Cold Case In Ellyson

My sons washed the car yesterday in Florida sun and warmth. The front bumper was splattered with 1300 miles of bugs and dust collected from our cross-state trip over spring break. My youngest asked me to see how well he cleaned the front with my “keen eyesight.” “Keen,” I asked? “Great word!”

My 12-year-old is often the little man of few words. But he’s also the one who, at 6, asked us to be quiet because “I’m concentrating.” On what I don’t know, but he has always had a vocabulary more adult than kid.

Language paints a picture for the mind. Carefully chosen words have so much more meaning, add so much more strength than the vagueness of “nice” and “cute” and “cool” that creeps into our conversations. I’ll take his quick meaningful quips over today’s prattle any day. Keen rocks.

We just left the Tampa Electric plant for a tour – not of the facility but of the creatures swimming in the waters surrounding the billowy stacks. In the colder months, manatees seek the shelter of warmer waters, and Tampa Electric has provided walkways, viewing areas and a museum free to the public. Not only did we see manatees, but we also saw fiddler crabs, tarpon, small sharks, a spotted ray, and other fish large and small we couldn’t identify against the backdrop of this highly industrial area. It was an interesting justaposition of nature against steel.

But are we any different? Can’t you be the nicest person ever and then the meanest? Loving and then cold? Joking and then jousting? Or like me, the debutante and the cop?

Looking back at my recent sales, more of my books are sold through Kindle sales than paperback. Who knew? The leaps and bigger leaps technology is experiencing! How much more can a phone do? And now reading a book you download from a website onto your gadget? Faulkner would freak!!

For me, I like holding. I need to touch the paper, the letters, bend the pages back as I turn to the next. I like to feel the cover and check out the spine without having to click on something. I’m tactile. I’m hands on. But my readers are more in tune with the times, I guess. Just maybe I need to catch up.

As luck would have it, my oldest needed “a quick read” for a language arts requirement before spring break. I went to my now less-than-complete (because I lost every book I owned in Hurricane Ivan) bookcase and grabbed a thin one – The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway. “Here,” I said. “It’s a quick read, and you’ll enjoy the story.” Ha – I slipped a classic into my son’s unsuspecting hands. So now both boys are reading the glorious writers of yore. Instead of grabbing a Mr. Underpants or Wimpy Kid kind of book, hand them something they’ll remember forever. It will be our little secret.

To write, you have to read. No writer has ever lived in a vacuum of wordlessness. And most writers are prolific readers. One of my favorite hangouts in my childhood home was a tiny library nestled just down the hall from my bedroom. It must have been five feet by ten, just enough room for a chair, and held floor to ceiling bookshelves. If I wasn’t reading, I was alphabetizing the books by the author’s last name. It held children’s books, but it also held the classics. In today’s society, our children our encouraged to read in school; in fact, it’s demanded. But little emphasis is placed on the books of old as though they’re no longer relevant. As parents, we have the chance to introduce our kids to the books that moved us and our parents before us. Just yesterday, I gave my 12-year-old Stephen Crane’s The Red Badge of Courage. He loves history and war, and I’m going to capitalize on that interest. I hope this summer, parents will direct their kids to the garage sale 50 cent books that have value greater than we can imagine.

If you look at the NCAA tournament start, you know that nothing is ever a given. As I said in a previous blog, any dog, any day. That’s how I see my opponents on the tennis court, my boys’ opponents on the baseball field, and my future in your local bookstore. It’s not always talent that wins out – it’s guts, risk-taking, and the desire not to give in or up that makes sports so unpredictable and exciting. Publishing a book is only slightly different – most writers long for the stadium applause; most writers enter the book club meeting or presentation with butterflies; most writer hope that their book is both unpredictable and exciting. We don’t want to disappoint our fans. Neither do the men on the court.

I saw a new review of my book on Amazon today. Although I appreciate every five-star review, what I loved most was her declaration that my book was not cliched. I hate ordinary. The worst thing anyone could say to me is that I’m boring or my writing stale. After all, the book is a reflection of me and my life, sometimes a carbon copy of an event, and other times a fun-house distortion, but my book is all me in some way or another. I have no other personna. And thank goodness! Most days it’s hard to keep up with myself! As you’re reading this, if you consider your life tired and rote, make today a different day. Step outside the ordinary; life can be so much more than a cliche.

Although the sport is played everywhere, including the Far East, baseball has the feel of a Southern sport to me. This past weekend, I helped organize a tournament for my sons’ teams, and although the weekend was a successful fundraiser, our teams did not fare so well. I have a saying, “any dog, any day,” and I guarantee you my boys are tired of hearing it. But yesterday, as my oldest son’s team nearly beat the nearly unbeatable, maybe they’ll start to believe ity. When I walk onto the tennis court with a worthy opponent, I mutter to myself, “any dog, any day,” and often wind up on the winning side of the net. Historical records are just that: information on what was. They have little to do with what may be.

I had shoes, but I didn’t often wear them, especially in the summer. Living on a stretch of bay beach, there was little need. But at a young age, I realized how calloused and tough they were when I realized I had just walked across a smoldering fire where dad was burning some leaves. I didn’t feel a thing. It was idyllic, growing up where I did. Neighbors were few and fish plentiful. Although I had my share of baby dolls and the requisite Easy Bake Oven, most days I lazed in the grass or water trying to catch whatever creature I could. I knew how to make a crab go to sleep and how long a firefly would last in a jar before I needed to set him free. That is growing up south. Kathleen, the protagonist in Cold Case in Ellyson grows up south too. I can only write that which I know.

Love her or hate her, Sandra Bullock won the Academy Award for best actress for her portrayal of Leigh Anne Tuohy in The Blind Side. That movie shows us a great story about kindness, triumph and faith. In our own lives, we have stories, too. Most of them not as meaningful as changing someone’s life and circumstance, but we have our tales to tell. Most days, we perform the necessary tasks that take us from one day to the next, keep the engine running, the pantry filled. But some days are life-changers, and often we are blind sided by their scope and impact. And at times, we only recognize those moments looking back. I saw that this weekend. Two outs, two strikes, and a fielding error on a certain out kept the inning alive. A frustrated pitcher losing focus, walks, and runs scored. The impact was clear on the scoreboard. It wasn’t a life-changer, but it was a game-changer. Every event impacts the next. Remember that what you do might change your story forever.