PHOTO: Angel wearing her festive holiday sweater on a winter walk. She’s wondering why we’re not jumping over the fallen tree limb.
Could it actually be five years from the start of the COVID epidemic? And do you know where you stashed your masks to pull them out for the upcoming Bird Flu epidemic? No? Hopefully we won’t need them.
I have a surreal and haunting memory of the spring blossoms and the budding trees from 2020.
Angel and I continued to take our morning walks every day, keeping all of our trail buddies at a discrete distance if we stopped to say hello at all. This was before the vaccines were developed, of course, and I remember walking about fifty yards behind another hiker, smelling her shampoo and thinking, “If the virus is carried through the air and I can smell her scent, is six feet of social distancing even enough?”
I developed a strong sense of self-preservation during that time and will admit that I consciously stood upwind of people who stopped to talk to me. The world was in lockdown, after all, and still people were dying by the hundreds, the thousands, every day.
Then suddenly Mother Nature shook off her winter lockdown and started to run headlong into spring. My logical mind understood the natural state of things but my emotional mind couldn’t process this. We were on hold! Nature shouldn’t be breaking the the rules. No one should!
F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote “The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.”
I guess I passed the test, but not before processing those opposed ideas. That required me to lean into my mixed feelings as well as the unnerving pull from two directions.
I remind myself to let my characters have such contradictory experiences as well. It makes for weighty moments in their lives, which is always a more interesting read.
Do you know the famous story of the Lindbergh Baby who was kidnapped out of his crib in 1932, with a ransom note left where the child had been sleeping? It was called “The Crime of The Century” and, in an era before social media or even television, everyone and their neighbor was on the lookout for the Lindbergh Baby.
The whole world was horrified by the thought that this cute curly-haired innocent had been grabbed by someone nefarious, someone who would bring harm to the little son of an American Hero. Ever since Lindbergh flew his single-engine, single-seat plane, The Spirit of St. Louis, across the Atlantic from New York to Paris, he had earned his way into the hearts of the American Public and the world.
Here is a picture of my mother, Sonya, who was born in 1930 when Charles Lindbergh, jr. was born.
You see the resemblance, don’t you?
My Mom’s father was a lawyer working for the government in Washington, D.C. and the family was living nearby in Maryland.
People literally stopped my young grandmother in the store or on the street to gasp, “You have the Lindbergh Baby!” The two babies were the same age, after all, and they both had a generous mop of white curly hair. Everyone was on the lookout for the child, picturing themselves as the hero who would would bring him home.
She wasn’t the Lindbergh Baby, of course, and people were disabused of that idea when they learned that she was a little girl. She sure matched the description, though.
Unfortunately the story had a tragic ending when a truck driver found the little boy’s body by the side of the road. An immigrant was accused of the crime and was found guilty in “The Trial of the Century.” He insisted that he was innocent of the crime but all appeals failed and he was executed in 1936.
Agatha Christie was moved to write a murder mystery inspired by the kidnapping of the Lindbergh Baby, without actually naming the famous aviator. It was called Murder on the Orient Express and I won’t give any spoilers but the story provides some poetic justice to the story of the kidnapping.
In that story, the kidnapped baby is a girl, and her mother is named Sonia.
It’s one of Christie’s most famous novels, and her readers knew all about that kidnapping. Now you do, too, so you can read or re-read the book with new appreciation.
TTFN
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I found the WANTED poster and additional facts about the Kidnapping of the Lindbergh Baby on Wikipedia at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lindbergh_kidnapping. The article also discusses the many theories about the guilt or innocence of the accused kidnapper.
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“Hope has dirt on her face, blood on her knuckles, the grit of the cobblestones in her hair, and just spat out a tooth as she rises for another go.” (viral tweet from CrowsFault).
That quote is a gritty contrast to the gal in rose-colored glasses we’ve heard so much about. But it’s a picture worth carrying in our psychic wallets wherever we go, whatever we face. At a time when people are despairing of moving ahead, overcoming obstacles, or fighting for their right to exist, Hope is a fighter to have by our side.
I was struck to the core by a story on Podcastle—a fantasy podcast that produces weekly stories. The story is called “Kiki Hernandez Beats the Devil,” and was written by Samantha Mills, narrated by Sandra Espinoza. Mills offers up a kind of Mad Max post-apocalyptic vibe where rock and roll is the weapon that Kiki uses to defeat the devil (not Satan, but a supernatural creature that eats humans). Kiki digs deep to discover and employ her own dose of hope, but not without sacrifice.
You can find the story at podcastle.org, episode #880 (free of charge, they survive on voluntary donations). I highly recommend it.
As powerful as the story was, though, it was the commentary by host Matt Dovey that had me stopping in my tracks to say, “Yes, Yes.” Hope is not a pie-in-the-sky dreamscape populated by unicorns and rainbows. It is a fistfight, a sprint, and a muddy pit to climb out of—all at once. When someone tells you to put on your big girl pants and you feel taunted or ashamed, remember Hope spitting out her tooth to rise for another go.
I realize, of course, that I’m talking to myself more than anyone else, but it’s only a solo fight if we make it so. Round up the rabble-rousers—the figurative and the literal—and count on Hope to fight the good fight. You’ll be glad you did.
Get out your score card and that little stubby pencil you pocketed after a game of mini-golf, it’s time to award points for my new word: Protaxination. [That’s three points for a new word.]
Protaxination is the process of finding other things to do instead of working on your taxes. (Verb: protaxinating.) [Add one point for verbinizing the noun]
[Ooo, did you see that? I earned three more points for inventing the word verbinizing!]
I know I’ve been guilty of protaxination in years past, how about you? Was your spam folder suddenly demanding to be examined for lost emails (mark the Margerumalia as “not spam”). Have the dust bunnies under your bed hit critical mass requiring Nerf Dart™ intervention? And where DID you put that mini-golf score card you were going to show off to your friends last August? Gotta find it now!
Hold on protaxinator [two more points for developing a word for a person who protaxinates], you have a job to do. Just sit your butt down in the chair, separate your W-2’s from your 1099’s, total them up and write the corresponding numbers in lines 7 and 8. Now pull out that box of receipts, both physical and virtual, and decide whether that box of Cheez-Its® was an office expense or a meal, in which case you may only deduct 27% and write that number on line 32. Easy, right?
Okay, I’ll admit that was oddly specific.
Quick flashback to my youth: I was walking home from high school and met up with our neighbor, Mr. Spies. He asked me how school was going and I complained about things I had to learn that I would never use, ever! He heard me out and then reflected that maybe school teaches us how to complete assignments whether we want to or not. “I don’t want to do my taxes,” he said, “but I have to do them every year whether I want to or not. Maybe the work you’re doing for that class isn’t about the subject but just learning to do the work itself.”
That actually helped.
Before you leap out of your beanbag chair to do your taxes, did you add nine points to your score card? No? You really need to sharpen that little stubby pencil. That’s not a seven, that’s a nine. Thank you.
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT – Getting your taxes submitted sooner than later is going to be very important this year if you want to receive a timely refund. Captain Chaos and Major Mess have laid off 7,000 IRS workers so far and the resulting bottleneck will make the supply chain problems of a few years ago look like the Puppy Bowl.
TTFN
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Dogs are remarkable companions who seem to be able to communicate with just their eyes. The photo of Angel above shows her speaking volumes with her eyes, stirring up so many memories and feelings that come rushing back to me even three years after her death.
My morning walk through the woods gives me a daily dose of canine affection as the dogs I’ve gotten to know stop and greet me. My wife refers to me as a dog whisperer, but I think I’m just getting affection from the ones who recognize a kindred spirit.
Lana, for example, a black lab mix with white feet, recognizes me from 100 yards away, gets permission to say hi, and runs at me full tilt like some kind of racing dog. I crouch or kneel to absorb her love-filled momentum, which sometimes knocks me over while I laugh like a boy.
Gracie, about the size of Angel with mottled gray hair, gets so excited to greet me that she breaks into a prance, her forelegs literally dancing as she approaches. She appreciates the special attention of neck scratching and warm words.
Phoebe, a full-sized something-doodle just recently got her hair trimmed and can see the world more easily now, including me. She also came running—again, with permission—and turned to let me stroke her back lengthwise, down to her stubby little curly-haired tail.
Lyric is a long-haired border collie on tight voice command, whose whole body reveals her impatient enthusiasm as I approach. She’ll happily lick my face and then roll on her back for a generous belly rub.
Inside the Mind of a Dog – This Netflix documentary sheds light on how dogs broke away from the wolf pack to befriend human beings. Their expressive eyes are speculated to have had a lot to do with their connection to humans. The film lovingly examines that connection and how entirely dogs embraced that relationship. The documentarians coined the phrase “Survival of the Friendliest” to describe their partnership with people.
If dogs could read, I think they would agree with most everything in that famous book by Dale Carnegie, How To Win Friends and Influence People. After all, they’ve been doing just that for millennia.
Did you know gray wolves and dogs, share 99.9 percent of their DNA? See Scientific American – “How Wolf Became Dog” (July 1, 2015).
Shortly after watching the Netflix documentary, the “Live Happy Now” podcast in my feed featured “The Secret Lives of Service Dogs, with Shannon Walker” (you can find it at livehappy.com, click on podcast). It builds nicely on the service dog portion of the film and shares the process of finding just the right dog for just the right service capacity.
I wish that humanity would finally learn the lesson of dog loyalty and the survival of the friendliest. The musical Les Miserables sums it up with this simple but profound lyric: “To love another person is to see the face of God.”
PHOTO: I took this photo at the Wellness Center on a cold January morning. The flags were still at half mast commemorating Jimmy Carter. The sun was trying its best to squeeze some light between the clouds, giving a feckless mood to the day.
BOOK NEWS: I was able to add The Best 10-Minute Plays 2024 to my author page on Amazon. Once they understood that there were, in fact, fifty authors (playwrights) featured in this volume, and that I was one of them, they promptly added this title to my name. Sometimes all you have to do is ask!
As I wrote before, I get nothing when this book is sold, but I do hold performance rights for my play. When I was a theatre professor at Carthage College I bought several such collections as a resource for my annual one-act play festival, faithfully paying for the rights to mount many short plays over seven years. Hopefully someone will want to send me money to perform “Just Book Club.”
WINTER AT THE WELLNESS CENTER
I’m doing a lot of indoor walking these days when the mornings are staying below 25 F (-3.89 C) striding around a three-lane oval that overlooks three basketball courts. It’s far less interesting than my daily hike through the woods, so I began creating labels for the other people I’m passing or getting passed by.
The Thockers – These are the people playing pickleball—THOCK—in the first basketball court—THOCK, THOCK—below me. They come in all varieties—THOCK—but their paddles sure do make a noise when they hit that pickle. THOCK!
The Scofflaw – Meanwhile, above the Thockers, the sign for the oval track clearly labels the three lanes: inside lane for walkers, middle lane for joggers, outside lane for runners. The Scofflaw doesn’t give a damn about the rules and intentionally crosses lanes to suit his own impulses.
The Enforcer – This guy is running on the outside lane and comes up behind people to startle them with his shout, “Behind you!” Or to instruct them on the rules, “Walkers on the inside lane!” He may be getting an adrenaline rush from these righteous announcements, because he seems to run faster afterwards.
The Woo Girl – The third basketball court is mostly devoted to aerobics classes. The Woo Girl turns the music up to nine and sets her head mic at eleven, shouting out instructions and adding a “WOO” in her best soprano, cutting through the malaise of the morning like a pair of scissors in the hands of a running child.
The Zigzagger – Like The Enforcer, The Zigzagger is a serious athlete who runs with purpose. Unlike The Enforcer, he doesn’t worry about the locations of others on the track, he cuts between groups and around individuals with a dancer’s grace that would be the envy of any parkour competitor.
The Reader – With a phone held in front of her, The Reader is a multitasker who walks AND reduces the size of her TBR pile at the same time. She gets very little exercise due to her slow pace, but at least she’s not doing it while driving. (I really hope she’s not!)
The BFF’s – It’s so nice that the Wellness Center provides a place for these middle-aged ladies to walk side-by-side or three abreast and discuss the state of the world, their families, and their grandchildren… “Oh, did I show you a picture? He’s the cutest thing! Just let me find it…!” The Enforcer began his vigilante ways after encountering too many BFF’s.
The Bro Crew – This is a pack of 30-somethings are desperately trying to outrun forty. With their glory days of team sports in the rearview mirror, the fraternal order of young professionals joke and jostle around the track, zigzagging as needed, and performing the occasional straightaway sprint to show they still can.
The Wild Child – One of the Bro Crew’s little girl who enjoyed the first time around the oval but soon grew weary of the tedium of it all. She’s camped out with her collection of stuffed animals at one of the rest stops, dashing out to tag daddy when her attention meter gets low. She’s a natural actor, speaking the dialogue of all her animals with all the enthusiasm of a true creative. Sign that kid up!
Grandpa Fred – He’s doing a very good job of keeping up the pace in spite of his age and he follows the rules like any good Boomer, but he has a weakness. No, not his belt which he keeps pulling tighter around his jeans and flannel shirt, his weakness is companionship. He’ll turn on anyone coming up behind him to mention the cold weather or say how noisy it is in there. Grandpa Fred is a good guy but doesn’t seem to have good timing. Once in a while someone will slow down and talk with him before moving on. That’s all he wants.
Strider – This is me. I can’t see myself as others see me so I visualize my upright posture, lengthen my stride, and imagine I’m on an adventurous trek around this labyrinth of humanity. I use the middle lane—because I’m a middle child—walk at a pace just short of a jog, and keep my eyes on the road because “The Road goes ever on and on…” (J.R.R. Tolkien)
TTFN
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My daughter had the pleasure of working as a background actor on the set of “Only Murders in the Building,” a Hulu series starring Steve Martin, Selena Gomez, and Martin Short. She played one of the makeup artists getting Steve Martin’s character ready for a scene in his TV series, with Jane Lynch as his body double. These two stars treated my daughter as a fellow professional and creative artist, which you think would be natural, but it’s not as common as you’d expect. She lovingly described to us how each of them were kind, funny, and appreciative of the people around them.
I already loved the series, now it’s earned a top spot on my worth-watching list.
My turn to appreciate someone came this past weekend when my junior high students gave two performances of the play we’ve been rehearsing for five weeks. I could go on and on like a proud parent about their accomplishments and growth as actors but I want to take a moment here to appreciate one person who wasn’t given any applause or a credit in the program. Greg, the custodian.
Greg is a soft-spoken man with kind eyes and a desire to be of service. He arrived just as a parent and I were liberating a table from the school cafeteria to use as a ticket and concession counter. He didn’t ask questions, just hefted that table and carried it all the way down the hall to set it in front of the library where our play would be performed.
After that he unlocked the doors, delivered a package to the mail room that I had found in front of the door, and made sure he knew what to expect for the weekend. On Sunday he had the storage closet unlocked so we could return the dividers we borrowed from the art department, and he returned the ticket table to its spot in the cafeteria. Greg stayed until the students and I had returned all the costumes and props to the theatre storage room, and all the parents were leaving with their children.
Just as we had begun, Greg and I were the last two in the building and I thanked him one more time with a handshake, telling him how much I appreciated his help. He smiled and nodded, locking the doors behind me before he started to vacuum.
I remembered an email from the Superintendent of Schools about “Appreciation, Recognition, and Thanks” and I rescued it from my trash folder. I plan to fill out the form and use some of the same words I wrote above. I hope it gives Greg a bit of an uplift. I know it will for me.
One of my favorite celebrity encounters was with Dick Van Dyke, and he didn’t even hear how it turned out.
From Mary Poppins to “The Dick Van Dyke Show” to Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and so much more, I wanted to grow up to be him. Okay, I still do. Do you know he’ll be turning 100 this year?! What a treasure.
This story goes back to when I was in my twenties and living in Los Angeles. My grandparents had moved to Phoenix for retirement and I visited them several times a year. Van Dyke also lived in Phoenix and I happened to see him at the airport.
I would’ve loved nothing more than to tell him how much he meant to me and how much I wanted to emulate his career, but he was in a deep discussion with a woman wearing an airline uniform and I didn’t want to interrupt.
The middle-aged woman waiting for a plane with her husband had no such compunctions. She saw Van Dyke and leaped from her seat to approach him.
“George!” she cried happily, waving as she stopped the conversation. (The name wasn’t actually “George,” but it sure wasn’t “Dick.”)
Van Dyke looked up at the woman as she marched up to him enthusiastically.
“George, it’s me, Marge!” She got a blank look from Van Dyke.
“Remember, when we worked together at Acme?” (It wasn’t Acme, either.) Van Dyke shook his head with a bemused smile on his face.
“Oh, sure you do, George. Remember how we used to tease you about how much you looked like Dick Van…”
Here, she trailed off as realization set in.
“Oh, you’re not George!”
Van Dyke admitted that he wasn’t and she turned tail in embarrassment, returning to her seat across from me. Her husband was reading a magazine and had missed the whole thing.
She yanked on his sleeve and asked him if he remembered George from Acme. He did and she pointed across the waiting area. “Look!”
“Is that him?” he asked, mildly interested.
“No,” she exploded with enthusiasm, “that’s Dick Van Dyke!”
It took everything I had not to burst out laughing at the confusion on the man’s face!
I so wish I could tell that story to Dick Van Dyke in person, because he never heard the final tag of the story. I think we would both have a good laugh.
Happy 100th, Dick!
TTFN
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I was thrilled to open a package that arrived in the mail a couple days ago to discover my copy of The Best 10-Minute Plays 2024*. My short play “Just Book Club” was chosen for this publication among hundreds of submissions and I’m so proud to see it in book form.
Originally due to be released in October of 2024, the editor had to delay publication due to the death of her husband after a prolonged illness. I felt so bad for her I sent a letter of support and understanding. She didn’t need a bunch of selfish writers complaining about the delay.
Life has priorities.
On my website I offer this description of “Just Book Club” — Originally produced by the Greater Lafayette Civic Theatre in May 2023, this play shows a pivotal moment in the lives of four people who only know each other by the name of the author whose book they are carrying. Lives are at stake. Trust is hard to come by.
Intriguing, right?
I had performed in a 10-Minute Play the previous year and remember telling my wife that I could never write something that short and have it be any good. I’ve tried my hand at flash fiction, 500 words, and micro fiction, 100 words, without much success, but the challenge stayed with me until the concept hit me and I wrote this short play.
It reminds me of Sean Connery, who played James Bond in the first six movies, when he told his wife he would never play 007 again. He still held the rights to Ian Fleming’s novel, Thunderball, Connery’s fourth film as Bond, and decided to make one more appearance as 007 with a new script based on the same plot.
When he needed a title for that screenplay he chose his wife’s response when he told her he would be portraying James Bond one more time. Twelve years after the release of Diamonds Are Forever, Sean Connery could be seen in theatres once more as the British super spy in Never Say Never Again.
Say what you want about your limitations, complain as much as you need to, but never dismiss the possibilities of what you can accomplish. It seems that a little tickle of the neocortex can stimulate all kinds of creativity. Follow that inspiration—a word which literally means, to breathe, by the way—and get out of your own way.
Maybe I’ll give flash fiction another try. How about you?
TTFN
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*The book contains fifty 10-Minute Plays. To order, you can go to: SmithAndKraus.com OR Amazon.com, and search for “The Best Ten-Minute Plays 2024.”
[I don’t earn money from the sale of this book, but I do hold the rights to performance of my play.]
A few years ago when I was reviewing the edits for The Most Amazing Museum of Los Angeles I had a little daydream of a movie trailer for its sequel, The Most Amazing Museum of Chicago. I wrote up that daydream and I thought you might like to see the way ideas germinate in my writer’s mind.
I have my wife to thank for reminding me, “Write them down!” when I describe such visions. She knows that in a few short days those ideas will wash away like a sand castle at high tide. (It’s so good to be with someone who knows you that well!)
Lately little snippets of ideas have been knocking at my mental door and I’m starting to take note of them, so I’ll share more in the weeks ahead.
MAMCHI TRAILER
We see five young teens exploring the Museum of Science and Industry, sketch pads and pencils in hand, shouting with excitement at each new discovery. Their young teacher—who we only see from behind—hushes the loudest of them but seems tolerant of their enthusiasm. Suddenly one student, Brock (the jock) shoves another student, Jennae, into the bar of a door that should set off a fire alarm. Instead it swings open and we hear glorious harp music from the darkness beyond. Brock, Jennae, and the three other students are drawn irresistibly into the darkness. Their teacher rushes after them before the door can close.
When the door slams shut, pinpoint beams of colored light stream through the darkness. The students step into or wave their arms through the light and discover that they are plucking the sounds of the notes they represent. Each note reverberates on top of the next, pleasantly at first, but soon becoming discordant and loud, one continuing to play as another is added.
The noise level increases and the young teens try to avoid the random beams by jumping, pivoting, rolling, and practically dancing in an effort to avoid adding to the noise. They eventually retreat around their teacher in the middle of the room, the eye of the hurricane, where the lights and sounds keep their distance.
“What gives, Teach?” asks Brock breathlessly.
“What’s going on?” says Jennae, pulling her hands from her ears.
“Yeah,” says another student. “What is this?”
“I think,” says the teacher as the camera circles the group and reveals her to be Vanessa Shafer. “I think this is the part where everything will become…” She breaks into a smile… “amazing.”
TITLES: The Most Amazing Museum of Chicago, coming to theatres this summer.
BLACKOUT
Fun, huh? I liked that it was similar to the Howl of Mirrors in MAMLA but different enough to still be unique. I also enjoyed the reveal of the actress playing Vanessa, perhaps three years older than she was in the first movie, but instantly recognizable.
No one is knocking on my door to make a movie of the first book but I sure see one in my head, so writing this up as a movie trailer feels apt.
TTFN
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Eric Margerum 