Robert H. Pruett and I parted company on cordial terms, but for awhile it sure didn’t look as if that would be the case. I’ve been shopping a novel (current and I think final title No Word for Goodbye*), sending queries to literary agents, in hopes of cracking one of the big houses, and also pitching directly to smaller independent presses that I think would do a good job on the book. I’ve harvested lots of rejections, been ignored, occasionally encouraged, come very close three times. So far I’ve only been fooled once. That’s where Mr. Pruett comes in. “Thanks for your submission of No Word for Goodbye,” his email began. “We really like your book [Be still my heart!], but given other commitments we've already made for 2012-2013 [Oh, crap!], I can only publish under a 'guarantee' arrangement. [Uh oh. I’m pretty sure I know what that means.] “If you can guarantee the purchase/sale of 800 copies at 50% discount off the retail cover price of $15 to $16—i.e., purchase by any buyer, yourself, booksellers, other retailers, individuals, organizations, etc.—we can publish your book. [Yep. That’s what I thought it means. Brandylane Publishers is a subsidy press hiding in commercial press clothing.] “If this type arrangement is of interest to you, we can certainly talk further,” the note continued. This type arrangement was definitely not of interest to me, but we did indeed talk further. Thank heavens submission is be email now, so at least I didn’t waste paper, toner, and postage on

sending a manuscript. After giving myself a couple of days to mellow, I responded with an email allowing as how I didn’t appreciate being tricked into submitting a manuscript to a subsidy press. (I might have even called it “vanity,” but honest, I didn’t call it anything worse than that.) I figured that would be that but was surprised to receive a reply from Mr. Pruett, apologizing and stating that I was supposed to have been sent an email before submitting the manuscript explaining the ‘guarantee arrangement’ for which I was to be considered. He also defended the practice of subsidy publishing, and that’s the part I think might have general interest to many of you, because to some extent he’s right.Here’s part of my next missive to Mr. Pruett:“Subsidy has been given a very bad rep by the shoddy work of some of the biggest subsidy houses (you know the guys, VANTAGE, DORRANCE, the ones who advertise "Publisher looking for authors"). Additional, with printing and print on demand become ever less expensive, you can generally cut yourself a much better deal being your own publisher.” I concluded that, if I were to fail to find a commercial publisher or an agent for No Word for Goodbye, I would probably consider publishing it myself, using one of the excellent print on demand book packagers like CreateSpace (formerly Book Surge), the publishing arm of Amazon.com. I have in fact published a novel, Walking Wounded, with Book Surge and was completely satisfied with the results. (Well, not completely. A publishing contract with a major

EXTRA

INNINGSIn which we celebrate writers, their enablers,

and all true Yankee Doodle Dandies#33 Madison, Wisconsin July, 2012

BULLPEN BLOVIATIONMARSHALL J. COOK, EDITOR-IN-COACH

My unplanned excursion into subsidy publishing

press, followed by a movie deal, would have been nice.) “DIY is becoming more fashionable and more respected,” Mr. Pruett responded, “but generally more so for those like yourself who know what they're doing and have a ready audience. “Subsidy has certainly gotten its fair share of bad media. We've been doing our best over 25 years to change that by offering funding to promising projects that likely won't see light at a commercial press, and if they do, won't be promoted for more than 180 days or so unless they take off. “Best luck to you on your project. If we can help, let me know. “Kind regards...” Okay, if he made an honest mistake and wasn’t trying to deceive me, and if Brandylane Press does a decent job of proofreading and printing their books (not always the case with subsidy presses, alas) I’ve got no quarrel with Mr. Pruett or his publishing house. I just want to be sure writers know what they’re agreeing to and what their other options are. Personally, I’ll still stay away from subsidy publishing.NotesMr. Pruett lists himself as President of Brandylane Publishers, which has been in business since 1985 and publishes under the imprint Belle Isle Books. He also lists himself as editor/publisher of Pleasant Living magazine (same voice mail and fax numbers as for Brandylane) and co-publisher of V Magazine’s Sourcebook for Woman, a publication of 3 Dog Publishing.*The title No Word for Goodbye comes from a brilliant documentary on the Chippewa/Ojibwa nation in Wisconsin, produced and edited by Patty Loew, who is also a writer, a professor of journalism, and former public television newscaster and host of a television news magazine. The Ojibwa language literally has no word for “goodbye.”

Extra Innings #33

In which we celebrate writers, their enablers,and Hot Rod Hundley, #33 in your program,

but #1 in your heartsMadison, Wisconsin July, 2012The All-Stars: Madonna Dries Christensen,Rex Owens, Esther M. Leiper-Estabrooks, John Swift, Robert Hale, Perry StonePoets: Craig W. Steele, Bonny ConwayFilm critic: Scud Farcus Jr.Word Whisperer: Jan KentWorld’s cutest baby: Liliana Lenore CookYankee Doodle Dandy: James CagneyHead of office security: Pat DownesWeb Weavers: Celeste Anton and Emily BakerInternetters: Steve Born, Larry TobinEditor-in-Coach: Marshall J. Cook,Professor Emeritus, University of Wisconsin-Madison, Division of Continuing Studies.I publish Extra Innings monthly and distribute itfree to an open enrollment mailing list. To get onthe list, email the Coach at:mcook@dcs.wisc.eduExtra Innings comes to you through the goodgraces of the writing program at continuingstudies, University of Wisconsin-Madison, led byChristine DeSmet. Find out about workshops,courses, conferences, and critiques services at:www.dcs.wisc.edu/lsa/writingExtra Innings is a proud booster ofWrite by the LakeThe Writers InstituteThe School of the Arts at RhinelanderWeekend with your Noveland the Odyssey ProjectNo added sugar, carbs, trans-fats, or taste. Contains yourrecommended daily dose of nouns, verbs (transigent andintransigent), gourds, adjectives, adverbs and other artificialsweeteners, pronouns, antinouns, prepositions, propositions,conjunctions, contradictions, contractions, eruditions,bloviation, chiasmus, charisma, metanoia, paranoia, tracemetaphors and the occasional halfwitticism.Back issues available at:www.dcs.wisc.edu/lsa/writing/extrainnings

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Note: I ran this quote last issue, attributing it to Chesterton: "At 40, take a year off and work as a chanteuse in a roadhouse, leaning against the baby grand in your little black dress slit up to the thighs, a cigarette in your left hand, singing bittersweet ballads for lovelorn truckdrivers.” I got this response:You can't seriously think that quote sounds like G. K. Chesterton! Online at least, it's attributed to Garrison Keillor.Mary RameyCoach replies:I'm embarrassed. The quote about becoming a chanteuse in a road house was of course from the great Garrison Keillor, "Post to the Host," A Prairie Home Companion newsletter, May 17, 2012. I managed to copy the name off the wrong file (and then didn't NOTICE????) That's what I get for actually citing a source for once. Thank you so much for catching me up in this idiocy. As for the actual Chesterton quote-- who cares? It wasn't nearly as good as Keillor’s.Bogus Chesterton gets another commentI tried that advice...and got arrested for being a transsexual!! Besides, I look like hell in a little black dress slit up to the thighs! Nope...not good advice at all!!!Bob HaleJust when Coach’s ego needed bolsteringDear Marshall,This letter was filled with so many interesting stories and wit. I enjoyed each and every one. The article on Harry Crews was unbelievable. Anybody who thinks they have a bad life, just read this. They will learn you can beat the odds. You did a superb job telling us about it. Thank you so much for including my poem CYBERSPRING. Fun to come across it as I read down the letter. ... [M]y favorite part of this letter [was w]hen I read "Lily, Ruler of the Universe" tucked in there discreetly! Now that was adorable, like you!!! Bonny Conway

Who was that heroic #32?When I sent out the email link for the last issue, I included these note:“Issue 32 (already)! That's one of my favorite numbers, the jersey number of a personal hero of mine. Anybody want to guess who? (Hint: Not O.J. Simpson) Hope you enjoy the letter.”Betsy Anderson Lawson immediately answered the challenge:Could be Jim Brown...if you’re thinking football, but my guess being summer is Sandy Koufax. My favorite, however, is #8, currently playing for the (Lexington) Blue Jays. He hit for the cycle on Monday. He also pitched and played first base and short, my kind of utility player. Keep an eye out for Timmy Lawson in the years ahead.Betsy Anderson Lawson, UW-Madison ’89p.s. Congratulations on the birth of your first grandchild. She is beautiful and your world forever enriched.Others who correctly IDed my hero, Brooklyn/Los Angeles Dodger pitcher and Hall of Famer Sandy Koufax, were: Tom Mullarkey, Randi Lynn Mvros, Jack Walsh, Bob Hale, and Mary Tracy (who needed a clue-- which sport-- and hedged her bet by mentioning another great left-handed pitcher, Steve Carlton). Aside from his prowess on the mound, he is a personal hero of mine for at least three other reasons. Anybody care to venture further speculation as to why?

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COACH’S MAIL BAG

Coach’s latest idiotic mistake revealed

Ricky Nelson RedeuxMarsh:Another great issue. And thanks for including my comments on Rick Nelson and, especially, for using the photo with me and my sister. My younger sister, Susan, and I were close. She had a great sense of humor. We had many laughs together. She died last year from lung cancer, despite never having smoked. She was also a health nut, ate the right foods, exercised every day, etc. Sadly, they are the only traits I didn't share with her. And I'm still here. Life just doesn't make sense sometimes. Thanks again,Ned BurkeIt was my joy to print both, Ned. (And by golly, you DID look like Ricky Nelson!) I'm so sorry about your sister. You'll carry her in your heart always, I know. No, there's no justice on this earth. And all us compulsive exercisers, engaging in what Garrison Keillor refers to as our "gerbil activity" and eating our true bark and prunes, are going to wind up in the hospitals, dying of nothing, and there it is.

LETTER OF THE MONTH

Writing as redemptionCoach,I have a blog that people view and never comment on, and I wonder why. So, I want to comment on your article: "Portrait of the writer as a young train wreck" in the June 2012 issue. The words that grabbed my consciousness and shook it around were: "They all found their redemption through words . . ." I had a very normal, middle class childhood in a small Hoosier town - nothing traumatic, nothing exciting. I've also had a fairly normal adulthood surviving a few obstacles, backpedaling, and sudden turns of events. Although I've led a typical life, I feel that I also have found redemption through words. It was through words that I bounced back after being laid off at 58 deciding to chase after my dream of finishing and publishing my novel. The journey isn't over but I can almost touch my debut novel, and from this experience I am a different person.Rex OwenI'm really glad you wrote this. If I ever do get my book on writers written, I want to make sure I stress that you don't need to have been completely mangled in your youth or otherwise abused to be a writer-- and I suspect writing is to some extent a sort of redemption for everyone who does it. Writing is certainly a bold statement (no matter how scared we are when we make it) that life is important enough to take the time to write about, and that, brother writer, is hope talking. As to why nobody is responding to your blog, I don’t think many folks are responding to anybody’s blogs. Am I wrong, E.I.ers?

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MEANDERING WITH MADONNAMADONNA DRIES CHRISTENSEN

Where faeries danced Where are the fairies?Where can we find them?We've seen the fairy rings,They leave behind them. When they've danced all night,Where do they go?Lark, in the sky above,Say, do you know? Sign in a tea garden, Pretoria, South Africa

The Scots-Irish who long ago settled a rugged area of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Patrick County, Virginia, left a legacy of tales about fairies, Druids, and other spirits. William Butler Yeats described faith in fairies as "sent by Providence." He wrote, "Irish fairies divide themselves into two great classes: the sociable and the solitary. The first are, in the main, kindly, and the second full of uncharitableness." Yeats referred to solitary fairies as ganconer, clurican, banshee, lepraucaun, far darrig, dullahan, leanhaun shee, and far gorta. The chiefs among these groups desire a beautiful, mortal wife, so humans must guard their young, pretty daughters against theft. The children of these unions are recognizable by their irresistible beauty, their gift of song, and their cleverness, but they're also reckless, extravagant, and wild. Solitary fairies might snatch a baby, leaving a changeling in its place. Changelings are ill-behaved, dull, unattractive creatures. Humans can ward off child theft by placing iron nails in the cradle. In his poem, The Stolen Child, Yeats wrote: "Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild. With a faery, hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand." Solitary fairies are probably best known in regard to fairy rings, described as circular tracks in the grass, trampled by tiny feet. It's safe for humans to walk around a fairy ring, but stepping inside will bring bad luck, even death.

Fairy crosses: crystallized tears?

Sociable fairies are sheoques and merrows. Legend says they roamed the foothills of the Blue Ridge during the time of Christ. One morning they were dancing around a cool spring, playing with naiads and wood nymphs. Suddenly the gaiety was broken when an elfin stranger from a faraway land stepped into their midst. His message was that Christ had been crucified. As the fairies wept, their tears flooded the ground around the spring and the adjacent valley. The melancholy fairies gradually left their home. In time, the tears they’d shed crystallized into untold numbers of small stones shaped like crosses. The scientific explanation for the six-sided crosses is dull by comparison with the legend. Russet in color and ranging in size from one-quarter inch to two inches, they are composed of silica, iron and aluminum, formed as the earth's crust heated and then cooled during the formation of the mountains. Because the staurolite crystals are harder than surrounding materials, they erode slower and rise to the surface retaining their original shape. Most of the stones are shaped like Roman or St. Andrew's crosses. The Maltese cross is rare, and the most desired by collectors. Staurolite is also found in Switzerland and in the mountains of North Carolina, but only in this Virginia region are they found in such abundance and in the cross-like formation. There, Fairy Stone Park casts an enchanting spell on visitors by perpetrating the legend of the crosses created by fairies' tears. The park sprang to life in 1936. Junius B. Fishburn, publisher of the Roanoke Times, donated 4,868 acres for use as one of Virginia's six state parks, developed by the government's Civilian Conservation Corp. The fairy stones are plentiful enough that visitors are allowed to take a few for personal use, but commercial digging is not permitted.

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Some people regard the crosses with superstitious awe, believing that they protect against accidents, illness, witchcraft, or any form of bad luck. The crosses are usually carried on one's person, but are also popular as jewelry. Among those said to have carried fairy stones are Theodore Roosevelt, Woodrow Wilson, Charles Lindbergh, Thomas Edison, and officers and soldiers serving in wars. In John Fox Jr.'s book, Trail of the Lonesome Pine, a man gives his sweetheart one of the crosses, and good luck follows them. In a collection called Fairy Poems, Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote: "Have you seen any fairies lately? I asked the question of a little girl not long ago. 'Huh! There's no such thing as fairies,' she replied." Wilder was surprised, for she believed that fairies are all around us, and that they appear to those with seeing eyes. If you have not seen them, she added, you have at least seen their work. If you visit Fairy Stone Park, open your eyes to the possibility of magic. Select a few stones for yourself and your friends. Pass them out to children to tuck into a pocket. Perhaps the Tooth Fairy will leave one under a child’s pillow. Share the legend and this rhyme: May the charms of the fairy stone make you blessed,Through the days of labor and nights of rest,Wherever you stay, wherever you go,May the beautiful flowers of the good fairies grow.author unknown

Become enshrined in the Little Free Library of Felton PlaceAuthor Hall of FameFrom time to time I’ve written about the Little Free Library Mrs. Coach and I maintain in our front yard. It has given us great joy, and we’ve met lots of “patrons” over the months. We’ve never had a problem keeping it stocked with books; folks have been so generous, there’s often no room for the ones we select for the magic box. Now I’m asking all the book authors among you to become a part of this wondrous little miracle. Send us a copy of your published book, inscribed “to the Little Free Library of Felton Place,” and sign and date it. We’ll make sure it finds a good home, and you will join the list of members our Author Hall of Fame, which will run in this newsletter and will be posted in the library itself. We stock fiction and non-fiction, children’s, YA, and adult. Send your treasure to:The Little Free Library of Felton Place4337 Felton PlaceMadison, WI 53705and visit the LFL website at:www.littlefreelibrary.orgLittle Free Libraries are now in 40 states and 20 countries!

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If you’re not ready for an epic, write an epitaph or epigram, But first let’s define terms. The three words start with the same letters: e-p-i, but other differences are great. Epics are long,serious explorations of a country’s heroes, mores, and beliefs. An epitaph, at least the comic kind, is brief and pokes fun at pretensions. Serious messages may adorn tombstones, but funny ones are livelier. Such an epitaph is really a specialized form of epigram; a short, witty comment on human foibles and especially those of the dear-departed. Such messages are not meant to be carved in stone but instead satirize the living. However, humor may mark a grave, and the following reputedly appears in Scotland:Here lies Martin Elginbrodde.Hae mercy o’ my soul, Lord God,As I wad were I Lord GodAnd ye were Martin Elginbrodde. Plato declared, via Matthew Prior’s translation:Venus, take my votive glassSince I am not what I was.What from this day I shall be,Venus, let me never see! A modern example comes from VANITY FAIR, which requested authors to supply an epitaph about themselves:Here lies the Body ofMary Wilson Preston.She moved from New YorkTo relieve the congestion. In college I penned the following for my Partner in Rhyme, Richard McCann-- now widely published and highly distinguished. R.I.P—R.J.MHis crimes were legionOf proverbs inverted;Many silver liningsMost perverted.Oh, you who come after,Look to your sentiments,For here lies a poet;--A Poet in Residence!

In contrast, this serious epitaph of mine is suitable for a mass grave:WORDS FOR EVERY WARFor love of God and Country,For honored King or Queen,So much red blood has been shed

To keep each homeland green! Epitaph or epigram, compression, clarity, and polish must be present. Samuel T. Coleridge declared:What’s in an Epigram? A dwarfish whole;Its body brevity, and wit its soul. These qualities satirist Alexander Pope captured in lines for a collar worn by the Prince ofWales’ pooch:I am His Highness’ dog at Kew;Pray Sir, tell me, whose dog are you? In THE HOLLOW REED, Mary J.J. Wrinn had students create imaginary epitaphs and provides this example by Mary Grant:R.I.P. HARRIET AMES: Born 1834, Died 1933She made death wait at the garden gate:--As usual, Miss Ames was late. Serious epitaphs are pious. Humorous ones skewer frailties with innuendoes and double meanings. Short verse can make a broad statement. If the word ‘tod’ means grave, the following British folk-rhyme refers to everyone, though ‘tod’ is--rather curiously--also a weight measure for wool!THE TOD’S HOLENow be ye lords or commonersYe needn’t laugh nor sneer.For ye’ll all be in the tod’s holeIn less than a hunner year! Cross-currents of humor lap in many directions. Explore them and try writing some yourself, understanding the challenge to mental flexibility. What would capture your life in capsule form? What witticisms can you offer about your end or that of others? More broadly, skewer humanity in general. Quite frankly, don’t we deserve it?CORRECTIONI made an edit in Esther’s column last month that altered its meaning. My apologies to all. My version read: “The library sets its own books out for sale-- but not donated books. These they brand in large black letters-- “DISCARDED.” Esther’s original version read: "The library stamped its own culled books ‘Discarded’ and simply put other donations up for sale unmarked; (in fact donations are far larger than the ones culled from their shelves.)"

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FOR THE LOVE OF WORDSESTHER M. LEIPER-ESTABROOKS

Epitaphs and epigrams

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Punishmentthanks to Larry Tobin

1. ARBITRATOR: A cook that leaves Arby’s to work at McDonalds

2. AVOIDABLE: What a bullfighter tries to do

3. BERNADETTE: The act of torching a mortgage

4. BURGLARIZE: What a crook sees with

5. CONTROL: A short, ugly inmate

6. COUNTERFEITERS: Workers who put together kitchen cabinets

7. ECLIPSE: What an English barber does for a living

8. EYEDROPPER: A clumsy ophthalmologist

9. HEROES: What a guy in a boat does

10. LEFTBANK: What the robber did when his bag was full of money 11. MISTY: How golfers create divots

12. PARADOX: Two physicians

13. PARASITES: What you see from the top of the Eiffel Tower 14. PHARMACIST: A helper on the farm

15. POLARIZE: What penguins see with

16. PRIMATE: Removing your spouse from in front of the TV 17. RELIEF: What trees do in the spring

18. RUBBERNECK: What you do to relax your wife

19. SELFISH: What the owner of a seafood store does

20. SUDAFED: Brought litigation against a government official

Edward R Murrow encouraged a rock and roll disk jockey! He did, albeit with a shrug and a chuckle. “I listened to you last night,” the great man said.” You’re quite good at what you’re doing. Of course, it’s not my cup of tea, but still, doing what you’re doing, you’re doing it very well!” The conversation was taking place at the CBS television booth at the Republican Convention in Chicago in 1960. Richard Nixon would go against John F. Kennedy. Murrow was on hand to offer commentary. His days at CBS were numbered. Thus, he had little work to do during that convention. When Kennedy beat Nixon, Murrow was hired to head the US Information Agency. But for the moment, Murrow was showing this newly minted WLS disk jockey the CBS facilities wedged between steel beam rafters at the Chicago Stock Yards Amphitheater. I had met Murrow in the summer of 1957, while on my summer job as assistant passenger agent for the Great Northern Railway in Glacier Park, Montana. He was on a fishing trip, with the head of the Park Service rangers as his guide. Murrow had been tipped off at the front desk that “The fellow manning the Great Northern desk just graduated from the University of Wisconsin majoring in radio and television.” Ever the nice guy, Murrow stuck his head into the railroad office and said, “Hale, I’m Ed Murrow. Just learned you graduated from Wisconsin’s radio and TV department. Great school. Hale, I fish every afternoon with the head ranger, but I hit the bar at 5, and I don’t like drinking alone. You free by any chance around that time?” Oh, yeah!!!! I’d be free “around that time.” So, for the next four afternoons, Edward R. Murrow strolled by the railroad office, popped his head in, and said, “Hale, bar’s open.” As we strolled across the lobby of the Glacier Park Hotel, Murrow rested on hand on this

graduate’s shoulder. I could feel the heads turning! I think I also felt mine swelling a bit! Later, I answered the question more than a dozen times, “How do you know Edward R. Murrow?” “Well, we radio and TV types just sort of know each other,” I quipped. Railroading, while helping pay some college bills, was not where I was headed. A career in radio and TV was my goal, and it had been since 4th grade, when our class attended a live broadcast of a quiz show. From that moment on my career path was set; from that moment on I never deviated from my goal – to be on the air! And now, with college behind me, Edward R Murrow next to me, and an uncertain future in front of me, I felt I was as ready as I’d ever be. So there we were, Murrow and me, sipping a cold one…or two. Three, maybe! “Take the first thing that comes along, even if it’s rock and roll. Be good at it, and keep looking around. But whatever it is, give it your best shot. A reputation is as good as talent any day…sometimes better!” – Murrow wasn’t alone in his encouragement. Cedric Adams, news commentator from WCCO, Minneapolis was also visiting the park, having planned to link up with Murrow for a few days of trout fishing. Someone in the hotel office thought it would be a great idea to conduct the first-ever Miss Glacier Park contest with Murrow and Adams as judges; I would MC. It took only a beer or two to convince the three of us it would be a “fun time to be had by all.” If we only knew… The contest was promoted for two days and then conducted on the hotel’s back lawn with a full house of guests for an audience. Six young ladies from various hotel departments competed. Yes, there was a swimsuit contest, but because not all the ladies came to Montana with swimsuits it was a “short-short contest”!

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RANK, AND FILEROBERT HALE“Good night... and good luck”

A date with Edward R. Murrow, Miss Glacier Park, and destiny

I did the interviewing of the contestants, asking pointless questions that evoked equally pointless answers. Murrow and Adams had, in preparation for this emotionally charged event, rehearsed in the hotel bar. After a few strolls across the platform and a couple of meaningless questions, Murrow and Adams handed me the slip of paper with the winner’s name. She was on the office staff assigned to filing bills and registrations forms. A lovely lady, but with a heavy affection for booze! Of course, that flaw was never revealed to the judges – even by me, who had seen this lady lose a night at “Dusty’s,” the local watering hole for riders, not horses! The lucky lady won a prized Glacier Park blanket, some jewelry, a book on the park’s history, and assorted glitz from the gift shop. Murrow, Adams and the MC seemed pleased with the smoothness of the event; the hotel management was pleased; the young lady was just “beside herself” with her newly found fame and appreciation of her beauty. What none of us counted on was her own style of celebration. The following morning the First (and only-- ever!) Miss Glacier Park failed to show up for work! Where was she? “Oh, she and Jimmy, the local horse wrangler took off last night in his truck!” When “Miss Glacier Park” returned from her private celebration with Jimmy the wrangler, I presented her with an additional prize from the Glacier Park Hotel Company – her ticket home on the afternoon Western Star! She was history; she was toast; she was to be “gone and forgotten,” as the General Manager termed it. The next morning, our Glacier beauty queen was reportedly crying as she packed her belongings. Few, if any employees talked to her. Few, if any, had sympathy for the beauty queen who celebrated with a cowboy. “Makes us all look like sluts,” was the strongest response from one waitress. “Can’t wait for that train to come in…she’s an embarrassment.” “The judges sure have ‘good’ taste.’” I found Murrow and Adams having a coffee on the hotel porch. Adams greeted me with a smile and said, “Well, guys, we sure know how to pick ‘em, don’t we?”

“What do you mean, ‘we’ Cedric?” I asked. “I was the emcee. You guys who have been around the world were the ones who saw an international beauty! I merely reported your conclusions, guys. Don’t bring me into your poor judgment.” We roared-- and concluded that we’d made Glacier Park history that night. Said Murrow: “Men, I have the feeling we’ve witnessed the first and last Miss Glacier Park contest. A few years later, in 1960, while I chatted with Murrow at the Republican convention, he asked, “Did you ever meet up with Miss Glacier Park again?” “No, but I was sure waiting to see her on Person-To-Person.” “Yeah…maybe on my last day at CBS!” Miss Glacier Park…Goodnight, and good luck!

THE WORD WHISPERERJAN KENT

Where are you out of?Remember the word from – a nice little four-letter preposition? You used to be from somewhere: from Chicago, from Tennessee, from Istanbul. Not any more. Now you’re out of Tallahassee, Thailand, Transylvania. Poor old from – used to be popular. Not anymore.Coach’s note: Jan Kent is out of this world.

OUR GLORIOUS NATIVE TONGUEWhen Donald Trump joined Mitt Romney at a campaign appearance recently, columnist George Will referred to The Donald as “a bloviating ignoramus.”Advertisements for BP gasoline urge us to buy their product “so you can go a little farther between fill ups.” Ford Motors says their cars will enable us to “Go further.” So, who’s right? (About the spelling, not the mileage claims.)From the Department of Redundancy Department:Kellogg’s Mini-Wheats Little BitesSpotted by our own Meandering Madonna on the AOL news feed: “When a customer put their carry-on bag under the seat in front of them, they never expected this to happen to it.”Campaign slogan for John Herndon, running for County Commissioner in Fremont County, Colorado: “Clinging to our Guns and Bibles.”Coach

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Living alone often consists of days, even weeks, going by without any significant news to pass along. Then comes the afternoon that makes all the previous boring moments worthwhile. This time, that day would come on the fourth Thursday of May. I was surprised when an old friend, Rick, stood pounding at my door around 5:00 p.m.. Rick’s visiting day is, and always has been, the second Thursday each month. He arrives at noon, give or take an hour. Departure comes after filling his glass with ice and Spring water (some people refer to it as vodka) the third time. This arrangement came to pass when Rick retired. With him getting paid on the second Wednesday, money abounds for gas and spirits to make the 40-odd mile round trip from Washburn to Purdy. “It’s not the 2nd Thursday, Buddy,” I voiced my surprise.” “I come to ask a question. A favor and a question really.” “As long as it’s not dishonest or immoral-- well not immoral anyway.” A few moments of silence passed while Rick set the Styrofoam cup of cold coffee on my desk. (He always brings me cold coffee.) Then he retrieved the tuna can converted to his personal ashtray, rolled the old manual wheelchair to his favorite spot in the middle of the living room and asked,” Can I use your phone? “Anytime. It’s there by the TV.” My pointing sent his eyes in the right direction. “Went to see Kathy.” There was a sheepish grin twisted with repressed anger over Kathy moving to Kansas Christmas before last. “How is she?” “I forgot to ask her a couple questions,” he confessed, ignoring my question. “The phone is there by the TV. You can use it anytime,” I answered, ignoring his ignoring me. A couple drags off his cigarette and a sip of Spring water gave him strength for the effort of rolling the old chair toward the television where my cell phone waited. Another sip brought the power of concentration. The instrument rose to his face, and he dialed. Then redialed.

“Does your phone work? It’s not ringing. I don’t even hear a dial tone. “Phone works fine, Buddy. You’re dialing the TV remote.” “Damn! I’m glad she didn’t answer. I just wanted to talk to her. I didn’t want to see her.” Right then a fact of life struck me: Significant time might pass in long uneventful weeks but then comes the moment that makes it worth the wait. Bless you and yoursPaw Joe

E.I. celebrates a life well-lived: our friend Jim Packard, the voice of Wisconsin Public Radio

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MUSINGS FROM MISSOURIPERRY ‘PAW JOE’ STONE

A fact of life

Until December of 2011 I knew absolutely nothing about how to create and build a website. Today I am the proud owner of www.rexowens.us and would like to share my journey from absolute ignorance to maintaining a website and a blog. I am by no means an expert. I don’t have an IT background, and daily I stumble across the internet on gmail, linkedin, facebook and other favorite sites like TED. The ability to learn what I needed to create, build, and own a website appeared to me to be like climbing Mt. Rainier – doable but daunting. To undertake this task I decided to use the age-old technique of the 4 W’s – Who, What, Where, and Why followed by the H – how? I first asked – why should I? Do I NEED to have a website? I struggled with this question for months, prolonging the agony of beginning the remaining steps. In my research I read an article that suggested that many authors are reluctant to have a website because they don’t want to promote themselves but do want to develop a readership. Authors and readers are, after all, symbiotic. The article suggested the way out of this conundrum was to create a website for your book. It becomes the book’s website – not the author’s. That did the trick for me. The article also suggested that authors planning a website visit the sites of their own favorite contemporary writers. It was painfully clear when I checked out my favorite author sites that professionals created and maintained the sites. However, the authors did post their own blog’s because it’s an excellent platform to develop a relationship with readers. Thus the question of blogging raised its’ ugly head.

I have written previously in Extra Innings that, in my opinion, a great deal of blogging is from self-absorbed individuals seeking personal recognition or shameless self-promotion not seeking or even interested in establishing a relationship with readers. I still have that opinion. Not wanting to join their camp, I continued to read to understand the purpose of blogging and a rational argument for why I should devote any time for blogging. Again research provided a perspective and approach to blogging that I could accept. The suggestion was to blog about the book and your writing process in completing the book. The blog wouldn’t be about me but about my book and writing – which made sense. I also decided from the outset to limit how often I’d blog. Initially I wrote a blog once a week. However, I wasn’t getting any comments, so I decided to blog twice a month. For me that is a good fit. The other lesson in creating a website is that the learning curve is continuous. I’ve changed formats several times, my publisher decided to provide a “header” to make my DYI site more professional, and recently I’ve added a professional head shot. In my August column, the saga will continue with how I chose a host and my domain name. In September you can ride with me down the whitewater rapids of building a website.

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PAYERS, PREYERS, & PRETENDERSREX OWENS

Creating your author’s website: Part 1: the decision

FIRST PERSON SINGULARNORMA J. SUNDBERG

John Philip Sousa: the sounds of the 4thI haven't seen a lot of parades through the years, but the music lingers. My mother told that she remembers going into Cleveland from her home in Perry, Ohio to see John Philip Sousa's band. He performed at the Great Lakes Exposition held on the shores of Lake Erie. This was before the stadium was built. When Sousa came into the country, his name was ‘SO’; he felt it too short, so he added USA to it, Thus, Sousa! I remember sparklers from going to my other grandmother's in Thompson, Ohio. We kids were anxious for it to get dark so we could light our sparklers. There were years when my uncles set up a series of fireworks for the family to enjoy. As a young mother raising her brood, I'd hear band music on our local radio station, and I'd call my grandmother to tell her they were playing John Philip Sousa music so she could share in the joy of the rousing, patriotic music. In her aging years, she used a wheelchair to get around. Her piano was in a pantry off the kitchen, the only place it fit in their small apartment. One day she got out of bed and into her wheel chair, wheeled to the piano, opened the cover, and played The Stars and Stripes Forever, then closed the cover, wheeled back to the bedroom, and got back into bed. In recent years, I've just sat in front of the TV and watched the music and performers. A favorite is the Boston Pops. One year for my birthday my kids got tickets to see the Boston Pops at our Civic Center. A great Birthday. The fireworks from Boston and other places on TV are pretty spectacular, so I enjoy without getting into crowds and trying to shuffle through, and avoiding the noise and mosquitoes. I believe it's not so much the memories of fireworks or parades but the music, the flag waving, the fervor we feel when we hear a a band playing those well-known songs of patriotism. God Bless the brave men and women who offer their lives to fight for this great country. God Bless America!

FIRST PERSON SINGULARJOHN SWIFT

A bittersweet visit to Amnicon FallsShooting over shelves of granite and hurtling down walls of sandstone, the Amnicon River is split by an island where a bow-string bridge, one of the five remaining in the country (and it’s father, Charles Horton, had such high hopes for his creation) connects the ushers, drinking beer in the parking lot, to the wedding couple, who have ventured out on the damp and slippery granite, high above the falls for perhaps their last wedding picture. Down below them, five teenagers, one in a bikini and slightly pregnant, frolic in the cooling waters. On a splintery bench just outside the misty reach of the falls, an elderly couple, dressed in cheap matching shirts, sit far apart from each other, trying to summon the memories from when they, perhaps, sat out on those rocks above the falls for their own wedding picture. Two Scandahoovian dogs, Ole and Lena,as unlike each other as it’s possible to be, scamper along the pine needle strewn paths, laced with roots set there to snare the hiker with her head in the stars. A married couple sits on the side of the calmer waters above the falls, each lost inprivate thoughts, their two young children playing in the water, oblivious to the patiently waiting downstream disaster. It is getting to be late in the afternoon and the local chapter of the “Save Our Falls” volunteers is closing their lemonade stand for the day, a Saturday afternoon on the Island on the Le Grand Jatte, Sunday having already been taken.

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...of a bad film.Snow White and the Huntsman My wife and I dropped baby Lily off at my parent’s house recently with the intention of seeing a movie - any movie. We'd been out of the house together a total of three times in the last six weeks, so we weren't too particular. Our choices were MIB III, seeing Avengers for the second time, or Snow White and the Huntsman. I blame the fact that I'd had only four hours of sleep a night for the last six weeks on our decision to go with... Snow White. I thoroughly got what I deserved. Christin Stewart wasn't awful, but she really only had about four lines in the entire film. Most of the time the audience is treated to seeing her reactions to what's going on around her: Ms. White reacts in terror to her cellmate's fate; Ms. White watches helplessly as others fight to defend her; Ms White sets her jaw as she leads her forces into battle. Okay, she does have an 'inspiring' soliloquy where she rallies the troops (Christin Stewart is no Winston Churchill, and neither were the script writers), but for the most part she's scenery. Charlize Theron doesn't help, going over the top with every scene, and Chris Helmsworth left my wife wishing he were 'more like Thor.’ It wasn't terrible. Parts were entertaining and harkened back to classic faerie tales (including actual faeries - possibly the best part of the film). But man, I started to cringe every time someone opened his or her mouth to deliver the next speech. I blame the script. No, I blame myself, for I chose to watch. This is the sort of film I would highly recommend if it happens to be on cable and you are stuck at home giving a bottle to a newborn on a Saturday afternoon I am only mildly disappointed in myself for seeing this in the theater as it was a matinee and I paid half price. (Yes, apart from being caustic in my poorly expressed opinions, I am also an unrepentant tightwad.)

The divine Lily, who wants you to know that she does sleep occasionally.

A Night of Mario Van PeeblesAs a new dad, I have been spending more time watching television between the hours of 1 and 5 a.m. than I have since... well, ever. My infant daughter hardly wakes for her three feedings/diaper changes during my shift, and I'm left holding the bottle and staring at the screen (which is muted) in the dark. Last night was a rare treat - a Mario Van Peebles double feature. This event was not planned either by myself or the networks who aired an old episode of the Outer Limits (staring Mario) and the early 80’s film Exterminator II (in which Peebles plays a well-muscled villain who leads an evil street gang that leaves a big ‘X’ on all their victims. This type of fortune cannot occur through the planning of executive bigwigs but rather is the perfect concordance of luck, sleep deprivation, and the fact that Mr. Van Peebles had to pay the bills somehow at both ends of his career. Now, my knowledge of the plot of either of these delicacies is going to be very limited since the volume was muted and for some reason no one thought either of these gems was worth closed captioning. Exploring the Outer Limits of MarioThis Outer Limits episode was the 90’s remake, not the black and white original (although I have the option of viewing that every night as well). I learned through Google that this was titled “Bodies of Evidence” and first aired in June of 1997. Jennifer Beals costars as a lawyer charged with defending Peebles, who is accused of murdering three of his subordinates while serving

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THE SLEEP-DEPRIVED FILM CRITICJEREMIAH COOKASK SCUD FARCUS, JR.

A BAD REVIEW

on the space station Meridian. Peebles was already a bit past his prime at this point, and the contrast between old 90’s Peebles and early 80’s Peebles had me wondering at first if they could really be the same guy (thanks again Google). Anyhoo, I really dig the 90’s Outer Limits. There’s always a bit of a mystery to unravel, even if it’s ineptly presented (more often than not), and I’m a sucker for all things fantasy and sci-fi. The central tension throughout the trial (and unfolding of events aboard the Meridian in reverse) is whether or not Peebles was driven crazy by ‘space psychosis’ (I’m going to go out on a limb and guess this is not a real disease) and killed the crew himself, or if, in fact, he is telling the truth when he states that a shape-shifting alien with psychic abilities tricked them all into killing themselves. I’m going to go ahead and spoil everything for you because, unless you are an insomniac who just had their cable shut off, you are never, ever going to see this episode. If you bet on shape-shifting alien being the whodunit, you win a kewpie doll. This is not revealed until after Peebles is exonerated of all crimes but then committed to a mental institution for his insistence on the existence of aliens when the alien in question shows up at his cell to give him the raspberry as he’s being taken away in a straight jacket.Did we really need anotherExterminator movie?The second film (the silent version on my TV) got all of one and a half stars in the IMDb database (and worthy of every half-star in my opinion) and stars John Eastland (never heard of him, not going to Google him) as a garbage man or possibly an out-of-work steel welder who confronts a New York drug lord (Peebles).

Peebles has one expression throughout the film, which I interpreted as wide-eyed and crazed contempt for anyone watching this film. Eastland is a blue collar type who’s had enough and welds a bulldozer blade and several machine guns onto a garbage truck to turn a street gang into an instant barbecue. If I am any judge of a film from which I never heard a single syllable of dialogue, the writers drew heavily from Taxi Driver and Mad Max. De Nero and Gibson could only wish for the body count Eastland achieves with grit, a little elbow grease, and lots and lots of flamethrowers and bazookas (Another spoiler ahead, so please avert your eyes if you are masochistic enough to still want to view this film in its entirety.) Peebles finally gets his wide-eyed come-uppance in the form of a booby-trapped bag of stolen loot that explodes and sets him aflame, and then he gets impaled on a steel girder. My daughter was actually asleep for the thrilling climax, but even sleep deprived as I was, I couldn’t tear myself away. I’m told this phase in a baby’s development is over quickly. I can only assume that persons with experience are also victims of ‘baby psychosis’ – a condition that causes parents to forget what having a newborn was actually like for the sake of duping them into furthering their own gene pool with additional progeny after the first. Now if you will excuse me, I need to change into a shirt that has no spit-up on it and go to work.

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UNDERSTANDINGCRAIG W. STEELE Once,I studied flower structureto understandflowering. Then,I studied human anatomyto understandpeople. Later,I studied literatureto understandwriting. Now,I understandthe limits ofunderstanding.

Poet’s note: This one was published in a slightly different version titled “Understanding Limits” in Caduceus, Issue 9 (Winter 2011). For the readership of Extra Innings, I added a new stanza (S3) and revised the first stanza a bit (proving the adage no poem is ever really finished, not even after it’s published). And yes, the poem is autobiographical. I’m breaking my own rule of waiting a year to offer a poem for republication, but in this case, I think few, if any, E.I. readers would have seen it. Caduceus is published by Yale Medical College and distributed to the physicians, staff and students of the college, placed in their patient/family waiting areas, and may have a small distribution elsewhere at Yale University and in New Haven. So it’s a pretty local thing, in my understanding.Craig W. Steele is a writer and university biologist whose creative musings occur in the urban countryside of northwestern Pennsylvania. Besides Extra Innings, his poetry has appeared recently or is forthcoming in the Aurorean, Sketchbook, Astropoetica, Stone Path Review, Popular Astronomy, The Lyric, The Edge Magazine and elsewhere.

THE BLUE HERONBONNY CONWAY

The recreation centerborders a stocked pondwhere geese loiter a blue heronperches on the goal postof the empty soccer fielddreaming of breakfast one eye closedin a half-nap reverieno coaches to interferewith shrill calls a flash of silverripples the lake waterswhistling the heron awake the collector of fishdashes across the fieldscoring a goalinside the pond.

THE ED PAHNKE PUN

Materialistic“Sue should be thrilled with this Subaru Forester for her birthday present,” Marty Wing, her brawny husband, said to his pal Claude Hopper. Claude agreed. “Wrapping it up in that huge roll of blue fleece is a great idea, with her so big into sewing that stuff into blankets and such.” Sue was due home shortly. As the two men waited for her to arrive, the minutes dragged by, as they do when a person is too excited to wait. Finally the door swung open, and Sue walked in. “Surprise,” the two men yelled. Each grabbed one of her hands and guided her to the back of the house, where the fleecy Forester waited outside. Sue pulled in her breath and said, “What beautiful blue fleece!” She ignored the car. “Honey,” Marty said, “the car is the present. How do you like it?” Sue seemed not to hear Marty while she gazed at and caressed the fleece. Claude shook his head sadly. “It appears she can’t see the Forester for the fleece,” he said.

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