An Evening with Mark Twain

This is an old one, but one of my favorites.

I was asleep; at least it felt like sleep.  I was awake too.  I was not dreaming. 

I sat up and standing at the foot of my bed was a man dressed in a white suit with an unruly head of hair the color of the suit.  He was smallish, and had a mustache that covered his upper lip.  I could smell cigar smoke.  Training and practice dictated that I reach for a weapon, but something stopped me.  It didn’t seem right to shoot Mark Twain.

I laughed at the thought of shooting a dead man.  He smiled at my laughter as if we had shared a joke.   I then thought, “What do you do with a dead man in your room?”  I laughed, and again, he joined me.

Since it was clear that killing him was futile, I determined to talk to him.  “What are you doing here?”

“You invited me,” he said with a twinkle in his eye that told me he knew more about the situation than I did.

“I did not,” was my brilliant retort.

He smiled again, reached into his right suit pocket, and took out an apple.  I watched as he turned it in his hand.  It looked solid.  I couldn’t look through it and see his hand as if it was a ghost apple, nor could I see the apple through his fingers. 

Mr. Twain, then put his left hand into his pants pocket and took out a small penknife.  As he opened the knife’s blade, he spoke, “You were reading Letters from the Earth, and you called me.”  I did not speak, having sounded dumb enough with my first attempt.  He nodded, “You said, ‘I wish I could meet the mind who wrote this’, so here I am.”

“Nice to meet you.”  I said, “Nice to meet you”!  How lame?  I embarrass myself.  To recover, I added, “I love your War Prayer.”  Another smile.   

My attention was drawn back to the apple because his was.  I watched as he started to cut it.  I had always seen and cut an apple on its north-south axis, into slices, removed the core and ate them.  Mr. Twain was cutting the apple around its girth.

The apple spun deftly in his hands as the small blade incised an arc through the heart of the fruit.  He split it, and held two halves, one in each hand.  I smelled fresh apple in the room over the fading cigar smoke.  He held the two halves, fruit side out for me to see. 

There were two stars, one in either half.  I had never known that splitting an apple that way would reveal stars and was delighted with the discovery. 

I looked at him smiling.  The twinkle in my eye matched his as he said, “Look beyond what you know and see the stars.  Things are not as they seem.”  He then took a bite of one-half and held the other toward me.  I reached for it, but as I did, he faded and was gone. 

I got up, raced to the kitchen and grabbed an apple, ran back to my room, got my knife and cut the apple as Mark Twain had done, looked at the stars, laughed, took a bite and swore I smelled cigar smoke. 

You may say the visit was not real, and you may be right, but I know this, things are not always as they seem.  If you look into the heart, you might find stars.

A Writing Class

I am taking a writing class.  Some of you reading this are saying, "It's about time."  Others of you are asking, "Why?"  In answer to both the statement and the question, I offer this, I am taking it to learn. 

I do this once, or twice a year, take a class, or attend a writer's conference.  It is great fun when I speak, or teach, because I learn by doing so, but I always try to attend other sessions because in my experience, everyone, and I mean every individual in that class, or session knows something I do not.  If you think about it, that is very exciting. 

In a previous life, I taught automotive technology, and I had done the same classes so many times, I could do them without notes.  I really knew the stuff, and it had become a challenge to teach these classes because it was becoming mundane.  There was a point that I thought I just might know it all.  Wrong, I knew very little.  If I listened, the individual in class who had the least experience always knew something I did not, or had forgotten.  The key word is, listen.

If there are ten people in the class, then there are ten things in that room that I do not know.  The trick is to get the things I don't know out of the ones who do.  How, do you do that?  You get them to talk, but since it is a writing class/conference, you first get them to write.  Writers love to write, or they wouldn't be writers.  The saying is that writers live to write, while authors write to live.  I guess I am both, but whichever the case, I need to learn.

A writing class is to write, so this column is part of the class.  I will turn it in as an assignment, killing two birds with this stone.  You will see what the class gave me, and what I learned in two days.

Dr. Kevin Rabas was the guest lecturer for, as he labeled it, the Intensive Creative Writing Workshop, offered by the University of South Alabama, Baldwin County, and I do mean intensive.  The term "lecturer" is a real misnomer.  Kevin was more of a masterful drill instructor as he led us from one creative exercise to another.  There was much time allowed for sharing and discussion, but when it was time to move on, we moved.

The class was challenged to write in multiply genres including poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction, flash fiction, play writing, and the writing of plays for the screen.  No genre was left unexplored.  I found myself, whose taste in poetry runs more to the, "Roses are red, violets are blue…" class, tempted into wanting to try my hand at free verse.  I have not, not yet, but I am tempted.

I did learn where a short story or two of mine could be adapted to ten-minute plays.  I've never considered such before, but now I am an aspiring playwright to go along with being an aspiring columnist, and novelist, and let us not forget poet.

There were eight in the class, which was a surprise to me that so few would take advantage of such a wonderful opportunity right here in Baldwin County.  The real surprise was that of the eight, four others were my age, or older.  I had expected a much younger crowd, but the vast and diverse pool of experience from those who have live life, loved, and lost, was something we all gained from swimming in.

The class being small was to my advantage, because it allowed for much sharing of written work and critique from fellow students.  These sessions were the real pearl of the oyster for me.  This is where I gained my desired diamonds of wisdom from everyone, and I did.  When I wasn't flapping my gums about my work, knowledge gained from writing and life's challenges poured from my fellow students. 

It is hard to write and not put some of you into every piece, it just kind of flakes off like DNA at a crime scene.  Our writing leaves bits and pieces of who we are scattered wherever we are read.  Souls were bared and experiences shared, and we were all strengthened by having come together and shared ourselves.  I came out feeling enriched and rejuvenated.

There were only two men in the class, which, I thought at first, said that women were more creative than men are, but as I re-think it, I'm guessing that women are more willing to share their life's experiences than men. That is such a shame, because we all have a story to tell.

My first novel, Where the Mockingbird Sang, exist because my great-great-grandfather kept journals.  He told his story.  If he had not thought it worth telling, our family would have been deprived of a wealth of family history, and our getting to know him. 

We ALL have a story to tell…tell it.  It doesn't have to be published, but it needs to be told.  Someday, you too will have great-great-grand children.  Will they know who you were?  Not if you don't write it down.  Tell us your story, enrich us…we're waiting.

My Life Revolves Around a Refigerator

An appliance controls my life.  I am so ashamed, but it is not because I can’t stay away from it, it is because I rely on it.

           Sunday afternoon, during a nice chin-on-chest nap in front of the television, the Norse god Thor with his hammer paid a visit to the internal workings of the refrigerator compressor.  It was a gosh awful racket that got the reposed Admiral off her favorite recliner to run to the kitchen, push me aside, grab the offending appliance, and shake it while yelling, "What's wrong with you?"   

       We say the strangest things when jolted from a deep sleep, and I only tell this embarrassing moment, which she will deny, because her actions and words set the tone for the coming week.  I did not know my life revolved around the refrigerator, but I was soon to learn.    

      The first thing to do was to get all the food out of the dead fridge's freezer.  The chest freezer is full to the brim, making me wonder how it is that we never have anything to eat around here.  Maybe if the Admiral bought more chocolate doughnuts and diet Dr. Pepper, and less good-for-you-stuff, we'd have room.     

     The freezer in the "Dr. Pepper" fridge (I don't drink, so it can't be a beer fridge) in the garage is stuffed too, so break out the ice chests.  We have two very good ones that keep ice and food cold for five days.  "We won't need that," I tell myself, "we'll have a new refrigerator on Monday, Tuesday at the latest."  Ha!  How can someone my age be so naïve?     

     Monday, I determined that fixing the old refrigerator, would cost an arm, but if I added only one leg, I could have a new one, so I started to shop.  I was confident that we would have a new refrigerator by Tuesday, and I could put my diet Dr Pepper back into its designated unit in the garage.  Hope springs eternal.  Ha!  I scoff at thee, thou gullible fool!

      I begin to shop websites.  You must be kidding me!  Whatever happened to the $500 ones?  To get one the size I want, with the features I am convinced are necessary for survival, such as through the door ice and water, I will have to pay an arm and a leg-and-a-half.  It took me a few minutes of ranting and raging, but the more I surfed, the more I knew that would be the price.  I was willing and still hopeful for Tuesday, maybe Wednesday.  Ha!  I declare again.     

       I found the one I wanted, so off I went to the store.  To my surprise, they had it, and the price was the same as the internet price.     

     "I want this one," I told the smiling, prepubescent clerk as I wondered how someone yet to shave could know anything about refrigerators, but then I've been shaving for over fifty years, and I don't know anything about most things.     

     "That's the first one you’ve looked at," he said.     

     "Yes," I replied, "this is man-shopping." 

      He looked at me funny. 

      "You see what you want; you buy it and go home."  I could tell he wasn't married.  "You'll understand someday." 

      He smiled weakly, and we went to check out.     

      As he was doing his magic in the computer, I asked, "Do you have one still in the box?"    

      "No, we'll have to have it shipped from our warehouse."     

     "O.k., I'll take the one on the floor."     

     "I can't do that.  If it was a close out item I could, but we're selling a lot of this model."     

     "How can you be selling a lot of this model, and not have one in stock?"    

      "We don't keep an inventory of large items.  They all come from our warehouse."    

      Tuesday isn't going to happen, and Wednesday is a fading possibility, but I ask, "Can you deliver it?"     

     "Yes sir, let me check a date for you."     

     "I can tell you the date, it’s tomorrow."    

      He reddened as he tapped keys, ignoring me.

      I sighed and groaned.     

     "What was that?"  He asked.     

     "That was the sound of hope for Wednesday leaving the building."  He didn't get it and I didn’t explain. 

     "We can deliver it Friday," he said, triumphantly.    

      I stared at him in shock.  It is Monday and I have to live until Friday without a refrigerator?  The gods laugh and mock me!  It was at that moment that I realized how an appliance controls my life.     

     The days until Friday were filled with longing, worry, and confusion.  I would forget, and go to the dead, empty unit with my glass for ice and water.  It's silence mocked me too.  Really, am I supposed to drink iceless, unfiltered tap water?  The indignity of it, and to top it off, all the diet Dr. Pepper was sitting on the floor of the garage, hot.  My heart aches for electrically generated, refrigerated air contained in a box.     

     Friday arrived and I sprang out of bed like a kid at Christmas.  The promised delivery time of 9:30AM was still hours away, but I was ready.  I had the mocking victim of Thor pulled out ready to haul off, the space for the new unit was cleaned and scrubbed, and a new water line was made ready.  I paced the floor.    

      I was so nervous.  It was like a first date.  "Will the new unit like me?"  I wondered.  "I hope she's as pretty as the pictures." 

      The designated time arrived.  The old unit was taken away, and the new one installed.  What a magic moment for me when the technician plugged it in and I could hear the quiet hum.  I nearly wept, I tell you.     

     Like a schoolboy with a new toy, I stood in front of it, running glass after glass of water through the filter to clean it out as instructed.  An hour or so later, I heard the first ice cubes hit the bottom of the tub and I shouted for joy.  Another hour passed and the wonderful sound of complete silence fell over the kitchen as my new refrigerator cycled off.  It was now cold enough to accept food.     

     I ran and emptied the bottom shelf of the garage refrigerator, rushed the stuff into the new one.  Next, the Dr. Peppers on the floor went into their proper place.  The freezer stuff in the ice chests was next, and the world began, once again, to go around in greased grooves. 

    What is wrong with me, why all this anxiety over a refrigerator?  What would happen to me if the car died?  Well, that's why I have two.  Maybe I should have three refrigerators.

It Ain't All It's Cracked Up to Be

It Ain't All It's Cracked Up to Be

"When we were on the boat…" most often elicits comments about how wonderful such a thing must be, living aboard, cruising the high seas, and how that is life's dream come true.  I smile, nod, not wanting to shatter their happy wondering, but I'm telling you, it ain't all it's cracked up to be.

After a little aimless chat about our three-year adventure aboard, the statement is made, "You're a writer," followed by the question, "why don't you write about it?"  I explain that every family who cruises has written about it to the point the market is flooded by such books, but the truth is, it ain't all it's cracked up to be, and folks don't want to hear that.

I have succumbed.  I am writing about it.  If your dream is to sail away and live forever cruising the blue, calm waters of the Caribbean, or the world's oceans, visiting exotic ports, and even more exotic, secluded anchorages off tiny, uncharted islands, catching your own lobster which are cooked right out of the water, drinking your favorite beverage while dining and watching the sun set on another perfect day, as you listen to Jimmy Buffet, stop right now.  Do not read any further.  That is the dream, but a dream is not reality.  I'm telling you, it ain't all it's cracked up to be.

Sailing is hard work.  You see these idyllic pictures of a tanned couple standing at the helm of an immaculate sailboat, smiling, and saying something like, "Now, bring me that horizon," a 'la Captain Jack Sparrow.  That is not the reality. 

A cruising vessel, if it has been to sea longer than a day is not clean and uncluttered.  There is all manner of gear lashed to the deck, all salt encrusted, and all a daily necessity.  The idyllic, smiling couple, after a week at sea, will both look as salty as the gear on deck. 

If there are only two of you and you are making a several day crossing, you are likely to be sailing in four-hour watches, which do not allow for much sleep, and even basic personal hygiene is abandoned.  Showering on a pitching, rolling boat is almost out of the question even if you have the water on board to take one.

After four hours of standing watch, the only thing you want to do is lie down, and as soon as you do, you're out…cold until the Admiral hollers, "I need you up here, QUICK!"  It is usually minor, sometimes not, but the adrenalin is surging, and sleep of any sort is now only a wish.

Put two little girls, a dog, and two frogs into this mix, and there is no way you are ever going to capture the attention of the ad agency that took the idyllic smile photo.  You soon realize why sailors are characterized as surly, unshaven, and ill kept.  It is now embarrassingly clear where, and how, the term "cusses like a sailor" came about. 

In your cruising dream, if you imagine hours of lounging at anchor reading a book, swimming, or resting, if you are the captain, forget it.  Your time at anchor will be spent repairing all the stuff that broke on the crossing while the Admiral and the Princesses do all the things they dreamed of…washing dishes, doing laundry, re-supplying, and handing me tools.

As captain of a sailing vessel, you are ultimately responsible for everything.  You are plumber, carpenter, electrician, rigger, painter, mechanic, minister, doctor/nurse, meteorologist, navigator, hydrologist, sail maker, and all around encyclopedia.  Heaven help you if you ever say the words, "I don't know."  If you do, you might as well get off at the next port and give the boat away.  Your credibility with the crew is shot.   

You have to be all of these things because, in the middle of the big, blue, wet thing, there is no roadside assistance or anyone likely to pass near if you break down.  You are on your own.  At sea, as captain, there is God, then you.  It is all on you.      

There comes a point when you wear down and instead of settling in some exotic locale that you dreamed of, you end up in Fairhope, Alabama…never a sweeter place on all the globe.  "What made you stop here?"  I am asked. 

"This is where the anchor fouled," I answer.

"Really?  Tell me about it."

I smile and will, but the truth is, it ain't all it's cracked up to be.

Chocolate Doughnuts

Chocolate Doughnuts

I love chocolate doughnuts.  I don’t mean the chocolate covered regular size ones; I love the little cake ones that are dipped in thick chocolate that come in packages of five or six that you buy at convenience stores.  Those are the ones I love.  I don’t just love them, I crave them.

If there is a twelve-step program for chocolate doughnut eaters, I am a candidate.  "Hi, my name is David.  I'm a chocolate-doughnut-aholic."

"Hi David."  Ah, I am not alone. 

I am writing this at nine-fifteen in the morning, checking my watch to see how long it is until ten-thirty.  That’s when I can go get my package of chocolate doughnuts and my diet Dr. Pepper, I don't want to overdo the sugar thing, and take my morning break.  See, I do have some self-discipline.

I blame this all on my mother.  She’s passed, so she can’t defend herself, and it may not be fair, but it is her fault.  I was a finicky eater as a child (I wish I had that problem now) and on into high school.  I would eat no reasonable breakfast food, not even cereals.  My mom, a nurse, having more than a working knowledgeable of nutrition and the importance of a good breakfast, gave up and one morning plopped down in front of me a box of chocolate doughnuts with a Coca-cola, and with a disgusted and defeated tone, said, “Here”, and walked away.

You must be kidding me, chocolate doughnuts for breakfast?!  Oh, there is a God, and he loves me!  I was elated; I was hooked.  From that day on until I left for college and then the service, I had chocolate doughnuts for breakfast.

They were not practical in college. I mean, I would have to buy them myself and I had better things to spend my money on.  In the Marine Corps, they weren’t available.  There, I ate anything I could get my hands on.  Finicky wasn’t an option.  See, I can do without them, and have for varying periods of time, sometimes, years.  Well, that might be stretching it a little, but I can do without them…for a while…maybe.

I have forgotten about them at times, but then out of nowhere, I get this craving and have to have them.  Or, more likely, I’ll be walking through a store and spy them on the shelf and they cry out to me, no, they sing to me, “Remember me?"  In two-part harmony, "Don’t you want me?  You can’t live without me.”  The sad thing is that they are right.  With a defeated, hangdog expression, and shuffling gait, I'll make my way toward the singing.  Guilt is a terrible thing, weakness is worse, but by the time I am at the shelf, my stomach, and temporal self have regained control of my common sense and I gleefully take the package(s) and make my way to the checkout counter. 

There have been many occasions when I hand an empty wrapper to the cashier.  I smile as I wipe chocolate from my fingers and mouth onto my pants and sleeve respectively.  She smiles back in a condescending manner, but I don't care.  I'm fixed for the day.   Such is the need for a chocolate doughnut junky.

Then I’ll go through a period where the Admiral buys them in quantities to stock the pantry.  That’s nice, and she says that if I insist on being addicted, that it’s more economical, but sneaking off to the corner store is so much more satisfying.

I’m sure I’ll quit again soon.  I don’t seem to crave them in the hotter weather; I don’t like the chocolate melting on my hands.  They’re so gooey and gummy in your mouth when they’re melty like that; yuck!  The doughnuts will slip away from my conscious awareness, but I know they are lurking back there somewhere, waiting and plotting.

A price will have to be paid for this as it is with all things that feel, or taste good, but until then, I’m loving them.  I look at my watch, oh no, I still have thirty minutes until 10:30!  Maybe I’ll break early today.

David Wilson Atwood is a local freelance writer whose human interest columns offer a unique perspective. He may be contacted at: david@starchasers.us.

What It's All About

Blogging is new to me, but I have decided to give it a go.  You can expect a weekly post from my column, Points of the Compass, which runs weekly in all the Gulf Coast News Papers after publication.  I have been writing Points of the Compass for a good number of years, and want to expand its readership.  I do hope you will enjoy the entries, and I welcome any, and all comments. 

What it’s All About

There are 360 degrees on the face of a compass with an infinite number of minutes and seconds between the points. All of these combine to give a seeker a sense of direction. That is the purpose of this column; to give you, the reader, a point of direction.  As an object on a map can be viewed from any number of points relative to your position so can an idea, event, or even a random thought, and all are different depending on where you stand.

This column, new to The Talk of the Bay, has appeared for many years in various publications. It had its beginning when I encountered a long lost fellow Marine whose appearance struck me so deeply that I had to write about it. The response was overwhelming and made me think that there might be people interested in what I have to say. I began to write, and people kept reading. I hope you do too.

It will be my privilege over the next many months to give you points of view that you might not have considered. The views I present will be poignant, humorous, reverent, irreverent, sad, happy, angelic, devilish, harsh, and gentle; well, you get the point; there are 360 of them.

The subjects will be myriad, ranging from people, to places, to situations, emotions, or just things; whatever I think needs attention, or strikes me as interesting and in need of comment. All will be of human interest. Some points of the compass you will agree with, some you will take serious issue with, but all of them should make you think. That is my goal.

I have led a full and wonderful life. I have fought in a war, loved passionately, lost painfully, and adventured greatly. The greatest adventure of my life is being the father of eight children. They have been the source of my greatest joy, inspiration, loss, achievement, and hope. You will hear much of them and the things they have taught me.

My wife and I, with our two youngest daughters have lived in the area for less than three years. We arrived from Alaska by sail boat after three years of traveling, dragged the anchor, and here we are. I, with them, have seen much, done much, and learned a lot. 

In addition to being the author of this column, I have written articles for various publications on various subjects. I am the author of two books. The first is a parenting guide called The Common Guy’s Guide to Raising Children; the second is a historical novel set in the Civil War titled Where the Mockingbird Sang. The first is available online; the second is due out next year.

Hopefully I will be able to pass along the things I see and know in a way that will make your life richer. If what you read here makes you think, you are richer, and thinking is the goal.