and I could feel the blood draining from my face.  It was a website about the Vietnam Memorial Wall, and his name was on it. 

While participating in combat on March 1, 1969, Danny was killed in saving the lives of three fellow Marines, and was awarded the Medal of Honor post-humously. He had been in Vietnam for a little over a month before he was killed. And me? I was busy partying, having sleepovers, eating burgers at the Dog ‘N Suds, and just going about my happy teenage life. I know…I was just doing what any teenager would be doing. But Danny had been a teenager, too. He was 18 when he died. 

This is why I was driven to write this book—to honor Danny, and the courageous nurses who saved thousands of “Dannys.”  I hope I’ve done them the honor they so deserve.
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Carole Bellacera is the author of eight novels of women’s fiction.  Her first novel, Border Crossings, a hardcover published by Forge Books in May of 1999, was a 2000 RITA Award nominee for Best Romantic Suspense and Best First Book, a nominee for the 2000 Virginia Literary Award in Fiction. It was also a 2000 finalist in the Golden Quill award and in the Aspen Gold Award and won 1st Place in the Volusia County 2000 Laurel Wreath Award. Her short fiction and non-fiction has appeared in magazines such as Woman's World, The Star, Endless Vacation and The Washington Post. In addition, her work has appeared in various anthologies such as Kay Allenbaugh's Chocolate for a Woman's Heart, Chocolate for a Couples' Heart and Chicken Soup for Couples.  www.carolebellacera.com

Dreams Never Die

Since you are smarter than the average bear, you have already figured out this will not be my usual Friday Odds and Ends post. I am heading out of town for an Art & Author Faire at the Georgetown, Texas library, and will spend the rest of the weekend with my son and his family who live in Austin. Great way to start Mother's Day weekend, which is especially hard for me this year. So today I have a guest piece from humorist, Slim Randles who writes the popular syndicated column Home Country. His story resonated with me as "continuing a dream" is the theme of one of my stories in my collection, The Wisdom of Ages.  

When old Ben died recently, the town was saddened, but probably not for the usual reasons. Ben had been widowed for nearly 20 years and had lived alone in the house where he and Judith had raised their boy, John.

He’d had a lot of health problems, there at the last, too. Things weren’t easy for him.

Sometimes when a guy is in that shape, people nod and smile slightly at his passing and say, “Well, in a way it’s a blessing, isn’t it.

 But not with old Ben. There’s the sailboat, you see.

After Judith died – and Judith was the most practical woman in town – Ben started buying and reading magazines about sailboats. Then he cut the front off the barn/garage out in back, and began building one. He drew crowds with his work for a while. Everyone stopped by from time to time, and we all know it is to be 32 feet long and a gaff-rigged – not Marconi-rigged – sloop. Said they look more like real sailboats.

Eccentric? Well, maybe. Eccentricities last a year or two, but a 20-year project is a lot closer to being an obsession.

When Ben could afford more of the special wood he was using, he bought it. Sometimes all he’d get were some of those little brass whatchits to put along the side. But each time something came, there was work going on out in that garage. Ben took pride in the project being pay-as-you-go, so he wouldn’t owe anybody when he finally put it in the ocean.

Ben died before that happened, and that saddened us greatly. We might chuckle a bit behind his back, but we also secretly envied him and admired him for building that boat.

After Ben passed, his son John brought his wife and children to live in the little house. After a few weeks, we heard activity out in the garage, and we found John working on his dad’s boat.  It would, he said, eventually sail.

There is no statute of limitations on dreams.                            
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Brought to you by the new CD “Having Fun in New Mexico,” Fifteen stories by Slim Randles. www.slimrandles.com   Slim's books have some of the same thoughtful and humorous commentary and are well worth the read. One of my favorites is Sun Dog Days.

The New Yorker

Before we grab our coffee's and visit with my guest today, I want to mention that my young adult novel, Friends Forever, is free for the next three days. This is what one reviewer had to say about the story, "Ms. Miller captures the trails and tribulations of 13 year-olds very easily. She talks their lingo and keeps the book interesting with enough twists and surprises to keep younger readers turning the pages to the very end."

Now, help me welcome Elaine Walsh as today's Wednesday's Guest, as she shares some amusing thoughts on the difference between etiquette in the North and in the South. Enjoy....

My daughter shudders when we pass a certain McDonald’s in town.  “I can never go back in there,” she laments, remembering the trauma she suffered there when she was ten after a visit with her New Yorker aunt.

 “New Yorkers are so misunderstood,” I’ve told her many times, not wanting her to overlook the content of their character since she can’t get past the directness of their approach.

I’ve been a stealth New Yorker, living undercover in Florida’s Tampa Bay area for over half my life. Because I grew up north of the five boroughs, I didn’t pick of the Bronx accent that gives away the origin of the upbringing of my father and his siblings whenever they open their mouths. A co-worker once told me, surprised to learn about my northern background, “You don’t seem like you’re from New York.”

It was his nice way of saying, “You’re not loud and obnoxious.” Sorry my fellow New Yorkers but that is how many in the south see us.

Southerners say things that at first glance seem more socially acceptable. Think about it. Doesn’t "hush" sound nicer than “shut up” or even better than the cleaned up version, “be quiet”. But is it effective? Can you imagine saying “hush” in New York? How long could you survive in New York on southern charm?  Maybe a nanosecond? Just  turn around in your seat in Yankee Stadium and say that to the loud-mouth from Boston who just yelled “you can’t hit what you can’t see Jeter.”. Hush? Really? The people around you would think you were throwing up a hair ball. Hush. Hush. Hush. They might even level a Heimlich maneuver on you to help you extricate it.

I’m an ambassador of sorts for my southern and mid-western raised friends. I have to translate at times.  I tell them, don’t confuse  a New Yorker’s directness with manners. While the southerner might have developed the ancient Irish trait of telling someone to go to the devil in such a way that they look forward to the trip, the New Yorker isn’t going to mince words. You know where you stand with them. There’s no confusing the point of what they’re trying to say.

So back to the calamity that unfolded at McDonald’s. My Bronx-born aunt relocated south a few years ago and now lives near me. She took my daughter out for a Happy Meal one afternoon. My daughter waited in the dining room while her aunt ordered their food. She heard a commotion coming from the front of the restaurant. A few minutes later her aunt showed up and plunked down in the seat across from her. Moments later a man walked up to her aunt and told her, “They don’t make enough money to put up with people like you.”

Her aunt turned in her seat, mouth gaping open, and flung her hands and arms open as if she was just shot in chest. “What,” she bellowed back at him, dropping her ‘r’ in typical New York fashion, “I’m the custa-mah.”

And the customer is always right.

My daughter wanted to crawl under the table. Instead, she vowed never to show her face in that McDonald’s again.

Fast forward to this summer where I’m with my daughter on a tour boat taking us around the New York City skyline. The guide narrating the tour had my aunt’s familiar accent. As he educated us on the history of New York and pointed out various sites, tourists on the boat would rush the rails to snap their pictures. Many lingered too long. Our guide minced no words telling them to take their picture and sit down so others could partake in the photo op. I didn’t know how my daughter would react to his direct approach. After one sharp scolding, I glanced at her and she said “What? He’s being nice. He wants everyone to have the same chance to get pictures.”

And I thought, ahhh, she finally understands.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Elaine's novel, Restoration, chronicles Tess Olsen’s challenge to restore her life, relationships, and dreams back to the promise they held before her mother abandoned the family to marry a convict, Randall Wright.

Elaine grew up in upstate New York against the backdrop of the flowering women’s rights movement with different ideas from her mother as to what life as a woman should be.  In college, she majored in psychology with the intent of being a “death & dying” counselor. Instead, she moved to Florida and became a  successful business executive by day and women’s fiction writer by night. She says, "Being a daughter, mother, friend, and soul mate is the most powerful influence in my life and my stories."
  
Visit Elaine at Goodreads, or her website. And you can follow her on Facebook and Twitter. 

A Few Thoughts On Picking What Story To Tell

Please welcome David Grace as today's Wednesday's Guest. His approach to choosing what to write about sort of fits mine. In this era of "branding" it is recommended that a writer stick to one genre and one market, but I find that difficult. Story ideas just come to me, and it is hard to ignore them even if they don't fit in the genre as my last book. Do you write for the marketplace or do you listen to your muse? 

Before we go on, just a reminder that my mystery, Boxes for Beds, is free through midnight tonight for Kindle and Kindle apps.

A friend of mine who has both a Ph.D. and a law degree loves a certain popular novelist’s books. It used to drive me crazy. I think this particular author is a bad writer whose books are trite, whose characters are two-dimensional and whose plots go beyond unbelievable and into the ridiculous. I used to mutter, “Mike, you’re such a smart, educated, sophisticated guy. How can you like this junk? I’d have a hard time reading this stupid book if you paid me.” But what could he say? He just liked it.

I don’t ask that question any more because I realize that people’s pleasures are generally unrelated to their intellect. If they weren’t only morons would laugh at "The Three Stooges".

What’s my point? Every writer starts with a blank page and has to decide what story to tell. I think success as a writer and, more importantly, gaining enjoyment from writing, requires that the author pick the right kind of stories for him/her. I have learned this the hard way.

At one time it seemed that serial killer books were popular so I decided to write a serial killer novel. This was logical and it was wrong. I picked a novel type based not on a story I wanted to tell but instead based on what I thought would be popular. The book turned out OK but today I would describe it as thoroughly mediocre.

A couple of times I’ve become intrigued with the idea of writing a thriller. The books were, again, OK but, I think, just OK. Whenever someone asks which of my novels they should read, I never recommend either of them.

Now I just write stories that I find emotional and exciting. I begin every book with the hope that at some point the story will bring some of my readers to tears. I want to tell stories that I find exciting and emotional and that say something about people’s humanity and inhumanity.

I don’t know how to put that into a searchable key word. I can’t categorize or demographically predict who will like my books. I do know that I plan to never again pick a story based on what seems to be popular. Now I just try to figure out a story that I find emotional and exciting and hope that a few other people stumble across it who feel the same way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Visit David Grace at his author page on Amazon and his website.

Email: DavidGraceAuthor@gmail.com

His latest book is  Death Never Sleeps  –  A Police Procedural/Crime Novel

  Death Never Sleeps blurb:

                                               

            Veteran Homicide Detective James "Big Jim" Donegan and his partner, Chris Hunter, have been called to the scene of their latest case, a strangled call girl who has been put halfway through a wood chipper that was left unattended in one of the city's parks.

            Since he was eight years old Chris Hunter has looked up to Big Jim as a father-figure and a mentor. Today Big Jim intends to use this case, like every other crime that they have worked together, as an opportunity to teach the technically brilliant but socially awkward Hunter how to be a great cop. The training, like the work, is endless. Big Jim and Chris know that they have chosen a career that is never finished, that never stops, that death never sleeps.

            Hunter is doing his best to understand how people work and how to succeed on the Murder Police but the work gets harder when two more murders, one new and one old, are added to his caseload. Of course, Chris Hunter wants to solve these crimes to bring the criminals to justice but even more than that he wants to solve them to make Big Jim proud.

David Grace is the author of 14 novels; five collections of science fiction short stories; two collections of crime short stories. His short fiction has been published in Analog Magazine and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. He has also penned eleven screenplays and shared story credit for the "Outer Limits’ Joyride" episode. An attorney, David is licensed to practice law in courts in the State of California and before the Supreme Court of the United States.

Blogger Book Fair Guest - Caitlyn Nicholas

Welcome to the final day of the Blogger Book Fair. I hope you have enjoyed the fair as much as I have. I have met some new friends and picked up a few good books. The Reader's Choice contest is still going and my short story collection, The Wisdom of Ages, is in the Anthology Category. My mysteries, Open Season and One Small Victory are in the Mystery Category and my romance, Play It Again, Sam, is in the Romance Category. (Votes are certainly welcome. [Smile])

As promised all week,  I will give away advance copies of my mystery, Stalking Season to three lucky winners, or an e-book of your choice. All you have to do to win is comment on the blog this week and I will draw names on Monday. Originally, I was going to draw winners and notify them today, but I am having company for the weekend. My daughter and her children are coming and I have not seen them in too long, so you will understand why I will not be online much this weekend. Don't forget to leave a contact e-mail so I can let you know if you won.

My final guest is Caitlyn Nicholas, and I am over at her blog today answering some fun questions she posed for an interview. Caitlyn began writing only eight years ago. Exhausted, pregnant and coping with a demanding toddler, she decided the time was right to embark on a writing  career. To her family's eternal surprise she is now the author of five novels and a short story. Her debut novel - and the first manuscript she had ever written - Running Scared, was published in 2007. This was followed by Secret Intentions in 2009, The Danger Game in 2012 and, Drive Me To Distraction, also in 2012.  Her next novel, Pursuit, will be out in August 2013.
 I hope you have enjoyed the fair and taken advantage of the many giveaways. For the final day of the fair, I thought we could have an ice cream sundae. Enjoy, and don't forget to comment to win a book. 

Here is a brief description of Pursuit:

Legendary hacker, Dimity Pond, is on the run from the law. 

Her landlord’s sold her home, her money has disappeared along with her two-timing husband, a cyber-terrorist named Nemesis is forcing her to wreak havoc with a nasty virus and she's developing a vile migraine.

Six years ago, Nemesis framed Dimity for the collapse of one of Europe's biggest banks. The money was never found, and the bank's failure caused untold damage to its customers. She's been living under

the radar ever since. The only way she can clear her name and live a normal life is to uncover Nemesis's identity, but he's always one step ahead.

Since Lord Richard Summerhayes left the Special Forces he's built the best disaster-recovery network in the world, known as The Bunker. Banks, militaries, airports and other major systems around the world rely on him as the last unshakeable digital fortress in the face of disaster. Richard has been keeping an eye on his neighbor who has a dubious hacking past. He doesn't like hackers, and when someone nukes his network with an intriguing new virus he knows exactly who to blame. But when he confronts her, he gets a whole lot more than he bargained for.

When Nemesis commits an unthinkable act of terrorism, the last hope is an encrypted file that only Dimity can crack. Will Nemesis manipulate Dimity into helping him wipe out the world's biggest financial center? Or can Richard and Dimity take Nemesis down once and for all?

Excerpt:
  

"Oh Sarah Easton ——” A cold digital voice mocked her. “It’s about to begin. Send the virus.”

Cold horror washed over Dimity. She jabbed the phone’s off button and dropped it on the table.

A noise, the rough grate of wood on metal, startled her. Numbers curled across her mind as a migraine inched closer.

“It’s the stove.” She spoke out loud, to break the quiet.

Beau – the labrador – cozy and content at the base of the wood-burning stove, continued to sleep as if he’d spent the morning chasing rabbits.

Which he hadn’t.

Unless bacon was involved, Beau never ran.

The silence of the house closed back around her.

She scooped up the phone, hesitating, waiting, and hoping the suffocating dread would dissipate. It didn’t. Then she hooked the handset back into its base, flicked open the dishwasher and unloaded the dirty cups and glasses she’d stacked there in a rare burst of domesticity that morning.

Someone hammered on the front door. A thick white mug, with the faded words Nerd Girl on it, slipped from her fingers, bounced off the side of the dishwasher door and shattered into a thousand pieces on the floor.

Jake? It couldn’t be him. He had a key and was in the south of France. But no one ever came to visit, she made sure of it.

The person hammered again.

“Shit,” she muttered. “This stupid life.”

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You can find the author at her Website    Blog   on Twitter   Facebook    Google+    

Buy Links:   Amazon   Amazon UK    iTunes    Momentum 

Memories - Sweet Memories

For the A to Z Challenge my theatrical word for today is understudy, of which we have none in our little theatrical troupe. It's awfully hard to perform on stage when you are sick, and I always worry that one of our cast members will come down with something awful on opening night. So far we have been lucky and never had to cancel a performance, but there have been a few times we have struggled through.

And now, please help me welcome my Wednesday's Guest, Kerry Letheby. Kerry is the author of Mine to Avenge, an epic saga, and she is here to share some of her favorite childhood books and movies.

Returning to my favorite childhood books and movies

For some years I have been on a personal quest to find and buy the movies and books I loved as a child. I’ve recently begun wondering why it’s important to me to find them and whether they have influenced who I am.

I have found that such a quest isn’t unique, knowing two friends who are doing the same thing. One of them said something that kindled my thoughts about this. She said that her favorite books had given her comfort and security when she was sad, lonely or frightened.

I immediately recognized my own motivation in her words. Each time I add another book or movie to the collection, I reclaim part of my childhood, with things that comforted me during times that might not have been so happy.

We know that books and movies communicate to us as adults, but it’s not that easy to explain exactly how or why they do. I struggled recently to tell someone how Les Miserables communicates to me, and why I love it so much.

Children find it much harder to articulate emotion and feelings than adults, because of their shorter life experience, so it is impossible to expect them to explain the effect a book or movie has on them. As a child, I remember being deeply in touch with my emotions when reading or watching a movie. My mother often found me crying profusely in front of the Lassie TV series but I certainly didn’t want her to turn it off.

When we were young, our parents might not have always picked up on our feelings because of our inability to articulate them, but the right movie or book at the right time met that emotional need. I suspect that my favorite movies and books became my favorites because they touched me at a time when nothing else did, in a way that made sense to me. They connected with me so powerfully that I have a subconscious desire to live that experience again.

This also accounts for other things I’ve chosen to keep - some of my sons’ books and toys. My years as a young mother were such happy years, and holding on to some of my sons’ favorites is a way of reliving a time I’ll never have again.

As I have only written one novel to date, it’s probably too soon to conclude whether these movies or books have influenced my writing, but I can’t discern any links at all, so maybe the question about any influence on my writing will have to wait a little longer.

However, I have still another unresolved question. Is my reaching back to the past a pursuit of the happy feelings the books and movies evoked, or is it an admission that I am feeling sad and vulnerable in some way, and am reaching out to what helped me deal with these feelings in the past?

As I look at the influence of these books and movies on my adult life, I see some connections, but with most, the connection remains a mystery. I have listed some below where the link is obvious to me.

So how have some of my favorites affected me?

A is for Apple Pie by Kate Greenaway - I have become a calligrapher as well as an author. I just love alphabets and fancy lettering

Little Black Sambo by Helen Bannerman - I just love pancakes with melted butter.

Old black and white movies starring greats such as Cary Grant, Audrey Hepburn, and Gregory Peck -

these have given me a romantic, idealized view of Europe, particularly Paris, and have affected my home décor which is 20s/30s Paris apartment style. I am finally getting the opportunity to visit Paris for the first time at the end of the year.

To connect with Kerry:  Blog: A Novel Journey    Facebook    Twitter    Goodreads

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