Category: Writing

Those of you familiar with blogging know this. I didn’t. Tons of spam. So, in an effort to get real about the actual numbers of authentic people visiting, I stayed away for a month. My idea here is it will give me a vague notion of how many honest-to-god people in the world are reading what I’ve written.

When I was a student at the University of Montana, there was a visiting choreographer in the dance department. His work was inspiring, and devoted to including spoken text in his pieces. One I remember was an evocative, slow moving piece with dancers moving through space simply saying “I’m sorry.” Sounds stupid, I know … but it was incredible. The choreographer in residence worked on a similar piece. It wasn’t as grounded, or as artistically sound. (Why would it be, it wasn’t her idea?) At any rate, her dancers kept kneading the air repeating “Dough is a living thing. Dough is a living thing.” But there was a refrain in her piece that has resonated with me for almost thirty years. Out of this repetition, one of the dancers would explode with movement and shout “When I can’t dance I’m a nasty old bitch!” It was both funny “ha ha” and funny “peculiar.”

If I were to sum up my behavior this past month, I’d have to conclude that “When I can’t write, I’m a nasty old bitch!”

There are some learnings to be had here. The good news is, there seems to be quite a few of you real, honest, readers! The bad news is, I haven’t been able to write.

And it’s made me a nasty old bitch. So, here’s a list of stuff I jotted down while I was away.

• There’s nothing like a little bit of sunshine. Really. There’s nothing like it.
• Taxes, in the overall scheme of things, are still a good idea.
• Speeding is bad for the world, I’m not going to do it anymore.
• There’s no sense in eating cheap cheese. (Or to put it another way, expensive cheese is worth it.)
• Most people have two muscles in their calves that look almost exactly like tiny ass cheeks.
• Having a nagging, whooping-like cough as a child doesn’t mean you are immune to it as an adult.
• People can be challenging, but mostly they are just trying to be good.
• A clean car runs better than a dirty car.
• There’s really only a few things I’d like to do over, and most of them happened in Missoula.
• When given the opportunity, I’d rather teach than perform.

So, as you can see, there’s quite a bit happening for me. As far as the book goes, my plan is to dive into the edits like a madman when I go on vacation in a couple of weeks. I did, however, send my first page to an agent. She gave me a nine out of ten. (I think that’s good, but I wanted a ten.)

But I’ll take the nine and keep working. At least I’ve got that going for me.

My inbox is holding an edited manuscript. First time I’ve ever said that. My dear friend, despite having a new baby on top of a pukey toddler, has thrown me a big, fat, sucker pitch. Oh, she’s a great editor. She’s a sensitive and caring auditor. She’s encouraging.  She’s had her chance at bat. She connected. In fact, one might say she knocked it out of the park. And now it appears it’s my ups. Time to put on the helmet and trot back to the plate.

I love what she has to say. And here’s what she has to say: Work harder.

I can do that. It’s easy for both of us, because she sees this effort the same way I do. It’s still in a formative stage. What, exactly, is it? I keep calling it “the book” but maybe it’s not a book at all. Maybe it’s a collection of stories, loosely woven together by a common thread. If that’s the case, I still need to work harder. But it’s a different kind of work. I need to get individual stories together and start sending those out. Once I start getting buzz from those, I can then put that success in my back pocket (and in my query letters) and start marketing a collection of stories. That’s a long game, that. That means we’re only in the first inning.

If it’s truly “a book,” well then, I’m going to need to take a step back into it and start working harder. We’re in the fourth or fifth inning and … we’re losing. It means more writing about … everything. More background about the place. More physical characteristics about the characters. More work on the narrative arc.

And I’m torn. I’m truly torn. It’s not even a question of long-term gains or short-term pains. It’s a question of how much of this I want to take back. How long I want to play.

OK. Time to get crafty. Time to dive back into the belly of the beast. Today, I start by reading the whole thing (again) as if I was reading a book. Today, I start again.

Not over. Again.

I have to admit, it never really occurred to me until today.

I know for a fact, there were times when my casually distant father would come home from work with a pretty short temper. But he never told us, “Hey! I have a pretty short temper right now!” Sometimes he’d just huff a little bit, or say “Hut tut tut.” Then he’d stand up, leave the table and go sit in his chair. On more than one occasion, he went and sat in the front seat of his car, listening to the radio.

When it happened, my mom would usually say, “Daddy’s really busy at work.” And we’d leave it at that.

So, two things … and I know this is really easy for me to question or delve into because both my folks have long since passed away … but as I get busy … (And believe me, I know what that truly means in terms of stress, lost sleep, long hours, short tempers … I’ve got that covered.) I see myself reacting the same way my father did. Just today I have started to sense the same frustration I must have felt in other people.

For example, when I’m busy, I ‘go inside’ myself. This I know. I become uncommunicative. Distant. Oft times snarky. So, first of two things … Who the hell am I to make other people guess at my present state of mind? What’s to stop me from simply stating, “You know what? I’m on a pretty short fuse right now, so I’m going to be quiet for awhile.” Okay, that sounds like a threat. Something a bully would say. But I suppose that’s where trust comes in. People have to trust me enough to know I won’t blow my stack. In fact, the only combustion that happens when I’m truly frustrated is internal. Like flinging myself on a hand grenade. Muffled. Contained. Self-inflicted damage control.

Okay. So I promise myself to tell you when I’m in a bad mood. Okay? No sense in you guessing. It won’t get you anywhere. Oh! And don’t ask. That only pisses me off. (Which is something totally different.)

Second of two things. And this one I’m just coming around to today … after years of reflection. Maybe, just maybe, my dad was smart enough to know that anything he said—or did for that matter—would be coming from an emotional, irrational, often indefensible position. Maybe not saying anything was his way of not giving in to the stress.

I can think of more than a couple of times in ‘the book’ when he and I have a standoff. Both of us were obviously very emotional. I believe I was being pretty irrational and he was being flat out stubborn. During those times, the most either of us could muster was a cold, hard stare. There were a few times, once in a police station, where Dad did manage to muster an “I’m disappointed in you.”

Whenever he said that we always agreed to talk about it the next day, which we never did.

And we never brought it up again.

Rainy days and Mondays always get me down. (I’ll love you forever Karen Carpenter.)

So, it’s during days like this that, from time to time, I think about Carl Swanson. You Missoulians know Carl. Or you remember Carl, rather. He was that guy who looked like Howard Hughes. Not the Leonardo DiCaprio Howard Hughes, but the Jason Robards Howard Hughes.

From a distance, Carl looked like your average, run-of-the-mill homeless guy. Except he always wore a fedora and a London Fog rain coat. In fact, Carl’s duds were pretty impressive … from a distance. Up close, you’d see the fabric of the snappy three-piece suit actually had worn holes in the creases. Up close, if you greeted Carl, you’d be impressed at the deep, resounding tone of his voice. This guy sounded like money. Up close, Carl smelled pretty bad. He didn’t smell like a homeless person. He smelled like a bad second-hand clothing store. He kinda smelled like the 1940s to me. Well, okay … he smelled like the 1940s if the 1940s had rotted and shown up in the 1980s.

Turns out, Carl wasn’t homeless. In fact, he had an apartment in my building.

Once a day, come rain, shine, snow, freezing cold, air quality alerts, you name it, Carl would leave his apartment, all dressed up, and walk up Front Street, cross the Higgins Street Bridge and go to Hansen’s Ice Cream Store to have lunch. I imagined the crew at Hansen’s either gave him lunch or, like his apartment rent, Carl’s lunch money was endowed from an unknown source.

Doesn’t matter.

The fact was, regardless of his situation and the weather, Carl Swanson, the you-could-have-sworn-he-was-homeless guy, made it out of his apartment and into the world on days when I couldn’t. I think that’s probably the key symptom of my gloomy days. I just don’t want to leave. Or rather, my main motivation is to stay. That’s when I know I’m in trouble. I want to stay in bed. I want to stay in the shower. I want to stay in my car. I want to stay at work. You name it, my go-to stance during periods of depression is stasis.

One day, in a fit of pique much like I’ve described above, I stopped Carl in the hall and asked him if he wouldn’t rather come into my apartment for a cup of coffee and some leftovers than venture out into the weather. My friends and neighbors had assured me Carl was harmless. (Once you got past the obvious smell and unshaven face.) In fact, they contended Carl was rather genteel. At the time, his backstory was that he was an executive who had drank himself over the edge, and never quite recovered. His apartment was paid for by a daughter in a far-away city. Unlike many of us who occupied the Colonial Apartments (known affectionately as the Plaza de la Coloniale), Carl always paid his rent … on time.

I wasn’t interested in his life story. I just wanted Carl to come in and have a cup of coffee instead of fending off the 40-below-zero temperatures to cross a frozen river to an ice cream shop that was most likely closed due to the cold.

After a little coaxing, he agreed to come in and sit down at my kitchen table, as long as I put a newspaper on the chair. Don’t know why, but apparently, Carl preferred to sit on a newspaper.

So I put down a newspaper and he gave me his hat and coat.

Here’s the entire conversation:

“It’s really very, very cold out there today, Carl,” said Grant.

“I’ll say,” said Carl.

And that was it. I didn’t engage him, and he didn’t offer much of an explanation for his present state. Or the newspaper. When he was finished, he got up, excused himself, put on his hat and coat and went back upstairs.

But lately, as we continue to be hammered by rain and lonely gray sky, I find I take more and more motivational tips from Carl. Some days, all I need to get started is the promise of a good cup of coffee and a little conversation. And I count myself quite lucky that I have ready access to both.

Before you ask, no … I’m not Jewish. But observant Jews have a custom of lighting a candle on the anniversary of the death of a loved one. It’s a way to remember them. Think about them.

Reflect on their lives.

Today is the 25th anniversary of my father’s death. And, while I don’t usually dwell on such things, I do have a tendency to remember these days. This one is particularly filled, as I have now had as many years without my dad as I did with. There’s a sting in that which cannot be ignored.

If I had to sum up what it is I managed to glean from him in the 24 years I had, I’d have to say “I’m not sure.”

Did he love life? I’m not sure. I hope to think so, but … I’m not certain.

My dad wasn’t a particularly demonstrative guy. He had quite a few opportunities to be effusive, but he never completely took advantage of them. He did, however, have a wicked sense of humor. He knew what was funny. But he rarely laughed. When he did, it wasn’t audible. He’d kind of hunch up his shoulders and look a little sheepish and bounce a little. He was, by many accounts, and with all my memory … a serious man. He was particularly kind to strangers. And relations. I remember once explaining how he was sullen most of the time and my cousin said, “Really? Uncle Bob? The gracious host?” And I’d say “Yes. Uncle Bob. Uncle Bob is a great guy. Father Bob is … well, an enigma.

But you know? I think after 25 years, I’m allowed to say I *think* that was by design.

I think almost everyone else knew my dad better than I did. And I miss that feeling. Especially on days like today. I miss thinking I need to ask my sister to ask for whatever it is I want him to give us, or do for us. I miss having my mom speak about him … his feelings … to me while he was in the room. Sometimes sitting right next to me. She’d say “Your father doesn’t think that’s a good idea.” And he’d be sitting right there … working a crossword.

I had occasion to become pretty close to my grandmother before she died. She outlived Dad by four or five years. I would go to her apartment and visit her on Tuesdays, during my lunch hour at MCT. We’d discuss her kids, she let me know how each was doing. We didn’t really bring up Dad, or my aunt Lola. Both had passed away before her. Gramma was 74 when I was born, and well into her nineties when my parents died. One Tuesday we got to talking about Dad, though. I remember it was cold outside, maybe it was the weather that started the discussion. Dad had a hard time in the cold. His war injuries would bug him. Or maybe Gramma asked me how I was doing, and maybe, for a lark, I answered “Poorly, poorly,” the way my father always had. I don’t remember how we got started, but I remember confessing to her that I really didn’t know him very much, and I always kind of got the sense that, although he was proud of me, he didn’t really like me. I imagine she scoffed at that. She could scoff, my grandmother. If she thought you weren’t paying attention, she’d scoff under her breath.

At any rate, I remember we were sitting at her table, drinking tea. She looked down at her hands and ran them across the table, like she was smoothing out a table cloth that wasn’t there. And she looked at me over the top of her glasses and said, “He drank too much, you know, your father.” I got the sense she was ashamed of that.

“I know,” I said, “but he gave it up toward the end.” She kind of scowled at that. She was a kind person, but she could scoff and scowl, that’s for sure.

“What was he like with his father?” I asked.

“Oh, you know. Walt didn’t have a lot to do with the kids,” she said. “Except Fern. He loved Fern like the Dickens.” She referred to my aunt Fern, my father’s younger sister.

We sat for awhile in silence. Both of us given to long spells of just sitting in the quiet. Then she said, “You know your dad gave the commencement address at his high school graduation?” I did not. “Walt came home from work and I told him he should go see Bob speak, but he didn’t go,” she said. (Of course, I concluded that she didn’t go either, which probably made sense at the time, but in retrospect not so much.)

“Why not?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I never brought it up. I never thought about it until just now,” she said.

I remember thinking, Yeah, well … that acorn doesn’t fall very far from the tree. The wounds of the deaths of both my parents were probably still pretty fresh at the time.

But on days like today, I remember all the piano recitals, the band concerts, the football games, the church solos, the three (and only three) wrestling matches. The choir performances. The plays, the musicals, the children’s shows. I remember him sitting up with me when I was sick, driving me to the movies, driving me to the bus for speech meets and band festivals, teaching me how to drive myself to these places (“You can drive a little faster, you know … it won’t kill you to at least go the speed limit. You need to trust the department of transportation to know what’s safe.”) He taught me how to cook. He taught me now to keep books. Write checks, mow the lawn. Replace window panes. Do my multiplication tables. Take pictures. Change the oil. Change a flat tire. Check the spark plugs.

He taught me how to carve willow whistles.

By God, he was a pretty good dad. And I miss him every day, with every breath. How he would have marvelled at the way things turned out.

This I know: There’s a back story to every big decision. Last weekend I walked along the Oregon Coast and contemplated a major purchase. A big deal. Something that could very easily crack the foundation upon which I’ve built my most cherished possession—my stability.

It wasn’t unlike the day we decided to (quite literally) put all our eggs (quite metaphorically) in one basket. Though this time, my father was way more involved than I would care to admit.

My thoughts last weekend all began with the Magicland Development Corporation. You know, those few hardy souls behind the development of Gregson Hot Springs. (For those of you born after the Kennedy assassination, Gregson Hot Springs is what we used to call Fairmont Hot Springs.) My dad was an officer in the development corporation, along with a man named Bob Franklin. Both of them have long since passed away, but Bob F, Bob B, and a couple of other entrepreneurs put their heads together and developed Gregson into a resort, which they sold it to a Canadian man named Lloyd who had a resort in British Columbia called Fairmont Hot Springs. The big deal at Fairmont (Montana) was the golf course. The bigger deal was supposed to be the timeshare condominiums. Back then, timeshares and condos were totally new concepts. New enough to not come with the baggage they seem to carry today.

I think, and by that I mean I do not know, Dad had a vested interest in the timeshares in Fairmont. There used to be a map in the hotel lobby with a future state of the condos. Byington Trail was one of the streets. I don’t know if the condos ever materialized. In point of fact, I don’t really know whatever happened between my dad and the Magicland Development Corporation. Maybe it had something to do with Lloyd. Maybe not. But something happened. Something soured. I do know the whole thing became something we never spoke about again, once it happened.

My thoughts were futher complicated by the overt inability of my parents to go on a family vacation without a major dispute. I do not exaggerate.

Exhibit A: Note how they spent an entire week in Canada not speaking to each other. My father worked, my mother sighed heavily, my sister spent so much time in the swimming pool her hair turned green. I passed the time tightly coiled in the fetal position with stomach cramps.

Exhibit B: Note how they held a rather demonstrative conversation in the front seat of the car before vowing to never take another trip again. We checked into a motel cabin on Lake McDonald. My mother refused to speak. My father refused to eat. My sister wrote endless letters to her camp friend. I learned to shop and cook in a motel kitchenette—a skill that will serve me a hundredfold in later life.

Exhibit C: Note how, due to their inability to truly express themselves, they decided to tour Temple Square in Salt Lake City instead of going to Lagoon, the family fun center (and affordable alternative to Disneyland) their children had seen advertised on cable television since infancy.

I ask you: HOW DIFFICULT CAN RELAXATION GET?

Since those experiences it might not surprise you to know that I consider a vacation to include a lot of sitting and staring. Maybe some reading. Maybe a little walking. Maybe some good cooking. And a nice bathtub. (I do enjoy a nice, long bath.) Views are optional. (Although a huge bonus when staring, views can be distracting when reading, and if the views are truly view-worthy, they are not necessarily bereft of strangers, which can interfere with walking.)

It also might not surprise you to know that my most favorite vacations are those in which I can sit, stare, read and cook in the comfort of a cozy enclosure away from strangers. An oceanfront condo is, well, Sitter-and-Starer’s Nirvana. And a couple of years ago, in a deperate attempt to sit and stare, Alana and I found just the spot. It has haunted us ever since. The only hitch in this giddyup? It was a time-share sort of situation.

But here’s the deal:

In my mind, my dad loved the idea of sharing time. Time sharing. Whatever. Not having to maintain a completely different place that sat empty most of the year. I think he would have found the economy of the entire idea far outweighed the cost. I can see the gears turning in his mind. He wanted a quiet place for his family. He didn’t want to worry about restaurants. He wanted to cook for himself. He didn’t want to stress about reservations. He wanted to plan ahead. He only wanted to pack and unpack once. He didn’t want to be surprised. He didn’t crave adventure. He loved side trips. He loved geology. He loved to sit and do crosswords and read Rex Stout books.

Now I know this is gross displacement. I know this is me, making excuses to do what I want. And I know the decision I made, we made, I made, will lose its lustre if times ever become tight.

But if there’s one thing I know, it’s what I want.

So we got it. Now we have it. Let the sitting and staring commence.