​Reviewer: Vera Gubnitskaia, Reference Librarian, Valencia College, Winter Park, Florida.
[email protected]

Interweavings: Creative Nonfiction by Carol Smallwood, Shanti Arts Publishing, Brunswick, Maine, 2017; ISBN 978-1-941830-46-8, paperback, $16.95, 162 pages.
https://www.amazon.com/Interweavings-Creative-Nonfiction-Carol-Smallwood/dp/1941830463/ref=sr_1_1_twi_pap_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1490647995&sr=1-1&keywords=carol+smallwood
 
Interweavings: Creative Nonfiction is a mosaic. There is a gentle ebb and flow of threads of the author’s life with children, cancer, marriage, friends, losses. And yet, you catch yourself, while reading and after you finish, thinking about your own life. Not comparing, no, just thinking, remembering, feeling. As if reading these lines, sentences, paragraphs, wakes something up, lifts a corner of a drape with a gentle breeze. Softly reminds you of pieces and interweavings of your past, of wonders of the present, of anticipation of the future.
This is a collection of shimmering bits and pieces of excellent prose. It is written by an accomplished poet, and sometimes it feels like it is written in verse. It is tempting to read it in one gulp, the collection is small and is deceptively easy to glide through; resist the urge to finish it in one sitting. Sip it slowly, reflect, put aside, reflect some more, come back. Take another taste, repeat as necessary. Enjoy the music, smile at the recollection of an episode from Columbo. Climb library steps. Grieve about a lost friend. Feel alive.

​

​
 Beauty around the High Atlas Mountains, Morocco

​I along with my family was exploring Morocco, a country rich in geopolitical history and cultural heritage situated at the tip of Northern Africa.  Our youthful local guide Hassan from Adrar Travel would suggest that besides visiting the country’s famous cities, we should also take a road trip through the valleys and gorges of the High Atlas Mountains.  He would promise that the trip would provide us with not only the natural scenic beauty of the mountains from the distance, but also a chance to appreciate spectacular canyons, carved out of the mountains by the rivers formed from the molten historic glaciers.  Accordingly, after visiting historic Marrakech, we set out to travel on National Route 9 towards our next destination. The winding mountainous highway took us through Tizi n’Tichka (difficult mountain pass, in local language), the highest mountain pass in this part of Africa at an elevation of 2260m.  The first road here was built by the French military in late 1930-s.  The surrounding natural scenery with gorges, sheer cliffs as well as the view of winding cork-screw highway from higher elevation was breathtaking.  However, one of the unfortunate causalities of human invasion here was the extinction of Barbary lions that used to inhabit the region.  As our journey continued, the snow-capped peaks of the High Atlas Mountain range soon appeared at the distant, making one of our travel companions to comment “Yes Virginia, it even snows in Morocco!”

​
​As we continued on the road, fertile valleys dotted with indigenous Berber villages along with the tower of the village-mosques also came to view.

​After a few hours, we took a break from our journey at Ait Benhaddou, a UNESCO World heritage site.  The site contains remnants of a fortified village (ksar in Arabic) with mud-brick architecture. The place existed along the former caravan route between Marrakech and the beginning of Sahara.  After crossing a bridge over a semi-dry river, we entered into the historic section dotted with remaining structures, nested on a small hill.  From the top of the hill, a spectacular panoramic view of the surrounding nature with the snow-capped High Atlas Mountains at the horizon appeared.  It was mentioned that Ait Benhaddou had been utilized as a set in several international movies and TV shows, including Gladiator and Game of Thrones.

​After visiting Ait Benhaddou, we continued our journey through the valley and stopped at a small town for the night.  Next morning, we resumed our journey to arrive at the small town of Tinerhir from where a spectacular view of the shearing of the mountain involved in a gorge formation, under a clear blue sky, came to view.  We parked the car to walk on the narrowest end section of the gorge, known as Todgha Gorge.

​As we entered the canyon, we found a flat stony track to walk on, while a narrow stream of water was flowing gently along one side.  The sheer mountain walls on both sides measure to be more than 500ft at several points.  On the other hand, current tiny stream of a river originating from a glacier in the High Atlas Mountains seemed to be a misfit, but the enormity of the gorge gave the impression how mighty the historic river might had been flowing through here!
 

 
From there, we headed towards the town of Merzouga to start an overnight camping trip amidst Sahara desert.  But, that adventure needs to be told in next occasion.
(Phot credit: Shelley Chatterjee)

​Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies.  Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.

                                             Play It Legato      

 
   Do popular songs affect your moods?  During my own acne days, long before the word zit was coined, I'd  hum "Again.  This couldn't happen again..." and pretend romance pain.  Because of You, ‘my' song with a first love, made me aware I was leaving girlhood.  World War II's, This is the Army, Mr. Jones, always formed a smile on my lips as one of the names in the lyrics was Mr. Green, my father's name;  but I'd tell the wooden radio that my father spelled his with an ‘e' at the end. 
   I played Little Green Apples on the piano, in 1960's, for my three young children.  They also liked the rhythm of Sweet Caroline and the moody Mac Arthur Park.  Now, 2017, do they remember how we giggled after tapping notes on ivory keys and singing as loudly as we could?
   Technological advances have made a few old lyrics or titles ghoulish.  I left my heart in San Francisco:  transplant talk!   My  heart belongs to you:  it literally might!  Heartaches:  coronary by-pass consideration!  Open-heart surgery has already been done on six of my relatives, and I've had a cardiac catherization.  Might these songs make you feel creepy if you had my family background?
   I guess expressing affection by using the word ‘heart’ began to change when my father died at age 45 from a coronary occlusion.  Years later, my mother sustained two massive attacks, and open-heart surgery, so I even get upset hearing the term 'heartwarming' as I medically know her body had to be cooled down considerably before that operation and then warmed up.  Are others affected as I am? 
   "Ah sweet mystery of life tonight I've found you...":  in vitro fertilization.  "Fly me to the moon...":  it has been done. Maybe that's why many current tunes depend upon beat rather than words. 
   The Handicap March, copyright 1895 by G. M. Rosenberg, was supposedly written for motion picture, newsreel, horse-race sequences.  How many people now just reading that song title would think horses rather than Viet Nam veterans parading in Washington, or the Special Olympics for disabled persons? 
   Sermons in song are ageless.  Always Take Mother's Advice, with a copyright of 1884 by Willis Woodward and Company, probably could be played next Mother's Day, 2018, and ‘ring true'.  Doesn't the name sound ‘seasonal'? 
   During my New York City girlhood, schoolteachers wanted pupils to know titles and composers of classical music, so I was taught, singsong:  'Amaryllis written by Ghis,  Ghis sells apples two cents apiece.'  In doing me a service, a disservice occurred;  I heard all my music appreciation melodies with jingles attached!  When seated at a live Philharmonic, and the orchestra conductor raises his baton to begin a familiar strain, I can't shut-out the jingle in my head and concentrate on the composition.
   Sometimes, though, mystique rather than selections impressed.  For example, Tanglewood in the Berkshire Mountains, has formal gardens, mountain backdrop, a lush lawn to lie on beneath an incredibly beautiful sky;  the setting makes the concert an experience. 
   A grandson went to an Infected Mushrooms concert winter 2017.  He asked the Artificial Intelligence cylinder in my house to play some of the Infected Mushrooms songs.  The beat was fine, but the name of the group made me uncomfortable. Rap music with its message of violence, in many cases, does the same thing to me.
   Perhaps I'm reacting to some titles and lyrics because I've lost the innocence of Singing in the Rain?   Now I'm feeling pressured by calendar pages and reminded with a song (by Wizell and Melsher, ©Trinity Music, Inc.) I May Never Pass This Way Again.

​

Pat St. Pierre started her freelance writing while in high school. She has published fiction, nonfiction, and poetry for both adults and children. Her third poetry book “Full Circle” has been published by Kelsay Books. Her writings can be found both online and in print. Some of her work can be found at: Fiction 365, Friday Flash Fiction, 50 word story, Silver Boomer Books. Kids Imagination Train, A Long Story Short, etc. She is also a freelance photographer whose photos have been on the covers and included in such places as: Front Porch Review, Boston Literary Review, 4 Ties Literary Review, Ramshackle Review, Peacock Journal, Our Day’s Encounter, etc. Her blog is www.pstpierre.wordpress.com.

                              Treasures from My Mother
 
 
            Recently my mother passed away. I am one of the fortunate ones to have had my mother in my life until my golden years.
 
            The last six or seven years of her life my mother had dementia. I am grateful that it wasn’t Alzheimer’s and that she knew her children and grandchildren right up until her death.
 
            But during these years, I missed the mother she once was. Although she still tried to give advice she wasn’t the feisty woman of before. Not that I wanted her that way but during her remaining years she was a lot quieter. I think she reflected on her life and knew that the end was drawing near.
 
            Although she did have her share of illnesses and hospital stays during the last few years, I’m thankful that I didn’t have to watch her waste away from a debilitating illness.  She was a diabetic, she was hypertensive, she had CHF, she had a colostomy, she had an irregular heart beat and she was on oxygen 24/7. During the last four years of her life, she developed mirsa (a staph infection) while in the hospital and the prognosis was not very good. A huge ulcer developed that looked as though it might not heal. Fortunately it did. The last two years of her life she had fallen several times (reason unknown) and had lengthy hospital stays. The last fall/heart attack was to be her last
 
             I visited her every week and sometimes twice a week and even though each visit was a long one most of our conversations were superficial. Once in a while she would touch on some subject and sound like my mother of years before but usually we talked about daily routines and the weather.
 
             Five years ago I needed her to be my mother of before. My oldest son passed away and when I told her about his death I wanted to bury my head in her lap and have her hold me. But that did not happen. She was the one who needed me and yet I needed her so desperately. During the following months and years, there were so many times I would be grieving and crying on the way to her home. When I entered the door I had to put on a fake façade and pretend the world was right with me.
 
            Although her death is still recent, my mind has begun to think about my own eventual end. I have thought about all the areas in my own life that I would like to change. I don’t want to leave my sons with boxes and boxes of useless items. I cherish the notes my mother left on each item that she had stored away and I also realize that she grew up in the days of the depression and every item was kept in case it was needed some day. In my mother’s case she even kept replacement parts to old coffee pots, irons, blenders, etc. I don’t want to burden my sons with that kind of clutter. Recently I have looked around my house, garage, and attic and I seem to see a carbon copy of my mother in me. Not that I keep replacement parts but I seem to be keeping so many items that I really can do without. I have to force myself to let go of these meaningless items. How many sheets, towels, coffee pots, dishes, etc. do I really need? Of course, not many.  That is one lesson I have learned from losing my mother.
 
            I also know that I want to grow old and be near my children. I don’t want to be hundreds of miles away and only hear their voices. As we age and our minds become slower we carry the images of our loved ones but their physical present, I believe, is important for our comfort and happiness.
 
            My mother loved to save recipes.  She never made so many of those delightful findings but she still put them away to be used at a later date and time. Amongst her many recipe clippings I found a stapled 3 page story that someone had written. There was a note attached that read, “For Patty to read”.  Curiosity enhanced my interest and so I sat down and read the story. The author had written a children’s short story. My mother was constantly encouraging me to write. This little gem brought tears to my eyes. It was as though so many years prior to her death she knew I would find this and once again her words of encouragement were alive to me. 
 
            Hidden among her canceled checks and receipts were little treasures that were tucked away for many years. It was as though as was trying to say these precious little pieces of paper were considered very valuable to her. There were so many little notes and things that she had saved from her grandchildren. Things that I had completely forgotten about. One of those precious items was a Christmas list from my oldest son written when he was seven. On the list to his Nana were three items: a hammer, screws and a saw.   Another was a dated note from my mother that said my youngest son had delivered a rose to her and left it on her kitchen table because she wasn’t home. And yet another treasure was a large drawing one of my sons had made when he was in Kindergarten. The rolled up drawing was tucked away in the basement in one of her cooking pots. An unusual place but so nice to find it. 
 
            So, I’ve made a decision that no I don’t want to be a person who saves duplicate and broken items like my mother did. But yes I definitely want to follow in her footsteps. I’d like to think about the expressions on my sons’ and grandsons’ faces when they search through my belongings and find things that they never expected to find. Perhaps I’ll make them each a memory box and place items in there that I’ve already saved. Or maybe, just like my mother, I’ll let them find little notes and precious items tucked away. I can just hear their voices when they say “these are treasures from my mother”.   
 
 
 

​              Interview of Rosemary McKinley
 
 
Rosemary McKinley’s interest in history is evident: she was a history and writing teacher before she retired. She has been published in several magazines and in included in anthologies.  Her books include:  101 Glimpses of the North Fork and Islands; The Wampum Exchange. The first centers on the North Fork of Long Island in vintage photos. The second is a multicultural historical novella about the beginning of the first settlement in New York, Southold. She’s been doing book presentations, and talks, in costume, with artifacts in schools, libraries, historical societies.
 

What drew you to pursue writing after you retired?
 
Two reasons really.
Two summers in the 1990’s, I attended A twelve-day Writing Workshop @ Columbia U Teachers College to become a better writing teacher. There I learned how writers operate and I became fascinated with the process but never intended to become an author. I did start writing more creatively and I enjoyed the challenge, along with my students.
As a history teacher, I was always writing nonfiction so this class helped me use the writing process more creatively.
Then, in 2003, my mother died and that life changing event caused me to question what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Then and only then, did I think about pursuing a career as a published author.
 
 
What brought about your third newly published novel:  Captain Henry Green, A Whaler? https://www.amazon.com/dp/1546625194/ref=rdr_ext_tmb
 
 At a book signing of The Wampum Exchange, my second book, two docents from the Hortons Point Lighthouse, told me they had the topic for my third book. Henry Green is highlighted there and they said he was a fascinating character and wanted to know more about him. So, after a few months, I got hooked on the quest of finding out about Henry Green’s life.
Whaling itself was an adventure and I have to say that researching this topic became one to me.
 
 
Did you have a certain audience in mind?
 
Well, since I am a history buff and the town I live in is the oldest English settlement in New York State, I thought people here would be interested. Henry grew up on the South Fork of Long Island and then moved to my town later in life. People are familiar with his name.
Also, whaling seems to attract interest.
 
 
What research did you do to write it? How long did it take?
 
That is a good question! It took two solid years of research to write this book precisely because Henry is not famous. I spent time in many libraries across the area. I even went back to his hometown to walk on the Wharf and go to the street where he lived. I met with an archivist from the Old Whaler’s Church, as well. It’s one thing to read about a place and another to physically see it. Even though Henry lived there back in the 1800’s, I did get a feel for the place.
Sag Harbor today is a very busy summer area and I can see why. The harbor, shops, and restaurants are the main attractions.
 
 
 
What are some of the topics you wrote about in magazines? Were they fiction or nonfiction?
 
I am an eclectic writer who likes to challenge myself. I have written many nonfiction articles about houses in my town and memoir pieces about growing up in the 1950’s. Yet, I have had fictional pieces and poetry published, as well.
My poetry usually is about the rural feel of this area.
 
 
 
What are some advantages and disadvantages of writing full time after retirement?

While I was teaching, I had little time to write except with my students. The advantage of retiring was to give me time to learn the craft of writing. I took classes and joined a writing group. Both were enormously helpful but I still had to write to improve.
In my case, I needed this challenge. I didn’t know it at the time, but the part that was the most discouraging was also the most important. All writers receive rejections, but it didn’t seem to stop. I did get discouraged in the beginning but then acceptances came in and that was all I needed to continue.
 
 
 What authors influenced you the most?

Erma Bombeck is one of my favorites even though I am not funny. I like the way she weaves life’s lessons in her humorous writing. She entertains and informs at the same time.
 
I learn the use of language by reading Hemingway’s short stories. I love the legal thrillers of John Grisham and David Baldacci, as well.
 
David McCullough is another favorite. I enjoy his style of nonfiction writing. The reader learns so much history while enjoying the story.
 
 
 What advice can you give beginning writers?
 
If you are a serious writer, you must persevere. This business is not for wimps. Yet, I also think from reading all those writing newsletters that it is an exciting time to be an author. Traditional publishing is still available but self-publishing is a wonderful alternative and still requires lots of work. When you strive for the best writing you can produce, you are in for a long process.
 
 
 What plans do you have for your next publications?
 
I am taking a break from writing books but I never stop writing. It’s something I do every day.
 
 

​            I sat in the chair hoping to resolve my misunderstandings about Medicare. In front of me, was my assigned government official parked behind a steel-topped desk. Stacks of documents rose on either side of him, creating a valley where he rested his hands, fingers interlocked. The unadorned cubical walls that bounded him were beige fabric. He reminded me of an old robotic fortune-teller, sealed inside a glass box, dispensing futures for a quarter.
            I handed the man a summary notice I’d received from the government. “After I first applied for Medicare, I received three letters from the Social Security Administration. Each had a different monthly cost estimate. So I paid the lowest. Then I got a notice saying I was short and it had another amount to pay. I’m confused.”
            The man pressed his lips tightly together as he studied the piece of paper. He didn’t ask any questions. Maybe he was verifying the accuracy of my data. Perhaps he was struggling to make sense of my dilemma. I didn’t have a clue. He didn’t hum or murmur or speak.
            “I talked with other folks at SSA, and their instructions only complicate my situation. I hoped talking to someone in person would be more efficient."
            He didn’t react.
            That morning I’d arrived an hour before the office opened and still stood thirtieth in line. I’d survived the gauntlet of preliminary checkers to get this far. I was afraid of slipping up by irritating him with an incorrect form, the wrong data, or a stupid question. I didn’t want to fall victim to the bureaucrat’s most formable weapon – making me start over.
            “I was afraid I’d lose coverage if I didn’t get this quickly fixed. Hopefully, you can help me.”
            The official didn’t smile or nod. He seemed immune to my chatter. I guessed every anxious citizen tried to charm him, hoping to gain a measure of empathy. Of course, he couldn’t care about my situation. He had a job to do. Ask questions, give answers, and move people along.
            The man’s hands played across a computer keyboard, and his eyes studied the magic appearing on the monitor in front of his face. I watched his mouth and eyes, looking for any movement to indicate an emotional engagement. He offered nothing. I wondered if he hated his work. Who could blame him? Everyone he saw wanted something. On the other hand, maybe he’d grown to dislike people. If I were asked enough inane questions, over and over for days on end, I’d become intolerant of our species.
            “Did you have a good weekend?” I said. His eyes stayed focus on the computer screen. He grunted, “Uh huh.”
            I wanted to break down his shield of indifference. I figured if I could establish a human connection, then perhaps he’d see me more than a simple petitioner. If the official recognized me as a fellow human being, he might overlook any errors and expedite my resolution.
            “Weather’s finally getting warmer,” I said.
 His head bobbled, but he remained silent. Okay, the man wasn't going to open up to me, even at the most normal level. My smile, my happy chit-chat, and my unassuming ways failed to move him. I was only going to be a social security number to him. I found his behavior irritating. How much energy did it require to behave as if I were a human being?
            “Are there any questions I can answer?”
            The official shook his head, his attention fully engaged with the computer screen and whatever mysteries the system was revealing. Why was he so unapproachable? Why did I even care? The interaction would soon be over. I’d have to accept what I felt was subtle hostility.
            “You are adverse to conflict,” a therapist once told me. “You’re a classic middle child, always intent on bridging differences, ensuring tranquility.”
            How could he perceive any conflict? I was polite, asking for nothing outside his job description. Was it possible the man didn’t like my face?  It wouldn’t have been the first time in my life. My liberal guilt bubbled to the surface. The man’s skin color was inky black. Did my Irish-German ancestry, manifested by my near-white hair and pale face, rouse any animosity? Had he been victimized in the past and his resentment manifested itself through a purposeful remoteness?  
             Our meeting drew to completion. The man handed me a printout of the instructions for addressing my mix-up. I had my solution, and the official was one customer closer to filling his quota. I would leave and be replaced by another imploring citizen. My experience would be nothing more than strangers exchanging data. Two humans interacting as if they were machines.
            I rose from my seat. “Thanks for your help.”
            The official looked into my face. “How do you pronounce your last name?”
            A triumphant glow burned in my chest. I fought to contain a celebratory smile. I knew this man. That question knocked down his façade of aloofness. It revealed to me who he was. I’d met his brothers and sisters in the past, masquerading as clerks and taxi drivers. Like him, they gave up their secret identity when they asked me the same question.
            “In the United States, it's pronounced ‘Ade.'" I answered. "But in Nigeria, it’s pronounced ‘Ah-day.’”
            A smile broke across the official’s face. He shared with me the fact I already knew. “I’m Nigerian by birth,” he said.
            I laughed and executed my well-practiced lines. “Are you? Then you might have heard of my cousin, ‘King Sunny Ade.'”
            The man’s head rocked back in laughter. His hands drummed the surface of the desk. I may have been the first white man he’d ever met who knew the name of Nigeria’s most celebrated musician, let alone claimed a shared bloodline.
            He reached over and grasped my hand, “Can I do anything else for you, my brother?”

​Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies.  Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.

​                                    Bytes don’t Bite  
 
 
            I'm part of the passive era, the Silent Generation known in television land as 'happy days.' Co-eds, in single-sex dorms, were called 'girls', dress codes were never challenged, and...well, what has any of this to do with computers?   How easy do you think it is to give COMMANDS when conditioning caused a bland, obedient personality!
            No word-processor code has, in its memory, any bits from my compliant childhood;  the latter is etched in my brain's convolution remaining forever like a certain scar on my finger where a dog bit me.  At six years old, I went to pet a puppy, and got a chomp.  My desire was to yell at the animal;  instead I apologized for disturbing the dog.    
            Schoolboys threw ice balls at my bare legs showing below my skirt, and blood dripped down staining my seventh grade white socks, but I was not to take snow and smash it at them.  Girls didn't do that.  Don't make a scene.  Don't be aggressive.  Don't be vulgar.  Don't be too assertive or too competitive.  Don't be bold, outspoken...don't act like a boy.  I was a good athlete but was told not to beat boys during competition:  "pretend you aren't so capable" was a catch-phrase.
            The most brazen act I can remember is associated with my last spanking.  I refused to cry and repeated what I'd read in a magazine:  "the only reason you are hitting me, Mother, is because you've lost your wits and can't think of anything intelligent to say."
            In 1982, I took this pre-conditioned pleasing personality and put it before the first home PC that relied on commands.  I would have felt better saying 'how are you' as a salutation when it showed "hello".  As it prompted "ok", I wanted to say 'thanks'.  Why couldn't the word 'question' have been programmed into the word-processor software instead of 'command'?
            Silicon Valley South, in California, in 1983, offered counseling  for “computer widows and their mates” believing there was a "conflict between the perfect machine and the imperfect human being."  Of course the inference was that females couldn't use or understand electronic items.  Was I, then, acting like a male because my nails tapped plastic computer-powered typing keys, above which sat a necessary word-processor template?  Was that black square-faced computer screen without hair or eyes or ears or lips more perfect than human me?  I knew I could shut off its glare by depressing a red lever!
            My p.c. was not a threat to my family;  it threatened me!  It reminded me of my inadequacies in logic because I'm a feeling illogical being, made no response to irrational statements except to coolly remind me of syntax error, permitted no interaction or friendship to be set up.  It didn't require sleep, or food, or love, or sex.  It was so damn smug with aloof comments instead of criticism, and superior language that insisted I talk to it its way. 
         As my 1982 model with its double 5¼” floppies began to feel more comfortable, and the software seemed less hostile, my mate surprised me with a 1988 hard disk, 3½" floppy machine.  Familiar was replaced with foreign as I needed to understand trees, paths, roots;  but was this a computer or a garden?  What about data neatly arranged on an obsolete word processor in a disk size I'd no longer use!  Download.  Convert to ASCII.  Middle-man it with utility programs.  Text-in/out into a large modern software package that boasted of a master-document I couldn't master and a macro I'd never heard of.  When the Support Line assured me that mastery over master-document would be a masterful accomplishment, I felt happy/miserable, adequate/ inadequate.
            During my '82 computer-infancy to my '88 toddler stage, DOS jumped from 1.0 to 3.3;  I wasn't ready for the leap.
            I had trouble giving orders to soft diskettes and a screen that said "hello", so how would I deal with hardened hardware and a cursor devoid of courtesy?  As a writer and former college instructor of writing, I can use words perfectly but word processors reminded me of a Russian novel where I had to list the cast of characters inside the front cover to refer to as I plowed through foreign text.  
            Ah.  2017.  DOS is as foreign as horses-and-buggies.  Computers can be laptops, have touch-screens, automatic Internet plus e-mail, monitors larger than my old television sets, flash drives, and some have ‘dashboards’/ wigits/  built-in cameras so one may talk and see another person, voice-activated ability, watch television being streamed....  My husband’s wrist watch actually is a computer! I’m typing on a PS2 obsolete touch-typist keyboard, in front of a small monitor, using a WindowsVista PC with a tower on the floor, and I am constantly ridiculed for my ‘out-of-date’ equipment.  It’s comfortable, safe, does everything I currently need.  Once I was the cutting-edge; now I’m the backwards!
            Well, this newest generation of computers will probably always remind me what I did to my mother before she retired the hair brush:  in its own language, with a blank stare, it's suggesting, 'the only reason you are spanking me is because you've lost your wits and can't think of anything intelligent to say.'
 
 
 ©1992 "hysteria" magazine   published Spring 1993 issue {I own the rights} some updates re 2017 added

                                                            Book Review
 
                               Cradles of Power: The Mothers and Fathers
                                               of the American Presidents
 
                                                                By Harold J. Gullan
 
    
     Cradles of Power is a 360 page book by historian Harold J.Gullan about the parents of the presidents of the United States from Washington to Obama and how they influenced their presidential sons. The book takes them in chronological order and devotes a few pages to each, giving each their due, even Millard Fillmore.
     What first caught my attention about the book though is that on the cover there is this darling picture of Gee Dub, G. W., George W. Bush that is, as a little baby sitting on his mother’s knee. The look of pride and joy on his mother’s, Barbara Bush’s, face as she looks at her son is priceless. It will literally melt your heart.
      Anyway about the book, this book makes no political judgment about any of our presidents. All are treated fairly and no unkind words are spoken about any of them which is kind of a refreshing pause nowadays.This is because the book is not really about any of them anyway. It is about the people who raised them, their parents or step-parents. And some of these people  weren't exactly decent human beings. They weren’t like the Andersons (Father Knows Best), or the Nelsons (Ozzie and Harriet), or the Cleavers (Leave It To Beaver) on television that some of us grew up with. Some came from quite dysfunctional families. And yes Virginia there were dysfunctional families back then. It is not a new phenomena.
     A couple of our presidents grew up with parents or step parents who were alcoholics and violent and abusive to their spouses. Usually it is the man with the drinking problem but for one president it was both his parents that drank. I’m not going to tell you who that was or who the others with alcoholic problems were. Read the book and find that out for yourself. And oh yes don’t forget to read about Lemonade Lucy too.
     Most presidents though had loving parents who actually believed that in fact their son was special and blessed and destined for greatness. Thus they pushed him accordingly and did everything in their power to make that greatness happen. And it did. Their son became president.
     Each president’s chapter begins with the ancestor of that president who first got off the boat from Europe. A lot of presidential ancestors were of Scotch Irish descent, the Scotch Irish being political refugees of the day back then from England. A lot of them settled in New England and then from there their descendants pushed westward  with the country. Many future presidents grew up in the Midwest.
     Some of the presidents came from literally dirt poor, that is they didn’t own any land or if they had they lost it due to hard times, ancestors. Others came from very successful stock who greatly increased their land holdings and wealth. With those different backgrounds and how their parents responded to them while raising their presidential son is what the book is about. 
    Also this book tells us about those presidents who grew up with step parents and how they interacted with their stepson. Those with step fathers of recent history include Ford, Clinton and Obama. And the prize for best step mother of a future president goes to Abraham Lincoln’s stepmother, Sarah Bush Lincoln. She loved her Abe dearly and in return he loved her dearly also. He was deeply indebted to her for her guidance through the hard times of his youth on the early frontier. She lived to see him become president and couldn’t have been prouder of him than if he had been born to her.
     On the other hand Lincoln and his father did not get along at all. Lincoln couldn’t wait to leave home at 21, the age of majority back then, and become a free man. Read the book and find out why.
     There are a few of other things that I gathered from the book about our presidents. First was that a lot of them lost a parent at an early age in their lives. Second most of them were highly educated graduating from prestigious colleges. But some like Lincoln and his successor were only self taught. And third a noticeable number had middle names that were their mother’s maiden name. Read the book and find out who besides Millard Fillmore carried their mother’s maiden name.  And finally a couple of them, and they were distinguished presidents, had red hair. I only throw that in because I still have red hair.
    If there is a criticism of this book, it’s that sometimes it delves a little too much into the history of the grandparents of the president's parents and after a while the genealogical chart becomes hard to follow. But that doesn’t detract from the book any. It just confuses one temporarily.
     One other note, this author makes a point of citing quotes from the biographers of each president when he writes about them. Thus quotes from noted historians Ambrose, Kearns, McCullough and others appear throughout the book.
     And finally this book also makes the point that our presidents were influenced as much by their mothers as their fathers even though most grew up in a time when fathers ruled the roost. There is a president of recent origin who had quite the mother, a character so to speak, and another in the not too distant past who raised her son as a girl the first few years of his life and never really gave up control of him.
     So read the book and find out about our presidents’ parents, if you’re an American that is. And if you’re not, still read it. It’s enjoyable. And don’t you worry none you Chester A. Arthur and Millard Fillmore fans, your man gets his due.
     

 

                                   Movie Review:  Baby Driver
 
 
    This is a movie review written by me a seventy year old man about the movie Baby Driver. Now movies today are geared toward kids and anybody up to about the age of forty five is a kid as far as I’m concerned. But the handful of people there that Monday afternoon when I saw this movie were old geezers and geezerettes like myself and my wife. I went to this movie thinking Baby Driver another wild reckless car chase Fast and Furious movie where things will get smashed up, blowed up and shot up good, real good. And that’s the way the movie opens, with pulsating throbbing music played to a death defying car chase scene. And things did get smashed up, shot up, and blowed up good, real good. But in a different kind of way sort of. And I liked it. The movie as a whole was different. And I like different.
    It centers around Baby a young man with a troubled past. His folks were killed in a car accident in which he, at about age five, was a passenger too. As a result thereof he was left with a constant ringing in his ears. So to combat that ringing he’s always listening to music on his Ipod and says little to anyone. Some people think he’s slow since he doesn’t talk much. And when he does talk he sounds like Elvis. But he lives for his music. It’s his way of coping.
     So music plays a big big part in this movie as part of the story itself and in the background too. The music the audience hears is the music that Baby hears when his earphones are in. Baby listens to all kinds of music and has eclectic tastes depending on his mood that day. The makers of this film geniusly knew what they were doing here and without the music much would be lost concerning the entertainment value, the story and quality of the film itself.
    Now in his troubled juvenile delinquent past Baby earned a reputation as a high speed driving car thief. He has become employed by Doc the mastermind of the bank robbery. Doc always puts together teams of four, three different robbers each time but with Baby always as the getaway driver. Doc tells Baby just one more job and we’re squared away between us due to a past debt Baby owes Doc. Well  Baby gets square with Doc but to Doc getting square doesn’t mean Baby’s done working for him. There’s another job to pull he informs him. And so the story develops around Baby trying to stay alive and get out of the crime business at the same time.
     But unfortunately along the way he falls in love with a young waitress and his life gets complicateder and complicateder. Things spin out of control this way, then that way, and one is kept on edge the whole time wondering what in the heck is going to happen next that could possibly make things worse for him. And there’s always something that does. The frustration tension factor runs high for our hero and for the audience.
     Every character’s role whether from the smallest part to a major role is beautifully intertwined a written into the story. They all fit together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.  What’s here is just what’s necessary to move the story along. There’s no filler, no fat on this movie. It’s lean and clean with never a wasted scene. The script is well written and cleverly clever at times and that’s something different for a change too. And as I said I like different.
     Each character is well played by its actor. All the criminals, Joe Hamm and Jamie Foxx being the best known actors thereof, come across as someone you dare not offend for fear of losing your life. Doc is portrayed brilliantly by Kevin Spacey as the criminal mastermind. The actress as the waitress girl friend, Lily James, does a good job as a typical everyday run of the mill young innocent waitress, down on her luck, struggling to get by, while getting dragged into the world of crime by her reason of love for her boyfriend Baby. And Baby is of course is played by a truly baby faced young man, Ansel Elgort, who is perfect for this role as a tortured soul in a world he doesn’t want to be in. He’s the movie’s hero and we cheer for him, and for her, as they try to escape a doomed existence.
    Well after all the shoot outs, car driving scenes, and blow ups, which are many and are well orchestrated to music like a music video, the movie comes to a logical conclusion. Not the one you wanted or expected but a logical one. And just when you think the movie is about to be over, it isn’t.
    I’d recommend this movie for everyone except kids little kids because of course there’s lots of swearing in it. But then again how could you not have foul mouth criminals and have them be believable without swearing. And I’d recommend this movie because it’s entertaining. It ain’t Shakespeare. It’s not an artsy film. It’s an entertaining film. And when I go to a movie I want to be entertained. I want heartwarming, bone chilling, gut wrenching entertainment. Entertainment is my only standard. And this movie got the the job done for me. I’m looking forward to seeing it again on cable. Don’t you wait that long though. See it now. Today! You’ll be entertained.