I bought this book during our Scottish holiday, some months ago. I have been deliberately saving it, not wanting to spend my Scottish currency all in one go, as it were but, as the moment for booking our annual Scottish holiday approaches, I thought the time might be ripe to refresh the memories and provide a little inspiration.  This handsome edition celebrating the 50th anniversary of the book was worth the extra cost. The foreward by John Lister-Kaye is most pertinent, and I can, and do, sit gazing at the cover to the detriment of the text. Although in my mind’s eye I add a smallish daughter collecting shells…

Ring of Bright Water is a book I first encountered as an animal-loving youngster. Watership Down, Plague Dogs, Tarka the Otter, Black Beauty and various books about communities of moles, eagles, wolves, and even ants(!) all came my way. I have a hazy recollection of being at that time disappointed by Ring of Bright Water, which is more or less understandable.  The first line reads thus:

“I sit in a pitch-pine panelled kitchen-living room, with an otter asleep upon its back among the cushions on the sofa, forepaws in the air, and with the expression of tightly shut concentration that very small babies wear in sleep.”

and then follow eighty long pages with nary an otter in sight.  Happily, I no longer rate books by the quantity of whiskers, bright eyes and wet noses contained within.

Gavin Maxwell’s auto-biographical account of his first ten or so years living isolated at Camusfeàrna(Sandaig) is split into two roughly equal halves. The first is an intensely detailed and vivid description of the locale and life style. The second half is almost exclusively concerned with living with otters. As an adult who has formed a strong aesthetic attachment to the wild and beautiful Highlands of Scotland it was the first part which appealed to me, and the otter section which I feared to find less engaging on this occasion.

As it transpires, I still have a vestigial fondness for otters, and was able to relate quite easily to life with these endearing creatures.  Although I concede that most people would probably not easily equate otters with rats.  Maxwell’s largely ineffective efforts to otter-proof his house certainly struck a rat-related chord, and the pang he describes experiencing upon recalling the loss of a young otter he had been accustomed to carry in his clothing was painfully resonant.

It may be a universal truth that animal stories are always sad, but Gavin Maxwell also incorporates fascinating observations and humour. The odd moment of melancholia aside, I laughed a great deal reading this book.

“The otter emerges tempestuously from the sea or river or bath, as the case may be, carrying about half a gallon of water in its fur, and sets about drying you with a positively terrifying zeal and enthusiasm.  Every inch of you, in the eyes of a conscientious otter, requires careful attention.  The otter uses its back as the principle towel, and lies upon it while executing a series of vigorous, eel-like wriggles.  In a surprisingly short space of time the otter is quite dry except for the last four inches of its tail, and the human being is soaking wet except for nothing.  It is no use going to change one’s clothes; in a few minutes the otter will come rampaging out of the water again intent upon its mission of drying people.” 

However, the otterishness, although dryly and enjoyably written, is not, in my opinion, the strongest part of the book.

In the first section of the volume Maxwell examines his attitude to Scotland, the Highlands, Scottish heritage, the enviroment, and his fellow man. All this set against the stunning backdrop of Camusfeàrna.

Virtually every page in this section had eminently quotable paragraphs, if I only had the patience to type it all out. The writing is fiercer, more immediate. Later in the book the otters have a perceptibly softening effect; on his prose and perhaps his life, but initially his stripped down life style in the wilds goes hand in hand with an unembellished vision of himself and humanity.

“But to be quite alone where there are no other human beings is sharply exhilarating; it is as though some pressure had suddenly been lifted, allowing an intense awareness of one’s surroundings, a sharpening of the senses…”

The underlying theme is a passion for living without artifice, and an unassailable determination to do so.  It adds an edge to what could otherwise be a pretty, but bland, book.  There is always a lurking fear that the flip side of the coin must be utter despair.

This was, for me, a quite unique reading experience.  A synergy.  Having visited Sandaig in the summer the prose doesn’t so much describe as remind, but remains lyrical, because, in the true nature of art, the words provide a more thoughtful way of looking at what has already been seen.

This is probably going to be a long and complicated post because it’s not about anything I usually think about (movies, etc.) and I am also still trying to think it out, but it seemed important to me (for me?) to do so while I was writing it out, and this seemed as good a forum as any.

So this thing that I may have alluded to (sort of) is that my partner and I broke up (or possibly, we were never “partners” in the actual sense of the word) and in any case I have been reevaluating my selfhood in a few different ways:

One is that I am living in one place for the first time in several years. I moved to this city to go to grad school but I always had the other city too, and if things were bad or boring in one, there was always the promise of the other one just around the corner. Now I only live in this city, which I like, but I have had a hard time figuring out what that mean–I am definitely beginning to process life and other people here a little bit differently,  in a non-transitory way, like I am here now, and will be, at least for a little while. What’s worse, is that after I am done being here, I can go somewhere else. Before, I always sort of assumed I would live in the other city and hey I still might, I have ties there, but really, I could go anywhere.

I guess I had always been sort of living in the future, like both in the sense of treating my present as ephemeral, but also always looking forward to something–either going to the other city, or having it come here in the form of my partner (or vice versa–my partner coming here in the form of the city?).  I have sort of a problem with time anyways, in the sense that I hate being late and stress about it a lot, to the point of distraction, and ironically, my scholarly work is a great deal about time as well–I write about history and about how people think about history. Could it be that the greatest adjustment for me is moving from a sense of self rooted in the future to one rooted in the present? That actually sounds really healthy, although I am not sure how I will go about accomplishing it.

One of the things that living in the future has always done for me is that I don’t care so much about the everyday (or am not thoughtful about it, if that makes sense) because I am always waiting for something else.  There have been more than a few moments in the last few weeks that I have been walking home alone and stopped and thought to myself this is my life in kind of a scared, out-of control sort of way.

The funny thing is that my actual daily routines and relationships haven’t changed so much because my partner wasn’t often around, it’s really only my perception of them.

One of the things that I have been thinking about is re-nesting, which is the way that a friend of mine put it to me the other day at a party. I want to change furniture, paint walls and work on this as a home. It actually looks really nice already but I can make it look nicer.

I am not sure what other things I can do to reconcile my future and present selves but I am going to try.  A big one is to remember to be more independent which is what every newly single person says ever but eh it’s true.

Okay, this is probably (hopefully!) the last time I am ever going to be so personal in a post and hopefully I will put some other ones behind this but whatever, it helped me out a little bit and helped me think of one way to conceptualize my problem…

It All Changed in an Instant: More Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous & Obscure

Book I was talking about in the post below… .

channel a drunk Kelly Clarkson, it’s called “don’t delay the inevitable“

It’s funny to see you put it up front

Spill some blood and lets begin the hunt

Pull the trigger baby I’m not loaded

No longer blindfolded

I just don’t see you

I hear you

say

What happened to us

I’m sorry I was careless

What happened to you

But Apologies are long overdue

cuz

I don’t delay the inevitable

Coming back to my doorstep

Aren’t we passed this little misstep?

And I hope you live the life you never wanted

I hope it’s me that leaves you haunted

I’ll remain shameless

Because it was you that brought about this mess

I know it’s not easy, your denial

You’re just too far down that isle

Would you have me pretend

That we can still be friends

maybe you prefer that ignorance

but when they learn the truth you won’t stand chance…

I don’t delay the inevitable

I just find you so fucking regrettable

Sometime last year I read that actually writing a book was the easiest part of being a writer.  I might have poo-poo’ed that idea at the time; if so, I’m retracting my poo-poo now.

Just writing a fabulous piece of fiction is far from being enough to ensure publication.  With the traditional publishing industry undergoing so much upheaval due to technology and a struggling economy, the writer has to be prepared to wear many hats - bright, shiny, brilliant hats.

The writer has to be his or her own marketing ninja.  You must establish and maintain a solid web presence (i.e. writing platform) because the first thing any savvy agent will do if they are at all interested in your manuscript is Google your name.  They want to know – and, indeed, in this economy they must know – that you already have a following, that a market for your work already exists. 

The writer must also have an angle, something that sets them apart.  In my partner’s case, that’s fairly obvious.  He wrote his debut novel, Haunting Injustice, in a tent while touring the US on a Harley.  I must determine and capitalize on what sets me apart from thirty-two gazillion other middle-aged women who write children’s books, and I don’t have a freakin’ tent.

What do I have besides a fabulous manuscript?  What sets me apart?  My partner, Mickey Mills, tells me my “hook” is my passion for dogs.  I disagree.  I don’t believe that sets me apart at all; twenty-nine gazillion of the previously-mentioned thirty-two gazillion middled-aged women writers are crazy dog ladies, too. 

I think my angle must be that I’m a witch who writes about witches.  Mickey has reservations.  His very valid concern is that my religious philosophy might polarize the market.  I understand his concern.  Not trying to hide the fact that I’m a Pagan Witch is one thing; to use it as a marketing tool has the potential to backfire in a huge way.   It’s a risk, no doubt about it.

But many of you folks know me well enough by now to know that taking risks is something I relish.  Risky?  Hell yes, sign me up.  I’d rather fail gloriously than piddle away another fifty years in mediocrity.

For some reason,  I am vaguely dissatisfied with the blogging and commenting business around here, for the time being at least. Of course, as soon as such a sentiment is blogged, I will immediately start posting like mad. Blogger psychology 101.

Also, I recently heard that one of my six-word “memoirs” is going to be published by Smith Magazine – I’ll do another post on it, later* – and I want to concentrate on the creative stuff more. I feel a fraud, sometimes, reading the COIN-y blogs. I’m better at the arty stuff. And medicine, naturally.

*Yeah, I’ll never stop blogging, really. Apparently, I get a free copy of the six-word memoir book for being an author. There is the disclosure for FCC rules, FCC rules people, or whatever it is I am supposed to do to disclose these things.

Update: Thanks for the encouragement, encouraging person! (When I said I was dissatisfied with the blogging and commenting around here, I meant MY commenting. Ya’ll, I love.)

     I sit in the multi-hued dimness of our living room, staring contentedly at a six-foot-tall Christmas tree—or rather, at the lights that gently glow upon it.  My eyes shift from light to light, taking each one’s translucent color deep into my eyes, relishing the exquisite beauty of illumination:  vibrant red, somber blue, bright yellow, placid green.  Pure colors, radiating softly, inviting my deep stares.  Each light does its part, easing my mind, bringing a modicum of comfort.  As I relax, there is still a part of me—subconsciously—that searches, searches from top to bottom, side to side for something that cannot be defined in a word, and that I’ve yet to find after decades.  But this year, a memory surfaces.

     I am sitting in semi-darkness beneath a different Christmas tree.  It is far taller; it is heavy-laden with Christmas lights; and it is real, having been cut down and dragged through the deep snows earlier today by me and my dad.  But most of all, it is surrounded by an unnatural quiet.  Voices are hushed, tempers are soothed.

     I am nine or ten, and after so short a sojourn in this world, I have learned that Christmastime is a respite from the war that tears through our family the rest of the year, bringing with it verbal abuse, beatings, torment, humiliation, and terror.

     Once the tree is plugged in, a peaceful reverence spreads over Mom’s face, and Dad’s angry brow smooths.  Silence emanates from the tree, filling the spacious room with safety.  The tree is magical, and I cling to it as long as I can, hoping its spell will outlast its time of visitation.

     At this age, I am ever hopeful for my father’s affirmation and approval.  Anger and aggravation are what I receive—but not in this season.  He is kinder, even more patient.  I still don’t fully obtain what I hope for, but at least there is a pause, which my hopeful little heart interprets as the beginning of an unending movement towards lovingkindness, intimacy, and admiration.  “This time, it will be!” I whisper to myself, nodding my head.  I am making more of it than it is, so hungry am I.  This respite will disappear with the tree in a few short weeks.

     But I cannot—will not—think about that in this precious, precious time of lights:  Christmas-colored lights on a pine, reflected in ten-thousand tiny points of silvered garland, long flowing tinsel, and polished orbs of dark, delicate glass.  Our boring beige walls are bathed in a strange, mottled color—a mixture of variegated lights from the tree of many colors.

     As a boy, I sit on the hearth, my back to the fire, staring at the steady lights, smelling the tree’s pungent scent, and learning the ancient polyphonic carols that are being sung about the birth of the Christ child.  My mom presses a cup of hot chocolate into my small hands with a smile.  I am more than content.  I could melt here forever.

     But hope, frustrated year upon year, will turn to hate, cynicism, and despair over the next decade of my childhood.  I don’t realize this at nine or ten, though; I still think the presence of Christmas can take hold of my family all year long.  I look from red light to green light to yellow light to blue light, letting the placid, unchanging glow of each one penetrate my soul, taking in their peace, their tranquility, willing their peace and tranquility into my life and into my parents.

     Many, many years have passed since then.  It is after midnight, and the world is dark and silent.  My wife and daughter are oblivious, asleep in their beds.  But I stay up, and in a dimly lit room with a decorated tree, I look from light to light, letting their peace and tranquility overtake me as I search the tree, ever looking, ever desiring.  I am so much older now; what can I still be trying to find?  Comfort?  Assurance?  Approval?  Close, but not exactly.  Perhaps it is the unsatisfiable yearning itself that I am wanting to feel, to remember.

     Truthfully, I am looking for something that can neither be articulated nor appropriated.  It can not be found; it could never be found.  If only I’d known as a child, perhaps I would have forsaken the pursuit.  And yet, here I am, five times as old and relentlessly searching still for that which my rational mind knows is never to be found in this tree, in this room, in this house, in this season, in this world, in this life.

     I am looking for paradise.

     I am looking for Christ, my Lord.

Utterly appropriate that I should link to Portishead in the previous post. The weather, you know? So foggy and cool and gray. It’s warmer this a.m. than it has been for the past few days, and the snow has melted to leave the streets and buildings glistening –  just a little. The morning commuter trains, which flash silver in sunlight, are muted by the foggy weather and are a dull pewter under fog and cloud. I can’t imagine not having the kinds of views I have: it’s been so many years that I’ve lived up above the streets; fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh floors, in this city or that. Not really high up like the serious sky-scraper dwellers, but enough to make views of rooftops and trains and trees a part of the whole, like a door or floor. The room wouldn’t be furnished without such views.

(I’m deciding whether or not to make some rice. It’s our annual Christmas/Holiday potluck today and I signed up to bring an entree. I was tired yesterday, so I threw together a quick keema mattar (ground meat with peas and Indian spices – you can use lamb, beef, chicken, turkey, whatever). I ought to have bread or rice to go with it, but I dunno! There’s always too much food at these things and I have got to run. I guess I better quit typing…  .  What odd creatures some of us have become because of these funny internet-y machines. Why am I telling you all of this instead of hurrying up and cooking and packing lunches, already?)

Update: The keema was not a particular success. Too dry. It was fine when I cooked it, but while heating it the next day, I should have added a little broth, oil, some water at least to ensure the correct texture. Oh, well. That’s cooking for you.

After another week out of town (this time visiting a cold, rainy and surprisingly un-Florida like Tampa Bay), I am back home and once more back in the songwriting fray. We have 10 solid tunes now. Shaping up to be a great mixed batch of grinders and groovers, that somehow go together, reflecting all member’s varied musical interests. Its looking like we now have these guys, but a formal announcement will be made with the correct listing and album title in a few weeks:

1. Embracing Extinction
2. The Carrion Call
3 Heirs to Thievery
4. Plague of Objects (formerly Consensual Hallucination)
5. Fed to the Wolves
6. You Lose
7.  The Spectator
8. Sleeping Giants
9.  Illuminaught
10.  ? Untititled ?

Currently finishing the lyrics to “Fed to the Wolves“….I remember when I was in high school, the urgency that was placed on us to not only compete and prepare for the ‘working world’ or university, but the horrid formality of it all, the way in which the imagination and original thinking was so suffocated by the assembly line-like process of the modern teaching method (perhaps this is what some studies somewhere have show to be effective?)

Of course, the varied student and teacher backgrounds (and competence levels) differ greatly across a nation of hundreds of millions, and teachers are sometimes forced to choose their battles given limited time and resources. However, there must be a more creative way in the mix somewhere? Some Dead Poet’s Society kind of shit?!

I suppose its an idealistic vision (what other visions are worth anything!?),  but the track “Fed to the Wolves” is a lamentation of sorts, decrying the mechanical nature of formal, secondary education processes. Many enjoy it and find it works, but in my view, there is a unnecessary focus on the eradication of creativity in the human mind, at a very crucial developmental stage. The adolescent brain is vibrant, soaking up the challenges of adulthood incessantly (like during a heated game of “Grand Theft Auto!”), as each day brings new perspectives and ways of understanding the world, in often contradictory and shattering ways.

This is to me, why those days “seemed to last forever”(in the immortal words of Bryan Adams) and you could never get to 18 fast enough, because each day upended the previous day’s notion of what is and what is not possible!

So, at the end of the indoctrination process, some start on the secondary journey of life a bit more molded, and a bit less of a dreamer, cause the world outside indeed eats dreamers alive. And so goes the trajectory of “Fed to the Wolves…”

“Imagination crushed, like misspent youth
Conformity reigns, where brilliance once thrived”

If anyone wants to listen in, I’m fine with that.

I promised myself that I wouldn’t go more than two days without posting a blog and I’ve already blown it.  In answer to my harshest critic (me), I present the Day Job Defense.  I know Stephen King taught English and loaded Coca-Cola onto trucks in his early days as a writer but, jeeze, this day job stuff is tiring.  However, I keep myself motivated by constant affirmations delivered by my harshest critic (again, me) that I do my day job extremely well.  I am the Queen of Payroll.  I am the Empress of Accounts Receivable.  I know that any job that one does is worth doing well and you’ll never find me slacking.  My day job keeps a roof over my head and the high-speed internet flowing.  All hail the Day Job.  It’s the manna that sustains most of the brilliant writers I know.

While I’m at it, I might as well give a nod to my weekend job.  I almost shudder to mention it but we’re all friends here, so…I’m a cleaning lady on the weekends.  Someday when The Glendale Witch is a series of hit movies a la Harry Potter and Twilight, my fans will be aghast to know that I vacuumed industrial carpet every Sunday.  Well, that’s okay.  It’s all about the effort, my friends, and it’s all about the heart you put into your effort.  Those of us who are willing to work hard at whatever job it takes to keep frozen burritos in the microwave are the ones who know lasting gratification.

In addition to the Day Job Defense, I present my secondary defense:  Trying to be a writer and trying to be the woman behind a writer.  In my case, they’re inseparable.   I’m one-half of a literary couple and my happiness is complete.  I’m busy getting The Glendale Witch ready for publication while at the same time helping my partner promote his marvelous work of paranormal fiction, Haunting Injustice.  And of course we’re both busy writing flash fiction and other short narratives, and submitting those for publication whenever the opportunity arises.  I like to compare us to Barrett and Browning; he might be more inclined to compare us to Ralph and Alice Kramden but I can’t be held responsible for his delusions.

Long soliloquy short, I’ve been busy.  It’s the Holiday Season and I suspect we’ve all got a lot on our plates, so I’m sure my friends will excuse me more readily than I excuse myself for not updating my blog more often.

Don’t forget to keep an eye on Mickey Mills’ upcoming publication of Haunting Injustice at theprodigalscribe.com.  As soon as I have websites to pimp my novel at, trust me, I’ll be posting those URLs.

I like it – it’s relaxing, no? – because I’m drawn to natural woods, lots of space, and mix-and-match.  (And, no, this is not my place but a “Dream Home” found via the New York Post (via Instapundit). I know, this post IS the ultimate in navel-gazing procrastination, but seriously folks, I needed something visual to break up all the workity-work-work I’ve been working on like a good worker bee….)

So, what do you think?

So I missed a week and no-one commented. That’s a relief, in one sense. Last Thursday I was camping in the bush, a long way from a computer.

It was a semi-cleared area near Jarrahdale, and I pitched my tent near a row of four old orange trees. Animals – kangaroos, is my guess – had stripped all the oranges on the lower branches, but there were plenty higher up, slightly sour with hard to peel skin. Further over was a tall oak tree. Near my tent were pieces of an old china plate and broken bottles.

I tried to picture the house which must have stood there. There should be monuments in places like this. To think people might have lived whole lives in that space, and no-one even knows today.  Our ancestors are strangers who leave some traces, a mystery to us.

While sitting under the shade of a gum tree on Thursday afternoon, I finished Anne Fadiman’s excellent collection of personal bibliographic essays, Ex-Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader.  These are the kind of essays I aspire to in this blog. She writes about the experience of ‘marrying’ her book collection with her husband’s and the challenges of agreeing on ways to arrange books. She explores the ins and outs of annotating – or not annotating – books. (I am a lead pencil annotater. I have sympathy with people who consider it desecration.)

I keep a little notepad in my smallest camera bag. When I’m out and about I invariably stop for coffee, collect my thoughts and write a little. Any ideas for possible projects or things of interest are listed. I’m at a point now where I have three strong ideas which should occupy me for at least the next year. How do I choose which goes first?

Any advice would be gratefully received.

Waiting, always waiting, a lifetime chewed up in waiting.

Waiting to be an adult, waiting for the right job.  Waiting for Friday or waiting for the phone to ring.  Waiting for someone to die.  Waiting for someone to be born.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Waiting for the man to show up or waiting for him to leave.  Waiting to fall in or out of love.  Waiting for end of the month when I can put my clothes and my dog into the car and find a better town to do my waiting in.  Waiting for a town that feels like home.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Some might say it’s a waste and there are roses to be smelled every day, but “some” have never been me and I’m sure the roses can wait another day.  They’ll be just as fragrant tomorrow or next month, in the Pacific Northwest or California or the South.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

It’s an art.  I do it well.

Fellow, sometime-and-in-some-fashion, academics or others dabbling in paper writing?

Dixon looked out of the window at the fields wheeling past, bright green after a wet April. It wasn’t the double-exposure effect of the last half-minute’s talk that had dumbfounded him, for such incidents formed the staple material of Welch colloquies; it was the prospect of reciting the title of the article he’d written. It was a perfect title, in that it crystallized the article’s niggling mindlessness, its funereal parade of yawn-enforcing facts, the pseudo-light it threw upon non-problems. Dixon had read, or begun to read, dozens like it, but his own seemed worse than most in its air of being convinced of its own usefulness and significance. ‘In considering this strangely neglected topic,’ it began. This what neglected topic? This strangely what topic? This strangely neglected what? His thinking all this without having defiled and set fire to the typescript only made him appear to himself as more of a hypocrite and fool. ‘Let’s see,’ he echoed Welch in a pretended effort of memory: ‘oh yes; The Economic Influence of the Developments in Shipbuilding Techniques, 1450 to 1485…’

Lucky Jim, by Kingsley Amis.

I never tire of this book – it’s one of my favorites – even as I pretty much dislike the main character and the object of his affection, the tepid and colorless Christine. What are your favorite campus, or academic, satires?

(cross posted at Chicago Boyz)

Update: There are some very good suggestions for reading in the comments section at the Chicago Boyz link. And SU, I am not procrastinating. I am working on my projects in a timely and methodical fashion, okay?

….to stick to commenting only on the above-mentioned blogs, and in a more limited fashion, too. Typical.

My View on the Lake

I think that I should add an addendum to my blog after I received some comments on a couple of my posts about Finland.  I realized that I need to express to anyone reading this blog, especially native Finns or other expatriates,  that everything I write here is pretty much about my own observations and experiences.   It doesn’t mean that things are universally this way or that these things are true for everyone; I’m simply writing about what I’m discovering, thinking, seeing, tasting and feeling. 

Thank you for your comments because I really want to hear from lots of different people about their perspective and thoughts.  I’m also hopefully looking forward to hearing from native Finns and perhaps some other expats about their experiences and thoughts.  Meanwhile I’ll keep writing about my own experiences and hope that people keep reading!

So. The Abilify was causing Restless Leg Syndrome, which sounds like a load of B.S. until you’ve experienced walking down stairs and having your legs buckle from under you. I got put on another drug, Benztropine, to combat the RLS. Two weeks ago on Sunday, the various drugs interacted, causing auditory/visual hallucinations and blackouts. I smartly called into work, but that was about the last smart thing I did.

It was like being drunk, high, and tripping all at the same time, but without any paranoia. I wasn’t frightened by what I was seeing or hearing because I knew it was the meds. The trouble started when I got a call reminding me that I was late for an improv rehearsal. I said “Whoops!” then got in my car and started driving. I was convinced a man and a woman were in my backseat during the drive, I turned around twice and drove to Coldtowne Theatre, where the rehearsal WASN’T, had an awkward conversation with one of the owners, then got in my car and drove again.

The next thing I recall was being downtown and calling my roommate, asking him to pick me up because I couldn’t find my car. He got me and we drove around for a little while looking for it. I ‘decided’ that we could look for it tomorrow when it was light out and I was feeling better.

We went back the next day and couldn’t find the damn thing. I even had him drop me off so I could look around on foot and had no luck. Any trip back downtown has revealed nothing. I managed to get the police involved by claiming that it was most likekly stolen since it hadn’t turned up as towed or impounded (I checked multiple times). Most likely I found a spot near downtown Austin where they don’t have paid parking, but I’ll be damned if I know where that is. The whole area is either on street or off street paid parking, and I know that even in my inebriated state I wouldn’t have parked in a pay lot.

Since then I have been sharing a car with my roommate, which isn’t too bad since he doesn’t go out much, but it’s getting to be a problem. I don’t know what to do from here except take a look around downtown every now and then while waiting for Detective Reeves to get back to me. At this point I don’t care if the car gets impounded, as long as it’s whereabouts are known, I’ll be happy… until the bill comes in.

Many of you are already aware that my significant other is also a writer.  I don’t think I’m being at all biased when I say that his first novel is a masterpiece of the paranormal thriller genre.  Be sure to stay tuned to his website for the release of Haunting Injustice, a gripping tale of murder, unquiet spirits and ultimate redemption by Mickey Mills.

http://theprodigalscribe.com/

Book Six — Chapter Seven The Sixties, Nashville & Kelly Miller Smith, C. T. Vivian, H. G. Hill, Spasm, Adam Continues to Avoid Arrest, The Church on The Hill

CONTENTS NEXT

Yes, the Sixties. Now they are looked at with several lenses. Some view the years as a sea of freedom crowned by Woodstock and awash in drugs. Others as a code word for rampant, leftist radicalism culminating in violence. Still others as a decade of promise which successive tragedies cut down.

I think it is meet and proper to go through these years just as we go through any group of years. Let the chips of Adam’s experience fall where they may. Almost no one recalls what Adam recalls.

Adam went to Nashville.

In late June, 1961, the used Chevy Wagon pulled into the parking lot across from the church on 8th Avenue North. Adam saw the Tennessee capitol building up the hill. His passengers were Ganya and Fiona. Fiona was her placid self at four months. There was virtually no luggage. They were nomads. Geography was working in tandem with their own minds and hearts to separate them from their varied roots.

The trio crossed the street. They entered the church. A pleasant gentleman met them in the lobby. They went down a flight of stairs. The Rev. Kelly Miller Smith’s office was revealed by a light coming from a door halfway a cinder block hall. He heard them coming. He appeared with a warm greeting. He explained both work and residence plans. Tall. Handsome. Imposing. Admirable.

Adam drove the Chevy wagon to a tract of small houses west of downtown. They were to stay in a small house there. The refrigerator was stocked, There was a list of key numbers to call. The hospitality then and to follow made a permanent positive impression on Adam.

The summer was on one level a whirlwind. On another a calm and placid time. Adam’s work as an assistant to Kelly went smoothly. Preaching. Visiting patients at Meharry. Enjoying social events Sunday afternoons. Going from home to home. Playing bridge. Talking easily. Sitting on lawns in perfect shade. At ease. At peace. Satisfied. If this was a middle class it was nothing like what Adam had felt in those Chicago suburbs looking at the pinched faces of teenage ideologues of the right.

The whirlwind was the growing civil rights movement in Nashville. This was the second summer of organized activism there. Adam participated fully. Kelly was the head of the Nashville Christian Leadership Conference. The Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee was around. Jim Lawson came up from Memphis to lead nonviolent workshops. Jim Forman walked around the headquarters while Jim Lawson trained Adam and others in nonviolent techniques to use when demonstrating.

Future luminaries of the movement joined the picket lines that Adam participated in almost every afternoon outside of various H. G. Hill supermarkets, demonstrating for more jobs. Diane Nash, Jim Bevel, John Lewis. Many others.

Adam and Joe Carter went to the Holiday Inn in their coats and ties one Sunday evening and sat in a corner of the dining room talking quietly until they were finally served.

Adam preached short and simple sermons and sometimes the congregation got demonstrative and thought he was an OK preacher. He had little investment in being an OK preacher but he did love the people. Kelly and Alice and their children had a substantial house that was, at present, bathed in spotlights against nighttime bombings. When they went on vacation, Adam and Ganya and Fiona stayed there to keep an eye on things.

Kelly Miller Smith was named for Kelly Miller who had been an advocate for civil rights at the end of the 19th century. Kelly was born in Mound Bayou, Mississippi, a community that was steeped in history with a pride to match it.

As the summer progressed, Adam came to know Will Campbell, a product of Louisiana with a Yale Divinity School Degree and a portfolio from the National Council of Churches. Will was a clergyman who sat light to religion. He’d helped the Little Rock students move into Central High School and made other less high-profile in the South. Will would play a considerable part in our hero’s life over time.

Adam and Ganya were not a clingy couple. They would be here and there circulating independently. Ganya had no problem giving Fiona nourishment wherever they happened to be, She was not a show off mom nor an all-business mom. She had a natural grace. And an open affability. There was nothing that told Adam he had not made the right choice. Sometimes he would hear her across a space talking of him, talking of Fiona. She was a partner, an ambassador. Her long dark hair fell straight with bangs. It predated the standard style of the decade. In their way and in their world, they were a power couple in the making.

Few people came to the little tract house where they lived. A doctor from the church came when Adam was felled by a spasm, the first of what would be many such times. The doctor told him to get up and walk and stop treating himself like a baby. Adam took the advice, hobbled for a while and eased back into normalcy.

A brilliant minister, active in the movement, named C. T. Vivian, befriended them. They would talk late into the night about visions — a radio station that would tell the truth about things was the center of their aspirations.

By the end of the summer, Kelly and Adam were good friends. There had been some evidences of the movement at the church. Martin Luther King, Jr., down in Montgomery, might call. Freedom singers would lead students from the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee in song. Jim Bevel, John Lewis, Bernard Lafayette or Diane Nash might speak. In the scheme of things, the group was small but had a scope that was huge. And a confidence that was crazy if you thought about it. But this movement was pressing on. And it was hard to believe the force was not with it.

Adam flew up to Chicago one night to rent a place for the fall. As he came in on Blue Island Avenue from Midway Airport, he looked out the window and was amazed to see a church set on the top of a mountain. He thought Chicago was flat. He could not figure it out. The steeple towered over everything.

It was, in fact, the top of the Methodist Temple skyscraper. At that time it did dominate the city.

The next day Adam paid a deposit on a fourth floor walk up apartment at 1925 South Loomis Street in the middle of the Pilsen neighborhood in the city’s First Ward.

Panflick’s career was beginning. He would be the Director of the Exploratory Program in Journalism of the Chicago City Missionary Society. He flew back after a day.

He went out to H. G. Hills and marched with seven others. An old man punched him. He did not respond. Someone through an egg into the open window if the Chevy. He cleaned it up.

He held Fiona and marveled at her calm. She was a cuddled and breast-fed child. It all seemed almost too easy.

There were some arrests downtown. Diane Nash went to jail. Adam somehow did not.

Whirlwind and calm.

CONTENTS NEXT

Here are a few different things I encountered on the trip to Finland, and other things my husband figured out for us in his five weeks alone.  It’s amazing what you take for granted that you know how to do until the rules all change. 

One day we came home to no hot water.  After getting the landlord over,(luckily for us he lives next store; perhaps not so lucky for him?) he explained that the hot water heater runs at night, heats the tank, and then shuts off for the day.  We ran out because there were three of us instead of one.  You can override the breaker if you know how, but it’s all labeled in Finnish!  Very efficient.

The dryer doesn’t have a vent, you have to empty water out of it and when it gets too hot it shuts off.  If you didn’t know it, there’s a reset button in the back you can press to re-start it, otherwise you have to wait about an hour to start it again.  It still takes hours to do laundry and you can only do a very small load at a time.  Not so efficient surprisingly.  Although there’s probably something we still haven’t figured out.  Hmm.

At the grocery store you bag your produce, then set it on the scale and press the number for that particular type of produce.  It immediately prints out a bar code with the price.  Genius, and I could play on it all day!

The incredible seafood counters at all the grocery stores, with salmon any way you can imagine, along with lots of other varieties of shrimp and fish.  The cured salmon was so silky, fresh and incredible, it’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted!

Well it may be a sacrilege as it’s Christmas season, but I had a bowl of smoked reindeer and chanterelle mushroom soup.  It tasted like venison and was quite delicious.  I was really pleasantly surprised with the quality and freshness of the food in stores and restaurants.

All cans and bottles have a deposit of ,15 Euro, even wine bottles.  Plus they have the easy return stations.  It’s easy to do, you get a few Euro back and you keep the garbage down.  Now for those of you in states with deposits already, you say what’s the big deal?  Well believe it or not there are still states without bottle and can deposits, and SC is one of them.  Not to mention that recycling is not an easy option here, so it was a very pleasant surprise for me.

I’m sure there will be many more interesting things and situations that I encounter while we live in Finland, but these are just a few I found on my first trip there.  It’s one of the great things about leaving your corner of the universe – you bust out of your rut and find new ways of thinking, living, shopping and especially eating – my favorite.