Category Archives: Bits of Bill

The Eyes See, The Heart Interprets

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Truck drivers are tough, hard working folks who get the job done. You won’t find them getting all emotional over some ‘silly’ memory…or will you? In today’s ‘Bits of Bill‘ post, I’ll look at a bit of reality that my dad came face to face with.

As relayed in a ‘unique’ bio penned by my dad, he was born in his parent’s home in Pasadena, CA in 1926. A few doors down and across the street, was where my mom came to live after being born a little less than three months before my dad. Their proximity had much to do with the relationship that developed but that’s a tale for another time.

About fifty years after the McIntyre family had left their Steuben Street home, dad returned, although, according to his own words, without prior planning. In ‘A Tree for Tomorrow’, one of his many short stories, he tells us,  “It wasn’t my idea, you know.  Major construction had the freeway tied up, so I exited a few miles before my regular off-ramp.  That’s it, nothing else!  Well… okay, the last two blocks were out of my way, but I really didn’t plan it!”

What he found was his birthplace and childhood home being prepared for demolition. As it was late in the day and no workmen were on site, he went inside to investigate. Though dealing with some apprehension, several things he saw brought vivid, satisfying memories, which I include below in his own words.

  • Fireplace: “Several bricks bore the stains of melted crayon, while crumbling mortar and gaping holes were the only evidence of others long lost.  Although the years had done no favors for the once proud mantel, nothing could dim my recollections of that first Christmas when I was allowed to hang my stocking there.”
  • Kitchen: “A doorway had been moved to make way for additional cupboards.  But the sink was still on the east wall beneath the windows.  It was from there that my mother had watched my play while she worked.”
  • Master Bedroom: “My memories were of stormy nights when I would rush to cuddle safe and warm between my parents in that wonderfully enormous bed.”

When his visit had ended, and it was later recorded in ‘A Tree for Tomorrow’, dad had this to say about the experience…

“Tomorrow, the house will be reduced to rubble, the tree will fall, and both hauled away to be burned or buried.  In a matter of months, weeks or even days, all evidence of the former will have vanished.  I will sense the loss, but the sun will rise and set in its usual manner, and I will go about my life much as before.  I will find comfort in the assurance that this house, and its memories, will live forever in the hearts of those others who, like me, became a part of it.”

Actually, there was more to the story than the preceding quote and that brings me to my final thoughts…

  1. Read ‘A Tree for Tomorrow’ – A little over a year ago I started giving away one of dad’s short stories to anyone who wanted one and if you request this story, you’ll get to read the ‘surprise’ ending.
  2. Get Three Free Stories – Just subscribe to my email updates and select from six stories of dad’s available. Spoiler Alert – One of them is ‘A Tree for Tomorrow’
  3. Learn More about My Project – Find out some of the things I’m doing to get dad’s historical novel, “Bluebell”, published.

Fuel For the Mind

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The McIntyre Family – Early 1950’s
Bill, the writer; Me, Read My Dad’s Stuff Blogger Scott; Susan Elizabeth, my Sister; and Barbara, the Mom!

Dad was living in Covina, a small suburb of Los Angeles during the mid-fifties, and driving trucks to support a wife and two adorable children, when an ‘on-the-job’ experience brought “Bluebell” to life.  And that’s what today’s ‘Bits of Bill‘ post is all about.

What do truckers talk about when they hook up while working?  Dad might have expected to hear one particular driver tell about his route, problems with the truck, or possibly, vacation plans.  But, as he recounted in “The Life and Times of Bluebell”, a look at how the novel became a reality, “The story was given birth…when a fellow driver told of seeing a black man burned at the stake.”

The event had taken place years earlier and today, Dad doesn’t recollect if he was given the details of when and where it happened, but my research backs up that our country was still experiencing similar practices as late as 1950.

Describing those early days of “Bluebell”, dad says, “As with most of my writing, I had no plot in mind, no idea where I might go with such a tale but, no matter, I started writing… in longhand.  At some point, I suppose after writer’s cramp set in, I started using an aging Underwood upright.  That old mill (Navy term) was responsible for the original manuscript, and two re-writes.”

More rewrites, spurred on by the advent of word processors and computers, resulted in today’s tale, a two part novel exceeding 158,000 words featuring “two antagonists: Racial injustice, and anarchy.”

Learn More about “Bluebell”

How Strong is Love

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True love is stronger than many think and it’s the topic of today’s Bits of Bill.  I think most authors write about what they believe.  I mean, how many novels about a loving God would you expect to find written by atheists?  So, with that in mind, I’m going to be diving into dad’s novel, Bluebell, for things important to him.

Willis Jefferson is a young black man in his early twenties when Bluebell opens.  He’s minding his own business but a deep influence from an older white woman, that lingers deep within his soul, is about to launch him into the type of trouble he’s never seen before.

As we read in an excerpt from the story, he’s nearing a town when a woman’s scream shatters the rural stillness.  It’s a predominantly white town in the 1930’s and he knows full well that intervening could be challenging or even dangerous.  But the love instilled in him by Miss Rowena Kramer, was stronger than even fear and dread, and pushed him toward the house where the sound had originated.  Here’s how my dad tells the rest of the story.

“A whimper from somewhere off the hall was sufficient motivation to re-focus his thoughts, and Willis moved to the doorway.  His glance, taking in the shattered remains of a vase, and a second overturned chair, came to rest on the battered form crumpled on the floor.

Her face and neck were covered with huge red and purple welts.  Blood trickled from one unrecognizable mass that had been an ear; and it was impossible to ascertain the presence of eyes behind the puffed, lacerated lids.  A slightly stronger flow of blood, coming from a ragged gash at the side, just above the left eye, gave Willis his most immediate cause for alarm.

Snatching the cover from a pillow, he dashed to the kitchen.  Returning with a pan of cool water, he fashioned a compress with one of the several strips he’d torn from the pillowcase.  With the larger piece of material, he carefully washed the hideously swollen face.

Willis had no idea of how long he had huddled over the wretched figure; nor, under the circumstances, was he concerned.”

He should have been more than concerned, and would have been had it not been for love.  A love, so strong, that it put the plight of a white woman living in a largely racist town, before the well being of a black man.

Dad writes about love because it’s important to him and part of his life.  He worked long, hard hours to support my mom and raise two children and he still shows the love of his life, as they approach their 73rd anniversary, the type of love and respect that some married couples only dream of.

 

For Whom the Crow Flies

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Recently, I shared dad’s Pessimistic Optimism in the first issue of Bits of Bill and today, it’s all about birds; a particular crow to be more exact.  Could it be possible that these creatures know instinctively how to live in a way that could benefit us, if we learned from their flight path?  Read on to find out.

A number of yeas ago, my wife and I were adopted by a crow with a gimpy leg.  He arrived one day, took up a perch atop the big alder in our back yard, and refused to move on.  During the day, he would disappear occasionally; but, because he was there morning and evening, it appeared that he felt the tree was his.  This became obvious, later, when we heard the nestlings.

Now, I’m quite sure that the bird was perfectly capable of fending for him or herself; but, because of the limp, we began buying him generic bread and bulk peanuts.  The final assignment of gender was based solely on the bird’s arrogant attitude.

In a week or two, I suppose as a way of showing his appreciation, we were introduced to his three offspring.

We named them, The Twins, and Joe; the latter being the runt; and our enjoyment, in observing their march to adulthood, was well worth the extra loaf of bread and an additional bag of peanuts a week.

As the passage of time brought the youngsters closer to adulthood, the family became less and less individualistic.  Papa was the exception, because his leg, neither retracting nor extending properly, marked him, even in flight.

One morning, as the bird, I thought to be Joe, finished its snack, it squawked a few times, caught the freshening breeze, and lifted effortlessly into the morning sky.

Watching, I was chagrined by the superiority of this lesser of God’s creations; and by the ease with which it had adapted.  I was humbled by the knowledge that, although it might take a life, it would never do so in anger.  It would accept, with no need to know why, the size, shape and color of all God’s creatures.  When it became time, it would give of itself, whatever was necessary, to rear its offspring; and, barring the intervention of humankind, this bird, and its kind, would continue to live in the manner God set forth when creating them.

Papa spent several years with us, and with each season brought a new family into our lives.  That we gained a great deal from the experience was obvious.  In the editing and rewriting of this piece, however, I was beset by the niggling feeling that much of what was offered had been overlooked… or ignored.

An examination of that uneasiness revealed that there is good reason to question the manner in which humans, particularly the Christian variety, think and speak of themselves.  Granted, we are forgiven, but have we, by faith and adherence to God’s laws, maintained our assigned position above the crows; or, like them, do we flit about with little purpose, making a great deal of noise, while giving no thought to what lies beyond today’s allotment of bread and peanuts?

Before Little Boy BIll

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Knowing what makes a person tick requires a look at their parental make-up and that’s where today’s episode of “Bits of Bill” takes us.  When dad’s mom is introduced to a senior official on the Pasadena police force, in a somewhat arresting manner, a story unfolds that pop has captured in three short tales.  Below is an excerpt from the last one.

A sound from the kitchen jogged her memory, and she excused herself.  She returned moments later, after having checked on the stew, and asked, “Have you made plans for supper, Chief McKenna?”

It seemed to Edith that there was touch of sadness in his smile.  “Why, yes, as a matter fact I have, I’ll be dining at the Good Fellow’s Grill.’

Jason spoke up, “That’s where we had hamburgers, boy, they make good ones!”

Edith nodded.  “I see, and you eat there regularly?”

“Yes…yes I do.”

“So it isn’t a special occasion…um, you aren’t expected by…someone?”

A quizzical smile touched his lips.  “Not by prearrangement, no.”

“Then I will be terribly hurt if you don’t stay for supper!”

It was, in Edith’s estimation, a brazen display, but possibly excusable for its motivation: The empty longing and helpless need that had nearly driven her to her childish escapade with Officer Barnes, she had seen in Chief McKenna’s eyes.

Whether that had been the only impetus, it was a beginning; and, later, Edith was able to see that, under the circumstances, it had been perfectly proper.  It had also been most rewarding.

Three years later, he was 56, she, 33; in the home of a justice of the peace, they were married.  How much of the true, Wilbur McKenna, Edith ever met, we are not to know.  What is known, is that Jason had a father that he idolized, a man he would come to love dearly, a father that loved him as his own.  Edith no longer searching, had found peace with a man she would love for the rest of his life; and Will McKenna had found, in that love, and in returning it, a reason to, if not forget the past, live for the future.

As for the children of Edith and Wilbur… perhaps later.

Interesting that there was only one other child, Warren Dean, and he wrote the tale about my Uncle Jason and grandparents; Wilbur and Edith McIntyre.

Want to learn more?  Here are some options that you might enjoy…

Eight Lines Deep

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What are you about to read in the two verses below?  A young man’s secret writing about his first love; a love poem to celebrate a couple’s wedding day; the anniversary verse captured on the fifth year of marriage; or something else?

Her eyes, not “limpid pools”
Are deeply shaded brown
And in the sun her hair
Becomes an auburn crown

Dainty ears hidden there
That out from under peek
While on her lovely lips
The smile is mine to keep

Good job if you guessed ‘Something Else’.  From talking with dad, this is part of a sonnet penned by my Father, near the 40th year of marriage to Mom.  And that tells you more than just a bit about Bill.

Dad has been a hard worker all his life and out shoveled me this winter, at age 90, as we helped clean the walkway of snow from a dear friend’s home.  He served in the Navy; was a long haul truck driver; ran his own service station; added a large room on our old home; and has done more physically in his life than anyone I know personally.  But there’s more to him than that.

He’s sensitive and romantic (read the two verses again if you don’t believe me) and has an artistic streak running through him that’s nearly as strong as his physical prowess.  He’s my Dad and I’m somewhat biased but I think people who know him would agree; Bill’s quite a fella.

Want to find out more about my Dad?  If you’ll contact me, I’ll forward you a short story he wrote and if you want to review it, you just may find yourself part of one of my ‘Fresh Looks‘ posts.

Pessimistic Optimism

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In this first installment of ‘Bits of Bill‘, dad shares about an aspect of his personality.

Amid a lifetime of acquaintances, there have been those that accused me of being a negative person.  Although it was not a universal opinion, honest, self-evaluation does reveal a slanting toward negativism.  To remain truthful, however, it is necessary to point out that it is apportioned in a positive manner.

Despite the contradictory aspects, of the latter, its accuracy is verified by the manner in which a former boss spoke of me:  “McIntyre is a pessimistic optimist!”

I always hoped that to be his way of saying that, while I was a pain; I was appreciated, maybe, even needed.

My employment was with a young company, one that was growing rapidly.  Because of this over abundance of growth hormones, chaos was the normal operating mode.  Contributing to that state was the fact that much of the work force, and all of the management team, wore several caps.

Quite often, a scrap of paper would land on my desk outlining some totally implausible plan that I was expected to implement.  Inevitably, a postscript assured me:  “We know you can do it, Bill!”

Usually, the desired results were achieved, but never by the suggested means.  Dashing into an undertaking, without considering the minuses, is foolish.  This is why those with a “we can’t fail” attitude are not in the best position to see why, or how, they might.

So, I reserve the right to be negative… at times, adamantly so, but not as a defeatist.  I approach each task, or project, with my guard up.  I ferret out the potential pit falls; and find ways to overcome them.  Then, with the positive assurance of one fully prepared, I forge ahead.  Of course, I usually fall flat on my face, because positive pessimism has nothing to do with good sense, ability… or God’s will?