During the youth of my writing, I warmly remember the place W. Somerset Maugham’s short stories played in my education as a fledgling writer. I Googled his name recently, searching for one of his short stories that was going to be the meat of this blog’s nut. The story itself wasn’t that important to me. In fact, I don’t recall the storyline. Only an incident tucked away in it stayed aloft in my memory over a span of fifty years, leaving the rest to evaporate. Continue reading “THE BOOK BAG”
We’d laughed about it. They’ll come around. Onct it’s born, they’ll ‘cept me.
Suzie waits, bag packed.
Straddling the limb, I reach for her window.
She’s waving me away. Why? I lean.
Suzie’s Pa’s shotgun rams my chest. “Law pertects the homeowner ‘gainst trespassin’, niggah. And God—He fergives the Christian.”
THE WINKING MR. TARSDALE
“Barry recommends you highly, Mr. Squires.” The graying, short-cropped head and appraising face leaned to the side in his chair and scanned me. “You’ve got the shoulders of a swimmer.” He winked.
“Well, I … ” I shrugged, probably blushed. It was true I had worked out regularly before Barry and I moved to San Antonio, and I suppose I was considered well-built. Since the move, and the shortness of money, I’d resorted to push-ups, sit-ups, lunges, and sundry other movements. Continue reading “Down & Out in San Antonio (Part IV)”
Sept. 20, 1962
On Monday, September 10th, I received a letter with my unemployment check. No foreplay, it got right down to business: “Mr. Squires, you are in receipt of your final unemployment check. I hope you continue with your efforts and are successful in securing employment.”
What it didn’t say, but implied, was, “You are now another state’s liability.” Continue reading “Down & Out in San Antonio (Part III)”
The Joys of Rejection
Lawdy, Lawdy, did we have it made!
Forget what I told you before. I did my best to put on the face of the starving artist. My writing deserved at least that. But by no stretch of the imagination were Barry and I starving. Continue reading “DOWN & OUT IN SAN ANTONIO (Part II)”
Feb. 7, 1962
SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS. We’d been there a little over a week now, and Barry and I, were no longer exhausted, unbathed, cold, and very nearly broke. The fact was, we found a two- story home to rent in the very old part of town. We were now bathed and rested. The floor heater was rattling through the grates. We took turns straddling it, so we were no longer cold. Also, we were no longer nearly broke. In fact, with the first month’s rent now out of my wallet and tucked, instead, into the landlady’s apron pocket along with a promissory note that the last month’s rent and a cleaning deposit would also be transferred to her apron pocket in one week (with the arrival of my California Unemployment Check) … we were very, very broke.
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 11,000 times in 2013. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 4 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.
[This blogster is getting frugal in his retirement. If this post looks familiar to any of you it is because it was posted in my once lively, now defunct, Jay Squires Writer’s Workshop Newsletter. I think it has enough general interst that it should be included here. Curiously, I had an earlier blog post entitled THEN AND NOW (A WRITER’S LIFE) — a title which I totally plagarized myself by using in my Newsletter (fortunately, there’s a law against suing oneself or I’d lose what little income I have in my retirement — I had that good a case against me!) Even more curiously, I apparently had forgotten I used this same title, though the content in the two articles was entirely different. Anyway … hence the PART II here.]
* * *
(A Writer’s Life)
It was about 1961 or ’62. I had just moved from a comfortable room in my parents’ home to a flat in San Francisco I shared with three others, only one of whom I remember. His name was Joe, and I remember him because he, like me, left a comfortable home in Santa Maria, California, to experience life in San Francisco.
We were oh so ready to begin our suffering. Continue reading “THEN AND NOW — PART II”
I am about to post something that has the potential to instantly polarize my followers, possibly to cause a goodly number of them to unsubscribe from SeptuagenarianJourney altogether. I hope that doesn’t happen. But, if it does …
So be it.
I didn’t approach the controversial nature of the subject-matter with the sense of adventure I might have shown as a younger man. You won’t find any courageous nose-thumbing from this corner! As a matter of fact, a thorough exegesis of both sides of the argument by an expert would have been welcome relief to me. But, with no such balanced analysis forthcoming, it is apparently left up to me.
I’m taking a risk that’s not easy. I’m sorry if I insult any of you. That is not my intent. On the other hand, it is impossible for me not to take sides, so I can’t even protect myself from the wrath of some of you by pleading for you to please “not shoot the messenger.”
Indeed, I am the messenger, but to some of you the stand I will be taking may be considered a shootable offence.
Again … so be it!
I went to the library today. My son, David, works there. I went there to deliver a Christmas card to him. No need to go back and reread the sentence. It was today. It was a Christmas card. There’s a story there. I’ll tell it to you if you like. That was not the intent of this blog, though—telling the story, I mean—but life is complex. That’s why I don’t often write in simple sentences. To meet life’s complexities head-on, and write about them, I often write in compound sentences, sometimes complex sentences.
But the story … okay:
Last Christmas we gifted many of our loved ones cash or gift cards. David was one. We bought him a fifty-dollar movie gift card. He loves movies and since they were going through a financial rough patch, this gave him an opportunity to go to a movie without feeling like he was taking food off the family table.
Not too long ago, my wife and I heard on the grapevine (actually, the grapevine was my other son, Joe, who also loves movies), that the brothers went to the Marketplace Theater where David pulled out his gift card to pay for his ticket.
The teenager in the booth ran it through the scanner and put her mouth to the hole in the glass: “That’ll be nine-dollars and fifty cents,” she said, around her chewing gum.
David said, “Yeah, go ahead and use the card.”
“You used the card,” she said. “Fifty cents worth.”
Of course he told her the card was for fifty dollars, to which she retorted, “No. Fifty cents.”
David’s a pretty mildly tempered person, but he was getting a bit heated at this point. “Why would anyone buy a gift card for fifty cents? Do you even sell gift cards for fifty cents?”
“No,” she replied and popped her gum.
That happened sometime in January. Joe told us about it, I believe, in May. I don’t remember how it came up, but it was a rather oblique reference, as I recall. It was probably, by agreement between the brothers, that we weren’t to hear about it at all, but it somehow just happened.
My wife and I talked about it. I mean, it wasn’t our fault. We paid for a fifty dollar gift card. It was the movie theater’s fault. Specifically, it was the fault of the person who sold us the card. But it was David who had really lost out.
So, last night my wife dug out a Christmas card from the drawer. At the bottom of the greeting she wrote, “Merry Christmas all over again,” and tucked in two twenties and a ten.
And, I took it to him today.
Well … that’s the story, but it’s not the blog post I had intended.
What I really wanted to tell you was this: As I was walking across the library parking lot, clutching the Christmas card, I found myself flowing forward with a river of library patrons, most of whose arms were loaded down with books. One backpack so filled with books that the wearer was forced to walk in an awkwardly erect posture, threatening to fall over backwards, which conjured up images of a turtle on his back, unable to right himself. Children skipping, laughing out of sheer joy, screaming, well, because they were children; parents exhorting, “Now you remember you whisper when you go inside.” A little boy talking in excited tones to his sister, ” … and I’m gonna get me a book about horses and I’ll ask mama if I …” and his thin voice blends in with, and is blanketed by, other voices and noises and celebration.
Difficult to pin down, hard to put your finger on … this community of festivity, this carnival of expectation; hope—the possible unwrapping of a mystery inside those walls, between the hard, musty covers of a book plucked randomly from one of the thousand of shelves, the voice in the book, that one voice that says with precision and certitude what you have been forever feeling, but thinking you were alone, and lonely, in the feeling of it. But, here you find a friend, a confederate, a confidant, here—here in this book, taken from that shelf within the whispering walls of the Library.
And I am being swept along, thinking about this and almost trip over a young man, hoisting in his arms a mountain of books, one of which slides down the slope and while he bends to pick it up two more fall, and making a wild grasp for all of them the entire mountain collapses.
And I stop and help him. I pick up a one volume Works of Balzac, a Strunk and White’s Elements of Style, and a paperback western novel. He lifts a huge tome entitled the Essential Dictionary of Music Notation, and a few more paperbacks. Enormous green eyes stare up at me through coke-bottle-lenses and he thanks me.
I continue on, thinking about all this and what it is urging me to remember. And, then I do remember. I remember something I had read, or seen on TV, or heard …something that was from a respected source that told us we were, mentally, becoming a nation of pablum ingestors. We have lost our intellectual teeth and are growing incapable of thinking on our own. A dangerous thought: other people thinking for us! Books being replaced by television; outdoor activities by video games.
We’ve all heard the naysayers.
How many aspiring writers have given up in the face of such cultural inevitability? I remember thinking back then, “What’s the bloody use in writing! Who will be there to read it, anyway?”
Today, with Christmas card in hand, caught in the flow and flood of this army of cultural dissenters, I hear and see, and, yes—I feel: the alphabet is hearty, the squiggles and squams of punctuation still function, words, almighty slippery, wriggling, palpitating words, still have meaning thanks to this army, thanks to this marvelous, beautiful army converging in to burst through the door and into the mystery world inside the whispering walls.