This essay/memoir is about the memories my sister’s painting evoked. To see “Beginnings” and more of her work, visit https://www.juliewileman.com/
Many of Julie Wileman’s works are for sale (hint hint), and she sometimes takes commissions.
“One of my comrades says something about how times like this make our efforts and separation from loved ones worth it. Transfixed, I can only nod in agreement.”
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I rediscovered this poem I wrote in 1989 during my years with Joe Stanco’s Poetry Circle. (I edited it a little, very little, because I can’t stop myself.) Joe’s Circle included the well-known poet, Tim Seibles, as well as VP Crowe, Amy “Moonlady” Martin, Gordon Hilgers, Jas (James) Mardis, and Sam Modica. Nice crowd to learn from.
Of all my performances of (what was almost unanimously terrible) poetry, this was the one that actually made people stand up and cheer. It may not have been great word art, but it had a message people could get behind.
I’m still thrilled by most of it, too.
I used Adobe Firefly to generate the illustration.
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A longing thirty years on from the death of my father. Photo by Gloria Smith.
“I am looking at a photograph of my dad taken around 1991, give or take three years. He would have been in his late 60’s, maybe 70 years old. There wasn’t much after that. Pancreatic cancer got him and killed him quick a few months after his 71st birthday. He died in February of 1994.”
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People ask: why do you go by the name Scooter? I mean, you’re an old man, not a dog or Barbie’s younger sister’s friend!
Photo of my baby self most likely by (Uncle) Jerry Martin.
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Being nice is underrated as a virtue. Yet, offering kindness to everyone often gives the comfort and strength that helps someone make it through the day.
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This memoir relates a few experiences with wild pigs and one very close call. My photo is of our dogs, Dotty (left) and Mabel, waiting to go, just go please, in our utility vehicle. Mabel is cute and shy, but Dotty wielded an outsized personality that shone as fearlessness and an endearing elan. At the end of the story you’ll find two links to segments that further illustrate some of its elements.
“Along the way, I began to notice a lot of fresh pig tracks of various sizes and caught the smell of their feces. Unlike other animals, hogs defecate where they sleep. So, clues like that usually meant a sounder, numbering anywhere from a handful to many dozens of swine, camped here for a day before continuing to forage after sundown.
Then we came upon a fresh pile of scat. Somehow, I made it fit the narrative in my head: they were here last night, not now.”
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We just passed Vietnam Veterans Day last week (March 29, 2022), placed perversely on the anniversary of the Fall of Saigon. That we are in the midst of another terrible war, this time in Ukraine, wraps my heart in melancholy. Tonight, I take a drink to honor fallen friends and to mourn all the combatants and non-combatants caught up in the latest maelstrom.
Then, in a movie on Turner Classic Movies, I hear the song sometimes called “Stand To Your Glasses.”
The photo, by an unknown squadron mate with my camera, is of three VRC-50 “Foo Dogs” drinking, 1969: from top to bottom, Airmen Beeman, Gleason and Smith. We always had reason, I guess. See Come the Revolution and Solemn Mysteries.
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My wife, Amy, and I decided to convert some heavily wooded and creek-cut acreage into an ecological haven of renewed tallgrass prairie and protected species habitat. Serious about our goals, we took classes from the Texas A&M AgriLife Extension Service. We learned about Blackland prairie botany and biology, erosion control, and best practices for farm and woodland management. And feral pigs. Drawing at left from a 1921 Collier’s via Wikicommons, artist unknown.
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I wrote this essay/memoir in mid-2019 as a reaction to the shaming and derision Joe Biden was receiving for caring enough about people to love them; to hug them. The photo of my father was taken by an unnamed friend of his in Sasebo, Japan, 1945.
“My father chose to be a hugger, but behavioral norms change. Today, our culture is flirting with the idea that people who hug others, regardless of intent, should suffer societal censure. While there are justifications for this, I sense a net loss for humanity.”
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I’ve been writing a lot of memoirs. They seem to require an economy of writing that doesn’t interfere with the story. As a mild rebellion, I wanted to let loose with description. The result is this short fiction about the contradictory soup of friendship, love, and the imperative of ambition among and within those who must create art. Frankly, there’s more to come, but it’s still a fun read. Image from photo by Katarzyna Gonsior on Unsplash.com.
“Astrid seemed too pretty, too gentle, too in touch with her feelings to be the paramour of the Painter. I knew that part of me and saw this immediately. But oh, how I was smitten by this precious gift. I promised the Painter that I would not become lost in a trackless wilderness. This time.”
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This is an anecdotal memoir about the sex lives of techies in the film and video business in the 1980s. Well, kinda. My photo at left is of the logo on the back of my satin jacket.
“I was short, losing my hair, and sported a large Seventies mustache. But with this jacket, suddenly I was a thing.”
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Buy this book so you have it when you need it!
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