Spitzenpopper: May 2011

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis: On Fairy Stories

The role of myth to know and recognize truth. A kind of story that resonates the soul even when poorly told — and that is myth!

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Mother's Day: Remembering Mom

Moms are usually not appreciated enough. It's hard to be a mom, especially when your kids are being a pain in the butt. I'm the oldest of ten kids and was a particularly exciting experience because while I was still in the womb and mom and dad were stationed in Hawaii, the Japanese attacked.

Mom and I (inside) were evacuated. Mom used to tell me stories about seeing dad on the deck of the cruiser Detroit waving to her as they were escorted back to the mainland. Then she was pretty much alone in San Francisco, not knowing anyone. I came along on the day of the Battle of Midway and then mom had me to contend with and she'd never taken care of a baby before. I was also a little bit premature. She said I was a blue baby, whatever that means. Mom and I got on well enough. The walls of the apartment must have been very very thin because everyone in the apartment referred to mom as "tinkle darling" from what she would say to me trying to get me potty trained.

As I grew up she was always supportive of my interests. She encouraged my drawing and art and she encouraged my writing. She didn't even get too angry at me when Tom (my younger brother next in line) and I decided to make a death ray and focused it on the backyard through the window. We'd wound a coil of wire from my papers (I had a paper route delivering the Cleveland Press) and we put the ends of the wire in one of these screw in sockets in a floor lamp. As the great scientist I directed my minion, Tom, to turn on the light while I stood safely back by the door. Tom, ever fearless, did that and the wire glowed red and I swear the bedroom lights dimmed, and then the wire melted and glowing drops of metal dropped down onto the hard wood floors. They etched little wiggly black groves in the floor. It makes me wonder if they are still there in that Cleveland Heights house?

Dad wasn't so understanding and gave me hell saying I might have burned the house down and took me down to the basement to see the fusebox which was a really primitive affair because the house was so old.

Mom didn't like my interest in pulp science fiction and she always tried to improve my reading putting me onto many of the great authors that still form a part of my literary landscape today. Mom died in December of 2002, but I still miss her. She was always my biggest fan and always enjoyed listening to my stories. She was a remarkable woman and you can find out more about her at my sister Mary's blog. SEE HERE