Front Seat Driver

It is the American Dream of every red-blooded American young man to own his own car. The bigger and faster the car, the better—even in this day of high gas prices. How can you possibly catch the eye of a cute chick if you don’t drive by her in your cool car and whistle at her or try to pick her up? Of course, in order to achieve this American Dream of car ownership, one must first learn to drive.
It all started with my older brother, Mark, saying, “Who’s driving this car? I’m certainly not. Somebody better grab the wheel!” I would look across the front seat at him, sitting behind the steering wheel, with his hands folded calmly over his stomach and a slight grin on his face. As the car motored on its way at a slow, gradual angle towards the curb, my quick, panicked expression coincided with me grabbing the steering wheel to swerve us back on a straight course. This was usually my signal to steer for a couple of blocks. This little ritual, or rite of passage, was always performed without Mom in the car. If she were to witness this, she may have given me the impression that this was unacceptable behavior for an eleven-year-old boy. I would consider this my first introduction to driver’s education, along with my curiosity concerning the function of certain pedals, levers, buttons, and knobs.
You would think that my mother would have welcomed the notion that her “responsible” older son was preparing her youngest for the inevitable driving test although it was still a few years down the road. Sadly, she was not afforded the same generous assistance. When my Mom was 16 years old (possibly younger) back around 1939, her neighbor took her out to an old Ford truck in the middle of a cow pasture, pointed to the pedals, shifter, and steering wheel, explained how they worked, and basically wished her the best of luck. That was about the extent of her driver’s training.
I don’t think my mother was alone when it came to the degree of training that a new driver received back then. According to an article on the Smithsonian National Museum of History’s website, “Early motorists were taught to drive by automobile salesmen, family and friends, or organizations like the YMCA” (“America” 1).
I evolved to my next level of training when an older friend and I used to drive out to camp on his wooded property near the Ohio-Pennsylvania border. I was around 15 years old, and it was back in the mid-70’s. Once we got to the long stretches of farm roads, he would pull off to the side, there would be a hasty “Chinese fire drill,” and I would be in the driver’s seat of his manual-shift Volkswagen van. I was now driving and learning stick shift with nothing but open country road ahead of me. I think I still owe him a transmission.
Although the laws and rules haven’t changed much since I learned to drive, a lot has changed since my mother’s earliest days of driving. Just try to obtain a driver’s license without proof of insurance. Parents must be able to add their children to their insurance policies in order for them to drive, and also, by putting the new driver on their policy, it keeps the rates down. One thing that will make these rates go up or even cause an insurer to drop the parents as policy holders is a new driver with a high accident rate. This is simple math for the insurance company. I know this only because it was branded into my memory when I was learning to drive.
According to Doug Patterson, a Mentor High school junior that I spoke with who recently got his driver’s license, if you are under 18 in Ohio, you have to have documentation to prove that you had training before you can be licensed. If you are 18-year-olds or older, you only need to take the written test. In addition to the classroom hours and the eight hours of actual driving time that are required, Doug spent well over the required fifty hours of driving with parental supervision that was needed in order for him to get his license.
So, with our modern roads more congested than ever, cars faster and more powerful, confusing, high speed freeways everywhere, and rampant road rage, are the new drivers of today educated well enough to be safe, responsible drivers? Patrick Kiger, who wrote an article for Good Housekeeping magazine addressing this question, does not think so. As a result of tight budgets, Kiger states in his article that some school systems are cutting back on courses that they don’t consider to be fundamental. One school system in Reno, Nevada only has a classroom driver’s education course. There is no actual driving time included in the training (1).
Kiger responds to the safety issue concerning this trend in educating our new drivers in this way:
Is this the right time to take driver’s ed off the road? Statistics suggest that it is not. Over the next five years, more than four million 16-year-olds are expected to put the pedal to the metal—and these novice drivers are the riskiest group on the road, with a crash rate five times that of 20-year-old drivers. Instead of serving up a movie and lecture and thinking we’ve taught kids to be safe, we should be offering programs that will really help protect them—and the motorists they’ll soon encounter. (1-2)
The author goes on to talk about how driving instructors should be certified with three college-level courses, according to The American Driver and Traffic Safety Education Association (Kiger 2). This, to me, is a step in the right direction, and I also think that there should be more emphasis on the amount of actual driving time spent in the course of instruction.
When my Mom learned to drive, her training was almost entirely hands-on. The portion of my training that was actual drive time was about 40% of the course (not including the “private” lessons with my brother and friend). This was fairly extensive, considering my driver’s education course was two or three classes a week for an entire semester. The school offered Doug a two-week, after school course which included 24 hours of classroom lecture. Fortunately, his parents spent more than the additional, required 50 hours of on-the-road parental coaching for him to get his license.
Mom has been driving almost 70 years now with one, small, no-fault fender bender and a couple of speeding tickets. I have been legally on the road over 30 years with not quite as an impressive of a record as my mother’s, but nothing serious. Doug is a bright, level-headed driver, with a perfect driving record, so far, and a lifetime of driving ahead of him. I wish him and his generation the best.
As for my 15-year-old daughter, I have an old school attitude toward the pre-driver’s education that I’d like her to get. This could probably involve a large, vacant parking lot (instead of a cow pasture), and a pass on that second cup of coffee, for I plan to be there, white-knuckling it by her side. I would hope that she will be able to hit the ground running when she first takes the driving portion of driver’s ed. My daughter’s ultimate success as a driver is directly proportionate to her own safety, the safety of others, and my insurance rates. And who knows, maybe my daughter will be the one driving in her fancy car, picking up boys? Isn’t this every teenager’s American Dream?

A Poem in Honor of Golf

In My Hand I Hold A Ball,
White And Dimpled, Rather Small.
Oh, How Bland It Does Appear,
This Harmless Looking Little Sphere.

By It's Size I Could Not Guess,
The Awesome Strength It Does Possess.
But Since I Fell Beneath Its Spell,
I've Wandered Through The Fires Of Hell.

My Life Has Not Been Quite The Same,
Since I Chose To Play This Stupid Game.
It Rules My Mind For Hours On End,
A Fortune It Has Made Me Spend.

It Has Made Me Yell, Curse And Cry,
I Hate Myself And Want To Die.
It Promises A Thing Called Par,
If I Can Hit It Straight And Far.

To Master Such A Tiny Ball,
Should Not Be Very Hard At All.
But My Desires The Ball Refuses,
And Does Exactly As It Chooses.

It Hooks And Slices, Dribbles And Dies,
And Even Disappears Before My Eyes.
Often It Will Have A Whim,
To Hit A Tree Or Take A Swim.

With Miles Of Grass On Which To Land,
It Finds A Tiny Patch Of Sand.
Then Has Me Offering Up My Soul,
If Only It Would Find The Hole.

It's Made Me Whimper Like A Pup,
And Swear That I Will Give It Up.
And Take To Drink To Ease My Sorrow,
But The Ball Knows ... I'll Be Back Tomorrow.


P.S.
Stand proud you noble swingers of

clubs and losers of balls....

A recent study found the average golfer

walks about 900 miles a year.

Another study found
golfers drink, on average,

22 gallons of alcohol a year.

That means, on average,
golfers get about 41 miles to the
gallon.

Kind of makes you
proud. I Almost feel like a
hybrid.

National Gallery of Writing

I am so excited about this new National Gallery of Writing sponsored by the National Council of Teachers of English. We could start our own gallery within this gallery called the Blue Hour Blue Moon Gallery and each submit a piece of writing. What do you think? Click on the title above to visit the gallery and scroll down to "Start a Local Gallery" to learn more about it. Then let's talk about my idea.

Dan Kohlhepp's Birthday Toast

A Birthday Toast
to
Jayne Marie Parrott Magee
on her
Sixtieth Birthday
April 10, 2009

The Literary Reference
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet.
Juliet, Romeo and Juliet


The Set-up
In the early 1990’s Jayne and I worked together in Doctor Lewis’s converted veterinary clinic at 415 East DuBois Street, and we had adjoining offices with the door between us always open. Thus, I was able to hear Jayne explain on many occasions who she was to dunder-headed people on the other end of the phone:

“Jayne like Mansfield;

Parrott like the Bird;

Magee, M-A-G-E-E.”

For my own amusement, I would replay Jayne’s response in my head and tried to find a suitable finish for her simile trifecta. “Jayne like Mansfield, Parrot like the bird, Magee like Gary? No, too confusing. Like Greg? No, too obscure. Like Garth? No, Really obscure. Like HK? I don’t think so.

Over the years, I got to know Jayne and her family better. While Jayne was like her mother and father, I realized Jayne was like her daughter, Meghan. She was also like her daughter Amanda. In fact, she was very much like her sons Gabriel and Galen. So I finally had my similes and her toast.


The Toast

Here’s a toast to Jayne Marie Parrott Magee, our friend:

To Jayne, like her mother’s best friend who battled polio and today survives as a tribute to the power of the human spirit;
To Marie, like her mother, Ruth Marie, who is a touchstone for her life’s realities;
To Parrott, like the man her mother loved and the father who raised her;
To Magee, like the spirits of her progeny, Meghan, Amanda, Gabriel, and Galen, who carry her dreams, passions and many kindnesses; and
To our friend, like the person we thank for making us smile and our lives richer!


Happy Birthday!

The Greatest Game Ever Played

I have never been an athlete. When I was in grade school, I was always the last one picked for the baseball team. I tried out for cheerleading every Spring of my high school career, but to no avail. Therefore, it came as quite a shock when at midlife, I realized that I had become obsessed with a sport: golf. On any given summer day, you will find me trudging across the links of the DuBois Country Club, pushing my golf cart that looks like a baby carriage (the irony of this simile hasn’t escaped my attention) up and down the hills as I smack a tiny white ball with a stick. Why do I insist upon torturing myself in this way, a sane person might ask. My response to this query would be that I am passionate about golf because it challenges me physically, mentally, and emotionally.

As a soon-to-be sixty-year-old woman, golf is a physical challenge. First of all, golf is a physical challenge because I am short. I have tall friends who can hit the ball a mile. I think it has something to do with physics. Having used that as an excuse, I must confess that my best golfing buddy, JoAnne, is exactly my height and she plays par golf. However, JoAnne works much harder at it than I do. Secondly, golf challenges me physically because I really don’t have any muscle strength. Granted, I go to Curves several times a week, but I don’t make time to do the weight lifting required to build up more muscle mass. Thirdly, golf challenges me physically because of the weather conditions. When it is almost 90 degrees and the humidity rivals Florida, my face gets so red and I sweat so much that I have often been stopped by fellow golfers who fear that I am having a stroke. I am—a heat stroke. Therefore, I have learned the hard way that, for me, the best times to play golf are in the early morning or early evening. What I love about golf, even though it pushes me beyond my physical limits, is that it is a game I can play well into my senior years. I need only to observe the 85-year-old woman who plays in our weekly golf league--and beats the socks off me--to test this theory.

In addition to the physical challenges of golf, golf also challenges me mentally. I have been told by many golf coaches that you play the game of golf “between your ears.” This means that golf is a mind game! It is no coincidence that my best golf scores occur on days when I am golfing alone or with my husband. No, it isn’t because I am cheating on my scores. On those days, I am totally relaxed and just doing it for fun. Conversely, my worst golf scores are always posted on the days when we have our Lucy League (the woman’s golf league at the DuBois Country Club, named after the 1950s TV show I Love Lucy) or when I am asked to play in a tournament. I get myself so psyched out that I am lucky to hit my ball off the tee and not hit a tree or send it splashing into the creek. Golf is a game that requires total concentration. If I am worrying about my kids, my spouse, or my finances, I can guarantee that I will have a score of 70 for nine holes of golf. However, it is because golf requires my full attention that I love it so much. I have to leave all my worries behind me whenever I head to the golf course.

Lastly, golf challenges me emotionally. When we first started playing in what we like to call “The Big Girls League,” my friend, JoAnne, and I would set a goal to just make it through nine holes of golf without crying. If we were successful at that feat, we considered it a victory. There is nothing like playing in a 4-person Scramble on Couples’ Night while your spouse glares at you and/or swears at you every time you add another stroke to the team score to stretch one's nerves to the breaking point. As my friend, Dan, loves to remind me, the game of golf requires “great ego strength.” I have had to learn not to judge my own worth or value to society by either my golf score or the numbers on my scale!

As the daffodils poke through the dirt and the snow melts off the ground, you can find me in my garage excitedly cleaning my clubs for a new season. In spite of the physical, mental, and emotional challenges of this frustrating sport, my passion for golf remains undiminished. Every Sunday of my youth, my father watched golf on TV after he got home from playing 18 holes of golf. I thought he was nuts. Now that he is playing golf in that beautiful country club in the heavenly realms, I am the one playing golf on all Sundays and holidays and watching Tiger Woods play in the US Open. Who would have believed it? Certainly not me or anyone who knows me. So if you see a short, chubby, middle-aged woman teeing off with her Pink Panther driver, and you hear someone melodiously bellow, “Fore!”--duck and run!

* Note: the short video clip below provides me with inspiration for the 2009 golf season.

Poetry Commentary

I have just started reading Robert Frost poems again. Anyone have a favorite that they enjoy that we can chat about? I just read "Mending Walls" and really enjoyed the way the poem is a conversation between two speakers.

Everyone Has a Story to Tell

Dan Kohlhepp gave me a terrific article about writing memoirs that appeared in the AARP magazine. I use it in my classes for writing prompts. If you click on the title above, it will take you to this link. You can even order the entire book if you wish.

What I would like to do is use any of one of the prompts mentioned in the article to get all of us writing. So here goes the first one, taken from this article:

Write two paragraphs that end with “You can’t get away from it.”

Let's Share Our Writing

I am inviting anybody who is writing anything to post part of it on the Blog for all of us to read and comment upon. I am learning all about digital technology at a workshop at Lakeland, so I will post some of my assignments and get your feedback on how well they work. Remember that if you add a Word file, to save it in rft (Rich Text Format) so everybody can read it. You can also post it in pdf format. Please add links to your texts, rather than type in the entire text as a Post.

Introduction

Introduction:

I am Loretta, 77 years old. I am new to blogs, so I will make some mistakes. I am retired from teaching composition. I used to journal every day and write a poem once in awhile.

Let's Try Again!!!

We haven't been on this blog for awhile. I think it is time that we try again. I'm adding a link to a video on ted.com. about genius. Just click on the title above that is underlined, and it will take you to the link. We can all watch it and discuss what we think about it and then maybe share some writing???

Short Ficton Contest Winner

If you click on the link above, it will take you to the first place winner of a short fiction contest. Maybe some of us could enter next time? The also had a Spring Contest and I read the winning stories in the paper version of the magazine that I got at the Writer's Digest Workshop in NYC last month. Unfortunately, the link to them isn't up yet--but the Honorable Mention Story for Spring 2007 reminds me very much of JuFrida's essay. So I will post the link to that once it is updated.

Las Tres Mujeres- How I Found the Spiritual Side of Aging

With brown weathered faces as serious as faithful nuns presiding over Sunday mass, three little old women draped in brightly colored shawls glided up to me. They made the sign of the cross, kissed their thumbs, and whispered a prayer. Within the sacred walls of that majestic place on the outskirts of Mexico City, it was immediately clear that what transpired on that warm Good Friday morning in Coyoacan was no accident. It was the passage of my spiritual walk into middle age.
We were alone in the antique garden once cultivated by Mexico’s greatest 20th century artists, Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo. It should have been strange that no one else, other than the Columbian gentleman who had disappeared into some other part of Casa Azul, was present. However, it wasn’t strange at all. It was predestined. My questions came as if they were rehearsed and ready for this moment.
“La conocían?” (Did you know her?)
Their wide smiles squeezed out from under layers of folded skin; a youthful energy suddenly danced in their eyes.
“Si, la conocíamos.” (Yes, we knew her.)
“Que pueden decirme?” (What can you tell me?)
“Como usted, ella no tuvo niños.” (Like you, she didn’t have children.)
One of the old women grabbed my arm and held it in a death grip, as if Frida’s spirit had come back to communicate through her. Perhaps Frida was channeling the knowledge that I was also childless and close to the same age as she was when she died. It was clear to me in that moment why I was obsessed with the artist who painted her pain so graphically. I was fascinated by her story because no other woman dared to break the status quo of a male dominated culture so brazenly. Frida Kahlo was ahead of her time. I had always made a point of being ahead of mine. I believed the old women were sent only for me.
“Sea paciente, mi hija- mire, escuche y escriba. Enseñe los niños.” (Be patient, my daughter- look, listen and write. Teach the children.) Just as quickly as she said those words, the three wise ones drifted away.
Once I left Casa Azul, St. John the Baptist Cathedral, standing tall and proud in the middle of the town square, beckoned me to join the mass in progress. A few
indigenous groups were in front of the church selling palm frond crosses for a few pesos. The encounter with the three women, and the sight of these beautiful people celebrating Easter, gave me a renewed sense of faith and belonging. My aging process seemed to take on new meaning.
Not having been in a Catholic church for decades, I was surprised how quickly I dropped to my knees in prayer. Soon, I was swallowed into a sea of people that swept me toward the altar where the priest was finishing his sermon. He descended the pulpit at the point of the choir’s highest note, which came to a crescendo on the word Cristo. While splashing parishioners to his left and right with Holy water from a plastic bottle, el Padre nodded and smiled at me with the same knowing look that had possessed the old women. And then he doused me with the same water. My tears confirmed what I felt inside- I was included among the blessed and still had so much to accomplish, even as a twenty-six year veteran teacher facing fifty.
The surge of the exiting crowd pushed me back toward the large wooden doors and dumped me on the street. “Sea paciente, mi hija- mire, escuche y escriba. Enseñe los niños.” I knew that everything I did from that moment on in Mexico had to honor those words, or the spell of las tres mujeres (the three women) would be broken. Deciding there was one other place that might unlock the mystery of the journey I was meant to experience, I hailed a taxi and made my way to the heart of El Zocalo (Mexico City’s main square). Every fear of being alone was replaced with a hopefulness of adventure.
The massive Cathedral, the vast cobblestone streets constructed with the remains of Aztec pyramids, and the half unearthed El Templo Mayor heightened the excitement I was feeling as I looked up at El Palacio Nacional- the government building that houses Diego Rivera’s most famous murals, “The History of Mexico.”
I spent hours roaming the gothic corridors that displayed Rivera’s work. Without relying on the written word, the stories painted in front of me enlightened my knowledge of Mexico and gave me an urgent sense to teach this incredible history to new generations. So I waited patiently. I looked and listened as I sat on the stone steps that take visitors to the main murals. Soon, a masculine voice whispered to me, “Enseñe los niños.” Teach the children. Still in a state of hopeful meditation, I wanted to believe it was Diego speaking to me from another dimension, just as I imagined Frida had done through las viejitas.
I took out my travel journal and began writing as if my life depended on the words that would fill its pages. Out of respect for my fourth grade students who, for the most part, are from Mexico, and whose families sacrificed much to bring them to the United States for a better life, a children’s book began to fill the pages of my worn diary. I asked myself: What would these parents want their children to know about their history, their culture and their pride? And then I remembered reading that Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo painted for the Mexican people who couldn’t afford books. Every bit of wealth these fabulous artists amassed from their work, they gave back to the people in the form of an accessible history rich with dignity, sacrifice and truth. They did all of this in the middle of their lives.
I thought of the Mexican children I had seen in the streets selling trinkets to help support their families. I thought of the many middle-aged couples tenderly guiding their elderly- their viejitos- around town parks as if they were parading kings and queens for all to admire and respect. I thought of my own life. I thought of my hopes and dreams as a child from a broken home where money was scarce. I thought of the years I dedicated to my studies, sacrificing friends and relationships. I thought of my heritage: a predominant mixture of Spanish and French peppered with a smattering of California Indian, and a dash of English and Irish. I thought of the struggles I had had as a child to find a heritage that fit. Then I thought of the ancestries that have blessed my life- my Italian stepfather; my Japanese American husband; my African American father-in-law; and, the multicultural friends who have surrounded me throughout my life. In the belly of that ancient building, I felt my middle age taunting me with new challenges. I had never before felt more youthful.
JuFrida de Kato

Writing the Break Out Novel

Donald Maas taught one of the workshops at the Writer's Conference in NYC. I bought his book and went to other workshops. I'm reading it now and click on the title to this Post, it will take you to the info. about the book on Amazon. It is excellent and I will be sharing some things I learned from it later on. But before I do, let's talk about "break out novels"--those novels that generate tons of sales and buzz and everybody reads them. One current example is Jodi Picoult's latest bestseller called "Nineteen Minutes" about a school shooting. If you haven't read it yet, I highly recommend it.

What is your favorite "break out" novel? What, in your opinion, makes a novel "break out" from the rest of the pack?

Meghan's Poem

Here is Meg's poem. I'm testing to see if when one of us posts something, everybody gets an email.

Taxes At Work!

Oh what a service is jury duty

The sitting all day makes for a sore booty

I wonder and ponder and think and consider

Why on earth do lawyers get paid to much to reconfig-er...

The facts and the witnesses and the rhetoric of law...

All to provide a case of justice for all.

While all the jury wants to do is simply go home

and no longer listen to the courtroom drone...

so come to a decision we must...

under God we trust...

our butts we bust...

all so that some young kid can walk out and hopefully no longer lust...

for the score that got him into this mess...

this distress...

now just confess

so we can all get on with it!

Resurrection of the Blue Hour Blue Moon Writing Club

It has been two years since the Blue Hour Blue Moon Writing Club was a functioning entity. David and I both attended the Book Expo of America Writer's Conference in NYC last week. Here is the link to what that featured:

http://www.writersdigest.com/bea

Jodi Picoult was the featured speaker, and she was amazing. Check out this link to see some of what she shared with us:

http://www.writersdigest.com/articles/picoult_the_fact_behind_fiction.asp

Both David and I are working on new novels for eventual publication. David is also working on the website for Gray Barn Books. Are goal for this summer is to perfect our Craft of Writing. We need help with that.

So who would like to join us? Instead of sending around individual emails, let's make this Blog work as our own personal writing workshop. Post your thoughts here.
Jayne

The Gift of the Blue Moment

"The Gift of the Blue Moment" is the title of a chapter in a book I'm reading called Small Graces: The Quiet Gifts of Everyday Life by Kent Nerburn. I think it speaks very much to our Blue Hour Blue Moon Writing Club mission: "The mother of the man for whom I worked was a very insightful woman. As a child of twelve she had watched the Nazis come into her classroom and take the Jewish children away . . . . She became a watcher and a survivor . . . . For months she watched me struggle with the demons that were driving me . . . One day she took me aside. "I watch you," she said. "I see the loneliness in your eyes. I watch your heart running away. You are like so many people. When life is hard, they try to look over the difficulty into the future. Or they long for the happiness of the past. Time is their enemy. The day they are living in is their enemy. They are dead to the moment. The live only for the future or the past. But that is wrong. "You must learn to seek the blue moment," she said. She sat down beside me and continued. "The blue moment can happen any time or place. It is a moment when you are truly alive to the world around you. It can be a moment of love or a moment of terror. You may not know it when it happens. It may only reveal itself in memory. But if you are patient and open your heart, the blue moment will come . . . the blue moments string together like pearls to make up your life. It is up to you to find them. It is up to you to make them. It is up to you to bring them alive in others" (pp.77-79). If you want to read about Kent Nerburn's and his thoughts on the writing process, go to his website at: http://www.kentnerburn.com/ . Let's each respond to this post by describing a Blue Moment.

Welcome Blue Mooners

Hi All,
I decided that we need to move the Blue Hour Blue Moon Writing Club to a BLOG format. Then we can all add links, scan in poems and short stories, and have it available to writers around the world. So let's get rolling by having you guys take it for a spin!