Monthly Archives: January 2017

How Embarrassing

I’m so very excited to sit down today with Rowena Carlson Kramer, a major character in three of my father’s novels, and get her story for my first ‘Character Confessions‘ article.

Scott: So Rowena, for today’s ‘confession’, I want to deal with a time you were afraid of something happening.  Did anything like that ever take place?

Rowena: “Go Potty!”

Scott: Umm, of course.  You know where the restroom is and when you’re done we can get started.

Rowena:  It’s not that Scott.  I was referring to what I said to my new father after he put me to bed the first night in Garwood.

Scott:  Well, you’ve got my attention.  What happened Rowena?

Rowena:  After my mother died, my father had a woman friend who didn’t want me around so he arranged to give me to a family in Garwood,  On our way, my father, “possessing the level of intellect he did, and being of the temperament he was, had given no thought to seeing” that I used the restroom “before or during the train ride.”  “In the prevailing excitement” after leaving the train, “no one else had considered the matter.”

I was still asleep when we got home, so I never saw my new mother, but I did hear a woman’s voice, once in awhile.  “It wasn’t as cold and harsh as that” of my aunt, with whom I had “stayed in those weeks following” my “mother’s death, but it lacked the melodic sweetness that lay in the precious memories of” my “mother.”

I can still feel the warm, fluffy nightgown being pulled over my head and then those huge, loving hands gathering me up and placing me gently into bed.  “Fear held no power against the delightful sinking sensation,” as I “settled into the downy depths.”

It wasn’t long after when the urgent demands of my bladder brought me to the horrible realization that I had no idea of where a toilet might be or if one existed in the house I now occupied.  I grew up with outhouses and chamber pots, and in the city with my aunt there was indoor plumbing, but I didn’t know anything about where I was that night.

I remember laying very still and concentrating on prolonging the inevitable.  The room was not totally dark, but having no knowledge of my surroundings, I dare not get out of bed.  I recall whimpering softly and “contemplating which might be the least traumatic; getting up, being unable to find a facility, and wetting the floor,” or staying where I was and wetting the bed.

Recalling all too vividly my father’s wrath at the occasion of my last accident, I was “certain that either would involve terrible punishment.”

Scott: I’m almost afraid to ask about the ending.

Rowena: That’s when ‘Uncle Jason’ came and asked me what was wrong and I blurted out, “Go Potty!”

Scott: Uncle Jason?  I thought you were picked up at the train by your new father.

Rowena:  Well yes, same man, but that’s a story better left for your First Acquaintance series.  Before I knew what was happening, “the covers were snatched away, and those great warm hands whisked” me “from the bed with such speed” that I was forced to squeeze with all my “might to avert an instant flood.”

Everything he did was gentle and soon, the ordeal was over and I was “settled in the warm folds of the feather bed.'”  He said he was sorry and that he should have had me ‘go potty’ before he put me in bed.  “Hearing the deep masculine voice” repeating my “baby phrase was strange, almost comical, but at the same time very reassuring…and from that magic storehouse, from whence flows the wisdom of children, came the realization that there had been no need for” my “discomfort.”

Scott: Wow…that could have ended so differently, especially if you were still with your real father.  It sounds like you went from fear to peace in a very short time.  How old were you when this happened?

Rowena:  I hadn’t celebrated my fifth birthday yet Scott and you’re so right about the ending.  My new father, whose nearness that night gave me such peace and security, filled my life with a love nearly equal to that of my mother, a love I cherished, and returned, for the rest of my life.

Scott:  Thank you so much for your time and openness with us Rowena.

Rowena: It was my pleasure Scott and I hope you’ll give me a chance to share some other confessions at a future date.  There’s lots to tell.

Scott:  If that gleam in your eyes is any indication, I’m sure my readers and I would love to have you share again.

 

A Little Bit Before Five

Welcome to the initial installment of “First Acquaintance“.  It was early in the Fall of 1886, as the opening pages of “Rowena” unfolded, when this scene took place…

“The coach was comfortably warm, but, huddled next to the large, glowering man, the child’s appearance suggested that no amount of external warmth could dispel the chill that gripped her.  Her proximity to him, although not that of an offspring enjoying the security of a loving parent, was close enough to indicate that they were, in some way, attached.”

As the train neared it’s next stop, the little girl…

“…shivered and glanced up furtively.  “Garwood, Papa?”

The voice, matching the child in size, confirmed what her appearance implied.

With the man’s brusque nod, offering nothing more than annoyed acknowledgement, a second tremor gripped the tiny body; and, drawing her knees tight against herself, she moved closer to him.

Glaring down, he snapped: “Don’t get so close, child, you’ll muss my suit!”  He cuffed her leg with a huge hand.  “And get your feet off the seat.”

Blinking back the tears she obeyed, and sought to become one with the cushions.”

Who is this young character we’re introduced to in one of my Dad’s books?

“There were those who would have viewed her as merely wistful, but intuitive observation would have revealed a child, if not abused, acutely aware of being unwanted.  Had this not been so, in another time, she would have been a living Rockwell.

If you had met Rowena May Bruanhauser, who was rapidly approaching her fifth birthday in the excerpts above, you probably would have been drawn to “the sprinkling of freckles, peppered across the dainty nose, and spilling out over her cheeks.”  To learn more about this young lady, destined for big things, check out an early post from the Facebook Page for Read My Dad’s Stuff.

 

Eight Lines Deep

What are you about to read in the two verses below?  A young man’s secret writing about his first love; a love poem to celebrate a couple’s wedding day; the anniversary verse captured on the fifth year of marriage; or something else?

Her eyes, not “limpid pools”
Are deeply shaded brown
And in the sun her hair
Becomes an auburn crown

Dainty ears hidden there
That out from under peek
While on her lovely lips
The smile is mine to keep

Good job if you guessed ‘Something Else’.  From talking with dad, this is part of a sonnet penned by my Father, near the 40th year of marriage to Mom.  And that tells you more than just a bit about Bill.

Dad has been a hard worker all his life and out shoveled me this winter, at age 90, as we helped clean the walkway of snow from a dear friend’s home.  He served in the Navy; was a long haul truck driver; ran his own service station; added a large room on our old home; and has done more physically in his life than anyone I know personally.  But there’s more to him than that.

He’s sensitive and romantic (read the two verses again if you don’t believe me) and has an artistic streak running through him that’s nearly as strong as his physical prowess.  He’s my Dad and I’m somewhat biased but I think people who know him would agree; Bill’s quite a fella.

Want to find out more about my Dad?  If you’ll contact me, I’ll forward you a short story he wrote and if you want to review it, you just may find yourself part of one of my ‘Fresh Looks‘ posts.

Pessimistic Optimism

In this first installment of ‘Bits of Bill‘, dad shares about an aspect of his personality.

Amid a lifetime of acquaintances, there have been those that accused me of being a negative person.  Although it was not a universal opinion, honest, self-evaluation does reveal a slanting toward negativism.  To remain truthful, however, it is necessary to point out that it is apportioned in a positive manner.

Despite the contradictory aspects, of the latter, its accuracy is verified by the manner in which a former boss spoke of me:  “McIntyre is a pessimistic optimist!”

I always hoped that to be his way of saying that, while I was a pain; I was appreciated, maybe, even needed.

My employment was with a young company, one that was growing rapidly.  Because of this over abundance of growth hormones, chaos was the normal operating mode.  Contributing to that state was the fact that much of the work force, and all of the management team, wore several caps.

Quite often, a scrap of paper would land on my desk outlining some totally implausible plan that I was expected to implement.  Inevitably, a postscript assured me:  “We know you can do it, Bill!”

Usually, the desired results were achieved, but never by the suggested means.  Dashing into an undertaking, without considering the minuses, is foolish.  This is why those with a “we can’t fail” attitude are not in the best position to see why, or how, they might.

So, I reserve the right to be negative… at times, adamantly so, but not as a defeatist.  I approach each task, or project, with my guard up.  I ferret out the potential pit falls; and find ways to overcome them.  Then, with the positive assurance of one fully prepared, I forge ahead.  Of course, I usually fall flat on my face, because positive pessimism has nothing to do with good sense, ability… or God’s will?

It’s Launch Time

Welcome to Read My Dad’s Stuff.  I wish there were a reality show designed to uncover the next great American author.  I’d do everything possible to get my dad on the show and let the world hear what he’s written.  This dear man, with less education than you’d guess from reading his stories, has completed seven novels and is always working on another one when we talk.  Plus, he’s penned a large number of short stories, a good deal of poetry, and some short sermons.  He loves writing and, if he never gets a publishing deal, will keep telling stories until the day he dies.

Some time ago, I got the idea of becoming his self-proclaimed publicist and seeing if I could increase his chances of reading his name on the spine of a book sitting atop the NY Times Bestsellers list.  Is that too crazy a goal?  Perhaps, but shooting for the moon got humanity into the far reaches of outer space so why not give the NY Times list a shot.

Will I be disappointed if one of his books get self-published but never sells more than 20 copies?  Yes, but living with disappointment is something all of human kind must get used to if we’re to live long and prosper on this planet.  What if a 1,000 copies of his e-book gets sold?  I could live with that.  Suppose 25,000 people end up subscribing to this blog and sharing it on social media, resulting in a published novel with sales of over 50,000 copies.  Come to think of it, why stop at the New York Times Bestsellers list?  Maybe a Pulitzer Prize is in my dad’s future.

So where to start?  Well, since you’re reading this, the adventure has already begun and you could be the catalyst for 100 other people (or 10,000) to join up for the fun.  Here are a few suggestions to keep the ball rolling…

  • Like our Facebook page
  • Share this post with friends
  • Get updates on new happenings – just email me and say ‘Sign me up’

Want more info before you leap into the pool? I’d suggest reading a little more about the site.