A Unique Thanksgiving Thanks

I live in Tennessee but I’ve been working in Kentucky this semester. So every day I cross the state line and read about the bluegrass of Kentucky and how it’s a great place to live. (On the way back I read about how wonderful it is to be a Volunteer and live in Tennessee.) Also at the state line the people of Kentucky have installed one of those giant over-the-road marquees that remind all drivers to buckle up because X number of people have been killed on Kentucky highways this year. Just when I’m digging the bluegrass, I’m reminded to do all I can to keep the car out of the bluegrass. When I started the semester teaching at Western Kentucky University in September, almost 350 people had lost their lives on the Kentucky highways. A very sobering number. Even more sobering when every day I watch that number change—always going up of course. Up five more today. Seven. Only three, that’s not so bad, I think. But each increment represents one whole life. Why can’t they announce how many acres of bluegrass have been sown instead? Toward the end of November the number was up to almost 700.
At mile seventeen there is an identical marquee. One day between mile one and 17 the number rose by two. “Stop it!” I yelled at the marquee, but intended it for all who were driving on the Kentucky highways that day.
The other morning I stopped at the rest stop, like I usually do because interstate rest stops are always so big and clean and friendly—and well lit. I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with one fellow at the urinal. Then again with the same fellow at the sinks. Once again at the automatic hand dryers. On the way out, and to the car, I found myself in lockstep with him. It was awkward and someone had to say something. He chose to: “Finally a hand dryer that works,” he said.
I agreed. (They have excellent hand dryers at the Kentucky state line rest stop. FYI). “It’s like they put a jet engine in those things,” I told him.
He nodded as we walked. “Yeah, really blow you away.”
I nodded as we walked.
“Of course,” he added, “Good old paper towels are just fine also.”
I barked a nostalgic laugh and said, “Can’t beat a good paper towel.” Where was that car of mine and why was it taking so long? “You have a good day,” I told him as I peeled off and climbed into my car. As I exited the rest stop I pulled beneath that monstrous marquee that told me three more people had lost their lives since this time the day before. I double-checked my seat belt and prayed a silent prayer that my “rest stop friend” had indeed completely dried his hands—via jet engine, paper towel or the backs of his pant legs—so that he could better grip the wheel and stay out of the bluegrass.

The Death of a Cell Phone

Here’s something that is certain: If you own a cell phone…one day you will drop it in into the lake.
Most likely it will bounce off the dock—two, maybe three times, all in super-slow motion—before plopping into the still, deep waters.
Then you will stare at that spot, where the water ripples, thinking: “Maybe it floats.” But it won’t float, so you will do the best you can with the tools you have: you’ll ask your husband to go after it. “Come on,” you’ll tell him. “Think of it as a search and rescue mission.”

When my wife asked me to go after her phone (hot pink, so we should be able to spot it) she was quick to remind me that I’m a scuba diver, so this should be easy. With my ego stroked, I jumped in and then quickly popped right back up. “Forgot I didn’t have an air tank,” I told her, while spitting water.
I took a couple of deep breaths and dove to the bottom and started poking around, about 8 feet down. The next time I came up, Chonda was on my phone, making a call. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Calling my phone,” she said. “Maybe it’ll ring and you kind find it. Like those dolphins do with those floating mines.”
I tried twice more and another time above the surface I heard Chonda on the phone, changing her voicemail: “I can’t talk to you right now because I’m at the bottom of the lake!”
While the mud settled, I went after my diver’s mask. It was pretty clear down there, just blurry. With the mask I could see everything—rock, stick, mud, more rocks, more sticks. I needed more air so I was about to turn up when I noticed a flash of pink. I turned and kicked hard, imagining that this is what a bass must do when it’s floating there, watching the mud and sticks when all of a sudden the flash of a RattleTrap slices through the water. He can’t help but attack. I pounced on the pink, my lungs aching for air. I turned up and pushed off the muddy bottom, breaking the surface first with the phone. I wanted Chonda to be cheering by the time my head broke through the water.

When you get your phone back from the bottom of the lake, first you will shake it like a salt shaker. Water will glug out. Then you will blow into all the cracks and seams and around the numbers. Water will spray you in the face. Then you’re going to push the “on” button and put it to your ear to see if you can hear anything. Then your husband, when he’s finished spitting and gasping for air, will say something like, “I’m going to get you one of those trucker chains for Christmas so you can hook it to that phone and not let this happen again.”

If you’re lucky you will just drop yours in the toilet. Messy, but easy to find.

Now I will go Christmas shopping for a trucker’s chain.

A Big Deal Hole-in-One

Today I got a hole in one from about 130 yards out. It’s not the first one I’d ever seen. That came about two years before when Michael, my brother-in-law, knocked one in from about 142 yards out. The bad thing—for us who played with him—is that he made it on the second hole. So for sixteen more holes we had to hear “Did I tell you about the time I made a hole in one?” But later those nearest and dearest to him humbled him back to earth. First he called his wife, Doris, and her first response was “So what did you win?” Nothing, he told her. “So what score did they give you?” He told her “one” as in hole-in-one. She simply said, “Oh.” Then he called his best friend, a golf pro at a club in Florida. Mark, the pro, wasn’t there, but his wife was. When she heard the news she asked, “So is that your first one?” Mike hung up and proceeded to remind us for the next sixteen holes about the time he got a hole-in-one.
Mine came just after midday. I knew it was a good shot the moment it sprang from the club head. When you hit the “sweet spot” there’s no better feeling. In fact, you hardly feel it at all. The ball shot off like an arrow, taking dead aim for the flag. It took one bounce, hit the flag stick and turned 90 degrees to drop in the hole. My first reaction was to find someone—a witness—with whom I could share this. But everyone was too busy working out his own bugs. Behind me a big guy swung so hard that three out of four times I’d shiver with every breeze-producing swing of his. In front of me a mild-mannered instructor was telling a young girl about the importance of keeping her back elbow tucked in close. I was surrounded by other golfers and buckets of golf balls, all working between the ropes so the Bermuda beyond the ropes could grow back and fill in the divots from earlier practice. I’d just hit my first hole-in-one and I was the only one who knew it. I would have run out to the hole and picked the ball from the cup, but on a driving range that could be dangerous.

I Dreamed of a Book

Yesterday was a day I can clearly mark as one of those days a dream came true. My first book, Don’t Let Me Go, occupied some shelf space in Barnes & Noble. I saw it with my own eyes. There were two copies there, alphabetized in the “P” section (because my last name is Pierce). Four-hundred pages combined, only half the size of a Stephen King novel, one full inch of spines–but occupying space all the same. Inside that small space is three years worth of adventures climbing mountains and running in marathons with my daughter. Inside that small space is 21 years, 42 weeks, and one day of dreaming. You see, that’s how long ago I sold my first short story and had an idea: I should write a book! I didn’t think it would take that long. The main thing is that I didn’t give up. My son, Zachary, was with me at the bookstore. He’s 19 and wasn’t even born when I started dreaming. But he’s come to own the dream with me over the years, so has my daughter, Chera, and my wife, Chonda. Zach threw an arm around me and we struck a silly pose there in the aisle, pointing to the books tucked away there between the “history” and the “inspirational” sections while Chonda took a picture. Then Chonda lifted the only two copies and boldly placed them at eye-level on the end of the shelf where it’s easier to see, just beneath the “Hot New Releases” placard. Because when a dream comes true you just gotta shout it out.

The LA Gang Dude

I’m in Los Angeles because my wife, Chonda, has a couple of jobs to do. In between jobs she likes to shop. When she shops I usually just hang. Watch. Wait. Sometimes hold her purse. Tonight I’m going to talk to someone. I’m going to initiate a conversation for the sole purpose of connecting with my fellow human being. Just make small talk, I tell myself. No matter how uncomfortable, it’s these connections that will quicken that sullen spirit of mine. At least I’m buying into that idea for now.
Not too far away I spot someone I’d like to talk to. I choose him mainly because he’s the only man in the place at the time—the H&M store on Sunset Blvd, a woman’s clothing shop. Already I imagine a kinship, a certain kind of fellowship that men in dress stores understand. Although he’s not holding a purse, I believe he’s as bored as I am. He’s a big Hispanic guy. Over six foot. He’s leaning forward with his elbows on a rack of dresses. His head is shaved and he’s wearing wrap-around shades. As I approach slightly from behind and to his right I notice that most of the back of his head is taken up in a tattoo. Just above his medulla obbligato are the capital letters BH.
“Hey, dude,” I call out when I think I’m close enough to be heard above the loud pop music playing in the store speakers. I never say “dude,” but something in my gut tells me to this time. He swivels his head just enough that he finds me. I circle a hand over the back of my own head and ask him, “So what’s the BH stand for?”
He keeps his weight rested on the dress rack. I can’t read his eyes for the shades, but the corners of his mouth are turned down. He says something, but I can’t hear above the music. So I ask him again. He tells me but I still don’t know what he’s said. Once I again I listen to my gut that tells me (begs me) not to ask for a third time. I nod as if I heard. Then he adds, “It was a gang I was in.”
Even though I’m from Tennessee, I’ve heard about LA gangs—just that there are gangs and sometimes they can be dangerous. But this guy is alone. No gang to back him up. I figure he doesn’t have to put on a tough-man show for me. Maybe that’s why I’m bold enough to ask him, “So what did you do in the gang?” (For the purpose of some potentially sensitive members of my audience, I will now censor the remainder of this story. If I do this well, you’ll never know what words have been changed.)
He says, “Stupid sugar, mostly.”
I nod and say, “Hey, who doesn’t?” He looks away from me, across racks filled with dresses, some up to 75% off. “So you’re not in the gang now?” I ask. He scowls and I’m glad he’s wearing the shades now. Kind of a what-I-don’t-know-won’t-hurt-me thinking, I guess.
“I’ve been in prison most of my life.” He’s looking right at me, or at least the shades are aimed right at me. “I’m on parole now,” he says.
Heat rises up my neck. I’ve registered the word parole. Back home when you ask someone what it is he does for a living, it’s proper to repeat the occupation and then make a comment about it. If someone tells me he’s a dentist, I say, “Wow, a dentist!” Then I try to think of my best dentist story, preferably something funny. I’m thinking now that is a stupid ritual. But I can’t stop myself. “Parole?” I say. “Wow, dude!” (Why am I saying dude all the time?) “And look at you now.” I extend a hand toward him, palm up, wave it a bit. “You’re out, and…” I have no funny parole stories. “…you’re in a…” I look around. I want to say something like a place of freedom. Something that captures the notion of fetterlessness. Instead I say, “…you’re in a dress shop.”
His expression goes stony (or stonier). This conversation is suppose to make me feel alive, not get me killed. Quickly I use the same story I use when I’m driving in a city I’ve never been to before and it seems everyone’s blaring horns at me. I say, “Dude I’m from out of town. This is my first time in LA. I’m from Tennessee.”
The dude cants his head the slightest. His stoniness seems to soften. For the first time he asks me a question: “Home of Elvis Presley?”
I pump a fist in the air and say, “King of Rock’n Roll! Yeah, we claim him. He’s ours.” I bring my fist down because I don’t feel totally honest. “But I’m a big country music person myself.”
Now the dude pushes back from the dress rack—yeah, he’s over six foot—and says, “Country music?” I nod. He takes a breath-and-a-half and says, “Country music pretty much saved my life when I was in prison.”
My soul stirs, totally in a genuine way. “Really?” I say.
He nods now. “Yeah. Shania Twain. She’s something.”
We’ve connected and I want to keep this going. But what do I say about Shania Twain. If I start singing “Man, I Feel Like a Woman,” he might cut me with a shiv. So I think. Then I say, “Can you believe her husband left her?”
He shakes his head sadly and frowns and says, “Now that’s some messed up sugar right there.”
I nod. “Absolutely.”
“So let me get this straight. You come all the way from Tennessee to spend your money in LA?”
I shrug. “If we didn’t spend it here, we’d spend it there. Shopping, you know.” He nods and cuts a slight glance back over the fiery-red clearance sale signs. Between country music and shopping with women, we’ve connected. I see Chonda in a nearby clearing. Her arms are full and I figure she’ll need help pretty soon, so I tell him I guess I better go over and at least try to slow her down. I walk away and I hear him call out, “Hey, dude!” I turn around and he’s giving me a crooked smile and one of those fist pumps in the air. “Welcome to LA!” I fist pump back right back and go find my wife.
While on the plane to LA I finished reading To Kill A Mockingbird. The final thought of that book, articulated by an eight year old, still resonates with me: How can you ever know someone if you never see them? In this case, tattoos, shades, scowl and crooked smile. I saw him.
Later, back at the hotel, I go to Google and do a search on “LA gangs BH.” I get two options: either he was a member of the Bloodhounds, with an estimated 400 kills over the past five years; or he was a member of the Booty Hunters. Either way I’m left with one sobering thought: Hmmm, I wonder if his homeboys know that he’s a country music fan? If they did, they’d probably give him a lot of sugar about that.

The Silly Game of Guitar Heros

There’s a new game in the house–Guitar Heros. It’s actually been here awhile but I just discovered it when my son got the latest edition of songs and most of them are from the 70s and 80s. I walked through the room the other day and Boston’s “Long Time” was cranked up to about 9 on a scale of 10. So I did what you’re supposed to do: I pumped my fist in the air and started singing along. Zach hit the pause button and stared at me nonplussed. “You know this song?” he asked me. “Know it?” I said. “I lived it! Now unpause it.”

Shortly after that he handed me guitar and we created a play list consisting of Blue Oyster Cult, Bon Jovi, Allman Brothers, Molly Hatchet and Lynyrd Skynyrd. (He let me play the easy level while he played the drums at expert level.) Following the colored-coded notes and executing perfect timing to hit the button that is supposed to be the guitar strings is no easy task. Whenever I hit the wrong note Zach would shake his head and tell me to concentrate harder. But concentrating harder always made me miss more notes.

How productive is Guitar Heros anyway? At the end of an hour and a half of rocking out Detroit all I had to show for it was sore wrist and burning eyes. I was talking to the former lead singer of a big country group the other day about Guitar Heros. He thinks the game really does help with learning to play a real guitar. It teaches timing and discipline, he said. I asked Zach if he wanted to learn to play a real guitar and said no.

A few days later I was talking to the meat salesman who comes through the neighborhood every few months and sells me really good steaks at a fair price. His other job is in a rock band. “Man,” he told me. “That Guitar Heros can make you look silly. I mean, man, I play lead guitar. I can do arpeggios and everything, man. But when I try to play that game, my fingers get all tangled.” He played a bit on his air guitar to show me what that would look like. Like he said, silly. (I looked up arpeggios later because I figured if a meat salesman who also plays in a rock band knows what it means, then I should too.)

My fear is that I’m wasting time banging on a piece of plastic. That I’m fastly contracting Carpel Tunnel Syndrome. That my son will never find a job that will require him use his Guitar Hero skills. I fear these sorts of things–until my son hands me my plastic guitar. Like always, there’s a gleam in his eye, and a smile ready to break out. “Let’s rock and roll, dad,” he says. I take the guitar and say, “Got any REO Speedwagon on there?” He shakes his head in amazement. “What’d you do growing up? Listen to music all the time?” Sure I did, I think. And I wish I could tell him that I listened to music with my dad all the time. But one, that wouldn’t be true. And two, it’s time for my guitar solo.

Maybe the game teaches us timing. And maybe it can make us look silly. But last night Zach and I rocked a frat house for about an hour and a half. At the end of the set, he turned and gave me a high five. I wonder what he’ll tell his children one day about this silly game?

Castles in the Air

Building A Castle Foundation

“If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.”

Henry David Thoreau

This metaphorical castle can be built with six words: I want to be a writer. I built that one when I was twelve. As time went on, I didn’t just redecorate my castle, I made major additions. My next castle I built with these words, “I want to be a published writer.” Twenty-one years ago when that happened, I quickly added a whole new wing when I dreamed, “I want to publish a book.” That’s a big dream. A mighty imposing castle. One that would take a mighty imposing foundation.

In eight weeks and two days my first published book will be released. So today I want to give you a simple 21 year, 47 week, 1 day plan that I used to complete that foundation.
Some of these seven points will be valuable lessons you may want to emulate. Others read more like cautionary tales. I think you’ll be able to tell the difference between the two. And in no way am I saying this is how it’s done. All I’m saying is this is how I did it.

1. First–Build the castle.

Novelist Graham Greene writes, “There is always one moment in childhood when the door opens and lets the future in.”

That moment came for me on December 19, 1971. I know this because that is the night The Homecoming aired on television back when there were only three channels—four if you count PBS. It was six days before Christmas. I was eleven years old and all I wanted were toys. But then that show came on. And with it that slow, deliberate opening of a door that allowed me a glimpse of my future. How could an eleven year old relate to a story set in rural North Carolina in 1933 during the Great Depression? The father owned and operated a sawmill, the children did farm chores—and there were lots of children: Mary Ellen, Erin, Elizabeth, Jim-Bob, Ben, Jason and John-Boy. John Boy is the oldest at 15. And he has a secret—he writes down his thoughts and hides them. He wants to go to the university someday, but that’s expensive and there’s a depression going on. And there are a lot of farm chores to take care of. I could find only one parallel: They were broke; we were broke. Mostly my family and theirs had a whole lot of opposites: The Waltons lived on a mountain (named Walton mountain, how coincidental is that?). We lived in a hollow. John boy had lots of brothers and sisters. I had one brother and one sister. They had lots of farm animals. I had a couple dozen chickens and one pig and a carp we kept in the spring—downstream from the pump. Yet this movie got me. A door opened. And I received a small glimpse of the future.
There is a scene, toward the end of the movie when John-Boy’s mother gives a wrapped gift to John-Boy. He takes the gift, tears open the package: It’s a stack of writing tablets and a bundle of pencils. His jaw drops. I guess he thought he was doing a better job of hiding his love for writing. His mom confesses she’s known about this for some time now. And so does his father. Remember, I was eleven. All I wanted for Christmas were toys. But the sight of those pads of paper and that bundle of pencils resonated in me. The look on his face, the relief, the joy. I think John-Boy was so happy because at that moment, with that simple gift, he was given permission to write. As writers we need that from someone besides ourselves–from a parent, from a friend, from a teacher. And we need to remind ourselves of that moment often.
My moment came the next year. BestWay Grocery Story was having a contest. In 25 words or less explain why you like to shop at BestWay. I was twelve, all I ever did at BestWay was follow mom around. But I came up with something. Can’t remember what I said, but I won second place and a crisp $5. More importantly, I received the permission to write. With that permission, I built my first castle: I want to be a writer.

If I could put that memory on Youtube, it would have millions of hits—and all of them would be by me.

Writing: The Hydrant and the Faucet

I encourage those who want to be a writer to attend a writer’s conference, but by all means do not be garrulous. And if you don’t know what garrulous means, you will after this.

I attended this one particular conference a few years ago. We were still signing in and mingling, still getting to know one another, asking one another that tired old question that gets asked over and over again at writer’s conferences: “So what do you write?” Earlier, when I picked up my name-tag I was instructed to write my genre just below my name. I’d written a few mysteries, so I wrote David Pierce mystery. What I learned later was that I’d gotten some bad information. Perhaps I’d been the only one to get that information. What I was supposed to have written was one word that describes me. That explains why this rather silly-acting woman approached me, read my name tag and giggled as she said, “Ooooh, mysterious, are we?”

At this same conference about four of us men had circled up, talking shop. Using short, curt answers whenever possible—like men do. Except for this one fellow, John. He told us he liked to write historical fiction. Someone else in our group, maybe me, asked him “So what’s your book about?” John took a deep breath and proceeded to tell us all about his novel:

“Well, you see, a young man named Danny Arnberger finds himself in a war-torn village in southern France. A place called Roujan. The whole town is surrounded by the Germans. Danny’s been shot in the leg and needs help bad. His buddy—Bobby Lehman–although he won’t be his buddy when they get back to the states because he’ll eventually have a fling with Danny’s girlfriend, Sarah Arnold—who works at a bakery but volunteers at the hospital on weekends. And she owns a parrot. Now Danny’s bleeding pretty bad and so Bobby has an idea that he can make a radio out of a potato and call for help. In the field across the street, next to a German tank, is a big potato patch. Bobby knows it’s a potato patch because he was in 4-H in the sixth and eighth grades. He would have been a member in the seventh grade, but he had the chicken pox that year—because of his cousin Jeanie Lee Calloway. So Bobby takes out a pocketknife—the one his daddy gave him, who owns a gas station back in Indiana. Now, here’s the cool thing. Bobby’s daddy used to be a traveling salesman and when he was in Birmingham one weekend, he hooked up with a dancer in one of those racy clubs, had a fling and never saw her again—Mabel. Mabel got pregnant that night and raised a young girl on her own. A girl named Sarah—Arnold. So you see, Bobby’s been dating his own sister! And that’s just the first chapter, so far. I just have to write it.”

Chapters 2-7, that John shared with us that night, were just as…convoluted.

You can imagine that the three of us listening to this were speechless—and a little sleepy. Finally, one of the men spoke up and said, “John, all that you just said there would be so much better for us,” he waved a hand over us, “and everyone else,” he waved a hand over the entire world, “if you could do it in about two minutes.”

Don’t be that guy. Don’t be John, who sells insurance in Des Moines, who every day when he passes by the hardware store thinks he should have gone against his wife’s wishes that day back in 1973 and partnered with Jack Buford and bought that place. Even though Jack did go to prison later for paving old people’s driveways and charging them twice what it was worth.
Robert Frost says, “Talking is a hydrant in the yard and writing is a faucet upstairs in the house. Opening the first takes all the pressure off the second.”
Write about your story more. Talk about it less.