Our World: Smaller and Smaller

 

Three of us in one vehicle meant breaking my own COVID-19 guidelines, but I was in this all the way and I wanted to see the project wrap up. We were going to move a MiG-21 fighter jet - left over from the Polish Air Force – from southwest Florida to the Indiana Military Museum in Vincennes, Indiana. 

Vladimir was far more fastidious than I anticipated. I didn’t want to ride with him and Steve to Lakeland, Florida, some two hours away, but Vlad not only had on his face-mask, but also had anti-bacterial hand cleaner and hand wipes on the console of his immaculate, new Toyota pickup truck. The fresh, crisp protective paper mat on the floor of the backseat had never been trampled by anyone’s shoes.

Steve's first encounter with a MiG-21

Steve and I made the same trip a week earlier, but due to several interesting mis-communications, our project stalled and had to be rescheduled. Vladimir was coming along because Steve strapped a discarded ejection seat handle we found on the ground on our first trip to a lawn chair for his Ukrainian neighbor as a joke. The handle instructions were of course written in Russian, and immediately brought tears to Vlad’s eyes. Vlad had been a mechanic on this very type of airplane fifty years ago, when as a young man, he had served in the Soviet Air Force. When he found out we were headed back a second visit, Vlad had to go with us. 

Technically, we were assisting Max Butler, a volunteer for the Indiana Military Museum, lift a sixty year old Soviet-era fighter out of a storage yard and strap it to a trailer. Max arranged for a crane and a flat-bed trailer to do the real work, we were going to assist as much as possible although I’m sure the professional movers needed no supervision. 

A refurbished MiG-21 on display at Draken International Headquarters  

Max had called me weeks earlier and asked if I could meet him at Draken International, an aviation firm that supplies contract military services from rebuilding and re-certifying ex-military aircraft to actually flying training missions for the US military. Draken was donating one of their old MiG-21 fighters located at the Lakeland airport to the Indiana Military Museum. All the museum had to do was come get the airplane. Max had as long a trip to Lakeland as I did, but from the other direction as he drove down from Eustis.

This wasn’t our first move for the Indiana Military Museum. We worked together ten years ago to move a CGM-13B Mace missile that required us to actually disassemble the missile.

 https://piddlepaddler.blogspot.com/2020/11/reassigned.html 

Our tool bags weren’t required this time as the MiG already had the wings and tail section mounted on shipping frames. That was fine with me, being in my late seventies, I no longer turn wrenches if I don’t have to. Max, even though older than me, was as thorough as always and made wooden back-up frames and brackets for the trailer in case they were needed. I was really there for moral support. Almost like old times, except this time we were in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic.

I was apprehensive about the trip at first, but with the proper precautions, it would be a break from the cabin-fever of the last six months of seclusion. My wife had reservations also, but she was as happy to have a day to herself as well. It is a small world indeed, as a friend we had known in Germany – also in the late sixties – asked if I could take her husband along when she heard about my trip. Her husband, Steve, would have much preferred a fishing trip, but this was an opportunity for him to spend time doing something completely new. He enthusiastically joined me for the pre-dawn trip through central Florida.

The author, face mask in hand, and with the MiG 21 headed to the Indiana Military Museum

The first day’s project turned out to be an eight-hour bust. While I was like a kid in a candy shop taking photographs of old fighter planes, it turned out – after lifting the airplane and tailpipe onto the trailer, - the trailer was too small and everything had to be unloaded. We needed a different trailer. Steve, at first in awe of the collection of twenty one MiG-21 fighters stacked uniformly in the fenced parking lot, was soon picking up fragments of broken panels and levers written in Russian as souvenirs for his Ukrainian neighbor. His eyes lit up when he found the ejection seat handle. He knew exactly where it was going to get taped! 

Max was left with rescheduling the crane and ensuring the trucking company would bring an appropriate trailer as Steve and I headed south in the mid-afternoon heat of Florida in early September. I doubted I would return as there wasn’t anything to do but observe as the professionals did all the real work, but that was before Steve taped the handle to Vlad’s lawn chair.

Max Butler asking "Where are my movers?"

When Max called with the new pick-up schedule, I asked if I could bring along a third party, a former MiG mechanic. Max was thrilled we would have someone who could translate the stencils and panels.

“Yes!” he said. “Bring him along!”

Steve listens as Vlad describes an electronic component

Vlad’s translation duties involved in depth conversations with not only Max, but also with Diego, the young engineer with Draken who knew the aircraft as well as Vlad! The painted stencils on the fuselage were written in Polish, but the manufacturing tags and interior markings were written in Russian. Vlad never removed his mask as he answered questions and climbed around his old airplane in the warm morning sun.

We weren’t the only people picking up MiGs that morning. The US military purchased the majority of the remaining airplanes to be used as target practice and there were two trucks in front of us as we waited for our movers to arrive. While Vlad soon lost himself in the maze of airplanes, we all began chatting among ourselves about the coincidence of having a actual Russian Air Force MiG mechanic with us. One of the other drivers said, “Hey, wait a minute…” and walked briskly away.

He returned shortly with an older, muscular looking man, also about our age. “Where’s the Russian?” he asked.

We called Vladimir over and the two greeted each other cautiously, first in English, then in Ukranian. The other truck driver, who had just pulled in from Jacksonville, three hundred miles away, was also Ukrainian.

They were guarded at first, but both got louder and more excited. They were soon laughing and actually glowing. Vlad and the truck driver were from the same neighborhood in the Ukraine. They had common schools and teachers and both knew storekeepers. They had grown up about three miles apart! Vlad and his new friend talked on the far side of the lot for over an hour, the driver missing his time slot to pick up the wings for his airplane. We used it to load ours. When they finally returned, the driver laughed and said, “Vladimir, I can longer talk to you! You cost me too much money!”

Vladimir talked the entire trip home. The truck driver was the first person from his area he met here since he slipped out of Ukrain just before the Soviet Union collapsed in 1990. The truck driver it turned out, left in 1990 as the confusion of the times allowed him and his family to get out as well. He had not met anyone else from home either.

As I sat in the back seat watching Florida’s flat, green landscape roll past, I couldn’t help but wonder what Max will find to move next.

*******

PostScript- Assembled and cleaned, but not yet ready for display, the Indiana Military Museum prepares the Mig-21 for Public Display.  Stay Tuned

Noble Hammock - A Letter to My Daughter

Everglades National Park

To Monica

While cleaning out boxes of old photos and I came across these. I didn't know if my daughter had copies of the photos, or remembered the trip, so I put it in writing.

******************************************************************************

The Noble Hammock canoe trail-marker was difficult to see as we drove toward Flamingo on the two-lane road from the main entrance. We did a three-point u-turn after we passed it, came back and parked on the shoulder of Flamingo Highway. Dean and I carried the canoe the short distance to the short, flimsy, wooden dock that stuck into the mass of indistinguishable, seemingly impenetrable mangroves. We really didn’t know what to expect as we launched our old fourteen foot, fiberglass canoe just a few feet from the side of the road.

My brother, Dean, sat in the front, you sat on a cushion in the middle, and I sat in the stern, each of us with a paddle. You were nine or ten years old and had the short, emergency paddle. It was too short to push us through the sloughs when we were in the shallow parts, but you helped paddle when we had deeper water. We were in shallow water a lot as it hadn’t rained in quite a while. The trail was so shallow in parts we almost turned around, but we pushed the canoe through the mud with our paddles and made it further and further into the mangrove jungle.

The mangrove hammocks lay scattered in a saw-grass prairie, and the canoe trail connecting the hammocks was marked with PVC pipes and a few wooden markers. As soon as we were out of earshot of the highway, there was no other reference to where we were. It turned out to be a monotonous, boring paddle and we were getting tired of shoving the paddles into the mud to push us along most of the trail. While the water was deeper in and around the hammocks, we could hear the mud and saw grass crunch along the bottom of the canoe as we pushed along the shallow parts. We certainly weren’t paddling between the hammocks.

You and Dean shoving off from Noble Hammock

Somewhere along the trail, after we were all tired and looking forward to completing the seemingly endless trail when I hit something hard on the bottom with my paddle. You turned to look back just as I leaned into the paddle with all my might, trying to get as much pressure as possible on what I thought was a rock or a log, when the object I was pushing on objected wildly and erupted four of five feet into the air right alongside the canoe.

You saw the alligator spin vertically in mid-air and fall back into the water. All I saw was its white underbelly as I lurched unexpectedly forward, looking backward over my shoulder trying to hold on to my paddle as the alligator twisted and fell away from us. Dean jerked around to look just as it crashed heavily back into the murky water. The canoe rocked from the swell then slowly returned to the almost boring silence and tranquility of before. We all sat stunned by the surrealistic event that had just happened. I don’t remember all the comments we made but I know you got to hear words you weren’t familiar with.

And you wonder why I think Disney World is boring.

Key Man

One late, miserable night while Jim Eby and I struggled with the newly installed 2740 terminal at the Dade County jail booking desk, two plain-clothes Miami Beach detectives brought in a hooker they picked up who, it turned out, happened to be a man.

Working the booking desk was among the worst working conditions I have ever worked. While it was mounted in a large circular pedestal in the middle of a huge room, the space inside the circle was cramped and serviced several booking stations at once. It was kind of like going to a bank where the service counter is curved around one teller. It was as bad as the tower at Homestead AFB, which, besides the drive-through at Wendy’s, was the service call I most dreaded. No space to work, impossible for any diagnostics and noisy beyond belief. With constant interruptions, telephone calls and people always reaching over the counter or throwing books or paperwork, it was worse than any product planner sitting in a sterile cubicle could possibly imagine. Two CE’s could not work together without pushing a deputy out of the way. Using an oscilloscope was impossible. A real zoo.

For those of you who think television shows accurately display police stations, you are wrong. Miami’s booking desk at the Dade County jail in the evening was more like Best Buy on Black Friday. On weekends it was even worse. There were at least seven holding cells along one long wall, always filled with noisy, usually malicious, often drunk members of society who you wouldn’t invite into your house. One cell was used for female prisoners who were transported to the women’s facility. The prisoners would get rowdy at times and they would incur the wrath of the real commander of the booking desk: The Key Man!

The Key Man carried a ring of cell keys that must have weighed ten pounds. He would walk along the cells, chatting with repeat offenders many of the jail staff knew by name and generally maintaining a semblance of order.

As Jim and I waited for the two detectives to move out of the way, the jail commander, Lieutenant Armstrong walked up and picked up their booking sheet.

“Key Man! Where’s the guy the Beach just brought in?”

“What guy?” said the Key Man, a big, strong African American who looked like he should play football for the Miami Dolphins. He walked over and said, “They didn’t bring in any guy.”

The two cops looked at each other in disbelief. We could see the panic in their eyes.

Lt. Armstrong straightened up and said, “Show me where you put the prisoner they brought in.”

The three of them followed the Key Man to the cell being used for the women prisoners. There were at least ten women in the cell.

The Key Man looked around the cell, even standing on his tip-toes as he tried to get a good view of the people in the cell. The women weren’t helping, doing their best to block his view.

“There,” he said, finally pointing to the wall bench in the back. “The one in the red dress.”

Working at the jail was never boring.

Stick Shift

 The day started like most others, except this morning I didn’t have to drive to my first call. I met Larry in the office parking garage in Coral Gables, just outside Miami. I didn’t even go inside the office. Larry asked if I could help diagnose a cantankerous communications controller in Key West, and he would drive the one hundred and sixty-five miles down to the end of US Highway One. All I had to do was sit and watch as our world transitioned from urban, glass ensconced canyons of corporate America to the dream world of white beaches and blue water that beckoned sun-starved visitors from all over the world. I didn’t even take my own tool case. I already had visions of a great pasta dinner at Mangia Mangia. Larry and his pristine, gloss-red Datsun 240Z, were famous across south Florida, from autocrosses and gymkhanas to concours d'elegance auto shows. If there was a display of Datsun sport cars, Larry’s car was sure to be there. I wouldn’t have turned down his request to ride to the Florida keys for love nor money. Well, maybe love.

Larry's other Z Car:  an IMSA GTU 240Z 

“You know, we’re not going to be alone down there today,” as he pulled into his favorite breakfast stop in Layton in the middle of Long Key two hours or so later. “Jimmy T. is doing a customer call down here with one of his guys, so maybe we can all meet for lunch or dinner.”

I called dispatch in Atlanta to find out if anybody else was headed for the Florida Keys. There were two other dispatches to the keys for different products. It would be impossible for one person to service the entire spectrum of IBM products and systems, so two specifically trained techs – not usually assigned to the keys – were enroute to both Islamorada and Marathon. An unusual day as the Florida Keys simply did not have that much IBM inventory. The whole Keys territory had one man assigned for typewriters and copiers, and another for everything else. We all decided to meet at Whale Harbor, in Islamorada, about half way back to the mainland, after we all wrapped up our calls. Mangia Mangia in Key West would have to wait for another day. So would lunch, as it turned out. A typical day with no lunch. It could have been snowing outside and we wouldn’t have noticed. When we finally wrapped up, it was late in the afternoon.

As we walked to Larry’s car at Boca Chica Naval Air Station, Stickshift tossed me the keys. I gave Larry that nickname back when we first met. It has stuck with him ever since. Larry knew I was also a sports car addict and had a German National Competition License while I was stationed in Germany. I raced amateur events and had done hill climbs with my Triumph GT-6. The chance to drive the famous, super-tuned Z-car the seventy-five miles from Boca Chica to Islamorada was a chance I wasn’t going to pass up. I adjusted the seat and the mirrors and the seat belts, and played cautiously with the gear shift. The engine fired up on the first touch of the key, and I glanced at Larry.

“Let me know if I do anything wrong,” I said.

“You’ll be the first to know if I bust your ass!” He laughed.

It didn’t take long to get the feel of the car. The steering was razor sharp and the handling was as balanced as it could be. Not only was it fast and stuck to the road as if it were on rails, but it had fantastic brakes to boot. I’ve driven powerful cars I wasn’t comfortable with, but Larry’s Z was perfect for me. This was a driver’s car. The first time I heeled and toed the car down through the gears, Larry laughed. “Can’t help yourself, can you?” He asked.

It came as naturally as breathing. It was that kind of car. I took it across the Bahia Honda Bridge without going under 110. It was absolutely at peace with the road. I came up on the back of a bright red TR-6 who thought he was speeding just we approached the Seven-Mile bridge. I came up on him quickly, he was probably doing 80 or so, but he had a tendency to use too much of the road for my taste, so I waited for him to make eye contact in his rear-view mirror before I passed him. His look of amazement as we went by was worth the trip. He was the only other car we saw for several miles, but I cooled it a little going across the iconic Seven Mile bridge. No speeding through Marathon, although maybe a little testy with a few of the locals. Back on the throttle headed toward Long Key.

I pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant next to Jimmy T’s unmistakable, mustard-yellow 240 Z and reluctantly shut off the ignition. “I thank you sir,” I said as I handed Larry the keys.

“No problem, man, it was a fun ride,” he answered. “You know what you said to the guy in the Triumph?”

“Uh, no, was I rude?” I answered.

“You told him to crap or get off the pot!” he laughed. “The dude was in lala land, he had no idea we where there!”

We had drinks and the neckties were soon stuffed into pant’s pockets. Al, one of the other Miami CE's on call in the keys, pulled in about twenty minutes later and we ordered dinner. We were the last customers in the restaurant when we finally paid our tabs and slowly headed toward the parking lot. There had been a lot of teasing and taunting between Larry and Jimmy T while we drank and told car stories, especially about the ride up from Key West. Jimmy T’s 240 Z was pretty much stock, but he loved to rib Larry about how much Larry treasured his immaculate automobile. As we walked through the parking lot, I felt a curious air between the two Z-car owners. I knew this was serious. This was going to be a race.

Jimmy T pulled out first, and it was obvious he was just as serious as Larry was. The first ten miles back through Tavernier were cat and mouse, but Jimmy T was on his toes. He wouldn’t let Larry in front of him. Nothing Larry tried worked. Jimmy T kept his Z-car just far enough in front to maintain his advantage all the way to Key Largo where the highway opened up to a four lane, divided highway. Larry decided to back off and let Jimmy get comfortable. Larry drove as fast as he dared in the 55 mile per hour speed zone. For those who have never driven this stretch, it is one of the most highly monitored sections of the Keys. He was barely over the speed limit, trying not to draw attention as we kept inching toward Jimmy T’s odd colored sports car, cruising in the right lane of US Highway One just barely in front of us. It was a sweet, beautiful Florida night, and one of the few times the four-lane divided highway through Key Largo was empty of traffic. No one out after Midnight during the week. We had the Overseas Highway to ourselves.

The last several miles of monotonous, almost hypnotic driving along the dark, empty divided highway of north Key Largo seduced Jimmy T. He occasionally glanced at his passenger. I joked to Larry they weren’t talking about cars. We were approaching the gentle, left hand turn where the two lanes of northbound US 1 in Key Largo merge into a single lane, headed toward the drawbridge over Jewfish creek. Larry didn’t want to alert Jimmy T he was positioning for our one and only chance to pass him. If we were too early, he could have easily beat us to the apex of the curve. The gentle left curve, besides being a merge lane, also starts the beginning of a double yellow line that runs uninterrupted for the next several miles. A beautiful, empty road, late at night with perfect weather and visibility, and a once in a lifetime challenge. Nobody but us. How long will it take to get from Jewfish Creek to Florida City?

Jimmy T looked to his right toward the old Card Sound Round as we passed under the last traffic signal for the next twenty miles and I yelled “Go!" Larry downshifted to third gear and jammed the accelerator to the floor. The red Datsun 240 Z howled, and snapped my head back in the passenger’s seat. We screamed past Jimmy T, apexing the curve perfectly. Timing is everything and it was a perfect pass. There was no way short of Florida Highway Patrol intervention would Larry lift his right foot. Larry slammed into 4th, then 5th gear and I watched the speedometer hit 120 as we screamed across Lake Surprise headed toward the drawbridge over Jewfish creek. He did slow down a little as we rocketed across the metal grating on the bridge. Jimmy T was right on our rear bumper.

The first curve after the Jewfish Creek bridge was a super fast, left hand sweeper and Jimmy T’s headlights faded further and further behind. Larry lifted a little for the right-hander as we skirted Black Water Sound headed toward the bend just before the County Line Marina. Jimmy T’s headlights were immediately glaring in our fastback’s rear window. Once we were past the Marina entrance it was time to roll, and we did. Except for the Thiokol drawbridge. Larry considered the effect the metal grating would have, so he slowed down to 80 or 85 as we sped over it.

The last chance Jimmy T had to pass us was just after the bridge where the highway opened up to what was known as a suicide street, one of those wicked, three lane abominations that were designed to kill people, but the only thing in sight was the distant glare of Florida City on the horizon. Larry never lifted his foot again. The six cylinder engine was mechanical perfection. The sound of almost seven thousand RPM proved all was in harmony. Every time I looked at the Speedometer it was between 120 and 125. There were no other cars on the road. Not even one. Jimmy T faded further and further back. He wasn’t going to catch us.

We pulled into the Last Chance Saloon parking lot in Florida City just under ten minutes after we crossed the Jewfish Creek bridge. A touch over 19 miles for an average speed of a little over 115mph. We got the famous middle finger salute and a big grin from Jimmy T. His terrified passenger looked liked he had been embalmed.

Satire - We Don’t Sell That Here

I walked out of the store, frustrated yet once again. No matter where I went, the salespeople had no idea what I wanted. “Why would you want to put polish on your shoes?” was a common response. When I answered to make them shiny, most just stared at me, although one young woman actually laughed.

“Dude, you’re wearing running shoes. Why would you want them to be shiny?” She asked. I started to answer, but she had already tapped her phone so I simply turned and walked away.

Maybe that’s the reason most men in southwest Florida wear dress shoes that look like they were worn while cutting down invasive pepper trees or wrestling alligators. Men here simply don’t need shiny shoes. I noticed it from my first meeting with the business owners in Port Charlotte over twenty years ago. The men simply didn’t shine their shoes. I interfaced with the county government for a while as well, and noticed the same phenomena. From department heads to county commissioners, shoes were obviously not a conscious choice when dressing for work or meetings. Insurance agents, realtors, even the media people I met wore shoes that appeared to have never been shined. Weather forecasters and news anchors on television, anyone shown standing, wore shoes that looked like they had been worn for a long, long time.

I began to get self-conscious. I quit shining my dress shoes and began leaving them on the back porch in an attempt to “age” them so perhaps no one would notice I wasn’t from around here. It was a new, uncomfortable time for me, having been a fanatic for shined shoes ever since I had been a cadet in the Civil Air Patrol back when I was fifteen. I was a member of our squadron’s drill team, competing in National Drill Competition in New York City’s Rockefeller Plaza. Believe me, our shoes shined. They were “spit shined,” a lengthy, tedious process reminiscent of the “waxa on, waxa off” shtick from an adolescent karate movie. I would use all of my mother’s five-day deodorant pads to lock in the fantastic shine once I thought the mirror-glaze would pass inspection, a habit I kept through eight years of serving in the Air Force. I joined the business world after returning home, joining a company famous for its black, wing tip oxfords. My shoes fit right in until I finally retired and moved to Florida’s southwest coast.

The answer of course, was to wear walking shoes, made mostly of colored fabric with rubber soles. I decided once I quit wearing a tie, I would dress down permanently. “Casual Friday” would be my standard for years. But then, maybe my decision was subliminal actualization. Maybe, somehow, I instinctively knew they don’t sell shoe polish here.

My old, brown loafers will just have to wait until I find some of that strange stuff on Amazon. I hope it gets here before we go out of town.

Flavors

I drifted away from our monthly writer's group discussion about people hearing things differently than a writer intended. I didn't physically leave, of course, but I may as well have been on Mars. My memory rudely inserted the anxiety I felt once when I impulsively spent eight hundred dollars on stereo equipment that I certainly didn't need. I was as detached from the writer's meeting as if I had fallen asleep. For some odd reason, my muse wasn't interested in the writing being reviewed, and some oral comment or critique I heard during the meeting shut down my normal brain function and I was suddenly in my own world, my mind vividly filled with apprehension from the unexpected - and quite rudely inserted - memory from years ago. My muse had abandoned me.

Memory has a way of being kind, or at least kinder than reality, and the excitement of having two close friends stop by after work to listen to my new, expensive, pride and joy speakers gradually slipped in to displace the anxiety I felt when I spent over a month's take-home pay on a whim. Back then, our stereos were the pinnacle of home entertainment back when direct-drive turntables, cobra-style tonearms and Shure V-15 type 3 cartridges were the mark of excellence in personal taste and audiophile distinction.

The purchase of the stereo components I had dreamed of for years - a pair of JBL Century 100 speakers - didn't come from our meager budget, but from an unexpected financial windfall that was the benefit from a brutal stretch of overtime work that upset our family routine and even affected our relationship. I was rarely home during that miserable period, working sixteen hour days and even once spent twenty-four hours, without interruption – not even for food – on one service call. When I received my first large overtime check, I splurged on the JBL speakers that I still have.  My wife supported my desire to buy the speakers as a just reward for both of us enduring the tumultuous time.

I carefully “balanced” the new speakers per the instructions I saved from Stereo Magazine, measuring the distance between the speakers, taking into consideration the drapes and carpet, and listening to professionally mastered records that carefully reproduced the exotic sounds required to adjust my Marantz 200 watt stereo receiver to the new, space dominating speakers.

Paul stopped by first, parking his custom-turbocharged Datsun 280Z in the driveway. Money was no object to Paul in his quest for perfection, and his taste in stereo sound was impeccable.

“Hmm,” he said, standing dead center between the speakers. “Try Allan Parson’s Pyramid. That’s a great one to test with.”

I carefully played the first cut on the “A” side, then waited for Paul’s profound analysis.

“They sound really, really good, George, but you need to crank up the bass a little. The sound just isn’t full enough.”

After Paul left, my wife – who thought the settings were perfect – asked if I was going to change the bass settings.

“No,” I replied. “I think it sounds great the way it is.”

Not twenty minutes after Paul left, Bob pulled up. Bob was another single friend who was also a renowned audiophile. His LP collection was stunning in its own right. I respected Bob’s opinion as highly as I regarded Paul’s.

Standing in the very same spot Paul had stood an hour earlier, listening to the same Alan Parson’s album, at exactly the same volume and adjustment, Bob quietly pondered the music.

“Well, George, they really, really sound great, but there’s way too much bass. They sound ‘boomy’.”

The room slowly came back into focus and I once again heard voices discussing the merits of something or other. Someone’s writing was still being discussed. I carefully glanced around the room. The moderator was telling a new group member to take critiques with a grain of salt as everyone hears things differently. No two people interpret the same thing the same way.

I couldn’t help think how true. And not with just writing.

George

I posted a blog for the Sarasota Writers Group back in 2014 that I recently updated and "tuned."  I hadn't posted it on my own blog before, so I decided to post the updated version here.

George

Dirty Secrets of a Writers Group

As George Collias reminds us from Earnest Hemingway: "Write drunk, edit sober,"

Or was it Dylan Thomas? I don't remember.

Thinking of writing that book that has been buzzing in your head, but don't know where to start? Google "Writing your first book" and you'll find around 690,000,000 hits, some of which may even be useful. Helping new writers is big, big business.

You may come across the suggestion to join a writers group. Helping writers of all ages and genres is a basic premise of most writer's groups, many of which are listed in the Arts and Entertainment section of your Sunday newspaper. Internet searches show local writers groups and most public libraries can usually point you to a writers group in your area as well. Writers groups usually welcome new writers with enthusiasm and understanding, they are glad to see you taking that first step.

While you will welcomed by the members of a writers group, do not expect them – almost all of whom have other day jobs – to dedicate their priceless time at a writers group meeting just for you, at least not more than once. Almost everyone in a writers group will help a new writer as best they can, from writing and editing, to proofreading and suggestions about publication. A new member may even find a mentor who will take them under their wing. However, if you are looking for free editing for your book or novel, you're wasting their time and yours as well.

Writers groups vary in their format, with some groups welcoming all writing while others are designed for a specific genre such as poetry or novels or non-fiction narrative. Don't expect in-depth discussion of your historical fiction novel at a poetry writers group. A good writers group will help define the writing process and help develop the mechanical and technical skills that allows new writers express themselves while understanding most writers do not have a bachelor's degree in English or a Masters in Fine Arts.

Writers Groups Are Not A Substitute For English Class

I was once told a writer who doesn't have a grasp of grammar is like a color-blind person trying to paint a portrait. If you are offended when someone points out spelling errors in your manuscript, or your grammar is horrendous, you might want to try something besides writing, Unless, of course, you have a really great friend who likes to edit. A good dictionary will do wonders for your acceptance in a writers group. If you don't bother with spell checking, you're off to a bad start unless you are a really gifted story-teller. You don't have to be a great typist to be a writer. A few writers I know still write in longhand and have someone else transcribe their work. Often that typist is also an editor of some sort.

I’ve found several writers groups that minutely dissect pre-submitted writings. Each group member gives his or her critique, allowing the writer the final few minutes to defend or explain their writing. I’ve found the defense is usually embarrassing or frustrating for the writer, who almost always thanks the group for their honest opinions, then never show up again. I find these meetings offer little in the way of inspiration or encouragement. William K. Zinsser, in the introduction to the 7th edition of his revised and updated "On Writing Well" writes: "My concerns as a teacher have also shifted. I'm more interested in the intangibles that produce good writing – confidence, enjoyment, intention, integrity – and I've written new chapters on those values."

Writers Groups Are Not A Substitute For Professional Counseling

There isn't much sympathy in most writer's groups for personal or political vendettas, e.g., it was all his/her fault and the world needs to know what a bad person he/she really is and you all are going to sit here while I read chapter after chapter of this agonizing diatribe. Many writers get that personal story off their chests and find they don't have a second book in them, which leads to the question; Why do you want to write? Are you telling a story? A personal memoir or an autobiography? Are you planning on making a fortune writing? Well, good luck, I know hundreds of writers but only a few who call it a profession. So, whom are you writing for? Who is your target audience?

If you are writing an autobiography, which is the usual genre for new writers, there are only two scenarios for your looming masterpiece: A; You are already famous and people may actually buy the autobiography, or, B; You are just like the rest of us and nobody cares. If you fall into the first category, you probably don't need a writers group, your book will probably grabbed by a publishing house. If you fall into the second category, however, the writers group probably doesn't want to read it. They’ll help you write it, and they’ll do their best to encourage you, but don’t expect to impress a seasoned group of writers enough to make them want to hear all your details. You may find even your relatives won't read your manuscript. They will tell you they will read it when they get a chance, but they won't, although they may skim through it to see what you wrote about them.

The best advice for new writers is to finish your autobiography and put it on a thumb-drive. Put it away until you're famous and can update it. Now sit down and write for fun, write because you enjoy writing. Write because you have a story to tell, you know, the one you have been thinking about for years. Then bring it to a writers group and read it out loud in front of people you don't know. New writers are often cloaked by intimidation or insecurities as they venture into an unfamiliar world that glaringly exposes their shortcomings and lack of experience. That bravado usually crumbles quickly in front of a writers group. You may want at least a warm, comfortable feeling with the group before exposing your soul, but when you do read in front of a writer’s group read only enough to make them want to hear more.

Many writers will at one time or another inadvertently revert to writing about personal experiences. The memories are often painful and unexpectedly personal. Writing is often cathartic, especially for new writers. While an insensitive writer's group might dampen a new writer's candid honesty, most members understand the self-discovery process. Shared experiences can become part of the camaraderie of a writers group, but don't overdo it. Constant repetition of personal problems is a sure way to shut off a receptive group of listeners anywhere, much less a writers group.

Make Them Beg For More, Not Mercy

I had the pleasure of watching members develop and grow into marvelously entertaining writers during the several years I was the Sarasota Writers Group Leader for the Florida Writers Association. However, I've also watched people attend several meetings, then drop off, either discouraged or disappointed in what they found, or in some cases, what they didn't find.

I have been asked what the difference is between a writer and an author. I've been told that authors have published books. I argue many books by celebrity authors are actually written by ghost writers. To me, an author is the visionary or creator of an idea to be conveyed, while the writer is the conveyor of that vision or concept to print. It follows that most authors are writers. A writer may do journals, blogs, newspaper columns, or magazine articles or any other form of written communication. A writer to me is someone who puts words into print to convey thought.

­You are displaying your descriptive powers, or your wit, to a group of like minded individuals asking for their response. There isn't enough time at any meeting to listen to more than five hundred words or several pages of material from any one writer unless it is a special writing. It only takes several hundred words to appreciate a writing style or the dialog between characters. Listening to someone read page after page of their own work can be like listening to a children’s violin recital.

I have watched people join our writer's group and grow beyond their expectations, and conversely, I've seen talented writers drop by the wayside, discouraged or disappointed with their work. Many new writers take critique of their writing as criticism, and unfortunately, depending on the critiquer, sometimes it is. A new writer must be thick-skinned when submitting work for critiquing, but at the same time be open to change if the criticism is valid. Being poorly critiqued has probably discouraged more aspiring authors than any other single factor. Most critiques I've read are given in good faith, meant to improve the caliber of the work under review. Unfortunately, critiques are a direct reflection of the talents and skills of the critiquer. I've seen great writing attacked because the critiquer was simply repulsed by the subject. It is often hard for those who aren't professional editors to separate the stimulus to an emotional response from the writing that triggered it.

Often religious or political viewpoints become the focus of the critique instead of the writing itself. Novels in the sexual realms tend to be fire-starters. I can only imagine what kind of responses E L James would have gotten with her Fifty Shades of Grey from most writers groups I’m familiar with. The book, in my opinion, could have used the help of a good writers group. Sir Salman Rushdie said about the book: "I've never read anything so badly written that got published." I doubt James would have abandoned her book because of a bad writers group critique, but good critique could have definitely have helped the quality of her writing. The fine line is critiquing the quality of the writing itself as opposed reacting to the emotionally charged nature of the subject.

Critiques are often ego based, or subconsciously prejudiced, and those are deadly to a new writer. I can read anonymous critiques from members of our group and tell who wrote it by the style of the critique. Alan Sherman wrote a parody of Peter and the Wolf, performed by the Boston Pops Symphony Orchestra, and one line from the work has stuck with me since I heard it almost fifty years ago: "A camel is a horse designed by a committee." That's exactly what happens when several critiques vary in their assessment of a given work. The writer being critiqued doesn't know which way to go or which path to follow to improve their writing. I was once critiqued for using too many adjectives in a manuscript while another critiquer in the same group said the writing was bland and needed better descriptions. One friend attends several writers groups, and much to his dismay, can't satisfy any two of them with any one piece of writing. One group felt a narrative he wrote was flippant, distasteful, childish, while the other group thoroughly enjoyed the same piece of work.

Writers Groups Are Basically Mutual Admiration Societies

If you read in front of the group, be polite enough to listen to others who read their material. After all, they were polite enough to listen to you. If you head for the door as soon as you're finished reading, don't expect the welcome mat to be out when you return.

Don't let your speaking style detract from your writing. If you sound like you're reading the telephone book when you are reading Steinbeck out loud, have someone else to read your material to the group. We have a regular member who is in demand to read other people's work. Her interpretation and inflection when reading makes even the aforementioned telephone book a pleasure to listen to. I recently read a member's final proof and was astounded to find I was intrigued by the book as I had a hard time following it during the readings. Every reader embeds their own images and emotions on the material they read, which may be quite different from someone else’s interpretation, even the author’s intent. Don't expect an audience to cheer your first attempt at explaining how you developed nuclear fission if you, like me, read out loud like Elmer Fudd. Get a good speaker, or hand out enough printed copies so your audience can read for themselves.

I've attended writers groups that follow a specific reading and critiquing format almost religiously, often intent on developing writers in a competitive environment such as winning awards for the group members. Other groups tend to mix up the readings with presentations from outside guests, from published authors to publishers and editors while critiquing is done separately from the meetings. Comments are almost always called for after a reading so a writer has immediate feedback on their work. Every group is different in its makeup and purpose and rarely are there any fees associated with writers groups. If the group you visit doesn't offer the education or experiences you are looking for, try another group.

You Can't Please All Readers

I have one piece of advice for new writers: It is your story and you are the one telling it! Write it your way and let your writing reflect your heart and your soul. You are the artist and this is your medium. I like my own writing, I can read it for hours and I'm sure you can read your own writing for hours as well. Bring it to the next writer's group meeting, well, five hundred words of it at least, and see if others hear it as you meant it. Don't be discouraged if the group you meet doesn't like your writing. Take the criticism and find another group and see if they accept your style and content. Arthur Godfrey once famously said, "Some people just don't like ice cream." As long as you please those you are writing for, you are by my standards a successful writer.

My favorite group likes vanilla, pistachio, chocolate, and just about every other flavor of ice cream, but every once in a while, someone brings in a delicious upside-down cake instead.

George

Wingtips

“Hon, do you have good black dress shoes?” my wife asked as we packed for our trip north for our granddaughter’s chain of social events. 

May has become more than just the climax of the academic season, wrapping up not only the scholastic year, but dance classes, chorus, music lessons, and just about every other after school activity a student can be enrolled in. This year was even more special with our granddaughter’s communion, so it was time to dry-clean suits and dig out the old shoes I haven’t worn in years.

“Sure,” I replied, “I still have my old wingtips from when I left IBM. Let me dig them out, they're in a closet somewhere.” I tossed out my last pair of black loafers, my semi-official footwear for formal events here in Florida, a couple of months ago.

As I pulled out my comfortable old friends from the back of my closet where they had resided under assorted bags and boxes, I suddenly faced my own mortality. No longer the spit-shined, combat boots of corporate America, they were now sadly distressed, forlorn, shockingly aged almost beyond recognition. They were far removed from being the forefront of the uniform of confidence and determination I remembered when I placed them there over twenty years ago. I naively thought they could be pulled out at any time and once again be worn with the distinction and authority they once held in the arena of interpersonal combat in the world of corporate America.

I stared at the faded, cracked shoe leather. Pieces of the polished leather had peeled off, exposing the vulnerable, soft under-skin of the shoes I had worn so many times. I turned the shoes over, the soles were as good as new. I had replaced the soles twice in the wingtip’s lifetime and the soles were still ready. Ready to stride confidently into a customer’s meeting or a region seminar. The uppers however, were like me; no longer ready to stand in front of a crowd from behind a podium or stand toe to toe with a competitor.

I had placed them in the back of my closet, complete with wooden shoe trees in them to keep their shape back when I retired. They were highly polished the last time I saw them, ready to be put into service at a moment’s notice. They had spent the last quarter century in retirement, but they were no longer serviceable. My old standbys, my stalwart support in the face of perils that could not intimidate them, unfortunately could not answer the call to duty. 

I couldn’t help but be nostalgic as I stood there looking at my past, the memories of a quarter of a century ago. I carefully carried them out into the garage and as one last gesture, photographed them. Then they went into the trash.

I walked back into the house. “Hey, Hon, we’ve got to go shopping. I need new black shoes.”

But the new ones won’t be wingtips. They may not even have laces. A pair of nice slip-ons will do nicely.

The Light is Better

A young boy carrying a fishing rod walked past me as I was photographing a serene lake-shore not far from my campsite on Blue Ridge Lake in Georgia. He was looking for an open spot to fish. He stood among the weeds for a moment, looking at the deep, clear water. He turned and spotted a sandy beach area, free of weeds, at the far end of the cove where the edge of the lake narrowed and merged with the landscape.

He dutifully carried his rod and tackle box through the several hundred yards of underbrush to the clear spot. The water was so shallow there he could have waded out into the lake for twenty feet or so if he had just rolled up his pant legs. He carefully prepared his tackle and cast into the lake with all his might. The bobber splashed into the quiet surface only ten or so feet from where he was standing, his bait immediately sinking to the sandy bottom just below the red and white plastic bobber that rocked only twice, ever so slightly. He was fishing in mere inches of water. There was no room for any fish.

An old joke flashed through my memory:

A drunk, on his hands and knees, is looking for something under a city street light when a good Samaritan walks up and asks if he can help.

“Yeah,” replied the drunk slowly,”I dropped my car keys and I can’t find them.”

The good Samaritan gets on his hands and knees and begins searching for the lost car keys. After a few minutes, the good Samaritan asks “We’ve looked everywhere, are you sure you lost your keys here? “

The drunk tries to focus his gaze on the good Samaritan. “Nah,” he says, “I dropped them over there somewhere...”

The good Samaritan sat up. “Then why are we looking for your keys over here?”

“Because,”” said the drunk, “The light over here is better.”

The young fisherman had selected a spot that had no weeds to stand in, undeterred by the fact he could see it was far too shallow for any fish. I looked back at him as I turned to leave. He was still standing at the water’s edge, holding his fishing rod with both hands, intently watching his bobber that was magically suspended on the crystal clear surface, just inches over his bait. I couldn’t help but hope he never loses his keys.

The Earth is Not Round

The world is not round. I know it isn’t flat, but it definitely isn’t round. To claim it is round would assume there is a symmetry, a total balance of our beloved planet, peacefully and methodically plodding through time and space. If there were a perfect balance, there would be no tides, no ebb and flow, a perfect understanding of beauty and harmony. I know the world is really out of balance, however, because the film “The Shape of Water” has been nominated for 13 – let me spell that – thirteen – Academy Awards. There is definitely something wrong with our slowly spinning, normally predictable planet. It must have one hell of a wobble.

I understand that I may be the one who is out of balance here, because I just spent nine dollars and ninety-five cents – senior discount – to sit through what I consider to be the most ludicrous, offensive, and downright stupid films I have ever seen. I put “Mars Attacks” on a pedestal compared to this awful film that has been elevated to God-like cult status with its prestigious award. At least Mars Attacks was fun to watch. The Shape of Water's dance scene with the creature from the black lagoon - seriously. I’m not joking - doing a Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers Felliniesque dream sequence, failed to elevate the film above the murky, tannin-colored realm of despair. They didn't even come close to the aliens bowling on Easter Island. 

The standard Hollywood formula of oil company bad, government agent bad, everybody bad except the maligned hero/heroine and his/her mentor, was spiced with a dash of, believe it or not, a Soviet spy with a heart of gold. The pathetic mentor, according to formula, has to be convinced the hero/heroine can save humanity and together, along with a co-worker – black, of course – and the good Soviet agent – he’s really a doctor – defeat the forces of evil wearing the red, white, and blue. Ad Nauseam.

It wears thin in less time than it takes to get the lid off the popcorn bucket. The acting is well done, as if they know they won’t get paid if the audience laughs out loud during the scenes where the creature plays with the owner’s remaining cats just after it’s eaten the head off one of them. Funny stuff, but even here Mars Attacks did it better.

Like sex scenes? There are several solo episodes by the heroine to establish the fact she’s in dire need of fulfillment, and surprise, surprise, our finned creature rises to the occasion. I can imagine the excitement when they discovered they could wire the old lagoon creature’s costume with LEDs to glow with the enthusiasm required for such an event.

And healing powers? Wow! Another opportunity to fire up the power pack! For a primordial omnivore, even the convoluted Soviet agent bad guy/good guy could have used the “asset” if only his timing had been better. I have a problem with films that portray the old Soviets as the good guys and the Americans as mean-spirited evil doers, regardless of whose aquarium they’re trying to drain.

Time to dig out the old Slim Whitman soundtrack. Indian Love Song never sounded better.

George