Smiles and Digression, Blog # 3

An ‘aha’ moment I’ve experienced lately is about smiles. Smiles. They’re what I love most about people: men, women, and - most of all - children.

I discovered just this week that when a person smiles, s/he appears not only healthier & happier, but younger and - most importantly – full of something… Life? Spirit? God’s Spirit, maybe? I have no idea, but I do know what a smile can become - a conduit through which humans can send out love, positivity, appreciation, joy, glee, or some other message in a flash. Yep, just like that; just in a snap of the fingers or, in this case, flash of a smile. What do I love most about smiles, you ask?

What I most love in a smile is one thing - transparency, sincerity, honesty. (Yes, I realize those are three concepts, but I consider the prongs of this trident one and the same. Sort of like the blessed Trinity – the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit or Holy Ghost. Yes, all three might be different, but they’re so bound in unity it’s a fool’s errand to separate them. Another thing I’ve realized of late is foolish is quibbling… about anything, much less in this case delineating the differences and similarities of three seemingly alike concepts.) So, a smile can send more truth, more genuineness, and more sincerity than anything else I can imagine. Unfortunately, or conversely, a smile can just as easily be a conduit of that praiseworthy trio’s opposites: untruth, disingenuousness, and insincerity.

But, my Bloggees, I digress (which occurs often; just stick around and you’ll witness a genuine slew of digressions). In fact, a digression I will describe now makes the point perfectly of how often I began - later in life - to digress on a regular, if not minute-by-minute basis. During my last year of teaching, we were reading aloud J.D. Salinger’s classic novel of teen angst “The Catcher in the Rye” and, more specifically, when Holden cites a time in his school career that exemplified the cruelty adolescents can exact to one of their own. There was another boy in Holden’s speech class who gave the most amazing, poetic, and lovely speeches, according to Holden. He admired and treasured the other lad’s speeches BECAUSE of his digressions. Unfortunately, the male instructor of this speech & debate class established a ‘rule’ he wanted everyone (but, in truth, just this greatest transgressor of digression) to follow whilst giving a speech. From henceforth, the teacher proclaimed that if a speaker digresses, even in the least, the other students, comprising the speaker’s audience, were encouraged to yell “Digression!” Well, the rather quiet, yet fascinating speaker whom Holden admired was called to task for his digressions, which our hero thought were the most fascinating features of his speeches.

So, now that I’ve set the scene for you, go ahead and guess what my last-period, eleventh-grade American Lit class did for the final two months of the term whenever I lectured, gave instructions, or spoke in some official or unofficial manner? Yeah… you guessed it. (Good job, but I no longer give out prizes for correct answers, which I’ll likely spend a whole other blog discussing or digressing in the future.) Yes, my Juniors – especially two in the back row – would cup their mouths and announce “Digression!” whenever I, in fact, digressed from the topic or point at hand. Granted, it began as a fun game, but it became something more, at least for me. This little charade became not only a new fun ritual during our 2-3 p.m. daily convocations, but for me, it became a cautionary reminder of my propensity for digression. Yes, I do admit I allowed my kids to yell out this D-word on a regular basis but only because they were accurate each time in identifying yet another digression spoken by their silly, sometimes willy-nilly and silly, teacher. And, I realized that even Mr. Silly needed to be more accountable. After all, to whom should I be held most accountable, but my own students? We had, by that point in the school year (Mid-April), earned each other’s respect AND developed an authentic respect for learning – collectively and individually.

So, I then realized the significance of the “What We Respect & Expect” poster looming behind me on the front wall like some disapproving sergeant-at-arm or hall monitor. Folks, I learned right then that if I did not abide by this newly established standard of digression avoidance, I would not be respected or taken as seriously as I wished. But that is NOT to say we didn’t have plenty of fun and laughter in that or my other classes; the warm laughter and bonding found amidst shared hilarity was rarely a result of a digression. I learned from that experience and many others the biggest lesson of my life; and that would be that it’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth that is so genuine, and thus so funny, much funnier than any comic delivery or comic material I could muster.

TRUTH should be at the center of everything in our lives. Indeed, everything – our relationships, our work, our business with one another, our words, our deeds, and our everything. So, THAT is a lesson I learned from my end-of-the-day, precocious sixth period – that integrity is more important than telling a story that doesn’t serve the prime purpose of life – to learn.

Learning… it’s what every organism must do to continue to exist. Without learning, there can only be death.   

And, on that airy note, I bid you a full day of learning, including learning the importance of relaxation for survival in this morass of madness we call life among humanity. 

Post Script: Do not be surprised in the future if I do allow a digression or two or perhaps no more than few to creep into my blogs, curl themselves up, and have a nice catlike nap. 'Til next time, my peeps, enjoy living the truth - digressions and all.

Another Blog Bites the Dust... (With Apologies to Queen) ((Going to see 'Bohemian Rhapsody' tomorrow))

  Bloggy, no. 2

Today's Blog's Opening Monologue:

Hi, Bloggies. I actually survived my first-ever blog yesterday and have returned to the scene of the crime, ready to publish my second, but  'for reals first' blog. (See? Kids have increased my vocabulary, but not (hopefully) as much as I enriched theirs. However, Important Note: Kids enriched my life more than I likely ever improved theirs. 

Introduction to Today's Main Article / Blog / Whatever: So, kids, I'm currently writing a twenty-years-later sequel this month to accompany the 63,000-word novel I wrote in 30 days of November three or four years ago, which will likely be published with its sequel sometime in 2019, Lord willing. 

I have two samples or "swatches" I'm trying to decide between that best represents the wood project I completed 52 years ago that you hopefully can see above. 

Instructions: Read both and leave your comments as to whether you prefer Choice A, Choice B, or Both. I love getting feedback, but this will be my first time getting it publicly or bloggily, whichever your word preference.

And now, Choice A for your perusal.

A Mahogany Duck (Choice 'A')

To the casual observer, it’s a primitive rendering of a duck. This 18-inch figurine, crudely fashioned from mahogany or one of her close cousins, sat on an inch-and-a-half high kidney-shaped stand of the same wood. Both duck and stand were stained with a clear coat, so the natural brown of the wood was “unadulterated” – like I was while navigating the bridge spanning eleven and twelve. The first obstacle I encountered on that span was my 7^th-grade woodshop class teeming with 33 squirrely preteens.

The simple duck silhouette - an inch and a half thick - I cut out with the shop’s band saw, the first electric-powered machine I’d ever tried to operate. This mahogany mallard, my first-ever wood project, was also Mr. S’s qualifying test for operating the larger-than-life-itself saw with the vertical saw running through its gray chassis at a dizzying speed. I’ll probably always remember the symphony of sound, smells, sights, and even textures playing around me as I pushed my block of wood onto the penciled path outlining my design.

During the 1965-66 school year my classmates and I from the K-6 side of campus occupying the northern half to the junior high side inhabiting the southern section, where only seventh and eighth graders dare set foot no longer than to retrieve whatever object had broken the invisible line between the two campuses. And, although we moved no more than a hundred yards from one bank of red-brick buildings to the other, I might as well have been transported to a foreign country to receive my next tier of public-school educational instruction. What changed so radically was the culture and its elements, including rules, clothing attire, language, and boundaries. The first noticeable difference was the play equipment for recess and lunchtime. So, instead of big red bouncy all-purpose balls used for Four-Square and handball and the painted Hopscotch courts on the K-6 side of the blacktopped playground, we had either basketballs (one each for the four courts) or two footballs with which we’d been instructed by playground adult aides to schlepp to the vast lawn to the east, unadorned save for the metal baseball backstops towering in each of the four corners – two next to R Street as well as the two alongside the walking path connecting Sagebrush School to Cactus High. Now that I’ve written that sentence, it occurs to me that – at least from the perspective of us kids at recess – the unspoken message was ‘all paths lead to high school, but only one is properly paved for less pedestrian travelers.’

Time and space won’t allow an in-depth description of my new educational home, so we can better focus on my wood shop duck. Now that I’ve described the visible part of my first-ever project in “Uncle Schmomer’s Shop,” let’s examine the underside. The unstained, kidney-shaped bottom had two metal screw heads connecting bird with stand. Aside from the natural wood grain, the only distinctive details were three different capital letters engraved crudely on its surface – Y, G, and an almost imperceptible M. There are not one, but two Y’s meant to designate my first initial (for ‘Yorick’), the single capital M, and not two, but three G’s representing my last name. Why two Y’s and a trio of G’s? My best guess, seventy-two years after its conception, is that Yours Truly was so unsure of himself that he made more marks than needed to properly identify ‘himself’ as the maker. I probably was so afraid of making a false move that I made four false moves instead – etching one redundant Y, two unnecessary G’s, and an M I still cannot figure out how it joined the others on my duck’s wooden bottom that will last for posterity.

One last note, S & D, is this: Your first clue about one of my life’s greatest lessons learned is embedded all over this memoir too long to qualify as a mere ‘vignette,’ ‘sidebar,’ or ‘fragment.’ So, that’s it for Day One of ‘What Makes Uncle Ricky Ticky Tock.’ My advice for you if you really want to learn something valuable for yourselves is go figure this out together. Class dismissed.  

           *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

                       The Wooden Duck Thingy Sitting on a Piece of Wood (Choice B) 

Deena: Okay, I have no idea what kind of clue we’re supposed to get from this …… chunk of wood. What is it anyway - birch? maple? teak, perhaps? ebony… ivory? (Okay, I know – beyond a shadow of a doubt– that I, Deena Garrity, have exactly zero-point-zero knowledge about wood… of any kind. In fact, I’m not sure ebony is even a wood. Isn’t supposed to be a rock or gemstone… or some species of coral?)

And speaking of possessing knowledge relating to wood, from the looks of this wood duck thingy sitting on another piece of wood shaped like a kidney bean, its maker obviously is “on a par” with Yours Truly. There is seriously, Steve, only ONE other sad individual in this whole, wacky world capable of such a shoddy, downright sucky job of sculpting or woodworking the Pagan Duck God as... our dear Uncle Ricky. Yeah, only Your Icky could turn out such an object d’ fart; errrr art. Am I right-o, Bro-O?”

“Uh… NO NO, BOZ-O.” Instead of Steve being the one responding to Deena’s question with a rhyming, childish retort - a richer, grittier, more guttural voice uttered the silly phrase, which invoked also the memory of the infamous show in which Bozo had to tell a kid flipping the TV clown star off. (“That’s a Bozo no-no.”) Steve and Deena half-jumped, raising up on their tip toes before looking around them – first at the three walls covered in Uncle Ricky memorabilia and then at each other. The disembodied voice then shifts back from laughter to speech: “I do beg your pardon, Deena Hyena, but I must speak for myself in righteous defense at this juncture. This wooden object of art, of which I am as proud as the proverbial punch” is the first project I ever completed - by myself - without more than a word or raised eyebrow from the adult in charge, my junior high wood shop teacher named Mr. Lloyd Schnone, but also known as Unca Schnone, The Schnoner, Sir Schnony, and Sir Schnonykins, among many others.

Mr. Schnone, I must acknowledge, provided me my first opportunity to build something without the intervention of anyone else, which had always been intervention disguised as help from an adult. Heretofore, dozens of men and women in the greater Mojave Valley region - designated by the Cub Scouts, Webelos, Boy Scouts, Indian Guides, Cactusville School District, or other kid-oriented organizations through my boyhood - had always hovered near me, on alert to rescue someone when – not if – I’d either maim myself, other kids, innocent bystanders, or whatever “project” they’d foisted on me for the day’s lesson: Either (A.) a three-dimensional object requiring pine cones, twigs, and other natural materials; (B.) a 2D rendering in the usual kid mediums of pencil, crayon, felt marker, watercolor, or spray paint; or (C.), one of a score of craft gifts commemorating holidays and birthdays throughout the year requiring pine cones, unbaked macaroni noodles, colorful foil bits of glitter, girly sequins, other, non-macaroni varieties of pasta, and / or a large bottle of Elmer’s white old-fashioned glue with which to hold the handmade monstrosity together.”  

(Throughout the forgoing speech delivered ostensibly by their favorite uncle, who might or might not be alive, Deena and Steve stood as still as statues. Their respective minds had been so blown that it would be no surprise to any observer if both sought psychiatric assistance in the immediate future or, at the least, emotional respite by imbibing a slew of adult beverages, preferably with a strong dose of gin or vodka to give them courage to continue on or to numb themselves from the pain of dealing with their Soupy Sales of an uncle.)

 (Note: I hope you enjoyed at least one of these, but if neither, please privately message me on Facebook or email me at rowleep@comcast.net)

    

Thanks, Blessings, Vaya con Dios & Shalom / Peace,

Patrick R. Rowlee

(Another blog bites the dust, but only in a positive way.)

"Say 'good-night, Gracie." - The late comedy legend, Mr. George Burns.

What Exactly Are 'My 3Rs' Anyway?

As I begin my first blog, I must admit to two things: Not only have I, Patrick Rowlee, never written one of these before, I've never read anyone else's blog either. This platform is entirely unknown to me, which - to be frank - excites me. I wouldn't want to be frank because I'm pat or patrick but we lost a good man in our family recently who was Frank but rarely frank. We'll always miss you, Corky! (I just received an idea for a future blog, one I'd like to do about my recently departed 'stepdad,' who was really more of a father-in-law (a weird comment I understand but can't explain.
 
And, WHY does the prospect of my own little dog & pony show elicit such excitement from me, causing my adrenal gland and nervous system to exult ? Because: (a.) it's new; (b.) I have no expectations, except my 3R's, which are my pledges to Rant, Ramble, and include (w)Ritings from my past, present, and future novels & projects; and c.) I love change which, yes, duplicates my (a.) reason, so please just play along and pretend I gave you the preferred number of three reasons to substantiate my enthusiasm for writing this blog-thingy-whatchamacallit you're perusing presently.
Your first question might be: Who in tar nation are you, ANYWAY? Who among any of us really knows for sure... who I am? (Well, besides my creator.) And my second parenthetical phrase in a row gets the double pairs of ( )s treatment: ((Note of Fact, NOT Opinion: Auto-correct is a demonic entity set loose to terrorize scribes, authors, and writers in general... everywhere. So, For Your Information, Der AutoKorrect Fuhrer: There is no 'tar nation' found in anyone's dictionary, but there IS and has been an entry for 'tarnation' with no unnecessary space in the middle at least a century or more before Granny of Beverly Hillbillies fame invoked it on a regular, sometimes weekly, basis.
Bloggy Peeps Only: ((( Didn't you just love the Grand Granny of Goofiness?))) All I can say in tribute is this one compliment: May you always rest in peace, Granny Clampett actress and comic genius Irene Dunne: You made Granny come to life and be forever etched in our consciousness as the iconic feisty, scrappy, uninhibited, unfiltered, tough-as-a-hellcat hell always on black combat boots, even with her nightgown. May you rest in Heaven and not in.........Tarnation (with NO space after 'tar,' by the way).
But, dearest audience, the one purpose I wish to pursue in this new-to-me platform is writing to be read...by a readership preferably, but not necessarily or exclusively, human. (After all, who am I - a remarkably lifelike human myself - to stifle an ambitious non human or a robot brimming with A.I. striving to read and hopefully digest my writing blog's contents? No, I'm very dedicated to PROTECTING THE RIGHTS OF ALL BEINGS, be they mythical, therefore non-existent beings - Zombies, Easter Bunnies, Santa Clauses, werewolves of London or elsewhere, vampires, trolls, Leprechauns, or especially Homosapiens with mythical, therefore non-existent genders, especially if they read this blog, enjoy it, tell all their mythical, non-existent friends, and - most importantly for me -  PURCHASE MY NOVELS (AVAILABLE THRU AMAZON, KINDLE, and through Yours Truly.

So, while I ruminate about which topic to address for my second blog and how many plugs for my own books I should allow myself to run in each of my future blogs, let this first post be perhaps your introduction to my writing and myself as well. So....... I began writing later in life than most (but solely for an audience consisting of my wife and our invisible friend Betty Lou for a decade, until Betty Lou Carew, the shrew, and blew... to where, we never knew. Boy, were we blue.
And when did exactly did I begin writing? Twenty-five years ago, while apart from my wife for the purpose of moving us from the hot, dry, windy desert valley where I grew up to relocating us to the greener, stiller, rainier climes of Lake County - a geopolitical area in California I'd neither known nor visited before my interview for a school-counseling job at one of its combination high / middle schools on June 1, 1993 for the next school year.
If any of y'all haven't driven through this perhaps still-anonymous town of 5,000 residents on Highway 29, I'll assist. I once called the pine treed, lake view, quaint, rustic town, but only in private. Back then, I dubbed it 'Mayberry on Drugs,' but I don't know if that sobriquet (a fancy, usually pretentious word of French origin meaning 'nickname') still applies today. I know it did then.
The drug of choice in that beatific locale (with the cleanest air of any county in the Golden State) was crystal methamphetamine, commonly known as 'Crack' or 'Meth.' Crystal meth was later immortalized on the cult TV hit series 'Breaking Bad,' a program, like blogging, I know little to nothing about.
I'll admit the ONLY reason I began writing that year was because it kept me out of some potentially dangerous circumstances (called by my family 'shenanigans'). I mean, check it out, okay? Here I was, an eager beaver educator of 39 turning 40, who didn't want to end up on the police log of the twice-weekly local newspaper for being a participant, victim, or innocent bystander in a bar fight. So, instead of frequenting the town's only tavern without my wife by my side, I chose to write a thinly disguised account of my Lake County experience in my two job sites, around this unidentified town, in my neighborhood, at my cool little church next to the town's only laundromat; and basically everywhere else, including the spot out on the highway near a state forest where folks would fill their water jugs from a non-stop stream of the freshest mineral water that was ever tasted. (In order to save $$$, I once a week schlepped two or three, five-gallon poly-carbon water jugs with spigoted sides to the spot near the national forest named after a famous novelist with three names. (If you don't get that clue, then... I will understand and won't blame you in the least. I only knew the name because I passed the sign to and from the Napa Valley township of Calistoga from this Mayberry-like village. (Please, people, never accuse me of not furnishing you with enough clues to answer my Blogly Quiz - as opposed to daily, weekly, or monthly quizzes.)
So, my Bloggees, I invite you all to stop by and check out what's in and on my mind. Who knows? It might be a revelation for all of us.
And, while you're online, please check out my Facebook page, "Patrick Rowlee's Books," along with my Amazon author page. (Just type my full name into the Amazon browser and check out my five novels.)
My baby novels' titles are, youngest to eldest: THE TALISMAN EFFECT, HE PLAYS LIKE COBB, BLACKBALLED, VARRICK'S DISTURBANCES, and my oldest child in print, TWO FACES TO NO ONE, written soon after my year in "Oblivion, California" two and a half decades ago.

And last and never least, TWENTY OR MORE PERCENT of my books' profits have and will continue to fund legitimate nonprofit organizations helping kids both in the United States of America and abroad. (For instance, BLACKBALLED has generated funds since 2011 to E.R.M., a Rwandan nonprofit assisting the survivors - widows, children, and other family of the ONE MILLION Tutsi nation - mostly men - slaughtered in 1997 by the Rwandan government.)

All my books help fund nonprofits assisting children considered "the least of these" - the abused, homeless, or foster kids needing extra assistance, and any other type of kiddo needing or receiving help from any bonafide nonprofit changing children's lives for the better.
So, 'til next time, friends, this is Yours Truly signing off. Be good to yourself, everyone else, and never neglect to eat your vegetables, floss regularly, and help those who can't help themselves. A good life is a simple life.
Shalom, Blessings, and Ciao for Now,
Patrick R. Rowlee