Tag: #amwriting

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Living in Society

We’re Going Home – Larry Pippins

Larry Pippins died Dec. 2, 2017. Photo Credit – E.J. Fielding Funeral Home and Cremation Services website.

We were at home talking about some of my Army buddies and turned to my friend Larry Pippins. I Googled him and found he died on Dec. 2, 2017, after an 18-month battle with ALS. I hadn’t known. May he rest in peace.

Larry was born three days before me in 1951. I picked this photo from the funeral home site because the way he is standing and the shape of his hands remind me of how I knew him in Germany where we met. I could imagine standing next to him and taking a burger from the tray.

Larry was born in Pensacola, Florida, one of the few native Floridians I have known. He was a male of the South and enjoyed fishing, hunting, kayaking, drinking whisky and vodka, as well as many other activities.

He and his first wife split soon after they left Germany. I stayed in touch with them both until the 1980s. Together they lived in a German castle near Heidesheim that had been subdivided into apartments. I remember more than one overnighter sleeping on the flokati rug they had in the living room. One time, after too much drinking, they had to have it laundered. Those were the days.

We were in the infantry, although he changed his MOS (military occupational specialty) to military police soon after leaving Germany. When we were together, I said the changes we experienced were to transition the military from being prepared for jungle warfare in Vietnam to fighting a war over oil in the Middle East. As so, there we were. He was deployed to the Middle East to support Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm. I kept a photograph of Larry with a postcard he sent from Desert Shield framed and with a yellow ribbon on it in our Indiana living room until the war was over.

When Larry was accepted to Ranger School I shipped all the fatigues I had left from my service to him to use while in training. Finishing Ranger School was a high point for him at the time. After graduation, he didn’t think Ranger School was all it was cracked up to being. Not a complete waste of time, but close.

When I was living as a writer in Iowa City in 1981, he sent me an audio cassette in which he admonished me to re-join the military. I did not. We fell out of touch after he invited me to attend a change of command ceremony down South and I couldn’t. We hadn’t had a good conversation since we last met in Chicago in the early 1980s.

We spent so much time together in the military and then after leaving our first assignments we corresponded in the days before the internet and email. Tonight I’ll say a prayer for my Army buddy. He lived a decent life full of friends and family. He made something of himself. He was something.

Categories
Writing

About Newsletters

Solon Economist – 2016

There is an obvious, intentional flight among journalists and others from working at a news organization to producing a newsletter. Many use the platform Substack, yet there are others. They all can attract viewers, and importantly, have a subscription component that can generate revenue. What they do not do is replace the collaboration of working for a newspaper. Substackers are on their own.

On the road to perdition, this seems the next evolution of journalism. It is littered with potholes and pavement cracks. It has all the aspects of a do-it-yourself, one-person start up. There usually is no editor except the author, unless one is lucky enough to join with others to build some basic, on-the-cheap infrastructure. Call it a newspaper, only without union employees or a big fancy building like the Des Moines Register used to occupy. If a writer misses an issue, they may not get paid, yet there is no blank front page to be concerned about. Newsletters are not redemption for the failings of news organizations. They fracture and fragment news gathering and reduce it down to one-person experiences broadcast on a semi-regular basis. There is value in that, yet it’s not the same by a distance.

Ana Marie Cox wrote on Monday, “Some of the best writing out there is from writers striking out on their own.” That may be so, yet what the proliferation of newsletters has done is enable focus on writers readers like to learn from and leave the rest behind. It is easy to build a silo out of newsletters we like, further breaking down the view that a diversity of writers and opinions is of value. The pressures of today’s society and the changing role of media makes us hunker down into our silos and that is not a positive thing.

“(The exodus from legacy journalism) has created something that it is so personality- and brand-driven, so geared to the success of one person at a time, it scares me,” Cox wrote. “Newsletters are atomizing. They incentivize speed and volume. The newsletter ecosystem isn’t built to support doing big things, or doing things slowly, or doing things collectively. Or doing big things collectively, slowly.”

I get most of my news from one of four sources: newspapers, newsletters, emails, and the social media platform BlueSky. Importantly, I seek news sources that are grounded in the human experiences of the author. Such experience comes at a cost, and newspapers seek to drive out costs by using content from sources like The Associated Press, or in some cases by using artificial intelligence to fill a page. When cost concerns trump personal experience, what is called news becomes less engaging, less worth following.

Newsletter writers try to make it on subscriptions, yet it can be a tough row to hoe. Writers know they need more than a newsletter on their financial platform to live a life. Part of the risk of writing an article is it can be a dud. Without the infrastructure of a news organization, that means less pay for the time spent on the article. As a long-time blogger, I realize the benefit of producing posts with 400 to 1,000 words. They can be produced in an hour or two with less investment of time gathering new experience or information. A seasoned news professional knows the ropes and can survive a dud on a newsletter platform. However, there is a need to produce content on a recognizable, regular basis. To be successful (i.e. generate enough income) a writer must produce engaging volume for their followers. That’s tough to do when an article is based on one person’s experience.

I made a few posts in my Substack account and they get a lot more views than my posts on WordPress. Part of that is how they count a “view.” They explain the same reader may count for multiple views while reading an article. I will continue to post unique content there to see what it does. I doubt I would move this blog to a newsletter format because that is already available to subscribers via email. Too, if there was potential to earn a decent income, I would consider more newsletter content. I don’t see that path as viable at present.

Freelancing has been part of the gig economy since long before we called holding portfolios of income producing jobs as such. Freelancing benefits the news organization because there is a fixed price for each piece of work, and because the number of freelancers can surge or be cut back depending on needs. I produced 100 newspaper articles as a freelancer and I neither felt part of an organization nor like I was paid enough for the investment in time. The idea of a gig economy sounds positive until one has to live in it.

I haven’t talked about “content creators” yet. Maybe that is a topic for a different post.

Categories
Writing

Spanish Moss

The Big Oak in Thomasville, Georgia. Photo Credit – Wikimedia Commons by Carla Finley

A foundational childhood memory is driving with my family through South Georgia and seeing Spanish Moss hanging over U.S. Highway 319 between Thomasville, Georgia and Tallahassee, Florida. Here is an excerpt from my upcoming autobiography where I wrote about this.

Our family drove from Iowa to visit Tallahassee, Florida, the place Father lived after re-uniting with Grandfather after his release from prison. Family lore is Grandfather’s conviction for draft evasion was a misunderstanding. He hadn’t meant to be a draft dodger during World War II, according to his late son Eugene. Apparently, there was a problem with the U.S. Mail service, he said. Father spent time as a teenager in the area and graduated from Leon High School. He then enlisted in the U.S. Army with his brother Don.

That trip was to visit relatives in Wise County, Virginia, according to a conversation with Mother. The Tallahassee stop was a side trip, although look at a map and see it was not on the way. I don’t recall whether the memory occurred southbound or northbound, maybe both.

I sat in the back seat of the family automobile as Father drove on two-lane Highway 319 where Spanish Moss hung from oak trees with branches extending over the road. I suspect it was live oak trees, yet I don’t know. Mother was in the passenger seat, I was in back with my brother and sister. Except for Dad, we had never seen Spanish moss before. We did not have that in Iowa. We visited the plantation where Father stayed, the high school, and maybe stayed over with a relative, I can’t remember. These events and the long trip at slow speed along U.S. Highway 319 rolled into one with my trips commuting back and forth between Tallahassee and Thomasville for work.

For three months in 1997 and 1998, I was assigned to a logistics project in Ochlocknee, Georgia. I flew home from Tallahassee every other week, driving the same road I had as a child, U.S. Route 319. Oak trees lined the highway, their branches leaning over the highway were hung with Spanish moss. I lived there long enough to recognize other flora and fauna, in particular, pine forests and pecan plantations. I made this regular trip between Ochlocknee and Tallahassee for most of my stay.

The main memory, of this drive is essential. It is an unchanging remembrance of something seen as a child in a way that shaped me. It has no time or place. Some days I don’t know if it’s real. It is the human condition to believe it is real, and eternal. So, I do.

Categories
Writing

Cranes

We mapped our house
   in a township
      with a lake
         and a preserve
            for native species...

Then structures came on wheels
   manufactured halves
      parked in a cul-de-sac
         while the foundation cured
            waiting the arrival
               of the cranes...

When the schedules converge
   on that day... in this plat:
      the dwelling,
         planned by convention and
            executed in compliance,
               is lifted in place...

May the process of completion
   the prospect of residence...
      engage and enrapture us...

Until when,
   if ever,
      in early light
         we are startled by waders 
            lifting from among the water lilies.

   ~ Circa 1993
Categories
Writing

Writer’s Weekend

Trail walking on Saturday at dawn.

I got out to the garden on Good Friday. In years past, I would plant potatoes that day as part of remembrance of my grandmother’s gardening folklore. Potatoes are an inexpensive food, readily available at the grocer, year-around: a simple carbohydrate in a life when I need to reduce my number of carbs. I enjoyed having home grown potatoes, yet skipped it in favor of other uses for the home made potato-growing containers.

Most garden work lies ahead. The weather forecast this week seems dicey for outdoors work. Such uncertainty is caused by our unpredictable, changing climate. Garden plants are resilient, however. If I protect against the last frost, chances are good there will be a crop.

I managed to move some brush around on Good Friday.

Celebrating Easter weekend is no longer a thing for me. While I was coming along as a grader, my grandmother was a driving force in celebrating Easter weekend and noting the resurrection. In studying the history of her community of Polish immigrants in Minnesota, I found her desire to don special clothing, attend Mass, and take posed photographs of everyone to note the day has its roots there. They lived an impoverished but good life in the late 19th Century. They also shared a vibrant cultural life surrounding the church. Parts of that cultural heritage found its way through grandmother to me, even if it didn’t stick.

I’ve been working on the part of my autobiography that describes the time our child started school while we lived in Indiana from 1988 until 1993. I kept written journals and re-reading them has been life changing. During the 30+ years since then, I have forgotten a lot of my own history. The current writing includes broader historical perspective I couldn’t get while living a life in real time. The end result is an appreciation for things I did do to help our child be the best they could be.

A main concern was how to spend more time with family. In February 1991, I put a pencil to it and found I was spending no more than 60-90 minutes per weekday plus time on weekends with our child. That seemed not enough. There are dozens of snippets of journal entries about our lives together. The challenge is how to weave those into a meaningful narrative, yet maintain the idea they are only a part of our lives together. This is perhaps the most interesting writing challenge thus far in the autobiography.

I didn’t make much progress on the book this weekend, although there was no shortage of things about which to think and remember. Some days, that’s what a writer needs.

Categories
Writing

Round and Round

The sound of their tricycle on cement,
   "Look Daddy how fast I'm going!"
    Clockwise, now counter-clockwise
       in early afternoon.

Round and round
   pedaling, pedaling
      looking at me
         then gliding to a stop.

They are almost too big for it.
   Soon they will need one less wheel...
Better to move around the expanding circles
   until they are on their own.

   ~ April 21, 1991 in the Calumet
Categories
Writing

Tulips #2

Empty milk bottles, an empty wine bottle
   and a salad dressing bottle...
      filled with water and white tulips --
         whose time will soon be past.

There is a dead spider in a milk bottle.
   I remember those milk bottles
      being left on the back porch, filled with milk.
         How it was...

Contemporary life has changed.
We drive to the Stop N Shop to get our milk
   in plastic jugs (#2 recyclable).
And glass milk bottles are the stuff of collectors
   and flea marketers.

They hold tulips well.

~ April 21, 1991 in the Calumet
Categories
Writing

Tulips #1

I cut the white tulips.
   They were almost gone.
      Petals dangling down,
         ready to fall to the ground.

They still smell fresh,
   as flowers do... in the clear 
      glass vase
         where I put them on my desk.

Others bloom now,
   still others are yet to bloom
      now and next year.

It's time I left them for a while
   to multiply, and grow, and flourish.
      Instead of transplanting them each October.

~ April 21, 1991 in the Calumet
Categories
Writing

Dark and Blustery Morning

Dark and blustery morning.

On the 100th anniversary of publication, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald was a quick read. In this case, less than 24 hours in four sittings. I highly recommend reading it. There is not much new to say since I wrote about it when the copyright expired in 2021. My new takeaway: a novel needn’t be long to be effective, engaging, and relevant. Gatsby is a product of that unique time, yet relevant to American society today.

It is a blustery day in Big Grove Township with winds forecast in the 25-30 m.p.h. range all day. With ambient temperatures in the low 50s, it is again on the chilly side for garden work. I realize there are few perfect days for gardening. I will get outdoors again to enjoy the sunshine.

He returns. There were big cumulus clouds of the kind Georgia O’Keeffe painted in 1965 when she was 77 years old. Cast against blue sky, these real clouds were a wondrous summer scene.

I went to breakfast with a neighbor and that set back the whole day. We had a good conversation and learned we have a lot in common, including time spent in the Calumet region of Indiana. I’ll be playing catch up the rest of today and tomorrow. Wish me luck.

Categories
Writing

Weekend Creations

Garage door up in Big Grove Township.

Editor’s Note: This is fifth in a series of posts about my creativity while living in Indiana. Check out the first post here.

When we lived on West Post Road in Cedar Rapids, our child was transitioning to talking in human language and walking. Singing and running soon followed. I determined the best time for my creative endeavor was in the early morning hours before the rest of the household woke and I had to leave for work. On good days, I got in two solid hours of reading and writing.

After moving to Indiana before our child started preschool, working in the garage became a main creative activity. The ranch-style home on a crawl space had inadequate room for much of my creative inventory except for some book shelves in the living room and a place to put the word processor. In the garage I had a workshop, a writing desk, and boxes of stuff brought from Iowa. My longer spells of creative activity occurred on weekends and vacations and included all aspects of my life muddled into one process. I continued through winter by acquiring a propane construction heater.

Elizabeth is in the driveway washing the car windows. I am in the garage, writing at my desk, listening to the radio WJOB.

The garage is a place where we can let our imagination go. Much time is spent organizing and moving supplies, but the creative endeavor is what we live for.

What assumptions are behind this garage and the endeavors in which we engage? (Personal Journal, Merrillville, Indiana, Sept. 12, 1992).

Our child was often outside with me playing in and around the garage. It was a main activity we did together. Some days they would ride the Big Wheel tricycle up and down the driveway, sometimes play on the small deck where there was a sandbox shaped like a turtle (called Shelly), sometimes playing in the backyard and garden, and much time hanging out with me inside the garage. All of those memories combine into one of just being together. I felt it was what fathers did.

I built a workbench out of two by fours custom designed to match my 73-inch height. At times I would use it to build or repair something. At times I would spread out papers on a project in progress. It was well built and survived the move to Iowa in 1993 where it occupies a prominent place in the current garage.

Characteristic of warm days in my creative space was to open the garage door and hang an American flag on the door frame. The flag was one I used in Mainz while on Autobahn road marches with armored vehicles. Garage door up! Flag hung! I was open for business!

In my journal I described some conversations about what we should call this space. We tried out names and settled on The Deaton Family Workshop. I wrote that on a student-sized chalkboard and placed it where all who entered could see. We possessed a secret life with each other in the garage and were co-conspirators regarding our lives in the Calumet.

Today I continue to put the garage door up and hang a flag. It is not the same one. This American flag once flew over the U.S. Capitol and was acquired through my congressman. It is fading from exposure to sunlight and needs to be replaced.

When I’m open for business in the garage today, it is not the same feeling as before our child left home. I do the best I can. I don’t mind remembering what once was when we simply went outside and played together. Days like that are no longer commonplace. Once in a while we get together and simply be with each other. I look forward to those days.