Chapter 3: This Conversation is for the Dogs

This is the third chapter of "Your Pal Al", my first novel. It is still under construction. Chapters one and two have been  published here previously. I'd love to hear what you think. Please comment.

The walk home was excruciating. It had been two days since Mr. Sam had first mentioned the Shadow and he still had no idea of what it was or why it was important. And it being important made him itch all the more to get at that story.

Albert stopped walking for a minute to think, and the enormous gray dog at his side plopped right down at his feet.

“So, Belvedere, I’ve been thinking a lot on this, and I just can’t keep it up any longer. If you are going to come with me every day — and I certainly welcome your company — we just have to do something about that name of yours. It just don’t fit your personality at all. Is that alright with you?”

The dog just continued panting and sucked up a long string of drool.

“Good boy. So I know Belvedere is the name Papa Jack gave you but it sure does sound more like something Grandmother would have done. And it ain’t right. So from now one, I’m gonna call you… ” Albert paused and thought and scratched his chin.

“This naming business is right hard, eh Belve… er, ol’boy? And I want to get it right. You don’t mind waitin’ just a bit so I can think on it, do ya?”

Belvedere was a Neapolitan Mastiff the color of smoke. He easily outweighed Albert by a hundred pounds, maybe more. And he was all Papa Jack’s dog. Bringing that pup home had caused quite a stir with Grandmother. She usually got her way, but he put his foot down this time. The dog was only a few weeks old when he just showed up on the porch. Papa Jack found him there and because they lived so far from town and there weren’t any dogs like him living nearby — let alone any mastiffs — he just figured that the dog was something special – ‘a gift from heaven‘ was what he had told Albert.

“What do you say I think more on it while we walk? Hmm?” Belvedere gave him a nervous wag. “That’s a good boy.”

The two of them headed off down the old, tree-lined road. The shortcut would get the two of them home far too quickly for Albert’s mind. There might be chores to do, and he needed time think. There were just so many unanswered questions.

“So, how in the world am I gonna get Mr. Sam to tell me more about this shadow thing? And why its so important? Hmm, boy? Now, I don’t think Miss Lottie is gonna let him tell me much. Do you? Seems every time we men get to talkin’ about it she storms across the porch and rains on our parade. What d’ya think I should do?”

The two made their way slowly home in the oppressive afternoon heat—dappled light from a few ancient live oaks now their only escape from the sun. The road ran by farms mostly, a few reclaimed by nature—choked by tall weeds—but most were vast fields of green made up of sugar cane, corn, potatoes, and cotton. Albert didn’t like the corn fields much, especially when the stalks were dried up and left to rot after harvest. He imagined all kinds of things in there – things that shambled and slithered — things with scythes and pitchforks. Sometimes, he would cut through the fields, but never the corn.

From time to time Albert would stop to think about something meaningful only to a nine-year-old and continue on. “So, we still need a name for you. I always did like the names Striker and Ranger, but you don’t seem much like a Ranger. What do you think about Brutus?” He looked hard at the dog, and for such a big, slow-moving creature he perked up quite quickly and cocked his head to the side, the way dogs do when they almost seem to understand what you are saying. “You really like that one, do ya boy?” His head rolled to the other side and wobbled just a bit and then, just for a minute, Albert thought he was actually going to get a real answer. He leaned in real close just in case he didn’t want to speak too loudly. After all, dogs weren’t supposed to be talking. Belvedere wrinkled up his nose and sneezed. And then shook his head violently coating Albert with long, gooey slime. “Yuck. Dog germs!” But he laughed and reached out and scratched him behind his ears — his favorite place. “You’re right. That’s no good. He’s sometimes a bad guy—always after Popeye. Ahhhuu-uh guh guh guh!” He made his best impression of the Popeye laugh; then he took off running.

“Catch me if you can! Catch me if you can! Ahhhuu-uh guh guh guh!”—the laughter trailing behind just like the dog. Belvedere wasn’t known for being energetic and was content to let the boy run until Albert picked up a stick from the road and tossed it. “Get the stick. Get the stick, boy!” Of course, Belvedere couldn’t help himself. He was a dog after all, and so he was off huffing and puffing. “You sure are fast!” Albert lied and chased it with more laughter.

“That Mr. Sam sure is something, ain’t he? I’ll bet he killed a bunch of them Jerries. Ratta-atta-atta-atta-tat!” And he drove in the tall grass at the side of the road. Belvedere dove in after him.

“Geez Louise! Whatta ya tryin’ to do? Kill me? You are some kind of bruiser.” He rubbed his side where Belvedere landed. “I don’t think the Americans or the French would have taken you in… too big and too dumb…” He laughed it out. Belvedere cocked his head and then hung it low and looked offended. Albert jumped up and took off again. “Big ol’bruiser dumb as a brick… Big ol’bruiser can’t do a trick…” Albert turned and wagged his backside at the dog. For a minute Belvedere just sat there then Albert spanked himself. He wiggled his backside to taunt the dog, and the dog pounced! All 153 pounds of him. He knocked Albert to the ground and held him there. The wrinkles on Belvedere’s head slid forward as he moved in closer towards Albert's face. Albert shrieked. And was rewarded with a very sloppy mastiff kiss but he didn’t let Albert up.

Even though they hadn’t been friends for long and Belvedere towered over him, Albert wasn't scared.

“I give. I give. Uncle! Uncle!” He started giggling and reached up, and started tickling the dog. He was certain that it was one of Belvedere’s favorite games, but to sweeten the pot he would always throw a little scratching into the mix.

It didn’t last long. Soon they were back on the road heading for home. “Boy, ain’t that Grandmother a tough one? How ever do you manage to live with her?” Albert paused and hoped to get an answer. “Now, don’t go tellin’ her we talk about her behind her back, but she seems somehow… harder than she used to be. Does that make any sense?”

Albert grew quiet then. The two continued their walk. Every so often Albert would look over at the dog and almost say something, but Belvedere didn’t look back as he usually would have.

“I’m sorry I called you dumb. I know you ain’t no meathead” Albert finally managed. Then they walked together for a while in silence. But silence was not one of Albert’s friends, and soon enough he was back to questions.  “Why do you suppose Mr. Sam lives all the way out there in the woods by himself? Well, not really himself. He’s got that mean old Miss Lottie, but you know what I mean. Do you think he ever gets up out of that rocking chair? Why won’t you ever come up on the porch with us? You seem to like Mr. Sam well enough. Do ya like that hickory tree better? Is it Miss Lottie? She doesn’t much like either one of us, does she? Luckily she mostly keeps to her ironing. Why do you suppose she is always ironing?”

And so it went for the rest of the walk back to his Grandparents house.

When the boy and dog turned onto the long drive, there was Papa Jack sitting in his rocker on the front porch as usual. Albert figured that all old men spent their most of their days in a rocking chair on a porch. He figured that one day that he would have to ask his grandfather about it.

And before Albert had taken more than a few steps, Papa Jack boomed, “Hi there, kiddo!”

There was still quite some distance from the road to the house and when Papa Jack spied Albert and called out and Albert couldn’t help but head to him running. Of course, Belvedere trailed after him.

“Lookee here! It’s my favorite Grandson!”

“I’m your ONLY grandson, Papa Jack.”

“Still my favorite,” he said with a smile.

“Well, your my favorite Grandfather and I got two of them!” The two laughed as they always did when this particular conversation came up — and it did come up often. Albert noticed that old people had a way of coming back to the same stories time and time again, but this was one of the ones that Albert loved so he didn’t mind.

“Well now, Albert, tell me about your day. What do you and Belvedere do all day?”

“You know Papa, a little of this and a little of that…”

“…but mostly that!” The two finished together and laughed.

“You really like Belvedere don’t you, Albert?”

“I do. We get along great mostly. Why today, we just barely survived a German ambush.”

“Is that so? Germans was it?”

“Yes, sir. It is. When the bullets started flying, we took cover in the tall grass. “

“I see. Then what happened?”

“We walked home.”

“All the way from France?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My, that must have been some walk.”

“It sure was.” Albert liked these games with Papa Jack but figured that he had better get right to it. “When we was walking home I had this idea.”

“You did?”

“Uh huh. It was about this very dog.”

“About and not with?”

“Right. It was a rare thing. He is so very talkative.”  Albert waited for a response, but Papa Jack only nodded. “Well… it’s about his name.”

More nodding followed by a chin scratch.

“I like his name and all, but he doesn’t seem much like a Belvedere.”

“Is that so?”

“Yessir. And, well, I figured I’d fix that and call him Uncle Bruiser.”

“Uncle Bruiser?” Papa Jack was downright close to busting a gut but somehow managed to stifle the laughter. He knew Albert was serious. “Why Uncle?”

“Well, he’s far too big and old to be just Bruiser, and he watches over me kinda like you or my Daddy. And, well, I already got y'all. And since I got an Uncle Toomey and Uncle Hank who ain’t really my uncles…” Albert fell silent. His gaze lost in the distance.

“I suppose that’ll be just fine… it’s a mouthful, but if you can handle it…”

“Maybe you’re right, Papa. It is a bit of a mouthful. Maybe it should just be Bruiser. I suspect I’ll have to ask him if it’d be OK.”

“You do that.”

“I will.”

End of Chapter

Chapter 4: Man on a Mission

© 2009 Michael O’Connell. All rights reserved.

Chapter 2: Another Story… Another Time

This is the second chapter of the story that I have been working on. Chapter one was published here on my blog back in January.

 

“They called me ‘Bean’ for a spell during the training. I s’pose it was because I was so tall. I didn’t mind it much… but later, when we was in France, some of the fellas started calling me ‘Mean Mr. Bean.’”

A small laugh escaped Miss Lottie. She eyed Albert. Most times when she eyed him like that, he knew he was in trouble. This time though, he cracked a big grin and gave her a wink to boot, just like Mr. Sam would do.

“Now I never did hurt no one that didn’t have it comin’, but when we was fightin’ in the trenches things got BAD. Miss Lottie don’t want me telling you exactly what it was like so you gonna have to take my word on it.”

This time Mr. Sam got the eye. And there was no smiling or winking. He just stopped, and took a deep breath, and closed his eyes for a minute. Then, he let out a long sigh, and continued. “Well, what I can tell you Burty, is that some of them other fellas were the mean ones and the War only made them meaner.”

“How’s that, Mr. Sam?”

“Well, the War was something more than ‘us against them,’ especially for us. Oh, we fought the Germans al’right, and we was glad to do it. Not so much because we hated them or what they was doin’. We didn’t follow the whys so much. All most of us knew was that our country needed us and the World needed us. And the War gave us an opportunity. It gave us a way for us to prove ourselves as men.”

“We saw a lot of things that we never imagined. Never could have. We weren’t raised that way.”

Albert wasn’t sure that he wanted to know, but asked anyway. “I don’t understand, Mr. Sam. What did you see?”

“It wasn’t so much what we saw, Burty, but what we had to endure. Many days we went without food or even a place to sleep and it rained a lot, but we could learn to live with all of that. What was hard to take was all the killing. Now, before you start, I know that there’s killing in wars. That’s not what I’m talking about. That kind of killing is bad enough, maybe necessary due to certain circumstances. Y’see Burty, war can bring out the best in people. It can make heroes out of ordinary men. Fellas you wouldn’t give a second look if they was walking’ down the street, but it can also reveal the worst in’em. When we was out in the country, a few times we came upon bands of roving marauders. They was made up of soldiers who decided that it was their place to make the most of the war for themselves. Sometimes they’d be Germans, sometimes Frenchmen or even Americans. And sometimes, they were a mix of all kinds of bad men. They would kill folks just to get a little bit more. They took things like wedding rings and watches. Things that meant something. We’d try our best to round them fellas up and take them back to be dealt with. Other times…”

Mr. Sam paused here, closed his eyes then shook his head.

“What Mr. Sam?”

Albert didn’t get his answer right away. It was eerily quiet. When Mr. Sam eventually opened his eyes, he looked toward the hickory tree where Bruiser was. Then a squirrel chittered once followed by a crash of dried leaves and twigs from the tangle of scrub startling Albert. A few birds panicked and took flight. The squirrel barked nervously and it was silent again. Albert jumped a second time when Mr. Sam started laughing. He shook his head again, then stopped and cocked it to the side, nodded and smiled.

“You remember that old wooden box I showed ya’ Burty? The one with all those newspaper clippings?” Albert nodded, and wondered where this story was heading.  “Do you know where they all came from? Well, I’ll tell you. When I was away, my Mama saved every single clipping she could get her hands on. She was so proud of her Samson. When I come home, she give me that box. And to me, those scraps of paper are the medals I never received from these here United States of America…” He stretched his long arms wide and gave Albert a sad smile. “I used to read through the news stories…” Mr. Sam trailed off. “…the newspapermen, they was doing they part… reporting the war… and I think we darn near surprised everybody with our heroics—sometimes, even ourselves!” He gave Albert a wink and a smile, and as soon as Albert smiled back, Mr. Sam lost his smile and continued. “The thing is Burty, even when they was praisin' us they was still keepin' us in our place. Quick to point out that the heroes in the stories they was writin’ about was just porters, elevator boys, and whatnot but at least they was writin' about us, Burty! Heh heh heh! Yep, things didn't change much after the War, but I sure had.”

Albert took this pause to chance a look at Miss Lottie. She was still ironing. He had never seen Mr. Sam, nor Miss Lottie for that matter, ever wear anything but what they were wearing at that very moment. And Miss Lottie was always ironing. As for Mr. Sam, he was always sitting in his chair in his worn, blue overalls. Albert thought that they must have enough cleaned and ironed clothes inside their house to last them a lifetime.

Miss Lottie was a big woman. Almost as big as Mr. Sam was tall. And Mr. Sam was the tallest man that Albert had ever seen. At least he thought he would be the tallest if he stood up. He had never really seen Mr. Sam get up out of that chair. His mind had begun to stray from his intended prize. Another quick glance and then, with the quietest whisper he thought he could use for Mr. Sam, said “The Shadow, Mr. Sam. You said it was important.” And it apparently was by the way Mr. Sam’s eyes got real big and round. He shot a glance at Miss Lottie, then gave Albert a small nod.

“Not today Burty. Soon.”

Then he buttoned his lips as he eyed his wife again.

End of Chapter

Chapter 3: This Conversation is for the Dogs

© 2009 Michael O’Connell. All rights reserved.

When did it become the government's responsibility to create jobs? I always thought that the government was supposed to be there to uphold the Constitution—basically to protect our rights. What the government should be doing is creating an environment in which job creation can occur — livable, safe cities with an educated work force; safe, sound and responsive infrastructure; being a good, responsible steward of public lands for this, and future generations; and doing all of this on a level playing field for all.

Advice?

Advice? I don't have advice. Stop aspiring and start writing. If you're writing, you're a writer. Write like you're a goddamn death row inmate and the governor is out of the country and there's no chance for a pardon. Write like you're clinging to the edge of a cliff, white knuckles, on your last breath, and you've got just one last thing to say, like you're a bird flying over us and you can see everything, and please, for God's sake, tell us something that will save us from ourselves. Take a deep breath and tell us your deepest, darkest secret, so we can wipe our brow and know that we're not alone. Write like you have a message from the king. Or don't. Who knows, maybe you're one of the lucky ones who doesn't have to.

Alan Watts (1915 - 1973)

Your Pal Al – Chapter 1: Mr. Sunshine

Below is the first draft of chapter one from my first novel, "Your Pal Al." One morning, on my routine dog walk, a song that I can no longer remember planted the first few lines in my head, and I had it. I held on to the thought until I got back home where I sat at my desk and got it down for safekeeping--although I didn't stop there. That morning I was late for work. I also had about 500 words written. If you like it, please let me know. If you don't, tell me that, too, but please tell me why. Thanks for reading. 

Chapter 1: Mr. Sunshine

“The sun is mighty powerful. It causes the wind and the rain. And it makes things grow! But…” Mr. Sam paused here before going on and lowered his voice. “it also makes shadows.” He drew out that last word and then he stopped for what seemed like forever. 

Albert waited and wondered. Something had to be wrong with Mr. Sam. His eyes were still open, but he wasn't moving much. He thought maybe he should reach out and give him a just little poke, to make sure he was still breathing. As Albert extended his finger to do just that, Mr. Sam snatched him by the wrist. That startled Albert even more than the near-dead Mr. Sam. He was much quicker than he supposed an old man should be.

"The good news is that when the sun goes down for the day, he takes all those all shadows with him." Another pause. “Well… most all of ‘em.” He stopped again and looked around as if searching for something. Albert looked around as well, but just to be polite but didn't see much. Miss Lottie was still at the end of the porch doing her ironing. The sun was still shining and making the wind blow the leaves around a bit. And his dog was still chewing on his leg or scratching his ear out in the yard by the old hickory tree. The dog tried to do both but couldn't quite figure out how to manage it. Belvedere did that a lot, but then, he was a dog and that's what dogs did. Mr. Sam was still looking around and he still had Albert's wrist. His eyes were rolling all about, just like the marbles did in the Mason jar back home on Albert’s dresser. 

Finally, Mr. Sam started moving again. He grabbed Albert’s shoulder and pulled him in real close and whispered in his ear. "Listen to me Burty. This is important, really important. D’you understand? Sometimes… " and before he could finish a blue jay flew straight into the closed window right near Mr. Sam's head. It hit hard, too. It almost hit him and it probably would have if he hadn't leaned in to get a little closer. Of course, Albert couldn't resist and desperately wanted to see if the poor jay needed his expert help but Mr. Sam hadn't quite said his peace. "Burty.” He gave him a small but firm shake. “I said this is important!" Mr. Sam barked but all the excitement had drawn Miss Lottie’s attention and when Miss Lottie's ironing got interrupted. Look out! 

"Samson Lucius Browne. What kind of stories are you fillin’ that boys head with?"  The jay twitched once and was still. 

“Albert, come here boy.” She slapped her leg like she was calling a dog. “Don't you pay him no mind. He thinks he is helpin' with all those old tales, but they only stories that some folks use to get kids to do what needs doin’. Now you run on home.” She stared at him real hard then cocked her head to the side and lifted her hand to her ear. “Ain't that ‘cho Momma callin’?" Albert instantly froze to listen but was sure that he hadn't heard his mother. Besides, he was quite interested in what Mr. Sam had been telling him, especially now that Miss Lottie didn't want him to hear it. 

"Miss Lottie, please… I don't have to be home until dinner time…" Albert pleaded. “And that must be hours from now.” He knew that when Miss Lottie made up her mind, that was that, but he still had to try. Who knew when he could get Mr. Sam back to that story again. 

Mr. Sam was old. Real old. Albert's mother told him that Mr. Sam had fought in the first World War. He had heard a lot about "Old Days." His grandmother and grandfather called them the "Good Ole Days," and while much of the stories were similar, Albert liked Mr. Sam's stories better. Maybe because his stories were older and more colorful. 

"Please Miss Lottie, I want to stay." By this time Mr. Sam was just sitting there staring out into the yard again. Albert knew it was going to take some special kind of coaxing to bring him back, so he played the sure ace. "Mr. Sam, tell me a story about the Good Old Days'!"

Most times, when Albert asked him about “the way it was” Mr. Sam would perk right up, but not today. Today something had ahold of him, and it was going to take a bit more craftiness on his part. “Tell me about the War, Mr. Sam. ‘The War to End All Wars!’” His second ace was on the table, and Albert was quite confident he’d get his story now, but still, Mr. Sam sat immobile, his gazed fixed on the old tree in the front yard. He tugged at Mr. Sam’s sleeve and begged him as only a ten-year-old can do. The old chair rocked a little, but still nothing.  “Please!” It was undoubtedly a tricky situation that he found himself in that all too warm summer afternoon and Albert desperately wanted to hear more. He thought if he could just get Mr. Sam talking again he could eventually get the story to come back around. But nothing had changed. He had tried not one, but two sure fired ways to bring Mr. Sam back but he was still staring at that old hickory tree and now, well, now he was almost out of ideas. 

Albert plopped himself down and folded his legs up under himself – “Indian-style” was what his first-grade teacher Mrs. Eaves called it. And then it came to him. He stood up and placed himself squarely between Mr. Sam and the tree. “Mr. Sam… tell me about your best friend, Jim!” Surely that one had to work. His third ace was on the table. He was now out of cards. But Samson Browne just sat there—the steady in and out of his chest the only proof that he was still alive. 

“Mr. Sam… you promised! Please, Mr. Sam! Oh pleeeeease!” And with that Albert once again took his place at Mr. Sam’s feet and waited. He poked at the lifeless blue jay. The eyes had begun to cloud over. It sure was dead. He gave it another poke and dared steal a glance towards Miss Lottie. He would hate to call attention to himself. He thought, perhaps, if he just sat quietly Mr. Sam might come around. And so it went for what seemed like an eternity to Albert. He stared at Mr. Sam, and Mr. Sam stared at the old hickory. Belvedere even lent Albert a hand alternating his watchful eye. And every so often Albert would tug lightly at the old man’s pant leg to see if anything had changed. 

Until finally, “Oh, I cain’t take this a minute longer! Samson, you mind me now. Young Albert here been waitin’ just as patient as you please. It hain’t right that you should sit there and not give him that story. After all, you did promise him…” 

She put the iron down for the second time that day. Albert jumped out of her way and as she placed her big, callused hands on each of Mr. Sam’s shoulders and stared directly into his eyes and put some words in his ear that only Mr. Sam could hear. Then more loudly she continued, “but you best stick to the story ‘bout Jim. You hear me, Samson.”

And with that, Miss Lottie had broken the spell. In a million years Albert wouldn’t have thought that she would have been his wild card!

“Alright, Albert. He gonna give you that story now and you mind him, ya’hear?” Albert smiled and nodded. And like an autumn stream, Mr. Sam did come back around—slowly. He licked his lips once and scratched the back of his head began.

"My Daddy was one of the few black men in Charlton County who could say that he owned his farm. It was a small farm, Burty, only 19 acres—give or take—but we were able to provide for ourselves and still have enough left over to sell some at market. Most often, everything was just fine, and people let us be. But then the War started. A lot of my friends signed up. They saw it as an opportunity to show everyone that we was just as good as they was.” He smiled at that and continued. “But then they got the draft going… and then they’s a lot of us. Some folks didn't want Negroes serving alongside white folk but others saw it as a chance to get rid of some of us ‘troublesome’ black folk.” Mr. Sam stopped talking. He often did that. Albert didn't always understand. This time though, he was pretty sure he knew. He had been told the stories about the burnt crops and the lynchings. Miss Lottie had shushed her husband then too. 

Albert took this chance to sit back down and get comfortable against the wall. And then he waited. The silence didn't last long. “My Daddy made his ‘Declaration of Loyalty’ just like all the other farmers. Momma even planted herself one of them Liberty Gardens right over yonder—up by the road, but Daddy didn’t feel that was gonna be enough to keep his family safe. We could tell he was scared and that, Burty, was the first and only time I ever did see my Daddy scared of anything.”  He stared hard into Albert's eyes for a long minute and then he gave him a big smile with teeth that reminded him of Indian corn on Grandmother’s door at Halloween. Mr. Sam continued. “Well, as I said, the War brought the draft, and that meant that all the men over a certain age was needed to go fight for our country and help them folks over in Europe. You know what the funny thing is? I enlisted.” Heh, heh, heh. 

“Why’s that so funny, Mr. Sam? If all men were going and it was good for the country and all…”

“Well, I enlisted because I had heard about these fellas up in New York that was actually going to fight.”

“Didn’t everyone fight that was in the war?” Albert was getting confused. 

“No Burty… remember I told you that some of the white folks didn’t like the idea that any colored folks were going at all?” He stopped here and looked at Albert and waited. Usually, Mr. Sam stopped and didn’t expect anything. He either kept right on talking or was pretty much finished for the day. 

“All the men I fought with were part of the 369th regiment and all of them men was Negro. Well, all of them ‘cept for my best friend, Jim, and most folks wouldn’t’ve known he wasn’t a Negro. D’ya wanna hear something funny Burty? Now, I know you study real hard in school so  suspect that you will see the humor in this. His full name was James Laughing Crow. Y’see? Jim Crow! Heh! I'm sure didn’t even occur to his Daddy! And I don’t even think we noticed much back then ourselves! Heh, heh, heh. No'suh! But one day, much later, it just kind of hit me all of a sudden like and I told Jim, too. He thought it was kind 'a funny but mostly, he was a serious man. And ain’t that a hoot, Burty? Jim Crow serving real proud in an all Black regiment.

My friend, Jim, was a Choctaw Injun. And at that time, Injuns wasn’t even allowed to be American citizens. But that didn’t stop Jim. He enlisted… how and why he made it to the New York National Guard I never did ask… never thought to. But he did so because he wanted to serve as a member of the Army's Signal Corps.  Nowadays they call them ‘code talkers’. Do ya know what a code talker is Burty?” Mr. Sam just kept on talking. But Albert knew alright. He had heard all about them from his Uncle Toomey. Uncle Toomey wasn’t really his uncle. But he was a Navaho, and that was just one of the many stories he had told him. Mr. Sam pressed on. “Why, they’s Injuns that used their own language to bedevil the enemy. Y’see, when Jerry tried to listen in and find out where a supply drop was gonna be made or were our soldiers was being moved, they couldn’t understand a word. It was so successful that they used them again in the Second World War, but they used other injuns that time—Navahos mostly.” Albert felt a sense of pride at that but didn’t know why. “Anyway, some of the other fellas from his tribe had already been asked to help out, and he wanted to do his part. So he went down to enlist. There weren’t many Choctaws left in Georgia at that time. Most of them being run off their own lands years before. Well, Burty, old Jim signed his papers and the fellas at the recruiting station didn’t know quite what to do with him. They must have figured since he was so dark, they’d put him in our regiment ‘cause they didn’t want no ‘dirty Injuns’ fightin’ alongside all those fine white boys. ‘Course him being from Georgia and the rest of the tribe now in Oklahoma meant that there weren’t too many of his folks signing up from our parts and that probably had something to do with it too. At first, some of the fellas didn’t want him in our regiment either, but they did come ‘round.” 

“Jim was a good man and a strong man… probably the strongest man I ever did know—next to my Daddy.” Mr. Sam paused here for a minute and licked his lips.  “Now this part here is important, Burty. He was strong. D’ya understand?” Albert nodded and was rewarded with a small smile before Mr. Sam continued. The atta boy kind of smile you get from your coach or your dad when he’s teaching you to ride your bike or throw a football. “No, Jim wasn’t just strong physically… It’s important because of what happened to him when he come back. But the story started long before then. It started back in the trenches.”

Mr. Sam stopped again reached for his ever-present iced tea. He took a long sip and let out a deep breath. There was a bit of a slow, weazing sound, then his face went slack, and Albert thought that he lost him again, especially when he and cocked his head. “Ada?” 

Albert had heard Mr. Sam say that name once before. And like that time Miss Lottie took notice. 

“Mr. Sam, what happened to Jim? What about the trenches?” Albert tried hard to bring his friend back but he was old, and Albert didn’t have the magic that Miss Lottie had.

Miss Lottie put her hand on Albert’s shoulder. “He’s slipping again, Burty. Time to go. Mr. Sam needs his rest.” 

End of Chapter

Chapter 2: Another Story… Another Time

© 2009 Michael O’Connell. All rights reserved.

Screw up or Sour Grapes?!?!! Hmmmm...

I admit the web people screwed up and, ultimately, FSU is responsible for what gets posted but I'm pretty certain that Fanatics, our local billion dollar company, runs the Seminole online store. If you look at the CEO of the company, Alan Trager, you'll see that he is a UF grad, as is his brother, Brent, the COO. The president is also an SEC grad. And I don't think it is a coincidence or a conspiracy theory.

I first met Michael Regina years ago at the Riverside Art Festival. We saw his fine art and ended up winning a portrait. We've stayed in touch over the years. I was happy to back his first major graphic novel/comics project on Kickstarter.

This was a fun read. It is the first of a trilogy. He started this before Stranger Things had made it to TV and became popular. It took me back to my childhood with tales like those in Jonny Quest, Scooby-Doo, and The Goonies, and takes you to the present with the likes of Super 8 and Stranger Things. It is a great all-ages mystery. I can't wait to read books 2 & 3 to see how it turns out.

** UPDATE **
The trilogy is complete!

150 years ago yesterday, President Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation. It proclaimed that all those enslaved in Confederate territory to be forever free, and ordered the Army (and all segments of the Executive branch) to treat as free all those enslaved in ten states that were still in rebellion. It was not a law, but a legal loophole that Lincoln used to his advantage and eventually led to the 13th Amendment.

Here's one of the latest illustrations that I did for work. It's for the City of Jacksonville's annual breakfast honoring the late, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. The event is sure to sell out... it always does, so if you are interested in attending, buy your tickets now!

This work is was inspired by Dr. King's words: "Our lives begin to end, the day we become silent about things that matter." 

That said, for those of ya'll that know me, my life isn't ending anytime soon! And for those who don't, you can follow me on Twitter and see what I'm talking about.

Free Maps & Art from Public Domain Books and Copyright Free Sources

I have been working on a new project at work and came across a few great resources. Of course this is always FLICKR and now Pinterest but there are still a lot of great sites out there with the old and arcane.

Old Book Art is a great website to browse. It is filled with old engravings and illustrations as well as old maps--the reason I first visited. It's a great resource for illustrators looking for reference. I'm certain that I'll be back when I finally get started on the children's book that my wife has written. And speaking of maps, this one shouldn't be missed. While not all maps found  on Map Collection--Collection of Interesting and Artistic Maps are free or in the public domain, it is a great reference site. Decline and Fall Resources, like the aforementioned, is also a great resource.

These are just a few based upon what I was looking for. You could get lost in these sites for a very long time!

Illustration Friday...ZOOM!

The Beauty of La Florida

Clyde Butcher is one of Florida’s treasures. He reminds us of the beauty and majesty of nature. He had an exhibition at MOCA Jacksonville back in 2005, sadly, I missed it. I must now trek down to South West Florida and visit his Venice Gallery & Studio or better yet, take a trip down to Big Cypress Preserve. Pictured is Moonrise shot in Big Cypress National Preserve, FL. It’s in MOCA’s permanent collection.

The Mongoliad: Book One

I give this book three out of five stars based upon what may still be yet to come. Keep in mind that I got an advanced copy from Klout. It was not a final edit, so many of my issues with the narrative may have been corrected.

I have always wanted to read Stephenson as I hear only good things. Time is always the enemy. So what did I think? It started slow, very slow, but the hint of what was coming started early. This is the story of two converging tales. One of Christendom in the wake of the Mongol onslaught. The other, a tale of the sons of Genghis Khan who were left to rule after his father's death.

The first is told from the point of view of a "Binder." We aren't told what a "Binder" is but learn bits and pieces as her story unfolds. Cnan was mysterious, but the pace was slow. The so-called warrior monks were colorful and offered an interesting glimpse into the various factions and nations that made up 13th Century Europe.

The Mongol story is told from the point of view of a Mongol warrior, Gansukh. He is enlisted by one of the sons of Ghengis to try to prevent another, the new "Great Kahn," from drinking himself into complete uselessness. He is a warrior, but he knows not the ways of so-called court life and is must be schooled by a Chinese slave. It is a good story, but like so many other threads started, it is incomplete.

There are many valid complaints about this book. The loudest is that too many authors have spoiled the story. It may be valid as this one ends mid-stream with nothing but questions... but the point that there is too much fighting does not ring true for me. If you consider that the Mongol army slaughtered one-tenth of the world’s population, one would expect quite a bit of carnage. I wouldn’t pick up a read because it was gory, but it should be good to be part of the story.

Overall, my sneaking suspicion is that a great tale will have been told once this trilogy is written. I also believe it would be so much better if it were re-written by one.

Storytelling in Art

I have never been a huge fan of Abstract Expressionism. Even after 6+ years as the designer for the Museum of Contemporary Art Jacksonville, I still feel that way… mostly. I do have a much greater appreciation for the artists themselves but I still like many of the more popular artists that many in the art world itself, dismiss, people like Andrew Wyeth and Norman Rockwell. Their art tells a story without having to know the background. It invites you to use your imagination as to what the back story is. It HAS a back story that is easily attainable. It speaks to me. Perhaps it's just the illustrator in me or perhaps it is something inside me that wants to play it safe.

What moves you and why?

An Irish Funeral Prayer

Death is nothing at all.

It does not count.

I have only slipped away into the next room.

Everything remains as it was.

The old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.

Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
 Put no sorrow in your tone.

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.

Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.

Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.

Let it be spoken without effort.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.

There is unbroken continuity.

Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?

I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner.

All is well.
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.

How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting, when we meet again.

Source: derived from a sermon written by Henry Scott Holland and delivered in St. Paul's (London) on 15 May 1910, at which time the body of King Edward VII was lying in state at Westminster. Although not originally derived from Irish writings, versions of this sermon have been used at many Irish and Catholic funerals over the years.

Hope Springs Eternal

Tom Ohlson has led a pretty remarkable life. He was recently featured on MTV and flew out to meet Mark Zuckerberg. This is quote from his bio.

"After graduating from college, I was certain of only one thing--I did not want a desk job in some office. I worked as a sailing instructor on the beach, a zoologist at a wildlife park, and as a naturalist driving airboats in the Everglades. At the start of the first Gulf War, I joined the U.S. Army and flew as a crash-rescue and medevac pilot. After receiving my discharge from the army, I became a diplomat with the U.S. Department of State and had the good fortune to serve in such places as the Bahamas, Russia, Afghanistan, the U.S. Mission to the United Nations in New York City, and at U.S. Southern Command in Miami."

Tom and I were college room mates but I had lost touch with him over the years. Back in 2009 reconnected with him like so many others on Facebook. I traded posts and "likes" with him and was shocked to hear that he had been living with Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (Lou Gehrig's disease) since 2005. Early last month, I found this post on my Facebook feed. I hope that you will take time to read it. Hearing from Tom always helps me put life into perspective.

Last week, on the 4th of July, scientists announced they may have discovered the Higgs boson. Frankly, I think if it were not a holiday and if there was nothing else newsworthy taking place, this announcement would have still have received little notice despite the significance of this discovery. This is unfortunate for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which is how American scientific curiosity has been replaced by a need for superficial sensationalism. Don’t take my word for it--just look at the amount of major network news airtime devoted to the Higgs boson announcement vs. the Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes divorce announcement. Still, the discovery of the Higgs boson sounded a clarion call across the planet--great discoveries are still out there to be made and with them, comes great hope.

As we celebrated the birthday of the United States that day, it was evident just how shallow our country had become. In a nation founded by citizen scientists and deep thinkers such as Franklin and Jefferson, we now look at science like Dorothy and her companions viewed the Wizard of Oz--a mysterious force that sometimes grants wishes. Instead of wanting to know how our world works, we only want to know that it works. Instead of learning the issues ourselves, we allow the media, politicians, and PR types to influence our decisions. We have neither the time, nor inclination to learn even the simplest science--unless we learned in school, let others figure it out and we‘ll just go along with what they say. To tell the truth, I was just like most Americans until recently. If not for my diagnosis of ALS, I probably would have remained a Monday morning scientist… “Hey Bob, did you see the eclipse last night?” “Solar, lunar, what’s the difference?” “Did you hear about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes?“ If it’s not worth watching on the Discovery Channel, it’s not worth knowing. Sad to say, our interest in science has been reduced to how entertaining Hollywood can make it.

Maybe, that’s not a total loss. As a grad student, I once taught a college course in American Government. The course professor insisted each student have a daily subscription to the New York Times. Granted, many in academia would argue that the Times is the gold standard for daily news. However, these were 18- and 19-yr. old undergrads, more interested in the next keg party than the minutia of daily politics. Knowing this, I argued that the students would be much more likely to read the paper if it had simple articles like those found in USA Today--simple was better than nothing. Nevertheless, my argument fell on deaf ears and I can only imagine all those New York Times subscriptions that found the recycling bin before a single article was read. That said, I suppose a glossy, but hollow science segment on TV is better than nothing.

In 2005, I was told I had a terminal illness for which there was no known cause, no viable treatment, and no cure. That was it. I was only in my early 40’s, but I was a dead man walking. Most Americans believe the mantra that if we eat right, exercise, and live within moderation, we will live to a ripe old age. Despite following this instruction manual, I was broken and nobody had replacement parts. I stopped seeing my neurologist, because all he would do is shake his head and mutter how devastating ALS was, and I buried my head in the sand hoping it would all just go away. Didn’t work. As my body slowly rotted away, I desperately looked for answers. Unfortunately, what I discovered was disheartening. No diseases were being cured. Big Pharma had everything geared toward “marketing” medical conditions. There were billions to be made in drugs and treatments to manage disease. Curing them would eliminate all that profit. ALS only effects 30,000 Americans, so developing drugs to treat it offered little financial incentive. I was screwed. So, I started to look outside the pharmaceutical industry for answers. In order to understand what I was looking for, I had to rewire my heretofore keg-seeking brain for science. Not an easy task, but these days I am devoid of a job and a life in general, so I have had the opportunity to do something I never actively did before--study.

The good news--I have found scientific disciplines of which I excel at studying. The bad news--none of them relate to ALS. However, (and this is really the point of this writing) like those undergrads I wanted to have read USA Today, I am now at least able to discern trends and discoveries of significance and I will say this--we are on the verge of a medical revolution, the likes of which have never been witnessed by the human race. That said, we are only at the beginning of this revolution and many of us may never live to reap its benefits. Nevertheless, I have no doubt that a child born today will never have to fear ALS, MS, Alzheimer’s, and most other diseases. Thankfully, Big Pharma has met its match in an even more powerful industry--insurance. The insurance industry has been getting killed by Big Pharma’s “string ‘em along” policy. The insurance industry needs us to either die quickly, or live healthy. Since western society won’t tolerate early death, healthy lifestyles are the only option. So, we see the sudden advent of regenerative medicine, stem cells, gene therapy, etc.

Stem cell therapy alone, is developing at a phenomenal pace. Seven years ago, the best one could hope for was an offshore procedure, which simply transferred cells from one body part to another. Huge controversy surrounded the use of embryos, which were considered the most viable source of stem cells. Today, a patient can use their own cells, which can then be manipulated into the needed cell type, thus avoiding any ethical or rejection issues. Countries free from regulatory and Big Pharma constraints such as Israel and China, are developing stem cell technologies to rival our own. Entire organs are now being created in the lab, paralyzed mice are walking again, and some patients are seeing complete reversals of their medical conditions--all from stem cells. One can only imagine what we will see from stem cells seven years from now!

Seven years ago, there was only one drug available for ALS patients; a drug which prolonged life expectancy a whopping 2-3 months! These days, there are a number of promising drugs currently in clinical trials, with dozens more being looked at. Diaphragm pacers are now prolonging the need for invasive breathing procedures. Reports of ALS patients improving after receiving stem cell treatments both here and in Israel are generating a buzz in the ALS community. Did I contribute to any of these breakthroughs? Of course not. Did my newfound interest in science make a difference? Yes, it saved my life. I cannot overstate that enough. By understanding on at least a very basic level where the science was taking us, I found hope…and hope is what sustains me.

So, what does the Higgs boson have to do with all of this and what’s its significance? Stephen Hawking’s bestseller, “A Brief History of Time” was supposed to be a layman’s guide to understanding these types of theories, but every attempt of mine to read his book resulted in me giving up after two chapters. I am obviously the last person who should attempt to explain the Higgs boson to anyone. In any event, here’s my attempt…. The Higgs boson, also known as the God particle, was first predicted almost 50 years ago. The boson and its corresponding field are the final pieces of one of the most successful physical theories in history--the Standard Model, which encompasses all of nature's fundamental particles, and every fundamental force apart from gravity. The Higgs boson is believed to be a catalyst for the Big Bang and the creation of the universe. That said, the real significance for us mortals who can’t fully grasp all of this is that science persevered. Despite all the crap we now occupy our lives with, despite the dwindling interest in science, despite monetary disincentives, scientific curiosity still exists. Those noble souls who toil away far from the spotlight, let us know that the secrets of the universe are still attainable and through their deeds, hope springs eternal.

Space: Illustration Friday

Here's an illustration that I created for MOCA's education department for the School Tour brochure… perfect for Illustration Friday.

4:20am

The photo is from a trip that my parents took us on to NASA when we were kids. My Father worked on some of the drawings for the Rocket Assembly Tower—the building in the background. Thinking of you today day, Dad. I miss you!

The Wind Through The Keyhole

I'm a huge Stephen King fan like so many others, but somewhere along the lines I slowed my intake and almost stopped, until recently. He is almost too prolific. I had heard of the Dark Tower series but have still not gotten into it. The series was supposed to have wrapped up back in 2004 but he just couldn't leave it alone. Perhaps he has a touch of George RR Martin in him. At any rate, he felt he had one more story in him for Roland, Eddie, Susannah, and Jake and so we have The Wind Through the Keyhole: A Dark Tower Novel. I did read the two books that he wrote with Peter Straub—The Talisman and Black House. I understand that The Talisman was somewhat of a foreshadowing of things to come. I'm sure that I will start reading the series sometime soon, I just hope that they are more in the vein of The Talisman instead The Black House.

Is Your Mac Infected?

Yes, it is rare. Most Mac users work with the relatively safe feeling that Macs don't get viruses. Don't get lulled into a false sense of security. With the surging popularity of all things Mac, your trusty and reliable Mac is now a target more than ever. And that means you are too!

CNET reports that over 600,000, almost 60% of Mac users in the U.S. alone, are infected with the Flashback botnet/Trojan that was designed to steal sensitive information and send it to identity thieves. The Trojan originally came packaged as a wrongly named Adobe Flash Player plug-in installer back in September. The new tactic, Flashback.N is a modified version that searches for Java vulnerabilities and installs itself when you visit an infected web site. If you have visited one of those sites your computer is at risk. It appears that Flashback is using Twitter to deliver commands and directions.

Apple issued an update for its OS X operating system to patch the problem on April 4. If you want to be sure that you AREN'T infected, there is a manual check that you can perform using Terminal and simple cut-and-paste to see if you are infected.

The Year of the Dragon

Above is a woodblock print that I made for the year. The first image is the camphor log from which I cut the slab to create the block. The second image is all that is left after the chainsaw. The third is the block itself.

We've been living in the "Year of the Dragon" now for about a month, do you feel lucky yet? For those of you who didn't know, “The Year of the Dragon” is the year of empowerment. It is the fifth of twelve animal signs and is considered to be the luckiest of the Chinese Zodiac. But for me, it isn't about luck or empowerment, it is about being prepared and aware for if you are prepared and aware, then you will be ready to seize the opportunity when it presents itself. Time and again throughout my life, I have been called lucky. When I found the hundred dollar bill floating in the water was one time, but I found it because I was looking when the rest of my family were oblivious because they were lost in the moment and totally in the family reunion moment. I have also heard that I am lucky to be alive. While I believe that luck is generally nothing more than being a bit more aware of your surroundings and capabilities and prepared to seize upon any opportunities that might present themselves, there is something more. Is it karma or some special plan that God has for us? I cannot answer that but I can be ready. Last year’s rabbit had all of us scurrying a bit too much. So, like the dragon, here’s wishing you a magical 2012.