The Rajah, Brunches with Wolfes, and Sundry Sunday Things...
SATURDAY NIGHT:
After work on Saturday I stayed over with the family at Lake Zurich. Ate a dinner I didn't have to cook. Bandied wits with my 15 year old brother who informed me, with a very grave face, that the name of the high school girl he was interested in (I had been heckling him) was, in fact, "Triceps."
He stroked the muscle in question lovingly. "I'd make out with her if I could," he said with a dreamy smile.
"You probably could if you tried."
"Oh. I've tried. Believe me."
"It'd sort of be like trying to kiss your own elbow, I imagine."
Since starting high school, the Rajah has gotten into body-building, and he just keeps digging in deeper. He is currently at that stage where every reflective surface he encounters is his best friend. It's awfully funny, and easy to make fun of, but he can mock back with the best of 'em.
Down in his basement kingdom, he had me crying, I was laughing so hard. At one point, after a string of outrageous comments, he was no longer able to keep a straight face in the wake of my tomato-red hysteria. "Stop laughing," he commanded. "I can't concentrate anymore. You're putting me off my stride."
This, of course, was no help at all. I was in that particular laughing mood of mine where even breathing is funny.
Pause. He eyes me suspiciously.
"You had wine with dinner, didn't you?"
"Water, I swear!" I gasped. "Agua - es necessario! You were there! You saw."
"True."
Pause.
"You're so weird. You on some thing? Smoked? Ingested?"
"Desmond!" I exclaimed. 'I've always been like this. You've known me all your life."
Pause.
"The sad thing is," he reflected, "it's true!"
But when I made to abandon his basement kingdom to go upstairs to the guest room and finish my article, he clung to my arm through the bannister with his "I'm stronger than you now, suckah" muscles and moaned, "Don't go! I haven't finished telling you about my military!"
The Rajah is creating a city ("Ideally," he muses, "an Island State.") where he'd like to rule as Dictator, after conquering it with a bunch of mercenaries, "and/or" his "innate charm." Only instead of Dictator they'll call him "Prime Minister." He has hand-drawn the buildings of his Island State, all based on ancient architecture. "That one," he'd pointed out a Byzantium structure, "is sort of like the Hagia Sophia." He's always had a sure eye for lines and a strong grasp of perspective, and art classes have only sharpened this.
He'd already told me about the domestic offices and the foreign offices, the great confluence of its river roads, its statues and fountains. The military was next.
"What's her name?" I asked, trying to take advantage of his momentary woe at my departure and wheedle the name of his high school crush from him. "Is it Valerie?" (I'd gone through a string of names earlier, sort of like in Rumplestiltskin.)
"The military?" he asked, not biting. "A military called Valerie? Actually, it would be kind of cool to call it the Valor Guard. Valor Guard. Maybe. Maybe not."
"I'll use it if you don't," I warned.
"You do that."
His world-building is always fascinating stuff, but I had things I needed to get done, and knew I had be up to sing at an insane hour of the morning.
"'Night, Des. I'll stay up with you late tomorrow and we can watch all sorts of things."
He didn't let my arm go until I wrestled myself free.
Well, I say "wrestled."
"Ow!" he yelped. "Nails! You fight like a girl."
As he is the fifth of my tall, musclebound brothers to come into his new adolescent strength and become intent on proving it upon his clever, fond ( if shorter) sister, I'd better! My arm was red from where he'd gripped it. War wounds. I was rather proud of 'em, actually.
***
Sunday Morning.
Last night, when my father asked if I'd be going to the Wolfes' house today, I said, "Sure I could. We're going to brunch. Easy enough to swing by."
"Can you take this to them?" He handed me a weird plastic cylinder.
"What is this?"
"It's a finch sock. Last time I saw them, Gene said he liked yellow finches, so I picked this up for him at the grocery store. It works. We have tons of 'em."
Gene and Rosemary seemed delighted, so I hung the sock from the wrought iron trellis that arches over their front walkway. If the finches do come, they will be able to see them through their front window, which is the widest and tallest in the house, and which their living room couch faces.
We went to Port Edwards, and on the way Gene informed me that the name "Mortimer" was traditionally given to boy children whose fathers predecease their births.
"Mickey Mouse has a nephew named Morty," he said.
At Port Edwards, we enjoyed the champagne, the banquet tables laden with every kind of brunch food imaginable, the desserts. Best of all, as usual, was the company and the conversation.
Gene quoted Kipling at me - his father's favorite, "Danny Deever."
"For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,
The regiment's in 'ollow square -- they're hangin' him to-day;
They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away,
An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'..."
He also quoted Jack Monroe, also called Jack-a-Roe, also called Jack the Sailor - and a whole bunch of other names. It's which is one of the Women-Gone-For-Soldier-Songs I like so much. He does too.
'She went into the tailor shop
And dressed in men's array,
And went into a vessel
To convey herself away.
Before you step on board, sir,
Your name I'd like to know.
She smiled all over her countenance
"They call me Jack Monroe."'
He also told me about being under mortar fire once in Korea and diving into what he thought was a fox hole, but what ended up as some kind of garbage heap full of rusted tin cans.
"Knew some guys who jumped into a latrine once," he reflected, laughing.
He also said that he will, in fact, do a blurb for my story "The Big Bah-Ha."
"The trouble will be," he said, "keeping it under 2000 words."
"Are blurbs really 2000 words?"
"No," he laughed, "although you generally want to make them longer, and then give the editor permission to use whichever bits they like."
Whatever JoSelle ends up using, I hope I get to see the whole thing! SO EXCITING! EEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!
The Wolfes' usual waitress did not have our table today, but she came over to say hi, and taught Rosemary how to bump knuckles, as palm-slapping is passe. Then a woman named Sally came to talk to us. Apparently, she'd been the high school counseler of the Wolfe children at Barrington High.
She looked at me. "And who are... You're not his daughter?"
"I'm a friend," I said, and shook her hand.
"Honorary Granddaughter," said Gene.
I can't tell you how this moved me. I've known Gene and Rosemary for coming on 11 years now. Gene's been my mentor, and both of them have been my friends and traveling companions.
Though all three of my grandmothers are still living, both of my grandfathers are dead, and I have to admit that in my secret soul, Gene lives in the house they absented. But I never told him this. I didn't really think I had the right. Besides - isn't it enough to be his "friend, fan and fellow writer," as he wrote once in a letter? Sure is. And besides - he already has granddaughters. I was content to let them have him.
Still. He said it today. "Honorary Granddaughter." And at every lull thereafter in the conversation, I would go into myself, remember that, and just GLOW.
***
Then I came home to a great email from Howard about my novel "SHADOWSTALKERS." Heck, he has a point. Several, actually.
The PROBLEM, of course, becomes... HOW DO I FIX THEM???
Every draft of "Shadowstalkers" I write I swear will be the last. I'll need to talk to a few people who have read it, just to help me brainstorm. Because looking at it? All I see are impregnable walls of words. It's shellacked, man, and I can't break through.
But he said, "brilliant," and that means something. That means, "Keep going on." That might even mean, "You're almost there."
There has to be a way to streamline this process. Then again, Shadowstalkers is an old novel. It's been with me for longer than most of my friends have. The newer novels will be easier, because I wrote them when I was older. I have to believe that. Fewer drafts, easier fixes and with more clarity.
At least - one can only hope.
After work on Saturday I stayed over with the family at Lake Zurich. Ate a dinner I didn't have to cook. Bandied wits with my 15 year old brother who informed me, with a very grave face, that the name of the high school girl he was interested in (I had been heckling him) was, in fact, "Triceps."
He stroked the muscle in question lovingly. "I'd make out with her if I could," he said with a dreamy smile.
"You probably could if you tried."
"Oh. I've tried. Believe me."
"It'd sort of be like trying to kiss your own elbow, I imagine."
Since starting high school, the Rajah has gotten into body-building, and he just keeps digging in deeper. He is currently at that stage where every reflective surface he encounters is his best friend. It's awfully funny, and easy to make fun of, but he can mock back with the best of 'em.
Down in his basement kingdom, he had me crying, I was laughing so hard. At one point, after a string of outrageous comments, he was no longer able to keep a straight face in the wake of my tomato-red hysteria. "Stop laughing," he commanded. "I can't concentrate anymore. You're putting me off my stride."
This, of course, was no help at all. I was in that particular laughing mood of mine where even breathing is funny.
Pause. He eyes me suspiciously.
"You had wine with dinner, didn't you?"
"Water, I swear!" I gasped. "Agua - es necessario! You were there! You saw."
"True."
Pause.
"You're so weird. You on some thing? Smoked? Ingested?"
"Desmond!" I exclaimed. 'I've always been like this. You've known me all your life."
Pause.
"The sad thing is," he reflected, "it's true!"
But when I made to abandon his basement kingdom to go upstairs to the guest room and finish my article, he clung to my arm through the bannister with his "I'm stronger than you now, suckah" muscles and moaned, "Don't go! I haven't finished telling you about my military!"
The Rajah is creating a city ("Ideally," he muses, "an Island State.") where he'd like to rule as Dictator, after conquering it with a bunch of mercenaries, "and/or" his "innate charm." Only instead of Dictator they'll call him "Prime Minister." He has hand-drawn the buildings of his Island State, all based on ancient architecture. "That one," he'd pointed out a Byzantium structure, "is sort of like the Hagia Sophia." He's always had a sure eye for lines and a strong grasp of perspective, and art classes have only sharpened this.
He'd already told me about the domestic offices and the foreign offices, the great confluence of its river roads, its statues and fountains. The military was next.
"What's her name?" I asked, trying to take advantage of his momentary woe at my departure and wheedle the name of his high school crush from him. "Is it Valerie?" (I'd gone through a string of names earlier, sort of like in Rumplestiltskin.)
"The military?" he asked, not biting. "A military called Valerie? Actually, it would be kind of cool to call it the Valor Guard. Valor Guard. Maybe. Maybe not."
"I'll use it if you don't," I warned.
"You do that."
His world-building is always fascinating stuff, but I had things I needed to get done, and knew I had be up to sing at an insane hour of the morning.
"'Night, Des. I'll stay up with you late tomorrow and we can watch all sorts of things."
He didn't let my arm go until I wrestled myself free.
Well, I say "wrestled."
"Ow!" he yelped. "Nails! You fight like a girl."
As he is the fifth of my tall, musclebound brothers to come into his new adolescent strength and become intent on proving it upon his clever, fond ( if shorter) sister, I'd better! My arm was red from where he'd gripped it. War wounds. I was rather proud of 'em, actually.
***
Sunday Morning.
Last night, when my father asked if I'd be going to the Wolfes' house today, I said, "Sure I could. We're going to brunch. Easy enough to swing by."
"Can you take this to them?" He handed me a weird plastic cylinder.
"What is this?"
"It's a finch sock. Last time I saw them, Gene said he liked yellow finches, so I picked this up for him at the grocery store. It works. We have tons of 'em."
Gene and Rosemary seemed delighted, so I hung the sock from the wrought iron trellis that arches over their front walkway. If the finches do come, they will be able to see them through their front window, which is the widest and tallest in the house, and which their living room couch faces.
We went to Port Edwards, and on the way Gene informed me that the name "Mortimer" was traditionally given to boy children whose fathers predecease their births.
"Mickey Mouse has a nephew named Morty," he said.
At Port Edwards, we enjoyed the champagne, the banquet tables laden with every kind of brunch food imaginable, the desserts. Best of all, as usual, was the company and the conversation.
Gene quoted Kipling at me - his father's favorite, "Danny Deever."
"For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,
The regiment's in 'ollow square -- they're hangin' him to-day;
They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away,
An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'..."
He also quoted Jack Monroe, also called Jack-a-Roe, also called Jack the Sailor - and a whole bunch of other names. It's which is one of the Women-Gone-For-Soldier-Songs I like so much. He does too.
'She went into the tailor shop
And dressed in men's array,
And went into a vessel
To convey herself away.
Before you step on board, sir,
Your name I'd like to know.
She smiled all over her countenance
"They call me Jack Monroe."'
He also told me about being under mortar fire once in Korea and diving into what he thought was a fox hole, but what ended up as some kind of garbage heap full of rusted tin cans.
"Knew some guys who jumped into a latrine once," he reflected, laughing.
He also said that he will, in fact, do a blurb for my story "The Big Bah-Ha."
"The trouble will be," he said, "keeping it under 2000 words."
"Are blurbs really 2000 words?"
"No," he laughed, "although you generally want to make them longer, and then give the editor permission to use whichever bits they like."
Whatever JoSelle ends up using, I hope I get to see the whole thing! SO EXCITING! EEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!
The Wolfes' usual waitress did not have our table today, but she came over to say hi, and taught Rosemary how to bump knuckles, as palm-slapping is passe. Then a woman named Sally came to talk to us. Apparently, she'd been the high school counseler of the Wolfe children at Barrington High.
She looked at me. "And who are... You're not his daughter?"
"I'm a friend," I said, and shook her hand.
"Honorary Granddaughter," said Gene.
I can't tell you how this moved me. I've known Gene and Rosemary for coming on 11 years now. Gene's been my mentor, and both of them have been my friends and traveling companions.
Though all three of my grandmothers are still living, both of my grandfathers are dead, and I have to admit that in my secret soul, Gene lives in the house they absented. But I never told him this. I didn't really think I had the right. Besides - isn't it enough to be his "friend, fan and fellow writer," as he wrote once in a letter? Sure is. And besides - he already has granddaughters. I was content to let them have him.
Still. He said it today. "Honorary Granddaughter." And at every lull thereafter in the conversation, I would go into myself, remember that, and just GLOW.
***
Then I came home to a great email from Howard about my novel "SHADOWSTALKERS." Heck, he has a point. Several, actually.
The PROBLEM, of course, becomes... HOW DO I FIX THEM???
Every draft of "Shadowstalkers" I write I swear will be the last. I'll need to talk to a few people who have read it, just to help me brainstorm. Because looking at it? All I see are impregnable walls of words. It's shellacked, man, and I can't break through.
But he said, "brilliant," and that means something. That means, "Keep going on." That might even mean, "You're almost there."
There has to be a way to streamline this process. Then again, Shadowstalkers is an old novel. It's been with me for longer than most of my friends have. The newer novels will be easier, because I wrote them when I was older. I have to believe that. Fewer drafts, easier fixes and with more clarity.
At least - one can only hope.