Playing Cowboy Again

When I was growing up, we were very poor. Spending money was at a premium or non-existent. My single mother would give me the choice between a Saturday afternoon western movie or a comic book. Both cost ten cents. I would choose the movie almost every time.

While the comic book would have lasted longer, it could never fuel my imagination the way an old piece of celluloid, wrapped in frightening sound effects, dramatic music and eye-popping images could. It was an hour and a half of living out my fantasies in a dark and cavernous theater surrounded by rows of fellow overly imaginative youngsters. Nothing much has changed over the years.

Aside from some of the classic western movies by John Ford, Sam Peckinpah and a few other masters of the genre, most westerns back in the 50’s and 60’s didn’t really represent the true west. I think I could sense, even back then, the Hollywood magic behind the façade of plywood store fronts and war paint.

Later on in life, as my fascination with the old west grew, I began to read some of the true poet masters of that era like Henry Allen Wilson and Larry McMurtry. I tried to understand what the old west was really like back then. I treasured movies such as Red River, The Searchers, the Fort Apache trilogy, Jeremiah Johnson, and a few select classics. I often wondered if I could ever tell such a tale myself.

Finally, around 1973, in a spare bedroom in Reisterstown, Maryland, I began crafting a story of three individuals who find their lives inexplicitly tied and twisted together. It took a year of pounding on that old L.C. Smith typewriter, making corrections and retyping those same pages over and over again. That labor-intensive, painful process continued for almost a year until the story was completed.

Then for reasons long since forgotten, I promptly shelved it despite my wife’s urgings that I explore some kind of publication. A second western written shortly thereafter suffered the same fate. Gradually, I forgot about my venture out West and went back to my life on the East Coast. Then years later, thirty-nine to be exact, I began looking for something to do in lieu of retirement. That first novel came to mind and I pulled it out of a dusty desk drawer. I had my answer.

Without any real idea of what I’d do with that dusty relic, I transferred those tired old graying pages to a floppy disc and began my journey back in time to a place I had long since forgotten. It had taken me years to return out West but it was worth the wait.

Much to my surprise, I found my storyline held its own and the characters still resonated with me after all those years. I had an artist create a book cover for me. Then I rewrote the novel, keeping the main plot line but adding a lot more period details, refining the characters personalities and ended up with a story that still remained true to my original vision.

Each step of the way, I found myself riding alongside my hero and dodging Apache arrows just as he did. I was that drifter, lost and confused in a changing world after the Civil War. Like my hero, I still hadn’t shaken off the troubling memories of the war or the deep feelings that fiery red-head stirred up in my head and heart. A new title beckoned and the novel became ‘Apache Death Wind.’

What I experienced in writing, and then rewriting of that western tale, was a transformation from East Coast storyteller to Midwestern yarn-spinner to West Coast reporter. By the time I was safely ensconced in my office at home, I was finalizing a story that began in Reisterstown, Maryland, found refinement and clarity in Apple Valley, Minnesota and finally reached its conclusion under the San Jacinto Mountains in my back yard.

So, what happened next?

Even before “Apache Death Wind” was published, there was self-induced pressure building for a sequel. At first, I was left pondering what might have happened to my two main characters, Jeb and Charlotte, if they weren’t together at the end of the first novel. Then ever so slowly, a new story started to emerge from the shadowy confines of my imagination. This new tale gradually morphed into a story of love lost, a man bent on suicide and a new beginning gradually growing for the two main characters. Of course, circumstances bring them together again but not always in ways a reader might imagine.

The more I worked on a treatment for the sequel, the more excited I got about the characters and what happened to both of them after the end of “Apache Death Wind.” Thus, was created ‘Chaparral Fox.’

The sequel opens with Jeb sitting across from the cantina where two bandit brothers are holed up and waiting for the rest of their outlaw gang to return. Jeb, ever true to his word, is determined to eliminate the two brothers just as he had promised the villagers. At the end of the first chapter, Jeb arises and begins to walk toward the cantina, rifle in hand. It is a suicide mission but since he’s lost the love of his life, he doesn’t really care any longer.

Charlotte is established now in San Francisco. She has become very successful with her own tailoring business and has put her past life with Jeb behind her…or so she believes. Then she is approached by a lawyer with news that will change her life forever… The plot gets even more complex after that. That second novel ended with a reunion of sorts but a plethora of problems still facing our two main protagonists.

The storyline wasn’t ended yet. There was still one more tale to tell. It would be the third and final installment in the Apache Death Wind trilogy. Both main characters were once again in danger and deep trouble in Mexico. ‘City of the Dead’ finds them in an abandoned village, surrounded by Indians and outlaws with little chance of survival.

Thus, the ‘Apache Death Wind’ trilogy was born. But my western story-telling wasn’t finished yet. Now came the hard part. Advertising on Facebook; both domestic and foreign, didn’t bring in a lot of sales. Comments made on western Facebook group sites didn’t fare much better. The path to success, either direct or through a circuitous route, was eluding me.

Now I’m taking new steps to market this western trilogy through the help of artificial intelligence. AI has pointed out a number of new avenues I hadn’t considered. It might consist of another mini web site such as the two I have for ‘Debris’ and ‘Agnes.’ It might include a more targeted, enhanced e-mail list, etc. Since Westerns are evergreen and timeless, I’ve had the benefit of time and space behind me. I’m confident I’ll get there; it may just take a little more hard travelin’ before I do.

East Jesus on a Slab

Look at a map of the Coachella Valley and you’ll find a plethora of wonderful side trips to educate and warp the mind. The Colorado high desert and Joshua Tree are just an hour North. Swing the other way around and you can be in the artist community of Idyllwild in the San Jacinto Mountains. Drop south and things get really interesting with the Salton Sea, Salvation Mountain and ‘The Slabs.’

If you take a right at the Salton Sea, you’ll end up in East Jesus and West Satan. Unlike the posh country clubs and rarified Aire that is of Palm Springs legend, this is a ‘lost world’ replete with fascinating characters, RV vagabonds and a few stragglers who look like human residue scrapped up from the bottom of civilized society. It’s a step back in time and void of any semblance to a world that vacationers have come to expect of Palm Springs.

East Jesus is next to West Satan which is just a stone’s throw away from Salvation Mountain. I passed the Fountain of Youth trailer park on the way into town. I think you get the drift.

The Salton Sea was cloaked in a shroud of mist and smell and dead fish on the day I ventured there. Fortunately, it was cool in the morning so the smell wasn’t overwhelming even if the rotting carcasses of Tilapia was a bit disconcerting to walk on. Further down the road past the trailers of Bombay Beach was the sad remains of Camp Dunlap, a World War Two Marine base lost in the desert. Appropriately named Slab City, the Quonset huts are gone now and only the concrete slabs remain.

Just down the road from Salvation Mountain, two former guard huts announce the entrance to Slab City. It’s estimated that there are about one hundred and fifty permanent residents (squatters) who live in the Slabs all-year round. Some live on government checks, others just want to live ‘off the grid’ and a few come to stretch out their retirement income. The camp has no electricity, no running water, no sewers or toilets and no trash pickup service. Sounds like a dry run for the apocalypse.

Despite the free shoe tree on the way into town and the free library, most of the residents have sectioned off their trailers, tents and sleeping bags with tires, pallets, or barbwire. Free is free unless it comes to their piece of heaven in the desert then even the squatters want their personal space recognized.

The library is an eclectic collection of cast-off books and magazines all free for the taking. The floor was dirt and the ceiling clear blue sky or sheets stretched between sections. The reading lounge was mainly occupied by lizards, tarantulas, and small droppings of a questionable nature. When I was there, the proprietor encouraged me to visit the art gallery at East Jesus which is next to West Satan. A request like that couldn’t be ignored.

East Jesus has been described as an experimental, sustainable, habitable, art installation. I was told that East Jesus is a colloquialism for the middle of nowhere beyond the edge of services. Made from discarded material that has been reused, recycled, or repurposed, East Jesus encourages visitors to imagine a world without waste in which every action is an opportunity for self-expression.

I think West Satan is a simply a suburb of East Jesus. The art gallery there was fascinating and mind-expanding. My wife, ever the one to encompass clear insight into as few words as possible, simply called it ‘bad art.’

Either way it was a fun trip that gave birth to other mind images that are still whirling around in my head. Someday they just might start leaking out my fingertips into future storylines. My visit challenged the notion of ‘what art is’ and dragged us out of our comfort zone for at least one afternoon.

It was at once fascinating, intriguing, sad, mind-expanding, and challenging. It was finding iconic and cultural-pop treasures in the middle of nowhere California…just a stones-throw from Palm Springs and the flip side of reality there.

It was tripping out without the acid and a glimpse into the lives of those who don’t want to be a part of ‘any scene’ here in fantasy land or the rest of the world.

I get it. They got it…and want to keep it that way.

Elephant and the Owl

The phrase: ‘I have seen the elephant; I have heard the owl’ is an American colloquial phrase that refers to gaining experience of the world at a significant cost. It was a popular expression in the mid-to-late 19^th century throughout the United States beginning with the Mexican-American war and beyond.

Today, it could be tailored to any number of challenging and stressful events in one’s life. Turns out, it’s one of those clichés that enters our lives at a young age and somehow stays relevant throughout. Nurses have many phrases for patients to encourage them to continue moving after surgery or during a hospital stay. “Motion is lotion” both OT and PT love to say to their patients. Another is: “If you don’t use it, you’ll lose it.” Funny how clichés can carry so much truth to them.

Back in the day, pioneers would speak about ‘seeing the elephant’ in their journeys west. James Michener in his novel ‘Centennial’ made it a key point in the life of one of his characters. For that young adventurer, it was an experience that left him shaken to the core and uncertain about his future.

Over the years, the phrase has become immersed in western novels, war stories and more poignant story-telling such as Margaret Craven’s wonderful novel ‘I Heard the Owl Call My Name.’ It’s been referenced in many bible stories highlighting those watershed moments and end of life experiences some biblical characters have faced. It’s probably entered our own lives whether we’ve been aware of it or not.

It’s been argued that you don’t really know who you are until faced with a catastrophe or a near-death experience. Some will say that our best life experiences come through affliction and challenges we never expected to encounter. It might be an athletic event that stretches your abilities to their absolute maximum. It could be a personal struggle with health issues, personal or social relationships or any number of personal challenges.

I’m having that experience now as a caregiver to my wife as she recovers from a lengthy hospital stay and time spent at a transitional care facility. “You’ve got to take care of yourself” well-meaning folks have been telling me. Truer words were never spoken.

Earlier in life, I’ve also found that phrase to be meaningful and fulfilling. It touched me through different ventures from acting to writing to running my own business and managing various real estate ventures.

For many people the very act of planting one’s feet on a theatrical stage could be akin to ‘seeing the elephant.’ My first experience with Community Theater started back in Tennessee in 1972. I had left public television in Minnesota to spread my wings in the Deep South. The Chattanooga Little Theater became my refuge. I crewed on the first play of the season and then acted in three more.

I think a lot of my fellow actors found their true selves on that stage. Much like politicians whose only claim to fame is their small-town title, these folks truly embraced their new pretend persona. It made them feel accomplished and whole and fulfilled. I never reached that level of self-satisfaction. I was always more interested in the story-telling aspect of the theater and not the acting part of it.

Creating plays has always been an important part of my writing arsenal. RAAC, the Rosemount Area Arts Council, in Minnesota and Script2Stage in California have both provided wonderful venues for me to showcase some of my plays. Both venues provide plenty of opportunities to face tough obstacles and stress in the quest for an engaging story to tell.

The Palm Springs Writers Guild has, for years, been guiding, encouraging and educating hopeful authors in the craft of writing and publishing their own works of art. One could easily equate this group of vernacular warriors with those ancients seeing the Elephant and listening for the Owl. Each and everyone of them on their own personal quest to face their fears and solidify their future.

Whether its acting, writing, or pushing one’s body to the limit, the quest for more is always there. Seeing the elephant and hearing the owl an integral part of the life experience.

What Drives Ambition?

My son asked me ‘the question’ about ten years ago and I had no definitive answer for him. Turns out, I’m no further ahead with the answer now than I was back then. As involved, invested and caring parents, both Brian and Melanie want their children to succeed. Hence, the question from Brian: “Dad, how do you teach someone ambition?” caught me off guard and churned up a lot of pondering on my part.

The good news is that I ‘ve had ten years to wrestle with that ‘question for the ages.’ Over that time, there have been a number of clues that do bring a little more clarity to the issue. Of course, I have my own theories. They’re pretty deeply entrenched ideas of how and why some folks become motivated and others spend most of their lives just floating along. So, where does motivation come from? Anyplace and everyplace is one simple answer that holds a lot of truth to it.

This whole concept of ambition and motivation is a bit of an obsession with me. I wasn’t cognizant of that fact until I got into writing on a full time basis. The theme of ‘being hungry’ has permeated a lot of my writing. The desire for more, for something else, something better has crept into several of my books; especially “Love in the A Shau” and “The Debris Trilogy.” Both novels feature hungry young men determined to make a success of themselves. It’s a theme I can personally relate to and a vision quest I don’t ever see ever ending.

Let’s face it. We’re only here on earth for a brief period of time. Why wouldn’t we want to make the very most out of every minute of our existence? Why wouldn’t we want to do something with our lives that was worthwhile, satisfying and hopefully of benefit to others? And more importantly, why wouldn’t we want the same for our own children and grandchildren?

Sports is one area where a lot of kids, my grandkids included, learn about the basics of life; what’s fair and not fair. How hard work can ‘sometimes’ pay off and other times not help the final cause. But it does reaffirm the benefit of hard work and the desire to succeed.

Over the last ten years, each of my grandchildren have also found areas of interest outside of the sporting arena. Each of these ancillary ventures was initiated by the kids themselves. Whether it be band, NHS, Deca, Speech, Languages, Theater, Music, etc. Fortunately, these extracurricular activities were self-directed and discovered sans parents or grandparents prodding. The universal lesson learned here was simple enough: Anything worth doing is going to require some kind of sacrifice.

Nothing comes easy…at least for most of us. When you’re born at the bottom then anything above that looks pretty good. When you have nothing growing up then you don’t long for those vapid pleasures that don’t amount to a hill of beans in the overall scheme of living. Growing up with the basics gives one a real appreciation for the simpler things of life.

That doesn’t mean you don’t want more. It simply means you appreciate the basic values of your own existence and can realistically grasp the intrinsic appeal of other things beyond your reach. There is value in being raised with a focus on the fundamentals of living and a scarcity of those extraneous distractions of wealth.

It’s not always easy being born rich. The three generation theory has been around for a long time. Among other monikers, it’s been called shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations.

Based on fact and some fiction, the theory simply asserts that most businesses don’t survive beyond the third generation of owners. Grandpa starts the business. His son takes over and continues for a time. But by the time a third generation is ready to step up to the plate, the discipline and hunger for success have been muted and gutted for all intents and purposes.

And it’s hardly unique to this country. In China, it’s called rice paddy to rice paddy. In Italy, it’s called cobbler to cobbler. In Ireland, it’s called clogs to clogs.

Being born poor and hungry can be a strong motivator for the taste of success. But what if your kids aren’t growing up poor like you were? What if they’ve had a lot of advantages simply because that’s what their parents (your own kids) want them to have? Do we deny them opportunities to travel, read a lot, go to a good school or have other life experiences we could never dream of when we were growing up? I think not.

Inherent in my personality is a deep-seated prejudice about giving kids ‘everything’ simply because their parents can afford it. I think there are distinct disadvantages of being raised a rich environment. And we all know who ‘they’ are. Back in high school, they were all gathered around the ‘most popular’ table in the cafeteria. Their descendants are still there today.

So, where’s the balance between giving your kids or grandkids every opportunity you can to enrich their lives and still raise them as responsible, respectable and appreciative citizens of the world?

I certainly don’t have all the answers as to how to motivate young people nowadays especially my own grandchildren. The best advice I could probably give my own kids is to lead by example. To reward their own children’s efforts and not necessarily their success. And to remind their kids that practice makes for opportunities.

I didn’t become a writer in my later years because I wanted to…or had nothing else to do. Writing is my favored/flavored addiction just as running was for forty-seven of my more energetic years. What I try to explain to well-meaning folks who ask ‘why do it?’ is that I have no choice. It isn’t something that I can play with occasionally when the mood strikes. It is, at its deepest level, something that I have to do.

The writer in me has to get involved in my character’s lives. I have to travel back out west occasionally and I have to muddle around the under-belly of Palm Springs when the time comes. I have to do what I do because I was born hungry and still am today. I hope to stay hungry for the rest of my life.

In past blogs I’ve commented that I want my grandchildren to ‘be hungry.’ Thus far, I think they’re developing a pretty healthy appetite for more. Hopefully, at some point in their young lives, they’ll come to understand that old adage as I did a long time ago. The harder they work, the luckier they might become.