Black Beauty

Yesterday I was watering the garden. This is something my long-suffering wife usually does since she's the one with the green thumb that leads to a bumper crop of fresh vegetables. But she wasn't available and had asked me to do it because, as of two days ago, I'm off for the summer. So out I went, soft-soaking the raised beds she has put in place. Then something happened that surprised me - not the actual thing, but my reaction. First, let me say that I hate snakes. I loathe snakes. I want to kill snakes whenever I see one. And I saw one. But this snake was different. First, it disappeared so fast I didn't have time to be shocked or ready to kill. Second, it was a black snake and it was, well, I mean, um, beautiful. I did not recoil in fear or disgust. I just watched for the couple of seconds it took to leave the garden and head for the underbrush. This snake was so black and swift it was like a stream of ink poured out before me. And then gone. It was a pleasure to see. And I did not go "Zero at the bone" as Emily Dickinson wrote upon seeing a snake. Fact is, I enjoyed the experience. Sometimes I surprise myself.

Facing Up To Facebook

Facebook is cool. It has been a fine thing for me to keep in touch with friends I had in elementary school and since. It has information, beautiful photos, enticing recipes, even inspiring postings. But it has other things. (Slow drumbeat in the background.)

It has opportunities that leave me wondering about, well, why would anyone want to go there? For example, something like this shows up: "Fifteen microscopic pictures of body parts that will make you sick to your stomach!" Yeah, can't wait to check that out. Or, "Ten horrifying secrets of your favorite movie star!" How can they be secrets if they're on Facebook? I'm sure my fetid imagination does not want to go there, either. If the lead-in is a fat John Travolta (not one of my favorites, by the way), shirtless, I'm moving on. Plenty of ick out there without hunting it down. Or "Look at what happens when a naked biker runs head-on into a bridge abutment!" Really? I know accidents on the interstate might make you slow down for a quick look, but that's something you run into driving home from work. But to SEEK OUT! awful things is beyond me. Finally, have you clicked on this?: "Watch man eat live tarantulas!"

No. Thanks.

Time to enjoy photos of puppies and ducklings, blind dogs being led by dogs that can see, and recipes of gooey casseroles.

Dee Clark was right...

"Oh no, they can't be teardropsFor a man ain't supposed to cry." - Dee Clark

And that's the way I was brought up. Guys don't cry. Period. When we had that Indian attack just as we got out of our Conestoga wagon to settle down for the night on the Great Plains, and I got an arrow in my shoulder? No crying. Gritted my teeth as taught and barely flinched when my dad pushed the arrow on through, snipped off the arrowhead, and pulled the shaft back out. I thought about sniffling a little when he poured in the mercurochrome, after all, I was only 8, but I fought it off. No crying! And proud of it.

So, a few weeks ago, at the soft urging of those who matter in the media, I decided to get in touch with my metrosexual self, my inner feminine side. I allowed myself to cry, urged on by our society's new and enlightened expectation of guys. I saw a butterfly and pointed and burst into tears. So beautiful. I watched the Hawkeyes destroy Davidson in The Big Dance. Sobs. I saw a newborn baby at church - uncontrollable weeping.

But that was the problem. "Uncontrollable."

Someone has to control themselves at all times or society will fall apart. Have you noticed how screwed up our country is these days? It's because men have become goober-faced wimps, swayed left and right from being urged to show emotions (soccer is another key turning point in American weakness - I mean, men and boys running around and kicking each other in the shins? But I digress.). I have now renounced all crying. Emotions are unreliable and I'm thrilled that I don't have any. They can get you into trouble. They lie. They deceive. They kid around with your innards.

So don't hang around and expect to see me get all squishy when something terrible or wonderful or routine happens. Ain't supposed to cry, Dee Clark sang. Damn straight. Gotta be some control somewhere.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

I love baseball. And for all of you coming up with reasons for why you don't love baseball, know that I will ignore them.

It's that time of year when all the big league teams are undefeated and hoping or believing they'll win the World Series this season. Spring training is in full swing and the stories of older players hoping for one last season ("I'm in the best shape of my life") and rookies hoping for that first season ("I think I can, I think I can") abound.

I love baseball.The games are not restricted to a shot clock, halftime report, or endless time outs. The game begins with the first pitch and ends with the last pitch and that can be any length of time. So what? What's the hurry? Take time for a conversation with the guy in the seat next to you, go up to the concession stand for a brat and beer, watch the entire field instead of being limited to what the camera allows. Keep score. Take. Your. Time.

Catch a few rays. Consider strategy. Guess how many ways a runner can score from third base (I came up with 11 just off the top of my head), keep score.

I love baseball. It smells good. Leather gloves, baseballs, freshly-cut grass, the scent of pine tar on bats, resin on the ball.

I love baseball. It sounds good. The crack of bat on ball (send all aluminum bats to hell), a fastball popping into the catcher's kit, runners running, umpires calling a player out.

I love baseball. It looks good. The manicured field, the green grass and brown of the skinned infield, the open sky, the ads on the outfield walls, the Green Monster in Fenway, the ivy in Wrigley Field.

Go to a game. Turn off your cell phone. Better yet, leave the stupid thing at home. Watch, listen, smell. Relax. You'll be glad.

I love baseball.

I'm afflicted

One of my goals this Spring Break was to finish the first draft of novel #3 in the Thomas O'Shea series. Just a few chapters, going back a bit and making minor revisions, forging ahead. Well, I did it. I finished the final chapter, Chapter 30. I tried to avoid finishing it, to be honest. I have what the great James Lee Burke calls "corrosive self-doubt," which is an affliction all writers suffer.  I dawdled. I dallied. I thought of other things I could do besides finish that last, short, chapter. I played "monster" with my dog, chasing her around the cottage, a game she loves. I got on Facebook for a while. I read up on the Hawkeyes, the Red Sox, political scandals. I went back to my computer.   I finished, immediately followed by a sense of satisfaction, a sense of imminent doom, a bit of sadness that it was over. But I finished. Next step? Well, I mean to put it away until May, and then I'll go full bore making revisions, some major, most minor. I have to get all the names straight, the timelines accurate, the details nailed down, maybe more research to review, the loose ends tied up. But I love that part of being a writer as well.   Next step after that? Off to my publisher and start to write again.   Being a writer is an affliction, but it is a delightful one, especially when a work is finished. And I did that. Now I can spend my valuable time watching March Madness. Of course, there's some writing I need to do.

The beat goes on.

I Saw the Sign

Recently I had the oil changed in our Honda Accord. On the way home from the shop, I drove down one of the busiest, commercially-loaded streets in town. Traffic was moving slowly, so I had opportunity to glance at the signs for various business enterprises along the route. These are three that caught my attention.

One: "Breakout Bra's." I am not kidding. Imagine.

Two: "Rainbow Vacuums." I always thought rainbows were pretty, and now we have a vacuum that apparently sucks them up.

Three: "Mr. Mattress." For some reason, I thought of Hugh Heffner.

I think I'll go another way home next time I get the oil changed. Easier on the neck.

Fifty Shades

We have a Fifty Shades of Yellow Tabby in our cottage. The Yellow Tabby is beaker, our male cat, who seems to have a few loose wires. His girlfriend is Lily, our pit bull/terrior mix puppy who is almost a year old. Fine so far? Just wait. When these two play, Lily grabs Beaker by the loose skin on the top of his head, or one of his ears, and drags him around. The first time this happened, I intervened only to find, to my amazement, that Beaker was purring. When I broke them up and held Lily by the collar, Beaker looked at me with a puzzled look on his face, as if to say, "Buzz off, we're playing." And made no attempt to escape.

So I released Lily and the whole bondage scenario played out again, with Lily the dominatrix and Beaker the client.

I am troubled about Beaker, who thoroughly enjoys this strange version of "play." I think he's nuts.

Currently, I am looking for a cat psychiatrist to delve into Beaker's psyche to see why he purrs when he's being dragged around by his ear, and why he makes no attempt to get away when I restrain Lily. Fifty Shades of Yellow Tabby, indeed.

Apples vs. Oranges vs. Nugat

I was at the supermarket today, comparing apples and oranges (Golden Delicious and Navel), and bought some of both for snacks. And then it hit me. What in the world was I doing buying fresh fruit for snacks? I know my mom always encouraged me to, when I wanted a snack, "Have an apple, knucklehead," but why in the world would a kid like me prefer an apple over a Snickers bar or an orange instead of a six-pack of chocolate-covered Spudnuts? Give me a break, Mom. And now, and now, as I "mature," and as I change some of my eating habits out of preference, I am beginning to understand. Always the dim bulb among my friends, who knew better on just about everything before I figured things out, it's getting clearer. Those apples and oranges really are sweet AND good for me. Un-believable! My mom would be proud, after she got over being stunned.

Sitting back in the car in the big Publix parking lot, enjoying the pint of chocolate milk (not low fat) I picked up in the dairy section, along with the jumbo Payday candy bar at checkout, I contemplated the benefits and joys of a refined personal menu, and gave thanks.

Arrowroot = Recliners, Maybe

In two previous blogs, I wrote about Carenen family shopping experiences; specifically, mine. There was the 7-minute suit and the nails and oven entries. Today, I'd like to expand the source of these blogs and include my long-suffering wife, Lisa, in this series, which will temporarily retire with this offering.

Recently, very recently, we went shopping together on a fine Saturday morning. Our plan was to go to Trader Joe's to pick up some specialty items on the list, one of which was arrowroot. I had no idea what that was. At first I thought it was a reference to an old rock band from the 60's, but I was quickly disabused of that notion. Anyway, we picked up a few items at TJ's and headed home without any arrowroot.

The next thing I knew, we had stopped by the La-Z-Boy store and purchased two leather recliners which were not on the grocery list. Fortunately, they were on sale. It's not as if I didn't know she was thinking about reclilners - I did know. It's just that, well, I didn't realize that arrowroot translated to recliners. Sometimes I miss things.

In any case, I am not the only member of the family with quirky shopping skills. I'm just glad we didn't have to drive by a car dealer on the way home.

Nailed it!

The response to my male shopping blog last week was so overwhelming, I have decided to do a short series of blogs about shopping habits of myself and my long-suffering wife, Lisa. A few decades ago, we purchased an abandoned stone house in the country in western North Carolina, and set about transforming the place. One thing it needed was nails so we could proceed with some basic carpentry, so I took the truck and drove into Morganton to the Lowe's. I bought the nails, and also a stove, which we also needed.

Imagine Lisa's surprised when I came home with a stove instead of just nails! Talk about a smart shopper. I don't think she expected me to return with nails AND a stove, but, hey, we needed one, and I'm pretty sure they were on sale. It was beautiful. White. And it worked right away.

I think that was the first of our Carenen family shopping saga, and a story that refuses to go away, appearing and reappearing in small gatherings of family and friends. And, heck, why should it go away? I'm proud of it.

Anyway, I hope you, dear reader, are impressed with my shopping acumen and overall wisdom when it comes to participating in our capitalistic, consumeristic society in which we live so comfortably.

Next blog? Well, I want to surprise you, but it has something to do with arrowroot. Stay tuned.

Seasonal Shopping Disorder

I'm afraid the main reason for the season around the end of December is, for many people, shopping. We're all familiar with people being stomped to death fighting over bargains, shoppers shattering glass doors of Big Box stores to beat each other to sale items, lunatics camping out for days in line in order to seize good deals ahead of anyone else. These behaviors call for a Three Stooges group slap to bring them back to their senses.

I do not engage in such activities. I DO shop, and I'm good at it. For example, when my niece was getting married a while back, down in Florida, it was decided I needed to buy a suit. I used to have a couple-three suits. Back in high school, where I played basketball (and the older I get the better I was), I had two 3-piece suits available for road trips, where we had a suit-and-tie dress code. But I didn't shop for them. My mother did. And they fit.

So, with a wedding looming and pressure to suit up, I went shopping. By myself. I forget the name of the store, but it was a big store, a chain, and it had men's clothing. Seven minutes after entering the store I was leaving with my suit. And it fit. I had gone directly to the "Men's Clothing" department, found a conservative dark gray suit with light, narrow pinstripes, and bought it. On sale, a detail I didn't know until I paid the cashier. Truth is, it would have been a "5-Minute Suit" except that I tried on the jacket still wearing my sweatshirt, which made it a little snug. But an astute sales lady suggested I try the jacket on without the sweatshirt. Perfect. And I was on my way. Today, the "7-Minute Suit" is a quirky part of family lore.

At Christmas time, I enjoy giving gifts. But my long-suffering wife buys the gifts for our daughters, so that frees me up to shop for her. Sometimes our younger daughter feeds me info-tips on what my bride might like, data acquired over the previous year while they were hanging out. This year, a few days before Christmas, I went shopping downtown (I hate malls). It took forever to purchase my beloved's gifts. Fifteen minutes. One store. So, what did I buy her? Well, three gifts, actually - an article of clothing, a scarf accessory, and earrings - all coordinated aesthetically into one stylish fashion statement. She was genuinely pleased.

And the article of clothing fit. Some of us have the gift, others not so much.

Books, not Guns

In still another instance of shameless self-promotion, let me say that, since it's Christmas, and that's the time of the year that people purchase gifts for other people, would you consider picking up either of my novels, Signs of Struggle (debut) or A Far Gone Night (sequel) to give to your friends and family who love to read?

I've never been good at "asking," which is why I would be a total failure in retail or any other kind of sales. I remember trying to sell All Occasion and Christmas Cards when I was a skinny pre-teen. The idea was to sell enough boxes of cards to exchange the receipts for a Daisy BB Gun. My approach was pitiful as I went door-to-door in my old, run-down neighborhood. With great trepidation I would ease up to front doors and knock timidly, hoping no one would answer so I could sprint away into the shadows. If someone did come to the door, I would ask, "You wouldn't want to buy any Christmas or All Occasion greeting cards, would you?"

Turns out I was clairvoyant because, as a matter of fact, they didn't. Somehow I just knew. I gave up early and often, easily discouraged by rejection. Thinking back, those turndowns were pretty good preparation for life as a writer, at least until my sails caught a little breeze with Signs of Struggle, and then a nice gust with A Far Gone Night.

But I went back, day after day for most of the summer until I had sold 1,549 boxes of cards which, in turn, became a gleaming Daisy BB Gun. Remarkably, the gun did not show up the day after I sent in my money. It took days, long summer days, with me, a grisly little urchin looking every day for the mailman to deliver the long box with my prize. Finally, it showed up, and off I ran to quell uprisings of Indians and nefarious activities of outlaws.

And I DID NOT shoot out my eye.

So that's why I'm reluctant to ask people to buy my novels, even though those who have seemed to like them. And that's why I hired Rowe Copeland, book concierge extraordinaire, to do that for me. Except this time.

Anyway, if you're interested in this gift idea, just follow the simple instructions that tag along at the end of this blog. I think you'll be pleased. See, I'm asking you . . .

(Rowe here)

Just call Jill at Fiction Addiction (864) 675-0540 by December 17th to order your book. Let her know which book you'd like and how you would like it inscribed and John (Dad) will come in and write whatever you're heart desires, assuming it fits in the blank space. Jill guarantees in-time for Christmas shipping.

Artist Interview: John Carenen

Thanks so much for the interview, LeeAnn! Artist Interview: John Carenen.

No more Dr. Squeegy-Hands

I'm a little grumpy today. Last week I cancelled my Friday classes so I could fit into an orthopedic surgeon's schedule for a consult about my injured right arm. I arrived promptly 15 minutes before my appointment so I could fill out the required 37 pages of questions they had for me. Then I was told I could sit and they would come get me when it was time. They had little pagers that would send a shock through one's privates to let them know they were next. Around 10:10 a little helper came and took me back to a sterile room. "Dr. Squeegy-Hands will be back in a moment to see you. You may take off your shirt." I waited until she had left before taking off my shirt lest she swoon.

I read Architectural Digest and two more magazines, learning that there is a cool villa for sale in the south of France for just $100 million. I waited and waited. I wrote a little. No one came by. At 11:20 I put on my shirt and left, more than a little annoyed.

At 12:10 they must have noticed I was gone. There was a phone call. On my cell phone (I hate cell phones) as I was attending to errands. The lady had the temerity to ask, "How are you, Mr. Carenen?"

I told her, exercising great restraint in avoiding perky Anglo-Saxonisms. She apologized. I told her it wasn't her fault, but the fault of the arrogant, inconsiderate, self-absorbed, and unprofessional Dr. Squeegy-Hands.

I decided I could do without a consult for a while, give my arm a little more time to recover, then, if it is still troublesome, seek out another orthopedic surgeon. A different one. One who does not see himself or herself as God incarnate.

Yeah, I'm a little grumpy.

Artist Interview: Rowena Carenen

This is for my daughter, Rowe, and her first collection of poetry. The blogger is one of her Salem College sisters. (And Thomas and I get name checked.)

I miss Banana Flips

I drifted into one of those snooty supermarkets, you know the kind, where they have hand-held-throughout-the-growing-season arugula for sale. Let's call it, hmmm, "Elitist Market." Anyway, I only went there to get four items. Four. I knew they would have them. I mean, if I could buy Norwegian goats' milk cheese from animals that listen to Chopin as they sleep, I could find four items in that supermarket. Four items. The main one was a key ingredient for Swedish meatballs from a recipe given to me by one of my students, a fine young lady from Sweden who is at Newberry College to earn a college degree and play golf. The item was blackberry current jelly. Elitist Market did not have it! I looked high and low and found a wide variety of jellies, many whispered to in the packing process, and Elitist Market did not have it.

I was frustrated, convinced that the end times was near. They didn't have the other three items, either! I walked out of the place empty-handed, muttering.

The other four items? Milk Duds, Banana Flips, and candy cigarettes.

The apocalypse looms.

Smell Ya Later....

When one loses something they have been attached to, when something is taken away forever, it can be painful. When the Colts left Baltimore, loyal Baltimoreans wept and wailed and cursed. They threatened and pounded fists in the ground out of frustration and loss. To no avail.

When my dad took my basketball away from me when I was twelve because I had been slack in my chores (mowing the yard, cleaning the furnace, shoveling snow), I thought I would expire considering how much I loved shooting hoops. I eventually got the ball back, but I was by 32 then and pretty much out of the sport.

Recently, at the Carenen Cottage, something was taken away that had found its way into our hearts. We came to think of it as a permanent yard ornament because it had been there for weeks, even months. We grew to like it. The bright orange port-a-potty had become a source of relief for our visiting Clemson friends, a backup for me in times of urgent need when our indoor biffy was occupied by a female, and a beacon visible to aircraft 30,000 feet up to lead us home at the end of the day. It also served as a benefit to the various men working to build the addition to our cottage, much better than hunkering down in the woods and watching out for copperheads and fire ants.

The positive that comes out of this loss is a bit difficult to identify. Oh, sure, it means we now have a functioning second bathroom. And certainly, it means the construction is coming to a close. Good things. But now I'm wondering, how are we going to find our way home?

Students in the Hands of an Angry God?

Today I was outside for a couple of hours in the Quad at the college where I pretend to be a learned professor. Campus organizations were holding a "Student Involvement Fair" and I represented "The Write Minds," a student-led organization for writers to whichI am the Faculty Advisor. Anyway, things were slow as far as interest was concerned, but it being a beautiful day outside, a wide variety of young ladies abounded. I'll get back to them, just wait.

 

To pass the time, I was rereading Jonathan Edwards' "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God," a powerful sermon delivered in 1741 in Connecticut (no, I was NOT there!) that I have assigned to my American Literature class. The premise was that, if you weren't saved, you could at any moment die and go to hell. That is, if one did not change one's ways and turn their hearts and minds to Christ immediately, the danger of dying and going to a place much worse than Niger was very real. 

 

The sermon is powerful, and Edwards delivered it in a monotone; yet, people were weeping and wailing and falling out and completely forgetting about their iPads. And text messages.

 

So, as I gazed about, obliquely noticing leggy girls with nice suntans and clothes that didn't have enough cotton to make a decent placemat, I wondered what Jonathan Edwards would think or say if he were sitting next to me. And then I wondered about what trades the Red Sox might make this winter, and the Iowa-UNI football game, and food.

Carenen Cottage Construction

The modest addition to the Carenen Cottage continues, but it won't be done by the time school starts next week for my long-suffering wife (LSW), Lisa. We DO think we'll have the laundry room ready so we won't have to drive to the laundromat to get our laundry washed and dried. To my surprise, I enjoyed my visits to the Travelers Rest laundromat. I always take a book and enjoy observing and interacting with the clientele. There's the possibility they find me amusing, too. Or just weird, especially when they see me sorting through women's unmentionables.

 

But I would be remiss if I didn't mention the workers who have been making our addition a reality. We have had graders, framers, electricians, plumbers, roofers, drywallers, and siding people so far. We will, soon, have flooring people, tile guys, and painters (who might be us). With one exception, they have all been hard workers, pleasant, and skilled. We're very happy with the work they've done.

 

What's appealing is that these men have been white, brown, and black. They all worked hard and well with good attitudes, seeming to enjoy their labors, earning well-deserved wages. How cool is that?

Fall on My Forearm

Other than a head shot of Hoyt Axton on my left deltoid and Natalie Wood on my right, I don't have any tattoos. Right now, however, it looks like I have a sleeve tattoo on my right arm. But it's a bruise; a huge and Furman purple bruise. And it's the best one I've ever had, including the one on my rib cage when I fell off a roof and had the fall broken by a brick wall a few years back in Georgia.

 

How bruised? We have a puppy. Her name is Lily. She is a rescue puppy. Her lineage is pit bull, gazelle, and sasquatch. She likes to go on what we call "tears," as in tearing across the meadow. It is a sight to behold when Lily goes on a tear; this beautiful, 30-pound puppy going full speed all over the place, purely for the joy of running fast.

 

Near the end of one of her tears last Sunday afternoon, she was finishing up and headed for the front porch. I put out my right arm so that she would stop. She did not. If I had known she was going to blast straight ahead, I would have set myself and tensed my arm. But I thought she would stop. She did not. As a result, she snapped through my arm.

 

The result of that plunge by the puppy resulted in what I would call "significant discomfort." My right arm made a funny, squishy sound as Lily barreled right on by. I thought my elbow was dislocated; but, when I looked at it, it looked normal. Then it occurred to me that I was going to pay a visit to the Emergency Room. I would rather memorize "The Song of Hiawatha" than see a doctor. But I could not bend my arm and the "significant discomfort" was growing. What to do? What to do?

 

My long-suffering wife, Lisa, came to the rescue. She got three Advil in me and packed my arm in ice at the point that seemed to be producing the most discomfort - at the base of my bicep and the top of my forearm.

 

Now, a few days later, I have full range of motion in my right arm, can push hard using triceps. Can not do much with that bicep, but it is getting better. I expect full recovery in a few days. The human body is "fearsomely and wonderfully made," the Bible says. When I look at my sleeve tat, I might add, "colorfully, too."