BoomSpeak

Lucky 13

By

E  S  S  A  Y    I’m not exactly sure when I knew I was meant to be a writer. It must have been when I was very young. It could have been when I realized words were important because whenever I asked my mother how to spell a word she made me look it up in the dictionary. So words are collected and put in books. Maybe that was the start.

By the time I was in high school, I was typing up short stories that I was sure the New Yorker magazine would be delighted to publish. In college I was bored with the standard curriculum but enthralled to be taking creative writing classes. My mentoring professor told me I had writing talent and I believed her.

Once established in my public relations career, I was writing speeches, congressional testimony, news releases, and articles for publications. I was getting paid to write – I was a professional.

I had enjoyed mystery novels for quite some time but it finally occurred to me that perhaps I could write one. I was living in Annapolis when I got serious about the possibility. The mystery subgenre that interested me most was the accidental detective. A crime is committed and with no experience for detecting, the main character attempts to solve the mystery. It’s even more interesting if it imparts some knowledge about people and places that are outside your own experience. Annapolis and the boating scene on the Chesapeake Bay offered just such an opportunity. And that’s how my mystery novel entitled Head Above Water came to be. I wrote the kind of mystery novel that I liked to read. That was a long time ago.

For years I would not let anyone read it. But then one friend was allowed to see it, and then another, and another and another. All were enthusiastic and encouraging. By then self-publishing had emerged as a real avenue for aspiring writers, so after 13 years, Head Above Water is finally available on Amazon and Kindle. I’m no longer a pre-published author as it used to read in my byline. I should savor the moment but it has freed me up to work on the new mystery featuring an aerial photography pilot in New Mexico. No time to waste because I am not waiting 13 years for this next one to get published.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle.

Moth Epiphany

By

E  S  S  A  Y  Don’t sweat the small things. That’s what the gurus say.

But sometimes small things – like the carpet-eating moths that have bunked up in my Santa Fe house – cause oceans of sweat.

After moving away from the too expensive and stressful Bay Area; buying, and remodeling this delightful house; meticulously arranging my precious wool rugs from Oaxaca, Turkey, and Iran; and neatly stacking my consignment shop sweaters, I relaxed – until I saw them.

Tiny wheat-colored moths strolling across my favorite wall hangings. I researched: They have bacchanals on wool and silk. One female can lay 150 eggs, which hatch into larvae, which gorge themselves, chewing fist-sized holes in beautiful textiles. Then they pupate, starting their revels over again.

This week I’ve been vacuuming like a woman possessed, inspecting sweaters, scarves, gloves, and socks; taking clothes to the drycleaners, freezing rugs, baking others in the sun, placing sticky traps laced with pheromones to lure the males; and ordering pyrethrin sprays from Amazon to repel the little bastards. I called a rug company in Ithaca, NY, four times – they have moth experts. A fifth time I called just for moral support: What if just one female or one wriggling larva survives all my assaults?

Before breakfast this morning, I was on my knees. Not praying, but looking under my sofa — because that’s where the experts say they lurk. I was thinking: how ridiculous is this? Then I thought of my father.

After being blacklisted by Joseph McCarthy and losing his job, he started a pest control business. It was hard work, crawling around bakeries and other commercial establishments looking for cockroaches and rodent droppings. He was a smart man, and had loved his white-collar job at the Food and Drug Administration. He became an angry man. To his dying day, he said he felt like a man without a country. And though he didn’t say it, I knew he felt demeaned by the dirty work, down on his knees.

I had an epiphany on the living room floor: maybe my moth obsession had something to do with feeling my father’s pain. I remembered him coming home from work, face lined, green coveralls dirt- and poison-soiled. As a little girl, I thought if I was really good, I could make him be happy. I didn’t have that power. And today, no matter how conscientious, I may still miss one damn moth, and there’s not a thing I can do about that. We humans imagine we can control things – from tiny moths to aging and illness — only to find that we control almost nothing.

I’m alive and healthy. I have great friends. I have poetry. And the New Mexico sky is astonishingly beautiful. So I’ll remember what the gurus say. I’ll do my best, and stop sweating the rest.

Joanne Brown is a strategic communications consultant, writer, and poet. Her corporate work can be found at joannebrown.com, and her poetry has been featured in Persimmon Tree and Evening Street Review.

Flippin’ Burgers

By

F I C T I O N

American Federation of Fry Cooks
2313 E. M St. NW
Washington, D.C. 20022

To: Mr. Res Ident

Dear Mr. Ident

We have had enough. Please help us. Our records indicate that you have purchased and presumably consumed fast foods during the past several years. For this we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

Our colleagues are under constant attack from effete politicians, megabuck corporate welfare daddies and vapid commentators from sea to shining sea.

What is the first thing people say when they want to beat somebody up about education, crime, welfare? “Flipping burgers. If we don’t put a billion into satellite links to kindergartens, these kids will wind up flipping burgers. If we don’t put pool halls in the prisons, these guys will return to crime – they don’t want to be flipping burgers. If we don’t elect Bob Heartworm, all the people in the district face a future of flipping burgers.” This in a country that can’t wait for weekends so that people can fire up the grill and flip their own burgers. Go figure. Disrespecting fry cooks is hypocritical, immoral and un-American.

What in the world is wrong with commercial food preparation as a job? Not everybody gets to be the president of a multi-national corporation right out of grade school. We’re a hungry nation on the run. Fry cooks feed millions every day. What’s wrong with that? It’s honest work. It’s necessary work. They don’t have to sign life contracts. All they have to do is show up. And they do. By the tens of thousands every day. It’s enough to make you want to run outside and scream. Go ahead if you want to. This letter can wait.

There. Well, that’s the story. We need your help. The next time you hear or read of someone denigrating this honorable calling, take issue. Or drop us a line. We’ll take issue for you.

Sincerely,

Watson Wallaby
Chief Cook & Bottle Washer

Lanny Tonning is a pilot, roustabout, mechanic, bottle washer and co-owner of Old Town Farm and Bike In Coffee. When he’s not doing all those things he’s 4-wheel driving on roads that are not really roads.

Down At the Factory
Things Are Looking Up

By

E  S  S  A  Y  For boomers anyway. Manufacturers in the U.S. depend on baby boomer labor and they are doing whatever it takes to keep us on the job. Around 27 percent of manufacturing workers are over the age of 65.

What’s so great about baby boomers in the factory? For starters, they have experience and knowledge that younger works don’t have. They are loyal. And the best part is they need/want to work.

As enticements to stay on the job, manufacturers are offering flexible schedules, reduced work weeks, and job sharing, along with mentoring and consulting opportunities. Even the ergonomics of the shop floor are being retrofitted to reduce the physical wear and tear on older workers who want to avoid knee and back issues.

The scary aspect of this looming labor shortage for manufacturers is that it’s not just happening in factories. Think about where the next generation of plumbers and electricians are coming from. Or auto mechanics. If you think that plumbing, car engines and the household electrical systems can be engineered to be so simple that expert repair personnel is no longer needed, you are dreaming. If anything, some of these systems are going to get even more complicated as the technology behind them gets more sophisticated. That faucet that comes on automatically when the infrared sensor detects motion? It still can leak under the sink or the sensor can go on the fritz. Millennials don’t even know the meaning of “on the fritz” never mind how to replace a worn out faucet washer.

You might be thinking that robots can pick up the slack but I don’t think that’s the solution. Robots can only intuit so much and a simple short caused by worn wires in a light switch may be beyond their capability.

The solution is to keep boomers on the job and start a serious program for knowledge transfer. Not every millennial wants to be a computer programmer or app inventor. It’s time to give tradespersons the status they deserve, along with better compensation. When a plumber can make as much as a doctor, with a lot less stress, the problem may solve itself. Until then, stay on good terms with your trades people and hope that they keep on keeping on.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle.

I Wish I’d Taken A
Picture of My Dad

By

E  S  S  A  Y   I wish I’d taken a picture of my dad when he was deep in thought, or working at his bench in the garage, or playing his drums. A tight close up of the place he’d escape to when he needed to disappear. A master of concentration, he had a genius for tuning out whatever was going on around him. Especially my mom.

I wish I’d taken a picture of my dad when he explained aviation to my 2 year-old son. Joel hung on his granddad’s every word, looking up at an airplane overhead, pointing, and saying, “Up high!” It was what Dad always said to him so he assumed planes were called “up-highs.” They both loved aviation so much, I’m sure my dad must wear some sort of wings in my son’s memory.

I wish I’d taken a picture of my dad when he had his morning coffee. He was an early riser and liked to sit in his favorite chair working the daily crossword, and by the time I got up he was already at work, in his garage, or doing yard work. My first real “smell memory” is of freshly mowed lawn; I thought it smelled like watermelon. I still think it smells like watermelon and whenever that fragrance wafts by me, I smile.

I wish I’d taken a picture of my dad—I wish I could have taken a picture of my dad—when I performed. No matter where he was from where I stood or sat, his smile always told me how proud he was that his family’s musical genes had been passed down to me, that I was a Waller through-and-through. I remember once when a flute quartet of mine was performed in California, I played for him a recording of it over the phone. When it was done the other end of the line was silent and I feared we’d lost connection. Then I heard his soft, deep voice say, “I can’t say anything, hon. I’m crying like a baby.” I wish I had a picture of my dad at that moment.

I wish I’d taken a picture of my dad one of the many times he walked in my kitchen door bearing a paper bag or two of groceries. He always said he’d only picked up a couple things we needed, but it was always things we wanted but couldn’t afford. Cookies, licorice, a toy for each of the kids, a music magazine for me… He’d come in, pour a cup of coffee and sit down at the table to visit for a while, and then he’d be gone again. These days I only fantasize about him walking in my kitchen door. These days he wouldn’t need to bring anything but himself. That was always enough for me.

SK Waller is an author and composer. Books One and Two (With A Dream and With A Bullet) of her rock and roll series, Beyond The Bridge,  takes places in late 70s London. Read more at SK Waller Blog and SKWaller.com.

Those Crazy Americans

By

T R A V E L   I had a lot of fun teasing the French when I lived in Paris in the 70’s. All I had to do was invite friends over, serve four courses instead of seven, make pancakes for lunch, put the salad at the beginning of the meal instead of the end, or – worst transgression of all – dump the meat, potatoes, vegetables and salad all in one plate, American-style, and say, “Voilà!”

It was easy to be a rebel over there, something I’m good at as long as attitude counts more than subversive action. What can I tell you? It was the spirit of the times. I never burned any bras, but, on the other hand, I didn’t wear any either.

In the playground I took off my shoes and squatted in the sand alongside my baby son. And slid down the slides after him. The other French mothers were too busy admonishing their offspring not to get water from the Place des Vosges fountains on their leather-trimmed “playclothes” to have my kind of fun. The occasional father would guide his child up the stairs of the slide like this: “First place your right foot on this step, lift your left foot up x centimeters, now pull yourself slowly up!” The poor child would lose all taste for the adventure ahead and reap the scorn of the other little ones waiting on the steps behind him.

Of course I wore jeans with an embroidered butterfly I had stitched on to cover a hole that was – come to think of it – suggestively positioned on my thigh. Let the françaises prance in their heels and summer dresses. I had scarves in my shoulder-length hair.

Still I looked French enough pushing a baby carriage for one confused American tourist to continue to talk to me in French even after I said, “Listen, you can speak to me in English!”

Other outrages of mine – putting the light on during the day in my darkened apartment before the appointed (?) hour, rinsing dishes with the water running, “insulting” a clove of garlic by not slicing it daintily enough, boorishly putting a container of milk on the kitchen table (instead of a creamer), oh, and picking up my son whenever he cried instead of letting him “make his lungs.”

Not exactly a march on Washington, but I did my darnedest to stand up for the good ole American way of life!

Janet Garber’s satiric novel, dream job, wacky adventures of an HR Manager, available on www.janetgarber.com. She’s working on a second novel about a Franco-American couple living in Paris in the 70’s.

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