tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13569063367249829322024-03-27T11:39:50.127-07:00McBride's Musings About Writing and Other StuffPhilip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.comBlogger176125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-51512526249902538312024-03-19T05:30:00.000-07:002024-03-19T05:35:49.996-07:00Bluebonnets, Crawfish, and Changing Churches<div style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I’ve
not added a blog post for several months. In fact, I only wrote one blog post
last year. Not that my life has gotten any more dull, but 2023 brought an unexpected
curve ball that almost knocked me out of my writer’s box. Since I became a
blogger in 2014, I’ve written nearly 200 blog posts, touching on lots of
things: writing novels, our travels, family including the births of grandkids
and the deaths of both parents, my volunteer activities as a retired guy. As a
past high school principal, I wrote of my horror regarding school shootings and
my support for banning assault rifles. I probably lost a few readers with that
post. Intentionally, with that one
exception, I’ve avoided politics and religion, because no one wins those
debates. So, it’s not surprising I’ve not written any posts about my church,
which is where that curve ball came right at me by surprise a year ago.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I’m
a lifelong Methodist. Mama was a Methodist Church organist for over fifty
years. Pop was a devout and active Methodist. Nita was raised Methodist. We
married in her childhood Methodist Church. But we also were teenagers of the
rebellious ‘60’s, and were a childless young married couple in the ’70’s. For a
decade, we didn’t go to church. Then came two sons and a move to a small town
where we decided we did not want our kids to be ‘unchurched.’ We joined the
First United Methodist Church of Lockhart, and for forty years were active
members. It’d take a long paragraph to list all our roles in the church during
those four decades, and the church’s importance to our lives. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">But
our membership and commitment ended in mid-September 2023 when during a Sunday
afternoon meeting our congregation voted overwhelmingly to leave the ‘United’
Methodist denomination and attach to a new ‘Global’ denomination. There was a six-month ‘discernment’ period in
which folks took sides. There were several meetings to delve into the pros and
cons of staying ‘united’ or going ‘global.’ Our side lost, causing Nita and me
to make another tough decision about our own membership in the new ‘global’
congregation. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">We
and others who voted to remain a United Methodist church had to decide whether
our many wonderful friendships and our long commitment to this congregation, or
our personal theological beliefs, were more important to our spiritual
well-being.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">If
you don’t know, the key issue was an old issue in which the greater United
Methodist denomination was about to reverse its position on homosexuals not
being allowed to marry in United Methodist sanctuaries and end the prohibition
on homosexuals becoming ordained United Methodist pastors. Nita and I needed no
convincing that we stand with the queer community in this one. To us, inclusiveness,
not guard rails, reflect Jesus’s teachings. Unsurprisingly, but sadly to us, it
turned out 70% of our local congregation disagreed and voted to abandon the
United Methodists for the much more restrictive new Global denomination.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">The
next day, we resigned our church membership of forty years and began visiting
United Methodist Churches which had not voted to leave the denomination. After six months and visiting several
churches, we have settled in at Manchaca United Methodist Church in far south
Austin, a thirty minute country drive from home, instead of our old one-mile
drive. We are making new friends. Our hearts are joyous to be in the midst of
other Methodists who share our stance on queer inclusiveness as scripturally
sound and personally agreeable. We are pleased to have come out the end of a
year-long dimly lit tunnel, to find we are in the light again. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Nita
and I are now experiencing that we are not too old or too set in our habits to
make a big adjustment supporting our belief that homosexuality is not God’s
little boo-boo, a belief that we had long held in quiet suspension, but had not
forgotten.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">2024
is our new ‘start over.’ Still, we both
are striving to maintain our friendships with those who continue to worship in
our ‘old’ congregation. It’s working, because Christians really can ‘love the
socks off each other’ even as we harbor conflicting views about a few things.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">What’s
more, yesterday on the drive to and from Manchaca UMC, the bluebonnets along
the highway were in full glorious bloom. Easter’s coming, ya’ll, to <i>all</i> of
us. Christ is Risen, he is risen indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">And
for fun, here’s a new bluebonnet and grandkids photo.</span></p></span></div><div style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4spySLlca44hiJLCZzAJ5gQZBIdwZEJBCO-UWyGjkQeOfT8AMwl_Vlhj3v5mAy6cp-cIG2-z7IOahc_9Y_3E_vVuXRsuaqHutijTIDMUmvI1dLXzQy8ItSfNwFXtUYFYBK84YC6L18MOk3IgOqFwNCcwHfTdo8fqU2_jI34ExN8l4rYIp0lCNVsSTisMZ/s3024/Bluebonnets%202024%20%202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2297" data-original-width="3024" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4spySLlca44hiJLCZzAJ5gQZBIdwZEJBCO-UWyGjkQeOfT8AMwl_Vlhj3v5mAy6cp-cIG2-z7IOahc_9Y_3E_vVuXRsuaqHutijTIDMUmvI1dLXzQy8ItSfNwFXtUYFYBK84YC6L18MOk3IgOqFwNCcwHfTdo8fqU2_jI34ExN8l4rYIp0lCNVsSTisMZ/w400-h304/Bluebonnets%202024%20%202.jpg" width="400" /></span></a><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And the other grandson on a spring break trip to New Orleans with a personal dilemma.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNOZzLllwfQqcql6ZA-B9eMN7PUVAfGH9_MNGKWT8ZJG_EfNb_KCyWV24Vov09vobN-IEc1XezyP_hsQSawCCbEaaFItfiKrAKli8wL9ZFnPDrcUbUpcw6CvKc9d-qvh6JbxPaZ-S6LVEJ3VSxNFjCaW89Wj-cLw2Z-2EiCWkTHuYVn3i-k6ya_VnwKt-3/s4032/Rory%20and%20the%20Crawdad.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNOZzLllwfQqcql6ZA-B9eMN7PUVAfGH9_MNGKWT8ZJG_EfNb_KCyWV24Vov09vobN-IEc1XezyP_hsQSawCCbEaaFItfiKrAKli8wL9ZFnPDrcUbUpcw6CvKc9d-qvh6JbxPaZ-S6LVEJ3VSxNFjCaW89Wj-cLw2Z-2EiCWkTHuYVn3i-k6ya_VnwKt-3/w400-h225/Rory%20and%20the%20Crawdad.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></p>Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-68740645040076642002023-05-05T07:07:00.001-07:002023-05-05T07:07:45.510-07:00Wargaming the Second Day of Gettysburg<p><span style="font-family: arial;"> Today, after a long pause in my blogging, I'm taking a new blog post away from writing and family to instead post about a tabletop wargame with miniature soldiers.</span></p><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Yesterday, a friend, who was in one of my junior high classes back in the 70's, when I was young green naive teacher, and I gamed a piece of the battle of Gettysburg.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2dLg5qxFQvWS61rAdPoMKDuMOTXyzjO0UwxCjHqSoXZ296Vd_evcr1hgwMfsrvAljD3vSrUZDCwGMY8-FnBMJF5XEFAHoDPorttszbZMSx9zBFf4ukJM5vLDEzGuqDx4PfcsjvJMqKHGOImxnyuDmSLib1DtsPDANeiaDLd0e0OVlYEIw8tBvFcrygQ/s3455/Phil%20&%20Michael%20Gburg%20Gamers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2396" data-original-width="3455" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2dLg5qxFQvWS61rAdPoMKDuMOTXyzjO0UwxCjHqSoXZ296Vd_evcr1hgwMfsrvAljD3vSrUZDCwGMY8-FnBMJF5XEFAHoDPorttszbZMSx9zBFf4ukJM5vLDEzGuqDx4PfcsjvJMqKHGOImxnyuDmSLib1DtsPDANeiaDLd0e0OVlYEIw8tBvFcrygQ/w400-h278/Phil%20&%20Michael%20Gburg%20Gamers.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">General Longstreet Michael and General Sickles McBride gamed Sickles Salient with Brigade Fire & Fury rules. We were both near-beginners with the brigade version of the F & F rules. Nonetheless, we blundered along without too many pauses to check the book.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The battle went along historical lines. The initial cannonades had minor impact, causing various batteries of both forces to fire with damaged guns through the whole game. The Union's reserve triple battery in the center of the salient proved a tough nut.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizaz5ObtgIfedvHM4N-_xa1qwM6lMDqR2jf8DJAzVbN0LNcP4GRveD_l0XPBsj82Vsxt7JqDkr4grDjpJ0EOQ-TjGwcK1w9gVlA0tJMH1lBCIFYPHdI1Qfvb-VsSAjRxSDaOnBlI01R9aEGEXm3cNeDoUNTeyzKEeCYI4Y-CmXRHRY2rCcGrsPzPyfVQ/s2016/Rebs%20Advancing%20Valley%20of%20Death%20Gburg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizaz5ObtgIfedvHM4N-_xa1qwM6lMDqR2jf8DJAzVbN0LNcP4GRveD_l0XPBsj82Vsxt7JqDkr4grDjpJ0EOQ-TjGwcK1w9gVlA0tJMH1lBCIFYPHdI1Qfvb-VsSAjRxSDaOnBlI01R9aEGEXm3cNeDoUNTeyzKEeCYI4Y-CmXRHRY2rCcGrsPzPyfVQ/w400-h300/Rebs%20Advancing%20Valley%20of%20Death%20Gburg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The Yankee infantry were not so tough, the scenario design causing them to go 'worn' after a single lost stand. Those guys knew they were stuck out way too far. So the blue infantry brigades fell back all along the line, eventually losing the wheat field to the Rebs on our last game turn. Six hours to play 5 turns, the first two of which were cannonades only. Like I said, our pace was that of learners, not gamemasters. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The rules do have a nice flow to them and I now realize that Brigade Fire & Fury rules better duplicate the long ribbons of Civil War infantry formations than any other rule sets I've played, including Regimental F & F. That surprised me.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH8Gb-eYA-OTKqc3tNn_4j90WPtIgMFxVU6c-HGU9xn22TLDZ6hvcf0M6Jdis0RGzrNEzba45zPbNibl38cZaXqO6WomidaCEu674Us_XtjhVz3yPy1o_siQN9pdHuiotZ09QNOX1UsM-HAT43bNE5uBnn_WngfpWIYoKrmmy33eZ2NgJrpg0kDm5JCA/s2016/Yanks%20Stand%20on%20Wheatfield%20&%20Help%20on%20the%20Way.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH8Gb-eYA-OTKqc3tNn_4j90WPtIgMFxVU6c-HGU9xn22TLDZ6hvcf0M6Jdis0RGzrNEzba45zPbNibl38cZaXqO6WomidaCEu674Us_XtjhVz3yPy1o_siQN9pdHuiotZ09QNOX1UsM-HAT43bNE5uBnn_WngfpWIYoKrmmy33eZ2NgJrpg0kDm5JCA/w400-h300/Yanks%20Stand%20on%20Wheatfield%20&%20Help%20on%20the%20Way.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Finally, as the Union commander, it was great fun to launch Vincent's Brigade off Little Round Top and smack Law's Brigade in the flank down in the Valley of Death along Plum Run. Less fun to see several other brigades refuse to hold the line after losing a stand.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> All in all, it was a very enjoyable day.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpxhP5LkKKXQKa8l9jYXH4gFXU2X81HweMJ487piI0NgKBGBt88DxBqfQ9duomSQNhVt625CeMIAUG_KkgwpHezxAEFI3RSey3L8Nmhr67qFILhwU3Vo2I8HgE6V0wWClk59eBYLEJNEIdkOqsmCxGTXjllTr_BiujpXOBbwKkzeENIsaM-EUTIPvyrQ/s1652/Vincent%20Leaves%20LRT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1267" data-original-width="1652" height="490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpxhP5LkKKXQKa8l9jYXH4gFXU2X81HweMJ487piI0NgKBGBt88DxBqfQ9duomSQNhVt625CeMIAUG_KkgwpHezxAEFI3RSey3L8Nmhr67qFILhwU3Vo2I8HgE6V0wWClk59eBYLEJNEIdkOqsmCxGTXjllTr_BiujpXOBbwKkzeENIsaM-EUTIPvyrQ/w640-h490/Vincent%20Leaves%20LRT.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihH0s8rarklsyb9RNLGQgiKPEiUx99-nnKpBZa2Rdis7NZgO_BG23LgIes-iclbS2JgI-psagZGBs-Ecc5AsC-esEf6BNVK5QlklpPhuQ6jW520eAx_bzEiKZn35lIQ5Vw6XmVszMoSx4SdPJH5ioi6BxFa4sBdLUPdtVBl8f0Ez_UJHzfVAVzb7AguA/s2016/Sickle%20Salient%20Union%20Only%20Deployed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihH0s8rarklsyb9RNLGQgiKPEiUx99-nnKpBZa2Rdis7NZgO_BG23LgIes-iclbS2JgI-psagZGBs-Ecc5AsC-esEf6BNVK5QlklpPhuQ6jW520eAx_bzEiKZn35lIQ5Vw6XmVszMoSx4SdPJH5ioi6BxFa4sBdLUPdtVBl8f0Ez_UJHzfVAVzb7AguA/w640-h480/Sickle%20Salient%20Union%20Only%20Deployed.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-7741986527634434632022-09-13T06:59:00.000-07:002022-09-13T06:59:20.931-07:00Little Hannah, The Accidental Juror, and Little Round Top<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve not posted in almost five months, which must mean my life
is in one of those periods of routine events taking over. Not blog-worthy. In
my world since the end of May, it’s been a hotter-than-hell summer in Texas,
with week after week temperatures over 100</span><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">°</span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even more
importantly to Nita and me, our sixth grandchild, Hannah Mae McBride, was born
on August 22</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> She’s a doll, isn’t she? </span><br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4NYq8xoll-IKjlKhdD_u_ZDOOGEYppaXfzIfccfJUnPvn9BXReT6EPXTDl3fFDN2Ye9d0MNbxq3WGQaZTY-kyHYwLB9JkxLo80phRTpVftFBMWRliAHDgkIQ9DMAUeaZMjPFOy0u73GDZxaXuQSburi1P-LtznbS6IoMZzQMjcTg4N5lurK2qw-Gqaw/s833/Hannah%20Mae%20at%20a%20week.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="833" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4NYq8xoll-IKjlKhdD_u_ZDOOGEYppaXfzIfccfJUnPvn9BXReT6EPXTDl3fFDN2Ye9d0MNbxq3WGQaZTY-kyHYwLB9JkxLo80phRTpVftFBMWRliAHDgkIQ9DMAUeaZMjPFOy0u73GDZxaXuQSburi1P-LtznbS6IoMZzQMjcTg4N5lurK2qw-Gqaw/w640-h480/Hannah%20Mae%20at%20a%20week.jpg" width="640" /><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;"> </span></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><u><br /></u></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><u><br /></u></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><u><br /></u></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><u><br /></u></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><u><br /></u></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><u><br /></u></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><u><br /></u></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><u><br /></u></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><u><br /></u></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><u><br /></u></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And, the sweet girl's birth interrupted the final wrap-up of my new novel, <i><b>The Accidental Juror.</b></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEX6htsHLxYLTW8f7ytJY0EZYfftiCJPPq8WOdf6GxAZ0RBxQimo3ih8eIt2aTnSAVVRGv-4yz9FB3jeWVaGg3CzIuZ1RL0P83MLK6jpQi_DtZ6f5dQlSx8ErodMB_YcLwjXQ0KtF_jAVvLi3LZgFnTfE4_v8eGWv4IhNToalw7Zvj1eU_-1ZHUtY4Gw/s2560/Accidental%20Juror%20Final%20Front%20Cover.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEX6htsHLxYLTW8f7ytJY0EZYfftiCJPPq8WOdf6GxAZ0RBxQimo3ih8eIt2aTnSAVVRGv-4yz9FB3jeWVaGg3CzIuZ1RL0P83MLK6jpQi_DtZ6f5dQlSx8ErodMB_YcLwjXQ0KtF_jAVvLi3LZgFnTfE4_v8eGWv4IhNToalw7Zvj1eU_-1ZHUtY4Gw/w400-h640/Accidental%20Juror%20Final%20Front%20Cover.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><b><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">TAJ</span></i></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> is my tenth novel, each having sprung from a yearlong gestation and a
final grateful birthing. <b><i>TAJ </i></b>took me into new ground as ‘modern’
historical fiction. It’s a fictitious story of a young woman who is the first
woman in her county to be summoned for jury service. Historically, women in
Texas were not allowed on juries until an amendment to the state constitution
passed in November of 1954, so the first women to sit in jury boxes did so in
1955. This was 35 years after the women’s suffrage movement won women the right
to vote in 1920.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <br /> </span><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My tale is about Lynn Edwards, a 28-year-old-mother who ‘accidentally’
receives a postcard in the mail calling her to jury duty. I won’t be a spoiler,
but Lynn encounters resistance and support from unexpected places. Writing
about 1955, when I was six, was great fun and little touchy. The fun part was
including houses with no air-conditioning but with attic fans, big black corded
telephones, the early days of black-and-white television, big flashy cars with
big fins, and young men with ‘Elvis’ hair. The touchy part was addressing our
segregated society in a way that was realistic. Deciding on an appropriate
crime for the trial was important, and I think, but I’m still not really sure,
I came up with one that is serious enough and interesting enough to make a good
courtroom story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All to say, please take
a look at <b><i>The Accidental Juror</i></b> on Amazon. You can read the first
chapter by clicking <i>‘Look Inside</i>.’ Then you can make me happy by buying
a Kindle or a paperback version.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Here's the link to the Amazon page: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BF2ZRXP4</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You may be one of my friends whose connection is through Civil
War reenacting, which I’ve regretfully aged out of, helped along by the years of
COVID cancellations of events. While I’m not reenacting any longer, I’m still a
Civil War nut, having returned to tabletop wargaming with miniature soldiers.
Here’s a pic of my brother and me this summer refighting Hood’s assault of
Little Round Top at Gettysburg. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihwm5B9iYvXIxT1WX2zMoglL7fZvtOUKQk26SD_L4fxmiryLK6WW2eDmZersOFTRfO9v466PWrP9jYSGEUoSOKbUvsS3hDi0ykp7UFPOHY6v_hpXpvI8DehxT64yCSxPol8lkGTvGBMaTE_kYeQ4OZiz1WaIt3QsX7rPpZdxgsKAdKg5nM-rjvYvbxrg/s3159/2%20old%20bros%20gaming%202022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1955" data-original-width="3159" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihwm5B9iYvXIxT1WX2zMoglL7fZvtOUKQk26SD_L4fxmiryLK6WW2eDmZersOFTRfO9v466PWrP9jYSGEUoSOKbUvsS3hDi0ykp7UFPOHY6v_hpXpvI8DehxT64yCSxPol8lkGTvGBMaTE_kYeQ4OZiz1WaIt3QsX7rPpZdxgsKAdKg5nM-rjvYvbxrg/w640-h396/2%20old%20bros%20gaming%202022.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p>Otherwise, it’s the season of the Longhorns and Cowboys, both
of which may have long seasons.</span><p></p><br /><p></p>Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-37707116110166858762022-05-03T13:41:00.000-07:002022-05-03T13:41:12.480-07:00Teaching Kids About an Ugly Past<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Yesterday I stepped off an airplane that
flew directly from Frankfurt, Germany to Austin, Texas. The plane was packed
with both Americans and Germans—two nationalities that share the difficult
challenge of how to teach our children about the sins of their grandfathers.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">My aim today is not to address how we
teach our own children about our national sin of three hundred years of legal
American slavery. Suffice to say that those of us, like me, whose ancestors
owned slaves most likely have some conflicting emotions buried inside.
And I suspect those of us whose ancestors fought in the Confederate army simply
to defend their homeland from invaders also sometimes question the roots of the
‘lost cause,' in honor of which so many statues were erected on southern
courthouse lawns.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">But today is about Germany and World War
II. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">In Nuremberg, Germany, on the last day
of our trip, we visited sites where huge Nazi rallies were held, outdoor venues
of immense concrete edifices and vast open space for up to half a million
people to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, chanting, singing, experiencing the
emotional high of a shared devotion to an inspirational leader, as they became
part of a highly-efficient propaganda machine. As a side note, we learned the
citizens who attended these enormous rallies had to buy tickets to the events. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36x9eIqDo3OkQ0HfIDlmNp2or2TDNkD8IXcNcOHyW0HpanxlfJ1BpkdMMJmOaqUKMO0JC84NLbE_A9cy9ifOC-XtgmP7f5ipmVTxhFIadCMVXeD9bFf5gZT6q-AFqV_EsMpHhryFlLQye-Tv4rF5041TknDPRfghml2toGacBK4nEhffa5lA0gHbOkQ/s1200/nuremberg%20rally%202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="673" data-original-width="1200" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36x9eIqDo3OkQ0HfIDlmNp2or2TDNkD8IXcNcOHyW0HpanxlfJ1BpkdMMJmOaqUKMO0JC84NLbE_A9cy9ifOC-XtgmP7f5ipmVTxhFIadCMVXeD9bFf5gZT6q-AFqV_EsMpHhryFlLQye-Tv4rF5041TknDPRfghml2toGacBK4nEhffa5lA0gHbOkQ/w640-h358/nuremberg%20rally%202.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLOB6K6I6j_8HbZmSoX70DaHg3I-6kPUoBviz8ZSq3h257d9OW-SEQaW0h0DDaU6hyWKLtWaB18Sm3XZnQWYNZHOlhfU3vmhd3-IRYKKOQGZYmG-7b7d7qxK_n07I-vaGoMeM_YV54wBNH50lmu1fQ7EeryP5e96x4FO_ApsFPpu9krqmysug8t-mZZw/s833/phil%20at%20nazi%20rally%20stands%202.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="833" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLOB6K6I6j_8HbZmSoX70DaHg3I-6kPUoBviz8ZSq3h257d9OW-SEQaW0h0DDaU6hyWKLtWaB18Sm3XZnQWYNZHOlhfU3vmhd3-IRYKKOQGZYmG-7b7d7qxK_n07I-vaGoMeM_YV54wBNH50lmu1fQ7EeryP5e96x4FO_ApsFPpu9krqmysug8t-mZZw/w640-h480/phil%20at%20nazi%20rally%20stands%202.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8CRnbLj25nKYXwGko6RfZKj9N3AFLPF3swxNCss8HJS2a7GcJXkEsnosWb8YWTORtZ-qe1-WmV_QUe_pV7pokY2qhjbLPMpxfx9v2FtXobEMbG1qF1pnWPGgQJUu7Bl54ETHwOJQSYOnXGT9gTgy5wtBbmVu27tW1Za76rqdmo9FMaCZijHVH01nhpw/s600/vintage-photo-ww-ii-hitler-nazi-nuremberg-rally-23418472.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="600" height="510" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8CRnbLj25nKYXwGko6RfZKj9N3AFLPF3swxNCss8HJS2a7GcJXkEsnosWb8YWTORtZ-qe1-WmV_QUe_pV7pokY2qhjbLPMpxfx9v2FtXobEMbG1qF1pnWPGgQJUu7Bl54ETHwOJQSYOnXGT9gTgy5wtBbmVu27tW1Za76rqdmo9FMaCZijHVH01nhpw/w640-h510/vintage-photo-ww-ii-hitler-nazi-nuremberg-rally-23418472.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">The same day, we ended our tour of WWII
Nuremberg by sitting in the courtroom where in 1945, just months after the war
ended, 21 Nazi leaders were tried for crimes against humanity in an
international court with judges from France, England, the United States, and
Russia. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">As I stared at the box where the
defendants had sat during the long trial, I couldn’t help but think that the
trial had offered the German people a free-pass to dump their collective guilt
onto those 21 men. To those bakers and housewives whose cities had been bombed
to rubble, whose sons had died by the hundreds of thousands for the Nazi cause,
the 21 men on trial could conveniently assume the burden of Germany’s national
sin of the genocide of millions in the gas chambers and the slave labor of millions
more. No doubt such scapegoats were welcomed by the ‘uninvolved’ men and women
who no longer needed to rationalize, to look the other way, while mass executions
surrounded them during the Nazi years.<o:p></o:p></span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsae_jXQL_0vgAw0BDFWqpQsuWtQSZU_alA9GpbzdpelixNdW_vYQtfqPKCUHd2Wfu37P_pTVMTwrkkUCH5HrcphoYYCS4aW03TURfbxWy-fwtJiKiNci3GpTKcdplKxvUu1xkh6aRPvF6H7hyymsTBGKLTfIgk9fJupbxIJqxXqKGBuXnL8TKjTcJ5w/s833/nuremberg%20trial%201.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="833" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsae_jXQL_0vgAw0BDFWqpQsuWtQSZU_alA9GpbzdpelixNdW_vYQtfqPKCUHd2Wfu37P_pTVMTwrkkUCH5HrcphoYYCS4aW03TURfbxWy-fwtJiKiNci3GpTKcdplKxvUu1xkh6aRPvF6H7hyymsTBGKLTfIgk9fJupbxIJqxXqKGBuXnL8TKjTcJ5w/w400-h300/nuremberg%20trial%201.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div><p></p></blockquote>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">One of our German tour guides spoke to
the challenge of how in 2022 to teach the children of Germany about WWII. Like
here in the USA, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>public education is a
state-level function, rather than a national one, and we were told there are 16
varying approaches to teaching about WWII and the Nazi regime.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-8AC7MbM4x0xssVOZ35yNnj2XFVVKgxaKTZMsJYbOP5qGZH8lc_gNaH24lUn4Ne5yky3lzoiN_BXxgu0kyDa6aAgUEuXc1EhrFcl-lkwxs0P8omq1GOsALPmp-HYOP1QXIXS73MltahQ27So7vLlzju1JGRF-IT3mZrB4RnYTgxllnL0yk-ISoV5Jog/s833/nuremberg%20trial%202.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="833" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-8AC7MbM4x0xssVOZ35yNnj2XFVVKgxaKTZMsJYbOP5qGZH8lc_gNaH24lUn4Ne5yky3lzoiN_BXxgu0kyDa6aAgUEuXc1EhrFcl-lkwxs0P8omq1GOsALPmp-HYOP1QXIXS73MltahQ27So7vLlzju1JGRF-IT3mZrB4RnYTgxllnL0yk-ISoV5Jog/w400-h300/nuremberg%20trial%202.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">She said until the 1970’s, usually the
decade from 1935 to 1945 was generally ignored by teachers who were unwilling
and unsure how to teach the years of Hitler’s horrific regime. Schools simply
left it to parents and grandparents to let their children know or not know the
evil realities behind their devastated country.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">From the 1980’s until now, she said there
was more coverage of the war and Hitler, but not much about the genocide. An
aside: Who knows what was taught to East German children under the Soviet era
until the Soviet collapse in 1989? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">These days, our guide said there is a
growing effort to shift the lens away from textbook photos of the Nazis’ mass
rallies and giant swastikas, to stories of everyday citizens who simply endured
the era. They are trying to take the memorable Nazi ‘optics’ out of the
spotlight. Stop letting the ghosts of the Nazi past define the teaching of the
Nazi era to the children of today. Quit showing the propaganda photos the Nazi’s
themselves created of their lockstep rallies, the mass ‘Seig Heil’ straight-arm
salutes, the adoration of a madman. Replace those visuals with other optics—of what
exactly, I don’t know.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">As a side note, I personally doubt if
the shift to sidestep the terrible Nazi scheme to ‘purify’ Europe by murdering
millions of civilians will ever include the chilling photos taken by Americans
who first came upon the extermination camps, photos and films which were shown
in the Nuremberg trial.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">What was hammered home to me in Nuremberg is that we walk a slippery slope when teaching kids about an ugly past. It's hard, damned hard, to be critical of our grandparents. Yet, sometimes the hard truths need to be dredged up if we expect our grandchildren not to go down the same terrible road that our grandparents did. </span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-43577006332176436022022-03-07T06:24:00.000-08:002022-03-07T06:24:31.967-08:00Tunnel Hill and Sixty Years <p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">What people like doesn’t
change all that much. At least for me. I still love the same woman after fifty-two
years. I still wear button-down shirts. And I’ve had the same hobby for sixty
years—collecting, painting, and playing tabletop wargames with lead soldiers. Here
are two photos of me at the wargame boards in my house, the first one in 1962,
the second one in 2022.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeL_QufuoDk1BwsJTIaslnok98TTiCo3cipa2OJ9CqMuamXU4VzLoX4Y3OcHdCNi0zdZcBvuPLftYKpX3yEDfgr4jNQeABIzC0I4fbfDqT9dGPJ_KgH_uIjUNTH70NT5BgVZGlaOHjX7F0DQlXFqHZAQ_fKxp4CRYAGvMbmNiizx-etoPW6KODc_8VVQ=s557" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="557" data-original-width="556" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeL_QufuoDk1BwsJTIaslnok98TTiCo3cipa2OJ9CqMuamXU4VzLoX4Y3OcHdCNi0zdZcBvuPLftYKpX3yEDfgr4jNQeABIzC0I4fbfDqT9dGPJ_KgH_uIjUNTH70NT5BgVZGlaOHjX7F0DQlXFqHZAQ_fKxp4CRYAGvMbmNiizx-etoPW6KODc_8VVQ=s320" width="319" /></a></div> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The military miniatures haven’t
really been cast of lead for a long time now, all the makers having switched to pewter.
Our tabletop terrain has vastly improved from chalk-drawn forests on bare
plywood, but back then we spent every spare dime on soldiers, not model railroad terrain. My
brother and I were poor young teenagers, after all. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Back in the ‘60’s I didn’t
care about the history the toy soldiers represented, I just liked to buy them, paint
them, and play tabletop games with simple home-grown rules. There was one guy
in California named Jack Scruby who sculpted and produced military miniatures
for tabletop wargaming. He advertised his catalog in Boys Life magazine, where
we discovered him. Now, there are endless choices of companies sculpting and
producing highly detailed miniatures of every imaginable historical army from
the ancient Egyptians to modern armies, and fantasy figures from Tolkien’s
elves and dwarves to post-apocalyptic mutants. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgGzFsS2B1Lrh46qp0UOLOMHBhcFjjhIJ67INSttyi1DTJb4tTGe1uW-OnjsMl_vVnAfiiA-Gu6znsqpY0qMdNK1hIX_03XmhPw64jeEMYwn6fxkhabMaSVHjb4s2fTI1XW2nLMgHMFr_2his0-f3hF8WErsUVyV05m-Qhp1tVDBMFOelz_mGAOcGdpfA=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgGzFsS2B1Lrh46qp0UOLOMHBhcFjjhIJ67INSttyi1DTJb4tTGe1uW-OnjsMl_vVnAfiiA-Gu6znsqpY0qMdNK1hIX_03XmhPw64jeEMYwn6fxkhabMaSVHjb4s2fTI1XW2nLMgHMFr_2his0-f3hF8WErsUVyV05m-Qhp1tVDBMFOelz_mGAOcGdpfA=w301-h226" width="301" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Of late, I’ve taken to playing
solo games of specific Civil War battles, with lots of attention paid to replicating
the historical terrain and regiments which fought, right down to the correct flags
they carried. These photos are of my tabletop today, in the midst of the battle
of Tunnel Hill at Chattanooga, Tennessee in November 1863. The tunnel entrance
is still there, looking like it did in 1863. It was the challenge to use a
paper template of the rock face of the entrance (downloaded from the website of
the Fire & Fury game company). Drawing on the methods used in my junior
high science fair days, I cut up a cardboard shoebox and shaped the humped tunnel
you see in the photo. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGCWSlOW4vOBhCIuXCYJDDPGuT6eMSi828jw-JQkGKtky8WfD16irsV7yaTcFeh8iE2rO1Uw9Eo2bD-fumkDGN_dVvLdW4jFOHMvtHHmlypa_ehs9CaMMG4qJkSWpeqPwc7oxf4IBDfA0nSZOAQLyfM6ytQlCffgw908ruZwOyrOAf9I6IcwinQrbZ6Q=s1727" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="971" data-original-width="1727" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGCWSlOW4vOBhCIuXCYJDDPGuT6eMSi828jw-JQkGKtky8WfD16irsV7yaTcFeh8iE2rO1Uw9Eo2bD-fumkDGN_dVvLdW4jFOHMvtHHmlypa_ehs9CaMMG4qJkSWpeqPwc7oxf4IBDfA0nSZOAQLyfM6ytQlCffgw908ruZwOyrOAf9I6IcwinQrbZ6Q=w640-h360" width="640" /></a></div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Here's the bigger picture of the game: </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEit8_sauQflyhKS_GsHn0CGv9GHfTXMzsgpG576c_NkUpxAvMgbk8xRKMACT-u4XMROcayEG7PD-Tb_VPY2Cmizy7HsDMVYyUT44Oa6UY4QaCtxfEl2qXo0yKpJtMhJNgpKqBjLV051EBIX5Hiumo0U08DBiDswnlOyRJtaJDOTx0KlKG5_1s9CVLQPHg=s1830" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="1830" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEit8_sauQflyhKS_GsHn0CGv9GHfTXMzsgpG576c_NkUpxAvMgbk8xRKMACT-u4XMROcayEG7PD-Tb_VPY2Cmizy7HsDMVYyUT44Oa6UY4QaCtxfEl2qXo0yKpJtMhJNgpKqBjLV051EBIX5Hiumo0U08DBiDswnlOyRJtaJDOTx0KlKG5_1s9CVLQPHg=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I a</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">m perhaps drawn to this
particular Civil War battle because I’ve walked the ground a couple of times—it’s
now an urban, and neglected, National Park site. And Tunnel Hill is one of the
key battles in my first Civil War novel, </span><b style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Whittled Away</b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">; And one of the Confederate
regiments in the thick of the fighting was the 6</span><sup style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Texas Infantry,
which is the historical regiment chosen by our reenacting club for our name, the
‘Alamo Rifles’ since the men who formed one company of the 6</span><sup style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Texas
came from San Antonio. The photo is us in a sham battle in Tennessee, not
Tunnel Hill, though. But our flag in the photo is the same one they carried at the battle of Tunnel Hill.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFtd2l0-a9sbn204DC43TfZMzKTeosMfWRF6vYc_0SCmFriLWG1jWgpPuNTMCfBM1AtrJQS-fmfV3CEuf4bwhsFpcNSSxpq5LhN1XTCjhCu9Ysb2CMesPC42YkHv5wabjqu1tXCNrse_XtO5y5MWUdUAB9f9T4apJYgwj1aawRMnDZ_jD8dww4Lg-XSw=s1184" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="1184" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFtd2l0-a9sbn204DC43TfZMzKTeosMfWRF6vYc_0SCmFriLWG1jWgpPuNTMCfBM1AtrJQS-fmfV3CEuf4bwhsFpcNSSxpq5LhN1XTCjhCu9Ysb2CMesPC42YkHv5wabjqu1tXCNrse_XtO5y5MWUdUAB9f9T4apJYgwj1aawRMnDZ_jD8dww4Lg-XSw=w640-h364" width="640" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjAf-xyN4b8Q03nEPQIaphNdjp8lwmawHT32wZttViVXapJlUvcag_tUKLf_R539w2v1tWu4tILFgZ4PbyqPs_4B7RYeKHmdRqa3yfwhqHzSBzqkJA-QdzmdIAB40AOpp1VTx8y16qjopm5eXmujB3SSW93HA3coA7gKXTv9R2HbdaY23t375n2DBjTew=s720" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="517" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjAf-xyN4b8Q03nEPQIaphNdjp8lwmawHT32wZttViVXapJlUvcag_tUKLf_R539w2v1tWu4tILFgZ4PbyqPs_4B7RYeKHmdRqa3yfwhqHzSBzqkJA-QdzmdIAB40AOpp1VTx8y16qjopm5eXmujB3SSW93HA3coA7gKXTv9R2HbdaY23t375n2DBjTew=w288-h400" width="288" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">To close, here is a meme off
the ‘net that reminds me of the heroic defense ongoing in Ukraine this week.<br />
Bless those patriots. May God give them the strength to persevere and stay the
course.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><br />Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-10221122121829423292022-01-08T04:46:00.002-08:002022-01-08T04:46:27.251-08:0050 Years of Being 'Phil & Nita'<p align="left" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I am 72.
Nita is 73. We have not (yet) lived particularly long lives. Looking ahead, we
may or may not experience the luxury living through our eighty’s, into our
ninety’s. We don’t know if either of us will face the challenge of living with
grace and dignity as our abilities to keep doing what we’ve always done, fall
away, one at a time. That’s the unknown future.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
wonderful known thing of now, is that today is our 50<sup>th</sup> wedding
anniversary. For more than 2/3 of our lives, Nita and I have been ‘us.’ I’ve said more than a few times that she and
I aren’t just married, we’re joined at the hip.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicpYWWxln88VhNGYJpvvVrk4y_FYOnfkwcTrFNP3USH4YHQOf6p9S0Of3W2ewR3us9c-363W2r8BkidiUa--EEaOGiiC0M1SFIr8DQSMekrS98jcvNyZ3fdk4e6fQdQKa4cOaP0QlEK1PgWiqNivHTVMaz3UURAQjOrC1VUEEeVpt3Bg-HQ4_adIz0NA=s608" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="579" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicpYWWxln88VhNGYJpvvVrk4y_FYOnfkwcTrFNP3USH4YHQOf6p9S0Of3W2ewR3us9c-363W2r8BkidiUa--EEaOGiiC0M1SFIr8DQSMekrS98jcvNyZ3fdk4e6fQdQKa4cOaP0QlEK1PgWiqNivHTVMaz3UURAQjOrC1VUEEeVpt3Bg-HQ4_adIz0NA=s320" width="305" /></a></div><p></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It’s
common to hear couples joke about staying married a long time. They mention
making it through the ‘rough patches.’
Maybe I’m wearing blinders, or am already senile, but I honestly don’t
remember any particularly rough patches in our five decades of marriage. I
think that means that if God sometimes shoves two young people at each other, His
hands were on our backs in the days when we were barely adults. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Fifty
years of marriage has never been a special goal of ours. Neither of our own
parent couples reached a golden anniversary, due to the mid-life divorce of my
parents and the sudden death of Nita’s father just a few weeks after our
wedding. We all know that lives end unexpectedly, and paths chosen early in
life, change. We understand that both luck and God’s grace have helped our
marriage. We are proud of reaching fifty years together, and rather than having
attained a goal, we’re viewing today as a mile marker, a noteworthy stake
alongside the road with a gravel pull-out for a little celebration before
moving further on down the highway.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjUFabfS9ZoN8swtWkXda9vHSXTYNy73WoKftqs1JVbt2I2iC-7G9EhRuRRNDYl6oZ0tS77Z6igBzK0qQ5u0UcbFRZg-Mqjz2lOjLABPO1vfGJ5_jwLFwoe8b_82UwDKn1EO2WR74P6TaZ3cgE_d6CCbRFmFd5PRfheKmUm5Sss8F-ZxTFpTFXfE4SuA=s3024" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjUFabfS9ZoN8swtWkXda9vHSXTYNy73WoKftqs1JVbt2I2iC-7G9EhRuRRNDYl6oZ0tS77Z6igBzK0qQ5u0UcbFRZg-Mqjz2lOjLABPO1vfGJ5_jwLFwoe8b_82UwDKn1EO2WR74P6TaZ3cgE_d6CCbRFmFd5PRfheKmUm5Sss8F-ZxTFpTFXfE4SuA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span><p></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Regretfully,
the first week of 2022 has already unveiled itself as another frustrating year
of on-again-off-gain gatherings. Plans for our golden anniversary reception
later today have moved from maskless to masked, from indoors to outdoors. and
may wind up as only an intimate family gathering. Our little town is not in a
protective bubble. Nearly one in three people in our county are testing
positive for the new Covid, and not surprisingly, our circle of friends
includes a lot of seniors like us who are shy about exposing themselves to
infection. Nonetheless, we’ll toast ourselves with whoever shows up.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">And
yesterday, bless them both, our two sons each put surprise gifts in front of
us. Son Ben carried in a small table he built, the top of which is an old
stained-glass window that was salvaged from the demolition of the church where
we were hitched. Now that’s a meaningful momento.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgPWP-fxrcp5_I1tkaibj3FgEGSuy1ErPtzv1pYundgDgo7ewQA5b5CF3SI-rHzSSrDBLgO-2pH5I1AwyTdrvKZfUbe9xkTSOuCPmxsjtDGjgNXsKPHH7gKxirALkcTSD8oGNGQR9LtmN0FE-XkiHdg0UchOjGMvLbk6HfSRTkDhT60viKdIpHJjFeq3Q=s1894" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1420" data-original-width="1894" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgPWP-fxrcp5_I1tkaibj3FgEGSuy1ErPtzv1pYundgDgo7ewQA5b5CF3SI-rHzSSrDBLgO-2pH5I1AwyTdrvKZfUbe9xkTSOuCPmxsjtDGjgNXsKPHH7gKxirALkcTSD8oGNGQR9LtmN0FE-XkiHdg0UchOjGMvLbk6HfSRTkDhT60viKdIpHJjFeq3Q=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">After we previewed
the Power Point slide show of highlights of our fifty-year marriage that I
pulled together for today’s reception, son Todd said, “We’re not done yet. Stay
seated.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He then popped
up on the big TV screen an anniversary congratulations speech to us from actor Sean
Aston. Sean, otherwise known as Samwise
Gamgee, J.R.R. Tolkien’s character who was the relucant compass who kept Frodo
on the hard but truth path. I first read
Tolkien’s <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> trilogy in 1967, and in 2014 I almost
missed the tour bus just so I could drink a pint in the tavern in Oxford,
England where Tolkien and C.S. Lewis hung out. The short congratulatory speech
to us from the guy who played Sam was touching and cool, and for the second
time in the day before our anniversary, I wiped away tears. It struck me for
not the first time that Nita’s and my best work lay in our two sons. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">So, later
today we will celebrate with whoever shows up, and the day after we will begin
our second half-century together. Stay tuned.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span face=""Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-55566532855445545522021-11-10T06:59:00.000-08:002021-11-10T06:59:04.020-08:00On Writing My First Civil War Novel<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> As I’m an avid consumer of historical military fiction (authors
like Jeff Shaara, Bernard Cornwell, Gingrich & Forstchen, PJ Nagle, and Harold
Coyle), I decided to try writing a Civil War novel. I built the story around the
real outfit which our reenacting group uses for our name and which we hold to
as our “primary impression.” That’s Company K of the Sixth Texas Infantry, CSA,
aka The Alamo Rifles, whose men were recruited around San Antonio, Texas.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">This article, however, is not about the Alamo Rifles or the
plot of <b>Whittled Away</b>. This article is about the process of writing a first novel. With
each new chapter I rediscovered that military historical fiction is a whole
different beast than anything I’ve written before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the magazine articles and newsletters I’ve
written were easy compared to writing a novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>First of all, the darned book just wouldn’t leave me alone. I’d wake up
early in the morning eager to hit the keyboard to get the gist of a new scene
recorded, since breakfast and the morning newspaper tend to wipe clean any
sleep-inspired ideas. I kept jabbering to my wife about the characters and how
to take them down the path the real Civil War put them upon. I took to e-mailing
scenes to my sons and brother to gauge their responses. I read whole chapters
out loud to my cornered family during holiday gatherings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">For over three years, I practically lived with one or
another of six primary accounts of the war written by soldiers in the regiment
or brigade to which my characters belong. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the most pleasant surprises was
learning how many odd and exciting anecdotes are in those six primary accounts.
Honestly, truth is stranger than fiction, so much so that I decided the book
needed an “Afterward” to list the memoirs and note that the most unexpected
vignettes in the story really did happen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Then there has been the core question that seems common to
writers of historical fiction: Is the historical war storyline mainly a vehicle
around which to create human conflicts and the development of fictional
characters, or are my fictional characters primarily the vehicle to tell the
story of the war for this one regiment? I think I started with the characters
being the means to tell the war story of the Sixth Texas, but the characters
kept growing and demanding more attention than was my initial plan, so by the
end perhaps the human side prevailed over the war itself. But I’m not sure, and
each reader will decide that answer for himself.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The fictional characters became my family. My job was to
dream them up; name them; put personalities on them; put them in tight spots
and get most of them out again, deciding who to kill off and who to keep alive
until the end. That was great fun, but not as easy I thought it would be. I
learned it’s tough to knock off a good guy. Even more, the main characters had
become my kids, and you just don’t “do in” your own kids. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also, it was much easier to create good guys
than real meanies, yet good stories need villains. On the other hand, even
good-guy characters need human shortcomings, like we all have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I confess that my guys are not overly complex
and with a few intentional exceptions, are good people, but sometimes the dark
side pops up in all of them. I hope.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">With the story about three-fourths written, I had an
epiphany and decided the book needed a romance. Bear in mind that I’m a big
admirer of the novel <u>The Killer Angels</u> and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the movie <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gettysburg</i>,
which have no female characters, much less a romance thread.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All along I’ve just wanted to tell the war story
of the Alamo Rifles, nothing more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the
light bulb clicked on to remind me that war is depressing and reading about
battle after battle and hardship after hardship is also depressing. Prisoner-of-war
camp and then the Atlanta campaign in 1864, which are big parts of the story of
the Sixth Texas, may have been long periods of terrible hardship and non-stop
fighting, but a book about it needs a distraction every now and then – like a
romantic interlude for some lucky soldier. The other thing is that I have never
written a romantic scene and wanted to try. Turns out it was great fun, and
more importantly, my wife gave it a passing grade. I don’t yet know if the
lovey-dovey bird-walk away from the war itself detracts from the essence of the
novel, but I hope not, because it’s one of my favorite parts.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Then there are the forbidden words. The unspeakable “N” word,
which is the racial slur that continues to plague Mark Twain’s books today. <u>Huck
Finn</u> is truly one of the great American classic novels, but it still gets
banned from school reading lists and classroom instruction because it includes
the “N” word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not even in Mark
Twain’s shadow, but to be authentic in 1860’s dialogue, should I include that “N”
word in the everyday conversation of my characters?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What about the other “N” word? The one which
is an anatomical reference, not the place where we put priming caps on our
muskets. If I use that word in the romance, will the book be deemed too racy
for teenage readers? I’m not telling if either of those hot button words fell victim
to the delete key. Writing this before the novel is finished, and certainly not
fully edited,<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>don’t even know if
any forbidden words will be in the final version. (Author’s Note: The book is
now done, and I can’t be coy, both N words are in the book.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Since war is an ugly business, how many light-hearted
experiences should be part of a war novel?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My answer has been enough to flesh out the personalities of the handful
of very young men who are my main characters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Young guys are not known for a lot of serious introspection, they are
known for doing stupid things, saying stupid things, taking risks, ribbing each
other, and somehow enduring crappy situations. The primary account memoirs and
diaries helped here, because those veterans remembered many of the mischievous
and light-hearted things they did between the battles and other hardships they
endured. Again, I hope my guys reflect that in a realistic way. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Since my novel is first and last a war story, how many
battles should be included?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How often
and in how many ways could I take my characters through the horrific
experiences of Civil War battle?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Wouldn’t the battle experience be too repetitive and intense to include
time after time? Again, a close reading of regimental and brigade histories led
me through this challenge. I found that not one of the Sixth Texas’ dozen battles
were fought in the same circumstance as any other. In the real war, sometimes
the Sixth Texas was attacking, sometimes defending. Sometimes they were in the
forward skirmish line, sometimes they were elbow-to-elbow. The terrain varied.
Opponents differed. Engaging Yankees armed with Henry repeating rifles led to a
very different fight than engaging Yankees armed with old Springfield
smoothbores. Fighting US Colored troops brought about different emotions than
fighting other white men. The outcome of the battles ran the gamut from great
success to utter defeat. It turned out that I could highlight those
differences. Moreover, being historical “fiction,” in some battles key
characters die, or are captured, or are seriously wounded. In other battles the
whole group skates through unscathed. I tried hard to put the same core elements
of combat into each battle: Fear, the fog of war, chaos, the nastiness of blood
and offal, but I think each battle wound up with a different feel to it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The internet has been a blessing for quick research to
identify which Federal divisions and brigades opposed Cleburne’s Division in
their engagements. It was then surprisingly easy to find online histories of Union
regiments that might well have fought the Sixth Texas. Those internet sources
usually included officer’s names, after-action reports, and more cool anecdotes
that I could weave into the storyline.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">A final challenge was how to use my experiences as a 15-year
Civil War reenactor to write a better Civil War novel, without writing a novel
that’s obviously written by a reenactor who is eager to display his knowledge
of the material culture of Civil War soldiers, or the field craft of Civil War
soldiers. It was very tempting to describe the brass buttons on the characters’
uniform jackets, or list the nine steps of loading a musket, or quote the
specific orders to move a formation of soldiers about, or tell how to turn a
sack of cornmeal into edible food, or how to make a brush shelter that might
keep men dry during an overnight thunderstorm. While it’s neat we learn those
things in our reenacting hobby, I found it very tempting to overdo them in
writing. Nonetheless, I included some Civil War reenacting “trivia” because,
after all is said and written, I am a devoted Civil War reenactor, but only a
fledgling novelist.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The completed first draft
was 120,000 words long. I quickly sent a printed copy to my brother, who since
our teenage years has guided my choice of books to read, and is an astute Civil
War historian. I asked my English teacher-librarian wife to tackle an
electronic version. She is an avid reader of novels, but doesn’t know much
about the Civil War. I thought this pair of willing “prime-readers” would give
me candid, but not too brutal feedback. Waiting for them to read and critique
the drafts was like holding my wife’s hand while she delivered each of our
sons. I was on pins and needles, time slowed to a crawl, and I was really
scared my newborn child would be missing something important. (Turns out both sons
were missing hair, balding by thirty, but that came much later.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Brother and Wife each provided me a fair set of compliments.
When talking by phone about the book, Brother laughed a lot at the parts where
I hoped readers would at least smile. Wife blessed my main characters as
believable and interesting. On the other hand, they both gave me lists of
suggestions, chapter by chapter. That stung, but I had asked them for it. I
returned to the keyboard, not too sullen, and started patching the fabric that connected
the chapters, reluctantly grateful to have guidance from critical eyes of
people I trust and respect. I don’t transition very smoothly in real life, and Brother
and Wife confirmed my story line needed smoother segues too. It took some work
to lessen the gaps between the chapters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was harder to reshape a few of the characters. It took some nipping, tucking,
and injecting little bits of personality and backstory here and there, but
again I concede the prime-readers’ observations helped me improve the
believability of the characters. In the months of revisions I also added a few
new characters to better paint the whole picture.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Both were too nice to suggest I delete or rewrite whole
chapters, for which I’m grateful. Well, that’s not true. Wife did urge me to
delete one complete, albeit short, chapter right at the end of the book, a
chapter wholly based on a quietly remarkable incident in a diary, but an
incident that was not particularly germane to the storyline. Wife said it
detracted from the core story at a time when the focus needed to stay tight on
the key action. So, I did it. It’s gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But it hurt to hit that “delete” button.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Wife was also not shy about suggesting whole paragraphs of
“boring history and irrelevant details” bite the dust. She didn’t want to get
bogged down in either the minutia of the stuff soldiers carry, or the bigger picture
of the war, she wanted the characters to carry the tale. After zapping a whole
chapter, paragraphs became easy victims. Her suggestions shortened the story by
2,500 words, and I think it is now a leaner, better, character-driven book.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Did writing the book make me a better reenactor? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t think so, although the ongoing reading
and research did make me better appreciate the hardships Civil War soldiers
endured for long periods of time during the campaigns. Those guys were tough
hombres, no doubt about it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">On the other hand, some of my campaign reenacting
experiences did more to enrich my writing than the writing the book did to
enrich my reenacting. I recall the immersive event I did in 2007, Bank’s Grand
Retreat, where we marched over twenty miles in the deep woods of Louisiana,
fought skirmishes every day, camped and ate for four days without modern
logistical support, but did do picket duty every night, and never saw more of
modern America than a stray plastic bottle or beer can on the trail. We had
experiences like filling canteens in creeks (the water purified with iodine
pills), cooking in the dark, depending on hardtack crackers for sustenance,
packing up in the pre-dawn, hitting the trail early for four days in a row, marching
most of the day, then fighting while more tired than I thought possible. Then
we did it again the next day for four days.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Those experiences helped me get in the heads of my
characters in a way I couldn’t have done before the four days of immersive
campaign reenacting. I had to endure discomfort for more than an isolated hour
in order for the deprivations, hardship and endless activity to make an impact,
to give me just a taste of the real circumstance of Civil War soldiers on
campaign – and no one was really shooting at me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Conversely, the casual reenacting static camp weekends
didn’t provide any helpful insights for writing the novel. Those weekends are
great fun, they are not the right kind of virtual time travel, and do not
provide enough “magic moments,” to help me write realistic scenes about a
terrible war that happened 150 years ago.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Hunters shoot different game, athletes play different
sports, and authors write different genres. My plunge into military historical
fiction was the biggest challenge I’ve had as a writer. I hope the result is
something worth reading.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></o:p></p>Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-11132111737065903152021-09-23T13:22:00.004-07:002021-09-23T13:22:55.425-07:00Two Tales From a Vietnam War Chaplain<p><span style="font-family: arial;"> <span style="font-size: medium;">Whoops. Somehow August slid right by without a McBride blog post. Okay, it was hot in Texas in August. Nothing new there.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Moving onto September, the month of the Civil War battle at Antietam where the single bloodiest day in U.S. history occurred, more American deaths at Antietam than on 911 when the terrorists attacked our homeland, more American deaths than on D-Day in WWII. Only the 3,000 deaths at Antietam were inflicted on us by us. Never again, I pray With those somber September thoughts, this post is not mine, but from a friend:</span></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: arial;">A good friend, Dick Gray, was
an army chaplain during Vietnam, serving in a MASH unit. Dick lives in
Galveston now and is an active Mason. While he left the ministry after his army
chaplaincy, he is about to do (by now has done) a Masonic funeral service for a member of the Galveston Lodge who died of COVID. Our email
conversation about that included his sending me the following two stories from
his army chaplaincy, one story here in the states shortly before he shipped out,
the other shortly after he arrived in Vietnam. I found one story sad, the other chilling, and
both compelling. So, he’s letting me post them here.</span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">“In April 1971 while assigned
as one of five chaplains in an infantry brigade, my name came to
the top of the list on a post-wide Ft. Benning rotating Protestant
Chaplains Duty Roster - when a funeral home's request came in for a
military chaplain to assist at the funeral of a young Black infantryman killed
when he stepped on a land mine after six weeks in Vietnam. I declined a staff
car & driver; my then-wife Linda & I drove ourselves about 75 miles to
Lafayette, Alabama from Columbus, Georgia.</span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Before going, though,
I met with another brigade chaplain who was Black - to get his input; didn't
want to screw things up! Floyd told me that there were three simple rules to follow
at a rural, southern Black funeral: 1) Hang loose; 2) Hang loose; 3) Hang
loose! Then he gave me about a dozen Bible passages they'd expect to hear,
depending on my level of involvement (I had been asked only to help with
military honors at graveside). He also said that sometimes at an event
like this there would be more than one minister: hers; his; theirs after they
married, if different. He said to plan on staying a while!</span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We got to town well
before the 2 p.m. funeral time - and had trouble finding the funeral home. We
asked for directions at a Norman Rockwell painting gas station-general store.
Old farmers in bibbed overalls playing checkers on an upturned barrel, etc. I
was in my dress uniform, crosses on my lapels. </span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"Now boy, why
would you want to be goin' theya?" </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;">I explained the obvious. "I know,
boy, but THEYA?" They gave us bogus directions that took us way out of
town before we caught on.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Finally got to the
funeral home - and, Duh! - this clueless young chaplain
- fairly recently from likely the most liberal Methodist
seminary in the country - realized it was, of course, a Black funeral home. We
met the white infantry captain from Auburn Univ. ROTC who was the Survival
Assistance Officer. He took us out to the church - a mile off a paved
road deep into a pine forest.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;">Wood-framed; white
clapboards; some broken windows; Standing room only crowd, Linda counted at
about 350 (and we three were the only whites); flowing out the
front door; people crowded around and looking into the church from the
outside through the open windows. Old upright piano; banged up podium as the
pulpit.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;">As we walked into the
church I saw a large man up front wearing a large badge; a star. My thoughts
whirling, I said to myself, "Well, at least they've got a Black Deputy
Sheriff" </span><i style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;"><u>and even said</u></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;">, "Sheriff, it's a pleasure
to meet you" as I shook his hand and noticed that the star said,
"USHER." He handed me a program - which listed two ministers plus
"Military Chaplain - Graveside."</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;">A bit after 2 p.m. I
saw "the Sheriff" waving his arms to motion me to come to the front
of the church. I motioned for him to come to the back of the church - which he
did; and informed me, "Well, Chaplain suh, nobody else done showed - I
guess you'z it." And so it began.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;">I stood at the front
of the church and looked over the congregation - totally clueless about what to
say. I was grateful to be led to say: "I don't see how we can
possibly go on this afternoon. I'm white; from the north; from a city; and in
the military. You're Black; from the south; in a rural area; and civilians. I
don't see any way for us to come together - unless we do so in the name of our
common God and Christ and for this man and his family. If we can agree on that, we'll begin."</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;">There was a very old
woman seated in the front pew along the isle right in front of the podium -
swishing the flies away with a fan. Turns out she was not "family"
but was the "Mother" figure for that congregation. Total silence. You
really could hear the flies buzzing. Then she slowly stood; turned to face the
congregation; and in a very clear voice announced, "Praise the Lord; we
will begin."</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;">I ended up using every
one of the Bible passages Floyd had given me. Went on for about 40 totally
extemporaneous, podium-pounding minutes - with clapping, and "Yes, Sweet
Jesus!" and "Amen!" all over the place. At one point,
I looked to the rear of the church (where Linda was standing with the SAO
- having refused several offers for seats), and she was in wide-eyed shock.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;">Paul Harvey's
"The Rest of The Story." - The deceased soldier and gone through Basic Infantry
Training at Ft. Dix. On weekend passes he linked up with city guys from
New York and went home with them to Brooklyn. Met a local NYC girl.
Completed Advanced Infantry Training at Ft. Dix - and married the NYC girl just
before he went to Vietnam; where he died 6 weeks later. He had broken up with his
hometown Lafayette high-school sweetheart - who went out and
married HIS best friend when she learned he'd married the NYC girl.
HIS parents were so poor they were brought to the funeral by a friend in an
old, very rusty pick-up; they did not own a vehicle of their own. And the brand new
NYC wife came in all superiority in a rented black stretch limo - SHE would get
the GI life insurance payment. At the funeral (half-open casket since the lower
half of him stayed in Nam) the former local girlfriend totally lost it; tried to
climb into the casket screaming, <i>"I love you.</i>"</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;">I later learned that a
Black staff sergeant accompanied the remains from the Military Mortuary at
Dover (Delaware) Air Force Base - and was denied lodging at the only motel in
Lafayette. He had to stay at the Holiday Inn 18 miles south in Opalika. Guess
the 1964 Civil Rights Act had not reached Lafayette yet!</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;">I wrote up that
blatantly illegal conduct in a report to the Post Chaplain - who took it to Ft.
Benning's Commanding General Talbott. Lafayette was beyond the 50-mile-limit
range of a post commander's typical authority, so Talbott could not take even
the largely symbolic step of placing the motel "off limits" to
military personnel. But he was livid! He'd commanded the 1st Infantry Division
("The Big Red One") in Vietnam.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;">So Talbott did what he
could: he sent scathing letters to the mayor of Lafayette; the owner of the
motel; and the editor of the local newspaper –along with copies of the Civil
Right Act.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Many years later, when
my wife Kate & son Douglas & I were driving home on a Sunday from
a trip east to visit son Andrew at the Civil War battlefields where he worked
for the National Park Service, I convinced them to detour with me to
Lafayette to look for the church. I found what I was certain was the right dirt
road - but turned around after quite some distance without finding the church
(we were towing a pop-up camper). Went back into town; found a small church </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;">(nice, new, brick) </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;">on
a paved road - saw the African-American ushers standing out front.
Explained what I was looking for and why. One of the ushers said I WAS on
the right dirt road - just hadn't gone far enough into the woods; that I was
standing at their new church - </span><b style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;"><i><u>and</u></i></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;"> he said
HE was there that day for that funeral!</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;">We found the church;
fallen-in roof; mold and dirt and branches everywhere. The old podium and even
the old upright piano still were there. Most of the windows were broken. Found
the soldier's VA gravestone - and one 8' or 9' tall mini-"Washington's
Monument"-style gravestone near the road - with dates of
birth & death - and simply 'MOTHER' in big letters. We're convinced it
was the grave of the matriarch who gave me permission to start in 1971.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial;">And from when Dick
arrived in Vietnam:</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: 12pt;">I arrived at my 1st assignment in Vietnam. After in-processing
at Long Binh, a C-130 flight north to Cam Ranh Bay. Then a C-123 flight further
north to Phu Cat airfield about 25 miles from Qui Nhon on the coast at Binh
Dinh Privince (the air field at Qui Nhon was closed due to enemy activity
- and Binh Dinh was one province never close to being "pacified" by
either the French or the U.S.). Then by 3/4 ton truck the 25 miles from Phu Cat
to the HQ at Qui Nhon. </span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: 12pt;">The driver explained that I would conduct a funeral immediately
upon arriving. Due to "rotation" of chaplains that HQ had been
without a protestant chaplain about a week. As soon as we arrived at Qui Nhon I
got out my chaplain's field kit (I just dumped my other gear at the chapel) and
boarded a chopper to a nearby MAC-V advisor compound in the boonies. They knew
I was inbound & had tracked me so they could get me asap.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: 12pt;">About 25 U.S. personnel (advisers to a South Vietnamese
regiment) and a few Vietnamese translators were sitting on the ground waiting.
I set up my altar on the hood of a Jeep and got under way.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: 12pt;">The dead: a U.S. Army infantry major (married; 4 children); his
driver, a U.S. Army corporal (married; no children); and their young, single
Vietnamese translator.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: 12pt;">All of whom were killed in an ambush by the Vietnamese the major
advised - because he was too aggressive in searching out the VC."</span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-32375893436938795972021-07-23T05:09:00.017-07:002021-07-23T05:29:20.679-07:00The Case of the $700 Fried Lizard<p> <span style="font-size: 12pt;">If you are a Texas homeowner the
title may have already told you the whole story.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Last Sunday evening our
air-conditioner quit cooling. We all encounter home problems like cranky ice
makers or doors that stick. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Problem, yes,
crisis, no. Broken AC’s in July in Texas are THE f ’ing crisis we all dread.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a
plea for help left on the phone of our local AC guy, Nita and I slept on top of
the covers under a ceiling fan with another fan at the foot of the bed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">One of the reasons I love small town
life followed: The AC servicemen showed up first thing the next morning.
Probably didn’t hurt we’ve been going to church with the owner for 35 years.
Anyway, his two very young and able repairmen checked this and that inside our
blower closet and confirmed more than one electrical component was kaput. Next
they went outside and looked in the house electric breaker panel. They called
me to come look and shined a flashlight on the big double breaker that guards
the AC from power surges from lightning and such. Behind the breakers I saw a
brown lizard head on one side and his brown tail on the other side. That sucker
was fried like a crispy taco, and in sacrificing himself to the gods he’d
provided an arc that shorted out those critical inside pieces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They replaced the failed components inside
and I called an electrician—whose two sons I’d coached in youth soccer—who came
over with one of those sons I’d coached as a kid, who replaced the shorted AC
breakers and removed the poor old fried lizard. The $700 fried lizard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we slept under the sheets on Monday night
and I was almost even smiling when I wrote the checks. Sometimes, quick,
efficient service at any cost is what matters most. At least if you living through
a Texas summer.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The crisis of the month aside, I now
have a writer’s website.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope you will take a look at it. Here's the link: <a href="https://www.pmcbridenovels.com/">https://www.pmcbridenovels.com/</a></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The name of the
website is ‘<i>Swimming in the Light,</i>’ which may not seem reflective of my Civil
War novels, or even the flying horny toad dragon novel, but it is a theme in my
last effort, <b><i>Just To Be Fair</i></b>. There’s a page on the website with
a short explanation of why I chose that title. Hope you will read it, as well
as reading <b><i>Just To Be Fair</i></b>. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Stay cool, it's only July and August is coming. I know a good AC guy if you have your own fried lizard. </span></p>Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-87568016433680434062021-06-07T10:33:00.000-07:002021-06-07T10:33:20.013-07:00An Unexpected Gift and Mysterious Advertising Decisions<p> <span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro", sans-serif;">Now that </span><b style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro", sans-serif;">Just To Be Fair</b><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro", sans-serif;">
has been for sale on Amazon for a month and some people have read it, I gotta
mention two interesting things stemming from it.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif;">First, a friend named Mike, who is my age, gifted me with his old Remington Model 66 .22 caliber rifle—the same
rifle that is instrumental in the plot of <b>Just To Be Fair.</b> The same
model I owned as a teenager and accidentally left at a friend’s country place
back in the’70’s and never recovered. Mike said he bought his Model 66 for his son who
is grown now and he doesn’t want it. After gushing my thanks for such an
unexpected offer, I sent him a paperback copy of <b>JTBF</b> in a very lopsided
swap. The gifted Model 66 is in my closet now, and has brought back some nice memories
of my excursions into the Sabine River bottoms with it back in my tender
teenage years. Hopefully, I’ll take it to the rifle range with sons and grandkids
someday.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif;">The other odd deal about <b>Just
To Be Fair</b> and Amazon is that they four times rejected my Kindle advertising
campaign for the book, even though the original book cover is on Amazon in full
color and the plot well described. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif;">When you open your Kindle
to read, there is always an image of a book with a very short blurb about it. If
you click on the cover image you can buy the book or read more about it. The
advertising author pays Amazon ‘per click’ whether the clicker-reader buys the
book or not.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif;">The serial rejections stirred
my streak of stubbornness and curiosity as I kept amending the copy and the cover
image until the Amazon Kindle advertising gods accepted it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First, I changed the brief text from referring
to a shooting. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nope. Then dropped the
term ‘high school,’ thinking schools are off-limits. Another nope. Next I
deleted the phrase ‘Redneck Romeo and Juliet’ romance. Yet another nope. Then I
asked my cover designer to delete the rifle slung on the teenage boy’s shoulder
on the cover, suspecting it was too threatening. You can see that version of
the cover here. </span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoXuDvPu6BqYgyTM0n8utQyuQUCuF7kUEap8qn0ph1340gEzAJVSWETbKUqhxdKscEfa7o9yz60gqiT3jZkor49g3si82dyMstjrp1x0NknjXcHj6_I79I6mfTyKn40SF3unJC081q_eAW/s2048/Just+To+Be+Fair+Cover+for+Ad+Campaign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoXuDvPu6BqYgyTM0n8utQyuQUCuF7kUEap8qn0ph1340gEzAJVSWETbKUqhxdKscEfa7o9yz60gqiT3jZkor49g3si82dyMstjrp1x0NknjXcHj6_I79I6mfTyKn40SF3unJC081q_eAW/w250-h400/Just+To+Be+Fair+Cover+for+Ad+Campaign.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><p></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif;">Anyway, that was a fourth nope. Finally, I completely rewrote
the blurb again, and on the fifth try received an approval.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s still a mystery exactly why the
rejections kept coming until the fifth effort.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So far, the cover of <b>JTBF</b> has appeared
on someone’s just-opened Kindle nearly 3,000 times. Sounds impressive, huh?
Well, maybe not so much. I’ve paid for 17 clicks at about a dollar per click, and have
had no purchases resulting from the clicks. I’m starting to feel like an email spammer or
telephone robo-caller. If the campaign
doesn’t beget some sales soon, I’ll zap it later this month and put the rifle
back on the Kindle cover, knowing I at least tried a new marketing gambit.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif;">Meanwhile, I’m receiving
some nice feedback about the <b>Just To Be Fair</b> story and the characters. I
hope you’ll invest a few bucks in a Kindle or paperback and give it a read. I’m
betting it won’t disappoint, even if there’s no Civil War or giant flying horny
toad in the plot.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif;">And just for fun, here’s
two of the grandkids at the San Antonio Zoo last weekend.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAmcEJ4_961I24keQF4YRB7BzPbkZo6Tr6vDG9lAP4qDu_-tBynIorVoFT8CEKfRb1d2ddS3jSxzfCXH-nVEmS99I9hufS8-rg_C4MGFJvpJ5fUJwV5FNJR0zNnvOJ43K6bbobnaK0OAA4/s719/197719439_1975601729256291_1389811878058039558_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="719" height="544" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAmcEJ4_961I24keQF4YRB7BzPbkZo6Tr6vDG9lAP4qDu_-tBynIorVoFT8CEKfRb1d2ddS3jSxzfCXH-nVEmS99I9hufS8-rg_C4MGFJvpJ5fUJwV5FNJR0zNnvOJ43K6bbobnaK0OAA4/w640-h544/197719439_1975601729256291_1389811878058039558_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Avenir Next LT Pro",sans-serif;"><br /></span><p></p>Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-11710181528153608082021-05-02T05:57:00.002-07:002021-05-02T05:57:41.543-07:00Just To Be Fair<p><b><i><span face=""Candara",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Just
To Be Fair</span></i></b><span face=""Candara",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">, my new novel written during the year of COVID
isolation, is a done deal. It’s up on Amazon for sale as an e-book or a
paperback.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I set out to draw on my
experiences as a high school principal and write a story about a teenager who
becomes a school shooter. I may have done that, but I may also have written a
Redneck Romeo and Juliet story set in 1985.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Here’s the back cover blurb:</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs6Xr28sPN66aPW46auXrG6ieDWjdjYCk-TQ0GnJ1XS0ZDl_nwjzF3ebg1y1CTMn3uZdM_OoE2-Tza5imz4v6wEEGou5gexYkVgC2vsVMPZYXmlx6j2O8EH0fFl8b27ChBKX6F4GizPIg0/s2048/Just+to+be+Fair+Final+Front+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs6Xr28sPN66aPW46auXrG6ieDWjdjYCk-TQ0GnJ1XS0ZDl_nwjzF3ebg1y1CTMn3uZdM_OoE2-Tza5imz4v6wEEGou5gexYkVgC2vsVMPZYXmlx6j2O8EH0fFl8b27ChBKX6F4GizPIg0/w250-h400/Just+to+be+Fair+Final+Front+Cover.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><span face=""Candara",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In
1985, we were naïve.<b><i><o:p></o:p></i></b></span><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Candara",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">No
one thought about school shooters.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Candara",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">No
one imagined a student<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Candara",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Bringing
a rifle to school<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Candara",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">To
commit murder.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Candara",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Until
the day<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Candara",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Stalker
met Cheetos<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Candara",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In
Puma Springs, Texas<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Candara",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And
their world changed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Candara",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span face=""Candara",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I
hope you’ll take a look at it. Here’s the link to the Amazon page:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span face=""Candara",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B093R7XRXF">https://www.amazon.com/dp/B093R7XRXF</a><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><br /></p>Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-23245996806197790632021-04-04T06:16:00.002-07:002021-04-04T06:16:30.548-07:00An Unexpected E-Mail<p align="left" class="MsoNormal"></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I put my email address at the back of all my novels,
inviting any reader who reached the end of the book to shoot me a message about
the book. Over the eight years and eight novels, I’ve received a few messages
from folks who wrote nice things about the book. Such notes always are
unexpected and always make my day. If there is anything writers crave, it’s a
pat on the back for our efforts. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Last week I received this email: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS0eCGH83xbna4ZYLv1Ic3FBgBBwANkVVeLmYlCN6myeHXt-_fcHm-GmhGxJh6gs7abite9WB6QNb5EzhzfHQ0yr813tapH8ut2R9tG_zRms_kY79gWwuCABuuI-LUe64CM2ZzjQENZo9k/s2048/Tangled+Honor+Final+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS0eCGH83xbna4ZYLv1Ic3FBgBBwANkVVeLmYlCN6myeHXt-_fcHm-GmhGxJh6gs7abite9WB6QNb5EzhzfHQ0yr813tapH8ut2R9tG_zRms_kY79gWwuCABuuI-LUe64CM2ZzjQENZo9k/w250-h400/Tangled+Honor+Final+Cover.jpg" width="250" /></a><i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I hope
all is well with you and your family. My name is M---- Miller and I
recently read Tangled Honor and I enjoyed the book especially the historical
connection. The book also has a personal connection, since I am a descendant of
Levi Miller's brother Johnson Miller. I have been conducting genealogical
research into Levi's interesting life and the lives of his parents. I recently
uncovered Levi's Will which provides clues and in some cases confirmation of
the identity of his parents and siblings. If possible, would you be able to
provide any additional information about Levi's life prior to the war. Thanks
again for the read! Have a great day.</span></i></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Blow me away. You see, Levi
Miller in my novel </span><b style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><i>Tangled Honor</i></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> is based on a real-life Levi
Miller who was an enslaved man, ‘owned’ by my ancestor McBride’s in Lexington,
Virginia. Twenty years ago, not long after discovering Levi Miller through a
1921 newspaper article at the time of his death, I wrote a magazine article
titled, “</span><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">JJ McBride, Levi Miller, and Me.”</i></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">During the Civil War, the
enslaved Levi Miller was the ‘body servant’—the personal slave—of my
great-great-uncle Confederate Captain JJ McBride. Here’s a post- war portrait of
old JJ.</span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ-ae5FjLlp40RGNSJV7kf4ppa8VDQMNumGGK4GmHGfR26W36PtKRngHVYhdVLjcb-oEvGGb_Yvhrcue3ioDswVE-OdsnC76mxrrLYYMxebt8XD6hIxIcrue1mSVFyWHLHOaVhyphenhyphenVwpRFpF/s2048/Uncle+JJ+Portrait+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1645" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ-ae5FjLlp40RGNSJV7kf4ppa8VDQMNumGGK4GmHGfR26W36PtKRngHVYhdVLjcb-oEvGGb_Yvhrcue3ioDswVE-OdsnC76mxrrLYYMxebt8XD6hIxIcrue1mSVFyWHLHOaVhyphenhyphenVwpRFpF/s320/Uncle+JJ+Portrait+001.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Captain McBride was twice seriously
wounded in battle and twice Levi Miller nursed him back to health. Most
remarkably, there is solid documentation that Levi Miller once fought with
Captain McBride’s infantry company (Co. C, 5</span><sup style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">th</sup><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> Texas Infantry),
defending a trench at Petersburg against an assault by Union soldiers, an
action so unusual it earned Levi approval for a Confederate soldier’s pension.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">The real Levi Miller is
listed in a US Census as being ‘Mulatto ’ having one white parent. In the times
of American southern slavery, the white parent would be the father. Go figure.
The diary of the historical Richmond socialite Mary Chesnut succinctly
addresses ‘the thing we cannot name’ within Southern culture.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="background: white; color: #272727; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Every lady tells you who is the father of all
the Mulatto children in everybody’s household, but those in her own, she seems
to think drop from the clouds or pretends so to think.”</span></i><i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, in my three ‘Honor’ novels about Captain
JJ McBee and Levi Miller during the Civil War, I took the literary license to
make the unmarried McBee the father of Levi Miller, Levi’s birth being the
unintended consequence of JJ’s coming-of-age tryst with an enslaved woman. My
speculation of a slowly-growing and reluctantly acknowledged father-son bond
between the two men is a central feature of the three novels. No doubt the
positive familial relationship I created between the two characters is absolute
utter fiction, but I think it made a good story, and such reflects the time and
place. As importantly, to me personally, perhaps it made me feel better about
my slave-owning ancestors to take a bare set of facts and spin a positive, if
fictional, connection beyond whatever was the actual case. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Back to Mr. M. Miller’s
email, I also feel really good that a member of Levi Miller’s modern family reached
out to me. We have traded some documents. He sent me a copy of Levi Miller’s
will. I sent him a disturbing handwritten list of slaves owned by my
3-great-grandfather, Isaiah McBride, all the children of a slave named Anna,
and I sent this old postcard from the Jim Crow era, promoting Levi Miller as a
‘Confederate soldier.’ <o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3nH50n3hRKmjlbKeWuu8vDZh38ZxWTgsfm0C0XvwHVSvLcr_pOd4stKf3ViKZ38626uMMWwWYlv8PsdMRbhMxRa0Eao3Rwaly6iaLpEgQOKwAx59f5j69DGVXIyoy8KS1jt5CmEYzDZy9/s320/levi_miller1b.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="197" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3nH50n3hRKmjlbKeWuu8vDZh38ZxWTgsfm0C0XvwHVSvLcr_pOd4stKf3ViKZ38626uMMWwWYlv8PsdMRbhMxRa0Eao3Rwaly6iaLpEgQOKwAx59f5j69DGVXIyoy8KS1jt5CmEYzDZy9/w246-h400/levi_miller1b.JPG" width="246" /></a></div><br /><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">So, an odd Easter morning
blog post. But the unexpected connection with my old family history has made
Holy Week one for me to remember.</span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"> And most importantly, remember, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Christ is Risen!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is risen, indeed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Have a great day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><o:p> </o:p></p><br /><p></p>Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-23619411792247151922021-02-24T06:46:00.000-08:002021-02-24T06:46:42.676-08:001937 - 1972 - 2021<p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Nita and I came through Texas’ ‘Deep Freeze’
of last week, having had to cope with only minor problems, like pouring buckets
of water into our commodes to make them flush because the city water system
failed in the freezing weather. We were lucky, and hope this was a once-only storm
in our lifetimes. Here are three of my favorite images of the Deep Freeze, all
pulled off the internet.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhslbgBpinbARtSGyBKT2IB1PtECrzAI6mJTZaiC51OrrIfoLFd5EY_nNucgJo3W4gYzfZ8jRigZY6JB6vVRaN3hcudrVIFrMErYiapimWCWlW1P516AdhlgXmhBxQ_bBowdBviGHZuGez3/s500/thirsty+cows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="260" data-original-width="500" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhslbgBpinbARtSGyBKT2IB1PtECrzAI6mJTZaiC51OrrIfoLFd5EY_nNucgJo3W4gYzfZ8jRigZY6JB6vVRaN3hcudrVIFrMErYiapimWCWlW1P516AdhlgXmhBxQ_bBowdBviGHZuGez3/w400-h208/thirsty+cows.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHz5uh6sT-8pY__Qbw7UiQeJXJyXaHHQiWOipwCOzNHxSxgtgBe6vK0ZlRpm8AinQoDH5luhgn8JJBJONRc50gMoMjua3dH_yGMqwT4Fm7-lSYool954pvl4n_CnhOLCQOMPbKQsde2LoC/s720/143857348_10160728937158502_1821681002272073962_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="720" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHz5uh6sT-8pY__Qbw7UiQeJXJyXaHHQiWOipwCOzNHxSxgtgBe6vK0ZlRpm8AinQoDH5luhgn8JJBJONRc50gMoMjua3dH_yGMqwT4Fm7-lSYool954pvl4n_CnhOLCQOMPbKQsde2LoC/w400-h295/143857348_10160728937158502_1821681002272073962_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYL8ot2QBxOkHPG0q2RXtY_ltE5xJAcZK3PFd2PQ78lSHtow9NUaWl6CA49IOxOXnCIOLW_LJ3kHCQV2KRmhw-CDNO7uO8O2uJziSfwAgu5FAsRwI-ClcNy9CPN7a2lBJnnPmClPCgq7wu/s720/139957277_4255051501178804_4653298030284129082_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYL8ot2QBxOkHPG0q2RXtY_ltE5xJAcZK3PFd2PQ78lSHtow9NUaWl6CA49IOxOXnCIOLW_LJ3kHCQV2KRmhw-CDNO7uO8O2uJziSfwAgu5FAsRwI-ClcNy9CPN7a2lBJnnPmClPCgq7wu/w400-h300/139957277_4255051501178804_4653298030284129082_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Yesterday, I found this image online
in a collection of 1930’s photographs taken by Arthur Rothstein, during the
Great Depression. It’s a striking portrait of a teenage boy in his ‘bedroom’
next to his mother in the ‘kitchen.’ They are migrant farm workers who followed
the harvest season from state to state. You can see the New Mexico license
plate and the wooden apple crate from Yakima, Washington. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioVrSs0qrxQ3NXC2ZveuXhieGzVo2Zylk3wZzFChBGvfUxwCqSz1M_4ZQ_blqTtiKjq5WW88x-FUz9I7ixSz70-T4E68wjHG4aUYgK3BEeJqX4ZY-5c7zg0936JTjzeIfoLlwtyB3v5Kb-/s1201/Migrant+workers+camping+1937.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="999" data-original-width="1201" height="532" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioVrSs0qrxQ3NXC2ZveuXhieGzVo2Zylk3wZzFChBGvfUxwCqSz1M_4ZQ_blqTtiKjq5WW88x-FUz9I7ixSz70-T4E68wjHG4aUYgK3BEeJqX4ZY-5c7zg0936JTjzeIfoLlwtyB3v5Kb-/w640-h532/Migrant+workers+camping+1937.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">That had to be a tough life, beyond
anything I can imagine. While my dad was a teenager during the depression, jobs
were scarce, but my grandfather had skills enough to find work in pattern
shops, even if that meant moving often, chasing the next job. Money was hard to come by, but still, they
lived in houses, not tents and the back of trucks. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The next photo is me under the
homemade wooden camper top on the old pickup truck which was the first ‘car’ Nita
and I owned as newlyweds. We lived in it
for a couple of months on our ‘honeymoon’ camping trip to see America in 1972.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizq4W5QsdMZdvbnwOFwomNofPsT4Y2gdSfB9DrGuwjT1Xb58HOdi_kx2o1HHPaN5sfL_Cs7IxoZTMYdptIFW1SRKrgQkMZy0AzzOskOZmSCfQFFi9YZvB8g6Hz0cBldrSmTrKQzodgXKry/s1397/Phil+%2526+Jenny+in+Camper+72+b+%2526W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="995" data-original-width="1397" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizq4W5QsdMZdvbnwOFwomNofPsT4Y2gdSfB9DrGuwjT1Xb58HOdi_kx2o1HHPaN5sfL_Cs7IxoZTMYdptIFW1SRKrgQkMZy0AzzOskOZmSCfQFFi9YZvB8g6Hz0cBldrSmTrKQzodgXKry/w640-h456/Phil+%2526+Jenny+in+Camper+72+b+%2526W.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There are some similarities in the two photos:
The old quilts, the lanterns, pieces of canvas, stuff in boxes. No bathroom. But the differences are of
course much bigger. We were ‘boomers’
who had been to college, tourists who didn’t have to pick apples or hops along
the way to buy groceries and gasoline. We had saved enough money for the trip—barely.
We even had our first bank credit card, co-signed by my dad—only to be used in
emergencies, he had stressed to me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">All this looking at two photographs
to say that Nita and I have been lucky. We were born in a good time, in a good
place, to parents who lived on really tight budgets, but still set high
expectations for us. (Our long honeymoon camping trip with no jobs waiting for
us must have bothered them, but they didn’t try to talk us out of it.) Even if we camped and were temporarily
‘homeless,’ Nita and I have no clue what life must have been like for those migrant workers living through the ‘30’s.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Look one more time at that teenage
boy and his mother, and imagine that setting is your home, with no improvement
on the horizon. Mercy.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Now look to the
far left of the 1937 photo. There stands a guitar case. Life may have sucked,
but somebody in that family made music anyway. Where there’s music, there’s
hope. I like that.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-46170897532280268032021-01-01T05:44:00.008-08:002021-07-23T05:41:19.156-07:002021--Thank God<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span> </span><span>I’m still here, even it’s been five months since I last blogged. I’ll blame 2020 for my negligence. I’ve not quit
writing, not even slowed down—except for the blog. I reckon that not doing most
of those things I do away from our house has been good for me in that one way,
at least. Being retired, my job hasn’t been threatened by COVID. But for
months, church stopped, Kiwanis Club meetings stopped, Civil War reenactments
stopped, other meetings turned into zoom episodes, and family visits decreased.</span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">Along the way, my daughter-in-law
caught COVID 19, but thankfully recovered after a mild case. Worse, my 99-year-old
dad passed away a week shy of his 100th birthday, which would have angered
him if he’d been aware of the timing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Since he was a WWII veteran, the Honor Guard from Bergstrom AFB honored
him with a flag-draped coffin and playing taps at his graveside. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8AboIKnUj7Bc9J70XsDJtVbO8Y2v9TCYwVeEZjkDp1FzdQu4mEA2whVevqWiBvnGCxFTaZwEivfuovBUq-d2BvXfLWfDAvdvl6Tmnq5ztgl62Gz47K4CkYtFImyGDHVGnQgtpOQamDDbY/s1280/Funeral+flag+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8AboIKnUj7Bc9J70XsDJtVbO8Y2v9TCYwVeEZjkDp1FzdQu4mEA2whVevqWiBvnGCxFTaZwEivfuovBUq-d2BvXfLWfDAvdvl6Tmnq5ztgl62Gz47K4CkYtFImyGDHVGnQgtpOQamDDbY/w640-h360/Funeral+flag+%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">A couple of months later, the last of my four uncles died at age 90, leaving my siblings and me as the ‘old wise ones’ in our clan. I’m not sure I’m up to that duty, since I’m no Gandalf or Moses with a magical staff. After that, wifey Nita and I are pleased to wake up this morning in the year 2021.</span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>The manuscript I’ve been hacking
away at for most the past year has nothing to do with the Civil War, early
Texas, or giant flying horny toads. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span>Nope, it’s me scratching an itch that’s bugged
me since 1999. That’s the year when a couple of high school students brought
guns to school, turned the school library into a fort, and murdered other students and teachers inside Columbine
High School in Colorado. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span>The first of several
horrifying school shootings over the next twenty years.</span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">I spent nine years as the principal
of a high school, and nothing, I mean nothing, more disturbs me than the thought
of a gun-wielding angry teenager, hell bent on murder, loose in my school. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, decades after my tenure as a high school
principal ended, and having gained some degree of expertise by writing other
novels, I’ve been creating a story about such a situation. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">It hasn’t been an easy task, as my story unfolded differently than I’d expected. That’s a funny thing I’ve learned
by doing, by writing fiction. I as the author am supposed to be in control.
After all, it’s my fingers, on my keyboard, taking orders from my brain. Yet, regardless of all that ownership of the moving parts and mental effort, characters
emerge who surprise me, situations play out differently than I’d intended, and the
tale told winds up different from the tale first imagined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My school shooter story is no exception.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">I set the story in 1984-85, during
a school year when I was a new-ish principal. Those years were before cell
phones, before the internet, before email and i-phones and texting. We didn’t
even use radios to communicate in my school. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Exterior doors were kept open all over campus,
we didn’t have a school police officer. Times were different, better in some
ways, worse in others, but, for sure, communication was primitive by today’s
standards, making the pathway of a school shooter much, much easier than now. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">Growing up in a small town in
east Texas, I had guns as a teenager. My friends and I would go down to the
Sabine River bottoms and ‘plink’ at cans and turtles sunning on logs in the
river, although I doubt we ever hit any turtles. I’m saying that to clarify it
was easy to decide what weapon I’d arm my shooter with in the year 1985—a Remington
Model 66 long rifle .22, one of Remington’s most popular guns. The Model 66’s,
made from 1959 to 1987, were semi-automatics, with a capacity of fourteen cartridges.
The cartridges were fed through a tunnel in the plastic butt stock, similar in
design to the Civil War Spencer repeating carbines.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">The Model 66’s are slow and
awkward to load, no clips or magazines to pop in and out, but they can
dependably shoot fourteen rounds with fourteen squeezes of the trigger. I had
one, and regret I accidentally left it at a friend’s place one weekend, someone
who I haven’t seen in many years, who now lives I know not where. So my personal
Model 66 is lost.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_95XWSCkbQ1rVeNq0bmCbbHJ3KWAo_KSPX4pOLBxKKQ5g5SSGgTdq68ozWp3UIAgLCEJ7XKDqO0cpX-4fOx_kG_ln7vFvQ0ykbcTg6uMU340O6vSjHPCpeqPaMqkVG4DYlOwkosPV7Cu/s800/Model+66+rifle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="238" data-original-width="800" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_95XWSCkbQ1rVeNq0bmCbbHJ3KWAo_KSPX4pOLBxKKQ5g5SSGgTdq68ozWp3UIAgLCEJ7XKDqO0cpX-4fOx_kG_ln7vFvQ0ykbcTg6uMU340O6vSjHPCpeqPaMqkVG4DYlOwkosPV7Cu/w640-h190/Model+66+rifle.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">While the weapon was easy to
choose, the murderous thoughts within the teenager on whom my tale focuses were
not easy at all to sort out and set down in writing. I mean, who knows what
turns a teenage kid into a teenage killer? I’m not talking about urban gangs,
where the malignant influences to violence are not big secrets. I’m talking
about a small town or country kid who slides into a figurative sucking
whirlpool and can’t find a way out. Like I said, a challenge.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">I can’t be a spoiler of my own
story, and even the title is still up in the air. The manuscript is still being
critiqued chapter-by-chapter by a circle of tough readers. It has been a tough
story to write, a fitting story to create in the tough year 2020. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">Stay tuned for an announcement about
the book in a month or two.</span><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-6823796401450371162020-08-09T10:48:00.000-07:002020-08-09T10:48:09.480-07:00A Rooster, A Bathing Lady, & A Church Window<p> </p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face="" style="font-family: "book antiqua", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">This
blog is all about one of my favorite, and most visited, tiny pieces of my
world. Yes, it’s the corner of our master bedroom bathroom where the toilet
resides. Over the years it’s grown into a little mini-shrine of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face="" style="font-family: "book antiqua", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_2dNsupoPWZXuynOIoJTtFDUCLCjVxT8Su29lpJUGd16t1THh8c8K86MORQc0wkyPa-qT97ozyAFXEEJhQzNQ9l6g6td5_xqw4pzy3SXq2hl2HGZA0hpCRQmgLtp0m0KgUvgMj-wLFS7x/s1920/Bath+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1031" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_2dNsupoPWZXuynOIoJTtFDUCLCjVxT8Su29lpJUGd16t1THh8c8K86MORQc0wkyPa-qT97ozyAFXEEJhQzNQ9l6g6td5_xqw4pzy3SXq2hl2HGZA0hpCRQmgLtp0m0KgUvgMj-wLFS7x/s640/Bath+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><p></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face="" style="font-family: "book antiqua", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Fittingly,
since I’m a southpaw, from left to right:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The stained glass in the wooden frame was salvaged from Urban Park
Methodist Church in Dallas where Nita and I were hitched back in 1972. The
church faded away and the building was razed some years back. Nita’s sister,
who was also married there, talked her way into buying or being given several
of the small stained glass windows. Our son Ben reframed the window, making a
maple frame to fit. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s colorful and
every day reminds me how lucky I am that Nitabird married me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dZwMqDpWCJTxqPfgprCKFPgSamkkHjaaG3HhH7TOkUK1BbBFMWDnVrDoyM_h4djaTImnaalo8k9lsbk8POKpJyGu8fvtX35oA0M8BM-TzLOSTXGlveQBvmh8jE4PtFG2T2SpW4vxoLNt/s2001/Bath+1.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1331" data-original-width="2001" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dZwMqDpWCJTxqPfgprCKFPgSamkkHjaaG3HhH7TOkUK1BbBFMWDnVrDoyM_h4djaTImnaalo8k9lsbk8POKpJyGu8fvtX35oA0M8BM-TzLOSTXGlveQBvmh8jE4PtFG2T2SpW4vxoLNt/s640/Bath+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face="" style="font-family: "book antiqua", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Next
is a late 1980’s poster of an art museum exhibit of Edgar Degas paintings in
Washington DC. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like hot baths and
bathing women, with and without strategically draped towels, and this
particular painting is modest for the French impressionist Degas. So, I bought
the poster and hung it near our bathtub. Some years later, perhaps owing to my
daily encounter with Degas’ bathing beauty, his fictional brother became a
character in <i>Whittled Away</i>, my first Civil War novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The historical French artist’s mother was in
fact an American Creole, so I created a plausible link in my story which
includes an ink drawing of a naked bathing lady drawn by Edgar Degas and mailed
to his fictional brother who was campaigning in the Confederate army. Maybe it’s
a stretch, but I like it and the teenage Texas soldiers in <i>Whittled Away</i>
really liked the bathing lady drawing. I mean, what's not to like?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG1ChAz5ptIUq-s-SNAHSJboqQMZ7IM19fNk6d4GK_xp1QuvjvrT3CAU7QTcYHo7kXb2DbI__XVhFzPA6fRq8exgVy4-YxAwkjSDj5WpKWCarfB8r6-xAjtkm10eYF70OoTZGe5PgBg2dF/s1872/BAth+3.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1872" data-original-width="1502" height="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG1ChAz5ptIUq-s-SNAHSJboqQMZ7IM19fNk6d4GK_xp1QuvjvrT3CAU7QTcYHo7kXb2DbI__XVhFzPA6fRq8exgVy4-YxAwkjSDj5WpKWCarfB8r6-xAjtkm10eYF70OoTZGe5PgBg2dF/w643-h800/BAth+3.jpg" width="643" /></a></div><p></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face="" style="font-family: "book antiqua", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Last
is the art deco-ish shelf over the toilet. On top is a bunch of miniature
wargaming soldiers I painted, and which carry the banner of the 17<sup>th</sup>
Texas Infantry, the Confederate regiment about which my most recent Civil War
novel, <i>With Might & Main</i>, is written.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face="" style="font-family: "book antiqua", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Behind
the little soldiers stands a giant rooster playing a guitar. No, he is not
Foghorn Leghorn or his cousin. This colorful bird arrived when Nita was being a
troubadour at several Methodist Church retreats called Walks to Emmaus. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somehow, the rooster just fits and makes me
smile.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face="" style="font-family: "book antiqua", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">On
the bottom shelf stand two big blue plastic Civil War soldier toys, both
painted by son Ben back when he was a little guy and wanted to do what daddy
was doing that morning—painting toy soldiers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face="" style="font-family: "book antiqua", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">In
front of the clock that came from my dad is another wargaming figure—a
Carthaginian war elephant I painted over 30 years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And flanking the elephant are two antique
lead toys, likely from England, a gift from my good neighbor Wayne.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face="" style="font-family: "book antiqua", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The
final gee-gaw on the shelf is the tall blue Egyptian cat. I don’t why it’s
there, I don’t even like cats. I’m a dog guy. We did go to Dallas to see a
travelling King Tut exhibit way back in time, so maybe we bought it there
because a mummy wouldn’t fit in the car trunk. Who knows.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face="" style="font-family: "book antiqua", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">If
this silly post merits a big raspberry, go ahead and toot. I won’t care. I
think I just needed to write something light-hearted and goofy to move past my
last post about my dad passing away. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks for reading it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face="" style="font-family: "book antiqua", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><span face="" style="font-family: "book antiqua", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-72349611804550750762020-08-05T07:21:00.001-07:002020-08-05T07:21:44.423-07:00On Monday We Buried My Dad<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We buried my dad, Frank
McBride, last Monday. He lived a hundred years, less a week-1920 to 2020. He
was a boy during the Roaring Twenties, a scrambling teenager during the Great
Depression when his family moved time and again as my grandfather hustled jobs.
When World War II started, Pop enlisted and became a soldier for four years,
spending two and a half years in Europe as a bomber ground crewman.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWp5r-9MUrYbvIsQNBvnE87QGH8jhCOG0WMYhqF3_Gg2d40C1H9cNl8pFQ5M6m08CwNN2UGHx8ykNT4HP9KBfltszNgFQD_kkPZjxuivZzmBpryMBfvw7VYb74i1clD8KGJBhRC2miSvGM/s319/Sgt+Pop+and+his+Planes+tighter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWp5r-9MUrYbvIsQNBvnE87QGH8jhCOG0WMYhqF3_Gg2d40C1H9cNl8pFQ5M6m08CwNN2UGHx8ykNT4HP9KBfltszNgFQD_kkPZjxuivZzmBpryMBfvw7VYb74i1clD8KGJBhRC2miSvGM/s0/Sgt+Pop+and+his+Planes+tighter.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Back home in Longview, Texas,
he worked forty years for LeTourneau Inc, a manufacturer of heavy earth moving
equipment and steel. His hobby was woodworking, making toys for his grandkids
and all manner of smallish things.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXcy-mGrq-InxKmH15tK20pPc1Ficx2JQxiEe1Qag5dyrSjOS_tOD8CA7MXhPwLNRh3PYk_wM2bdV_yZwAToQ0Et311dLfzbwznfdQH5_alI9KEbdPbwimR4naDmMpwDDZJ435x6oUq5J6/s542/B+and+F+1951+iah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="298" data-original-width="542" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXcy-mGrq-InxKmH15tK20pPc1Ficx2JQxiEe1Qag5dyrSjOS_tOD8CA7MXhPwLNRh3PYk_wM2bdV_yZwAToQ0Et311dLfzbwznfdQH5_alI9KEbdPbwimR4naDmMpwDDZJ435x6oUq5J6/s0/B+and+F+1951+iah.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Pop was a Christian
with a servant’s heart who delivered Meals on Wheels well into his ‘80’s,
volunteered at Good Shephard Hospital for decades, ran a woodworking class for elementary
schools kids at his church’s after-school program, and oversaw the youth
leadership training programs for the local Boy Scouts for years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a Methodist Lay Speaker who preached
at country churches, led a men’s Bible study, and went to the gym religiously. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He won a bout with
double pneumonia when he was 97, and last week when his strong good heart
finally had no more to give, my stepmother Della, my sister, my wife, and I were by
his side. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a peaceful ending to a long and remarkable
life. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHa2HbO8p3xyE_UV8-nXM7NpLQR77C-BEyC29SlY0NQuu_kaTmja_SZd2eVe9c-CGgdJgoutLCTLQs2Qlo3mMQVClw3bC30sgBhyV89WozSffCnNyKV9WTSPjbtsbbsaA6Aa_ZrHqxnwx/s1207/Pop+in+NO+with+kiss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1207" data-original-width="1120" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHa2HbO8p3xyE_UV8-nXM7NpLQR77C-BEyC29SlY0NQuu_kaTmja_SZd2eVe9c-CGgdJgoutLCTLQs2Qlo3mMQVClw3bC30sgBhyV89WozSffCnNyKV9WTSPjbtsbbsaA6Aa_ZrHqxnwx/w475-h512/Pop+in+NO+with+kiss.jpg" width="475" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Yesterday we were home
again, and I was lost in my thoughts about Pop and the funeral. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I glanced out the back window and caught sight
of two woodpeckers on a big oak tree in our back yard. The male had a fiery red
head. I called for five-year-old grandson Jackson who was spending the day with
us. We watched the birds working the tree trunk pecking for food, until they
flew away, likely headed to their hidden nest. Then Jackson and I went to the
computer to look at photos of woodpeckers and printed a drawing of one so he
could color it to show his mom and dad when they got home. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was thankful for the distraction of the
birds and for Jackson’s happiness at seeing them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLVIDuGlKhYEuANv_L1RLkhuGZnHoJSoJudmF7cl_UemMjis-7AruwcJAWoJ6vWeyC_oZeek6vJ4vk1ZhrB_IUTsQEsSXGyq2gXs5q_IGoY_SL1O1spkSOB0lOwaEw4KPb2Nvz-sdzDiBo/s1183/Funeral+flag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="1183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLVIDuGlKhYEuANv_L1RLkhuGZnHoJSoJudmF7cl_UemMjis-7AruwcJAWoJ6vWeyC_oZeek6vJ4vk1ZhrB_IUTsQEsSXGyq2gXs5q_IGoY_SL1O1spkSOB0lOwaEw4KPb2Nvz-sdzDiBo/s640/Funeral+flag.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I know it’s corny, but
the woodpeckers reminded me that Pop is through feeding his family, through working the tree trunk, pecking at things trying to make his piece of the world a little better. His
soul has flown away, and his remains lie inside a beautiful cedar casket, his
earthbound nest for a long, long time. God is good. <o:p></o:p></span></p><br />Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-67111368599044852372020-05-10T06:03:00.000-07:002020-05-10T06:03:07.408-07:00Loving the Socks off Each Other<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Since we
are into the third month of the Coronavirus response, and half of America is
out of work, waiting at home for better days and bored, I’m wondering if more
people than usual will read my blog post. I dunno.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Nita and
I have been empty-nesters since 2001 when our second son flew away to college.
After two decades of being just a couple again and a dozen years of being
retired from our careers, we have our routines. We have our quirks and our
silent signals. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">I talked about this in my last blog post, but here it is again: In January,
our older son asked if his family of four might temporarily live with us while
their new house is built, once the old house sells. We scratched our heads,
looked at each other, and thought for about two seconds before we said,
‘Sure.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We knew they’d be gone to work
and daycare all day five days a week. No problem. After all, we’re family. The
old house sold unexpectedly quickly so here they came. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Then,
after just one week of togetherness--‘Hello, Coronavirus. Goodbye, work,
goodbye daycare.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Ten
weeks later we have made new routines and are still tight as thieves because
we’ve followed the advice of one of our pastors when he said that sometimes to
get through ‘interesting times’ you just have to love the socks off each other. Nita and I do some daycare while our son and daughter-in-law work from home and attend
zoom meetings, but most assuredly, Nita and I are still grandparents to the
youngsters, not extra parents.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">We respect
each other’s privacy as we take informal turns having solo time with a book or
a TV or a nap behind a closed bedroom door, and that includes the five-year-old
and his Super Mario video games. I confess there are times when all four adults
have our eyeballs glued to i-phones, i-pads, or my laptop all at the same time.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">But we
also spend a fair amount of time on the back deck and yard, chatting, swinging
the kids, and even building campfires in the yard for burning marshmallows. The
parents take bike rides, the grandparents push the two-year old in the stroller
on leisurely walks. The five-year old grandson and I walk to the mailbox where
he’s learned to unlock our cubbyhole in the neighborhood mailbox. He’s always
looking for a new hand-drawn card and note from his preschool friend Miller. And he gardens with his grannie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsX5-mOywo5wFRWXo6JfGa6J_pPQwBEDIzaAT3npQvnIDMpQG-qXpH_A9c86xehiBlcRhh3U3BsQtRYooRFZEU7H5dOh6fIrMPqyc2YGK0ey6Kl9LpMAWDh0oY2zLcaM7Xr0FrCetJmHmk/s1600/ice+cream+teddy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1294" data-original-width="1600" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsX5-mOywo5wFRWXo6JfGa6J_pPQwBEDIzaAT3npQvnIDMpQG-qXpH_A9c86xehiBlcRhh3U3BsQtRYooRFZEU7H5dOh6fIrMPqyc2YGK0ey6Kl9LpMAWDh0oY2zLcaM7Xr0FrCetJmHmk/s400/ice+cream+teddy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">The
two-year-old brings us books about Thomas the Train and Putting dinosaurs to
bed and crawls into our laps to be read to. Each night after their bubble bath,
the little one stands nekkid on his stool and shouts, “TAAA-DAAA!” before he
allows his mother to wrestle him into his diaper and PJs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">The
living room floor is pretty much always full of lego creations or herds of dinosaurs
and school buses and trucks. The big coffee table is now the oval Lightning
McQeen racetrack We just don’t talk about the millions of food crumbs and drops of
blue yogurt that have landed on the rug.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">I
continue to write and Nita and I both carry on as we can with our volunteer and
church activities. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">It’s
like no time in our lives. Like a recess from regular life. We’ll all be happy
when the builder gives the keys to the brand new house to our son and his wife,
and the first couple of days after they move will most likely be blissfully—and
strangely—silent and empty at our house. And by the third day, we’ll miss the
socks off all four of them—even if they’re just a mile away in their own home
again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqOGrW6DTKWg-bc97pjxlOyPFqZ4sWJRBi0H8t7isnET3E1Ky4RK9CXTATcHu0uIHUemQQlYu-L8tkN9i4uJ2_lTPqbPLIfWKCYuU_MDx9RPbMz7uy-4NVOobsP70tTyV9qlpcw9C7KuUG/s1600/Dino+Stampede.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="874" data-original-width="1600" height="347" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqOGrW6DTKWg-bc97pjxlOyPFqZ4sWJRBi0H8t7isnET3E1Ky4RK9CXTATcHu0uIHUemQQlYu-L8tkN9i4uJ2_lTPqbPLIfWKCYuU_MDx9RPbMz7uy-4NVOobsP70tTyV9qlpcw9C7KuUG/s640/Dino+Stampede.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">But today
is Mothers Day and time to be thaw some steaks for grilling and for the son and
I to do what we can to pamper our wives all day and take care of the boys,
while the two wives/mothers smile knowingly at our ersatz efforts at mothering
for a day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-79710742221497965902020-04-11T06:49:00.001-07:002020-04-11T06:49:31.919-07:00Isolation x Six & Birdbrain<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><b><i>Happy Easter to all ya’ll.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rejoice! Christ Has Risen, He Has Risen
Indeed! </i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It’s the day before Easter. We’re all
hunkered down here in Lockhart—six of us in the same house where only four of
us have ever lived together before now. The Plague didn’t cause it though, we
invited Todd, Maggie, Jackson and Teddy to move in with us through the spring
and summer months while their new home is being built. We love them dearly, and
knew they would all be gone to work and preschool from 7 in the morning until 6
at night on weekdays until sometime in June, so Nita and I would still have our
quiet times during the days. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, we all
are here all day, every day, as Nita said, caught up in the movie <i>Groundhog
Day</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Nita and I are replaying a bit of our
early days of parenting, this time as backups to Todd and Maggie. Privacy is a
rare treasure. Smiles are sometimes pasted on, and a couple of grandparents
bite our tongues every now and then.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Yesterday we and our neighbors all
stood at the curb of a house across the street and sang Happy Birthday to a
pretty girl named Emma who turned 18 yesterday. And today we six will celebrate
grandson Teddy’s 2<sup>nd</sup> birthday in-house. And tomorrow, grandson
Jackson and Teddy will hunt for candy-filled eggs in the yard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Earlier this week, Todd and I replaced
a big piece of sheetrock in the garage ceiling. Not as dangerous to familial
love as Nita and I hanging wallpaper, but we had our moments. Still and all,
honestly, life together is going well, better than well. The four TV’s, untold
phones, i-pads, computers, and happy hours on the back porch don’t hurt, I
suspect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Besides doing a sloppy job of hanging
sheetrock, what I have done is finish<b> Birdbrain</b>, my somewhat
fictionalized tale of growing up in Longview, Texas from 1958 until 1963.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wrote it for the five grandkids as a
purpose-driven story of a boy’s ‘awakening’. It’s from the point of view of me
as a 13-year-old looking back at my prior five years.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It starts with the trauma of moving across
town and changing schools. There’s grade school bullying and junior high slam
books, trading disks with a girl, and the temptations of cheating at school.
Two different and mostly true encounters with snakes falling from above add
some spice. Confronting just-a-rock eight feet underwater becomes my highest
bar to hurdle. There’s rocket-men, Tony’s Sporting Goods Store, and real-life
murders on the TV. And more. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I can’t wait for our oldest
granddaughter Eva to read it as she is turning 10 this summer. Even if it’s written
with junior high kids’ vocabulary, my critiquing circle and my wife like it and
tell me it’s a good book for us grown-ups too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope you might give it a look. It’s not
Civil War. </span><span style="font-family: "segoe ui emoji" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">😊</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Here’s the link to <b>Birdbrain</b>
on Amazon. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/s?k=philip+mcbride+birdbrain&i=stripbooks&ref=nb_sb_noss">https://www.amazon.com/s?k=philip+mcbride+birdbrain&i=stripbooks&ref=nb_sb_noss</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-17237136045947900842020-03-23T13:47:00.001-07:002020-03-23T14:06:36.638-07:00Hair & The Moon<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Today is Monday and we
are house-bound like everyone else we know. Bless those who have important
public safety, medical, and food-chain jobs who are out there caring for the
sick and holding up the economy for the rest of us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My daughter-in-law, Maggie,
a public school counselor, is at our kitchen computer doing a lesson on planets
for our 5-year-old grandson and his same age cousin. I overheard her explaining
about the solar system and the moon before they went on the back deck and took
their planetary positions to rotate around her. She was Mother Sun of course. Here they are as astronauts heading to the moon.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That eavesdropping sent
me to find an old essay I wrote in 2001, before blogging was a thing. I wrote
it one evening after I had been at a school conference at which a retired
astronaut spoke to the general session. Not a lot has changed in 19 years to out-date
my thoughts, so please take a peek at my before-blogging blog:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Today I was in a room and
listened to a man who had walked on the moon. The Moon. In 1969, the Broadway
play <b><i>Hair</i></b> hit the news. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">While I was at UT, the library had a recording
of the original Broadway performance where some little gal longingly says, “Look
at the moon, look at the moon, look at the moon, look at the moon, look at the
moon, look at the moon…Look at the Moon.” It stuck in my head. Look at the
moon. And today, today, I was in a room with a guy who that very year walked on
the Moon. He-walked-on-the-Moon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The Moon, that white
sliver, the pearly disk in the night sky that has grown and shrunk and been the
focus of…what? Religions? Mythology? Pagan rituals? It grows and shrinks on a
schedule. It disappears for a few short minutes on a more mystical schedule. It
is untouchable. Unreachable. It is the…Moon. And I was in a big room with an
old man who 32 years ago threw his silver Astronaut medal as far as he could on
the Moon. On the Moon, ya’ll. On the Moon. Her threw his little pin across
yards of grit On the Moon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">How many people were alive
on planet Earth in 1969? How many billion? How many billions have lived on
Earth in the tens of thousands of years before 1969? How many people have
walked on the Moon? Damn few. Twelve. Of tens of billions. And I was in the
room with one of them. I could have walked up after his speech and shaken his
hand. A hand that had picked up rocks from the surface of the Moon. Go outside,
bend over, pick up a rock and think about picking up one on the Moon. Is it a
big “So What?” Maybe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Nah. It’s not a little thing,
what we did, our country, the only one in history to do so, and to be in a room
with one of the luckiest of the lucky people who made the trip, well, I was
flattered. Many kids ask themselves if God is closer from the Moon? Alan Bean
inferred not. His memory was that the Earth was so beautiful and so different
from any other planet we can detect, God just has to be closer right here on
Terra Nova. He said he stood on the Moon, and looked up at Earth with its blue,
white and green colors, and just wanted to go home. And since then he only says
thanks for what we have that the Moon and other planets do not: Weather,
traffic, other people, shopping centers, and on and on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So, today I was in a room
with a man who had walked on the Moon. So what if 400,000 other people put him
there. He went. And I felt privileged beyond reason. Just count the billions of
people alive and dead who never had the chance to be where I was today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Today I was in a room
with a man who walked on the Moon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-91319061838440044822020-03-06T12:19:00.001-08:002020-03-06T12:19:32.068-08:00The Alamo and Birdbrain<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Here it is March 6, <i>Remember
the Alamo </i>Day in Texas, and I’m writing my first blog post for 2020. In
1960, the year John Wayne’s Alamo movie hit the silver screen, I was in the
sixth grade. Jumping ahead a year, in Texas, seventh graders take a year of
Texas history. My Texas history teacher was one of only two women I’ve ever
known of whose name was ‘Lady Bird.’ Lady Bird Taylor was my Texas history
teacher, and Lady Bird Johnson was the wife of Texan Lyndon Johnson, then vice-president
of the USA. My conclusion was that ‘Lady Bird’ must be one of those deeply Texan
names, sort of like ‘Betty Lou,’ which was my mother’s name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I remember quite clearly
that Lady Bird, my teacher, cried in class in honor of the fallen
heroes the day we studied the Alamo. And she fussed about the use of profanity
(damn) in the movie, angry that Hollywood dared desecrate our Texas shrine with
such language. For her sake, I hope Lady Bird Taylor passed on before she went
to movies in the decades to follow. Safe to say she would have been rudely
jolted by the language and nudity that the films of the late 60's and 70's brought to us..<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Back to the Alamo, I’m a
big fan of movie poster art, so enjoy this one of the Duke as Davy Crockett.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeSI1OAPqIy9TDieAAlEjeY1IucsRuLcoiYCgrnYeSC2LaURB9LiGBqR_qsx14Rd948CKOQ1ALf-0L7p__PUUTHR2jRn0q5kAY-sT1oMgCZOwTleFWUKORphzX9ynkI0_fOn-vQBRyQLyZ/s1600/Opening+Birdbrain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1254" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeSI1OAPqIy9TDieAAlEjeY1IucsRuLcoiYCgrnYeSC2LaURB9LiGBqR_qsx14Rd948CKOQ1ALf-0L7p__PUUTHR2jRn0q5kAY-sT1oMgCZOwTleFWUKORphzX9ynkI0_fOn-vQBRyQLyZ/s400/Opening+Birdbrain.jpg" width="312" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Otherwise, on this <i>Remember
the Alamo</i> day, I received the proof copy of <b>Birdbrain</b>, my newest novel.
I had just come in from the gym this morning when the padded envelope arrived
on our doorstep, so pardon my Luckenbach, Texas t-shirt and rumpled hair. I get
excited about opening the package hiding the paperback proof of a new novel. The proof is not a baby, and I’ve already seen images of the cover and the interior
formatting, but there’s nothing like holding the actual first copy in my grubby
hands and gloating over the fact that I made this little blue paper rectangle.
Well, me and Amazon made it. (That should be Amazon and I made it, but in my
13-year-old narrator writing voice, ‘me’ goes before ‘them.’)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I wrote about <b>Birdbrain</b>
in my last post of 2019, so please read the post under this one. <b>Birdbrain</b>
is short, only half the length of my adult novels. It’s written in the voice of
a 13-year-old boy—me--way back in years from 1958 to 1963. No sex, no teasing
about sex, few big words we writers like to toss around. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I admit it has been fun and challenging to
write a story for kids, in the voice of a kid who thinks he’s not a kid at 13.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My family does visit the Alamo during a summer vacation in <b>Birdbrain.</b> I'd didn't have to stretch my reaction to being awe-struck, not so much by the site, but by the huge toy soldier diorama of the battle that was on display in the souvenir store.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I’ll put up another blog
post when I’m done proofreading and editing <b>Birdbrain</b>. My circle of
critiquers are still hacking at it chapter by chapter, all of them trying to
read it like they are kids again themselves, but still catching the adult
nuances of writing good fiction and pointing out to me what needs fixing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Meanwhile, the trees are busting out
in green all over little Lockhart. Grandson Jackson starts his second try at
playing youth soccer tomorrow. His first season last spring was less than
stellar, but he did pick some pretty flowers while the others were chasing the
ball. </span><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Emoji",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol-ext; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: "Segoe UI Emoji";">😊</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> We’re hoping tomorrow he’ll be less
focused on nature and more focused on sport. We’ll see. Have a great March.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-74744020059223444592019-12-30T06:21:00.004-08:002019-12-30T06:21:56.185-08:00Bullies Are Still Bullies<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">As the decade ends
tomorrow, my current novel-writing project is sort of a <i>Happy Days</i> TV
show look into the past, but not to teenagers of the 1950’s, but to my own
childhood in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s. It’s a purpose-filled novel
aimed right at my oldest granddaughter Eva who is turning ten next summer. You can see she is at home on the stage. She also loves
books and reading and seems to understand that her Granddaddy Phil writes
books. But she’s not a Civil War nut, and even my dragon story is still too old
for her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I confess that I’m
vain about my efforts at novel writing, and I want my five grandkids all to
read something their grandpa wrote. For some reason, I want them to know I was
kid once upon a time. So, I’m writing <b><i>Birdbrain</i></b>, a
semi-autobiographical narrative about me when I was in the fourth through
seventh grades. I’m writing in the first person in the voice of a thirteen-year-old
looking back at his period of ‘awakening.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">So far, it’s not
been hard to zero in on matters that mattered to me back then, and most likely
still matter to granddaughter Eva and will matter in a few years to the younger
ones, both the girls and the boys. Bullies are still bullies. Meanness still
surfaces. Friendships rise and fall. Teachers are still godlike. Cheating at
school is still a temptation. Siblings remain our best friends and sometimes
worst enemies. Boys and girls still become inexplicably attracted to each
other. Mama is still the rock, the queen of home, and there’s still no place
like home, as Dorothy so famously told my parents in the 1930’s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I have included at
least one issue in <b><i>Birdbrain</i></b> which didn’t impact me back then, as
far as I knew as a boy living in that time and place. But the issue actually
was having a profound stifling effect on the town where I lived and had a huge ‘awakening’
impact on our whole country in the years ahead. I grew up in a segregated
world. The only nonwhite person I ever spoke to as a boy was Aunt Cleo’s maid.
Seriously. And I couldn’t omit that then-unrealized slice of my sheltered young
life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Thankfully, my
grandkids’ world is different. Granddaughter Eva attends an elementary school
in a Dallas suburb in which there is no majority racial/ethnic group. African-Americans,
Hispanics, Asians, and mid-Eastern students are her friends and classmates. I
love it. But such was not the case in 1958 in Longview, Texas. Trust me on
that. So <b><i>Birdbrain</i></b> includes a fictional up-close <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>reckoning with the pervasive racist beliefs
and laws that kept white kids ‘protected’ from black people where I grew up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Since <b><i>Birdbrain</i></b>
is a family story which includes two grandmothers, and we are only hours from
2020, here is a photo from 1920, a hundred years ago, of my grandmother Mary McBride
holding my newborn dad.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP1zKtX5OMRnei2c92MhpQWm5OXHno5vVhiwPsRjI1Uyqt7WjqWMLcWRuGL6wy_ySTGmEY0JcnGcsLmSAvwur7uBoyU7-kCOD_ijf0Grq6Hm2IcryW30IZNnWLaK_5ifPDo5b64Zw8pGmf/s1600/pop%252C+david%252C+and+mother+mary+1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="326" data-original-width="237" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP1zKtX5OMRnei2c92MhpQWm5OXHno5vVhiwPsRjI1Uyqt7WjqWMLcWRuGL6wy_ySTGmEY0JcnGcsLmSAvwur7uBoyU7-kCOD_ijf0Grq6Hm2IcryW30IZNnWLaK_5ifPDo5b64Zw8pGmf/s640/pop%252C+david%252C+and+mother+mary+1920.jpg" width="464" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Mommy’ as we called her, was never the huggy, gushing sort
of granny, but she lived near us, and I spent time with her and remember her fondly,
including her waxing my smart-aleck ass in games of dominos, not throwing games
just to keep me interested. Probably, those domino games were a catalyst for my being sure <i><b>Birdbrain </b></i>includes lessons in losing and falling flat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Jumping ahead
fifty years, here’s my family in 1952 or so, the cast of characters in <b><i>Birdbrain</i></b>,
with Aunt Cleo who also makes an appearance. I’m the little brother in the
picture. And since I’m a chubby old man now, I’m stunned by how slender, some
would say how skinny, my dad was back then. Mercy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">For the sake of rounding
out a century of our little branch on the McBride family tree, here is a
favored photo of 2019. It’s grandson Rory with his great-grandpa Frank, who was
the baby in the 1920 photo. Pop will cross the 100 mark this August, and I
believe he really will make it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And because it’s
my last blog post of the decade, #156 as if anyone but me cares, here’s a
closing picture of me and Teddy, my youngest grandchild, at the beach last
summer. Gotta love the grands. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpPydCusrLdjqvI9Fim5_CLIMMi4oS0cKELjzrMkw_ltp8vpfBCDyrnA6r2aG7TBCtZ1gWWicyfRWL6_vw8IuFK46qlTBA61DUVSm0RC8kZoyb21zKug1Bl-Wa4ieqIMNFMxJT1U5jZ0G9/s1600/Teddy+%2526+granddaddy+at+b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1171" data-original-width="1600" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpPydCusrLdjqvI9Fim5_CLIMMi4oS0cKELjzrMkw_ltp8vpfBCDyrnA6r2aG7TBCtZ1gWWicyfRWL6_vw8IuFK46qlTBA61DUVSm0RC8kZoyb21zKug1Bl-Wa4ieqIMNFMxJT1U5jZ0G9/s640/Teddy+%2526+granddaddy+at+b.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><b>Happy New Year!</b> May
the decade of the 2020’s be a wonderful one for you and yours. Nita and I will just
have to get over that we’ll both be eighty when the new decade ends, but then
again, we understand that old is better than dead, and dead isn’t really dead
for followers of the Way. We’re good. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-38373359520645521712019-10-23T09:22:00.000-07:002019-10-23T09:22:04.008-07:00Girl Meets Dragon Diorama<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Last week, I visited my brother who lives in Chattanooga. I bet that I’m the only old man around
who can ask his brother—an even older old man—if he might dig out a pair of
plastic dragon wings for me to use for a project. Of course, Johnny dug around
in several boxes of fantasy wargaming stuff until he found just the brace of
big brown bat-wings I was hoping for. When I picked up a metal miniature of a dying
horse from a pack of Custer’s Last Stand cavalrymen, he said sure, take it.
Then he dug around some more and offered me a miniature of a slender hands-on-hips
young lady in a floor length dress and long tresses. Three for three.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Back at home I fetched my zoo-store-purchase
plastic horny toad, drilled holes into her back for the wing-studs, and repainted
the miniature horse and gal. After a trip to Hobby Lobby for a $3 wooden oval
base, I put the pieces together for a tasty <b><i>‘Girl Meets Dragon’ </i></b>diorama.
See the pics. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Ksoye1dJRLnD5-rdGb-zVH0Izl79IZv9dkOBmmZZJxnGXMDYlWr0OeqQjFwNDY4A8dkf-xUz4efY6peOKoeDGhWE201c3fPRcgR6mMLCcLMA2iXedFWvr5GkwGH0P2m3fnCwBqJs9ZkW/s1600/Girl+Meets+Dragon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="872" data-original-width="1600" height="347" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Ksoye1dJRLnD5-rdGb-zVH0Izl79IZv9dkOBmmZZJxnGXMDYlWr0OeqQjFwNDY4A8dkf-xUz4efY6peOKoeDGhWE201c3fPRcgR6mMLCcLMA2iXedFWvr5GkwGH0P2m3fnCwBqJs9ZkW/s640/Girl+Meets+Dragon.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It’s not just a ‘<b><i>Girl Meets
Dragon’</i></b> vignette. It’s a <b>“<i>Leine Meets Mally Standing Over the
Dead Carcass of Marble, Mally’s Prized Appaloosa Filly</i></b>” vignette. Over
Mally’s strenuous objections, poor Marble became Leine’s supper, putting girl
and horny-toad dragon off to a rocky start to their budding friendship.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The diorama will go with me to the
weekend living history festival near Houston called <i>Texian Market Days</i>.
I’ll have my book stall set up on vendor row, earnestly peddling my novels and
my co-authored non-fiction history book. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m hoping that perhaps the little 3-D display
will draw enough attention to sell a few copies of <b>A Different Dragon
Entirely. </b></span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">I’m even more hoping that folks
strolling by my book stall will buy some copies of my new Civil War novel, </span><b style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">With
Might & Main. </b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">While I do truly enjoy chatting with
folks, hawking my books at outdoor events, the fact is that <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>relentless self-marketing is one of those necessary
facets of independently publishing one’s novels. It’s great having my books on
Amazon’s online bookstore, but unless Oprah chooses one of them for her book
club, those face-to-face sales are important.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Since it's mid-October and the Houston Astros are in the
World Series, and their best player is a guy named Altuve who is as short as I
am, which is really unusual in the Big Leagues, here’s an old photo of me
during my Little League days in the early sixties. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifFCn9owdlZqUFzHPUj3cCpErNrgXq3WFtEjwtf_H8l6OnPrJGBKbXsTevgH2-z8mK5Yzjne0rLkfrWUaa1Oe-q4p0e60Gw8EEBfDNHsHZBOwiOIAS27IITsdym23oAnC9n283lZJ99QjF/s1600/Phil+the+Little+Leaguer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1094" data-original-width="795" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifFCn9owdlZqUFzHPUj3cCpErNrgXq3WFtEjwtf_H8l6OnPrJGBKbXsTevgH2-z8mK5Yzjne0rLkfrWUaa1Oe-q4p0e60Gw8EEBfDNHsHZBOwiOIAS27IITsdym23oAnC9n283lZJ99QjF/s640/Phil+the+Little+Leaguer.jpg" width="464" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was probably the worst
Little League player in my town or in any town. I was truly bad, but I enjoyed
putting on the duds. Maybe that’s why I enjoyed two decades of being a Civil
War reenactor. And not to mention they don’t keep score in reenacting. </span><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Emoji",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol-ext; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-symbol-font-family: "Segoe UI Emoji";">😊</span><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Happy Halloween.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-63407674748920227182019-09-14T14:53:00.002-07:002019-09-14T14:53:43.201-07:00Stacks of Books<b><span style="font-family: "cambria" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">With Might & Main</span></b><span style="font-family: "cambria" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> is for
sale on Amazon!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b>With Might & Main</b>
is for sale on Amazon! Whew, I’m happy to say that. I’m hoping it’s my best
book yet.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiirXlhEsdVdI_6dUMhcTcBKx1tofyR_bpjtg1z8ht9wEExRXAgezdtdkjGDieXNXGTXjYNtP-dtXux8j-TJe6z4jvR5mzlDCTU7EqNP66AAyUy_op3rZx2z5-BxOocnwIhuGVVakHRNJ_E/s1600/Book+Tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="821" data-original-width="763" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiirXlhEsdVdI_6dUMhcTcBKx1tofyR_bpjtg1z8ht9wEExRXAgezdtdkjGDieXNXGTXjYNtP-dtXux8j-TJe6z4jvR5mzlDCTU7EqNP66AAyUy_op3rZx2z5-BxOocnwIhuGVVakHRNJ_E/s640/Book+Tree.jpg" width="593" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "cambria" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I’m a tree hugger and I love
books, so this photo probably shows the best dead tree anywhere. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "cambria" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The tall stack of wooden books
prompted me to pull off the bookcase the volumes I used to research <b>With
Might & Main</b>. In comparison, my books about the Civil War in Louisiana
in 1863 and 1864 are a short stack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMO5J9MvV2xtR5E25-16MHaAt2QHjYr7nagmVf0bHdnrDIYH8YbDGcRUVjA7qvBlWaoBEJpx19VcfENALZY7HBDWv3QBMTgBfU7jauAluX1KZXKTySNwK6lB3KSXZF_WxZFsutSE4A61DP/s1600/WM%2526M+Book+Stack+with+Flying+Pig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1496" data-original-width="1226" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMO5J9MvV2xtR5E25-16MHaAt2QHjYr7nagmVf0bHdnrDIYH8YbDGcRUVjA7qvBlWaoBEJpx19VcfENALZY7HBDWv3QBMTgBfU7jauAluX1KZXKTySNwK6lB3KSXZF_WxZFsutSE4A61DP/s640/WM%2526M+Book+Stack+with+Flying+Pig.jpg" width="523" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "cambria" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It
would be a much taller stack if I could have figured out how to include the
many online websites I used. It bothers me a little that those sources exist
only in my laptop, but boy, were they helpful in ‘digging deep’ after some bit
of arcane information.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "cambria" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The cover image of <b>With Might
& Main</b> is a remarkable small painting that is also a poignant primary
source. The painting is a rendition of the Battle of Milliken’s Bend, a small engagement,
almost lost to history. Milliken’s Bend was a landing on the west side of the
Mississippi River, a few miles upriver of Vicksburg. There, on June 7, 1863,
while the siege of Vicksburg was ongoing, an all-Texan force of Confederates
assaulted a similar-sized garrison of Union soldiers who had fortified a
section of flood control levees.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPI30zRnJABiLfXXjdTo8zkoVRU24bjOxRvdql3vxCiyJOaTfKMAXwMK-CeezEzlFK-AxQL5PIe7H4UOu0dU8RxO8rniD4wUwNSFGK2BlYkjiaK0mlVU2uxAL973oaALKTL5bAHWy7K7XU/s1600/Batey+Painting+for+Cover+of+WMM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="527" data-original-width="601" height="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPI30zRnJABiLfXXjdTo8zkoVRU24bjOxRvdql3vxCiyJOaTfKMAXwMK-CeezEzlFK-AxQL5PIe7H4UOu0dU8RxO8rniD4wUwNSFGK2BlYkjiaK0mlVU2uxAL973oaALKTL5bAHWy7K7XU/s640/Batey+Painting+for+Cover+of+WMM.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "cambria" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The painting is the work of a
19-year-old Texas soldier who was wounded in the hip during the Texans’ attack.
After he fell, he sat and watched the hand-to-hand fighting on top of the
levee. After the battle, he was taken to a field hospital where he created the
painting while a patient in the hospital. The young soldier was named David
Batey. He was a private in the 17<sup>th</sup> Texas Infantry and lived near
Bastrop, Texas before the war. He died in the field hospital of his battle
wound, probably from infection, which is a slow and painful way to go. Someone
saved his painting and somehow it was returned to his family. A fold is
visible, suggesting it was mailed. A relative of Private Batey still has it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "cambria" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">While Private Batey’s painting is
primitive, it also is chock-full of clearly defined details. Batey portrays
many of the Rebel soldiers wearing red shirts and suspenders rather than gray
jackets. Muskets are upended being swung as clubs. There are ‘bombs bursting in
air’ and billowing smoke from two steamboats behind the levee in the river. A
Confederate soldier is waving a captured Union flag. The bloody dead and
wounded litter the ground.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "cambria" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">All in all, the image is a fairly spectacular
painting of the small vicious battle at a location that has since been covered
over by a course change of the Mississippi River. You can’t walk the ground or
climb the levee where 1,400 white Texans and a like number of black freedmen
from Louisiana went at each with ‘hammer and tongs’ in the first battle for all
of them. But you can look at the battle in color from the viewpoint of gallant
Private Batey and imagine being there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "cambria" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And you can make my day by ordering
<b>With Might & Main</b> to read during the interminable ads during football
games on TV. </span><span style="font-family: "cambria" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Here is a link to my author’s
page on Amazon where any of my novels can be ordered.</span></div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Philip-McBride/e/B00HPM46A6">https://www.amazon.com/Philip-McBride/e/B00HPM46A6</a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "cambria" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "cambria" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Let me see, should I buy a
Whataburger to eat during the game or McBride’s new book? Choices, choices.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-38054814548908645372019-08-26T05:21:00.001-07:002019-08-26T05:21:53.851-07:00Women and Children<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We visited the Houston Museum of
Fine Art last weekend. The temperature was about a thousand degrees and humid
as only the Gulf Coast can get in August, and after walking just a few blocks, the air conditioning in the museum was wonderful. We saw a lot of art
and artifacts from all over. But one artifact attached to a wall in a great big
shadow box unsettled me. Look at the photos.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_FYR9bkH3C76eaLcXu2Qced3bVeq4wg1cfLYJPDPHfRHvJb_6rhnteCeIMtjOZkTiMy7d21WHBt41qnzskesp-5369cT8Ff8qzHgXG60sgustnaYRjXMEpwaUL8Wb1FKSS0o6HhHfoT3H/s1600/Girl+Mummy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_FYR9bkH3C76eaLcXu2Qced3bVeq4wg1cfLYJPDPHfRHvJb_6rhnteCeIMtjOZkTiMy7d21WHBt41qnzskesp-5369cT8Ff8qzHgXG60sgustnaYRjXMEpwaUL8Wb1FKSS0o6HhHfoT3H/s640/Girl+Mummy.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqYt1Nzuwl3CowkYNHydkE96KdYt9U4XP40vbr_pi07kmuU4cFcymBe7k8zAxbJ2Xnp8zUwjIUjJTboYmCD5ein9YBTCsL9gpPqGypBvLpOz7BVsxj2d37uGoOfNCaTa68F7Entcju3Gj6/s1600/Mummy+girl+close+up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1555" data-original-width="1600" height="619" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqYt1Nzuwl3CowkYNHydkE96KdYt9U4XP40vbr_pi07kmuU4cFcymBe7k8zAxbJ2Xnp8zUwjIUjJTboYmCD5ein9YBTCsL9gpPqGypBvLpOz7BVsxj2d37uGoOfNCaTa68F7Entcju3Gj6/s640/Mummy+girl+close+up.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Look at the strips of linen that are interlaced over the child’s face, hinting at her facial
features. Maybe creepy, maybe just poignant. The strips of cloth also remind me of the lattice-work crust my mother would put on
her apple pies. The painting on her chest represent her heart and her parents—grieving
parents I would imagine. Parents who spent a lot of money to prepare and bury
their daughter for eternity. I’m glad they don’t know she is now a wall exhibit
half a world away. I have granddaughters who are not much older than this four-year-old
mummified Egyptian girl who died 2,000 years ago, whose earthly remains now
adorn a museum wall in Houston, Texas. I hope that 2,000 years from no earth
girl’s carefully wrapped remains wind up adorning a museum wall on Mars or
somewhere half a galaxy away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Going back 155 years, not 2,000
years, look at another photo. This is Sarah Katherine Stone, a young woman who
was raised on Brokenburn Plantation in Louisiana. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVv7frKOyAbJOpiU35fW9IQ76TPTtpKs8555GDQCUZp1-gdf8aeFDTjiAJ130KvCbquevB5skWPp6GQg4QF-DY-lvfyjsP0tolCkXrbCCjoIFSqZH0lb8U6vBrET90HrHqOym8pvYETYSZ/s1600/Photo_of_Sarah_Katherine_Holmes_Stone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="285" data-original-width="200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVv7frKOyAbJOpiU35fW9IQ76TPTtpKs8555GDQCUZp1-gdf8aeFDTjiAJ130KvCbquevB5skWPp6GQg4QF-DY-lvfyjsP0tolCkXrbCCjoIFSqZH0lb8U6vBrET90HrHqOym8pvYETYSZ/s400/Photo_of_Sarah_Katherine_Holmes_Stone.jpg" width="280" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">She was about 20 years old
when the Civil War started. In 1853, she became a war refugee. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>who fled to Tyler, Texas, where it was safer.
Not an unfamiliar theme, continuing to the present day wherever war happens.
Civilians where the fighting erupts, bug out. One difference is that the Stone
family, led by Katherine’s widowed mother, left their home with a good number
of their slaves, which constituted a huge portion of their wealth as Southern
planters. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Miss Stone was a diarist and journal
writer, who wrote about the terrible war being waged around her home and how it
was affecting her one family. Her daily entries reveal feelings and intelligent
reflections as multi-layered as the wrappings covering the little mummified Egyptian girl’s
face.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">They reveal a young plantation belle who had to ride through the night to
escape an invading army. They reveal a person of wealth who bemoans the loss of
the comforts and trappings of wealth. They reveal a girl scared of the violent
behavior of freed slaves. But her words also reveal a level of grit and
perseverance that are commendable.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I used Miss Stone’s journal as inspiration
for one of the few women characters in <b>With Might & Main</b>. Several of
her journal entries are included, as I’ve put a primary source quote at the
beginning of each chapter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In contrast to the character inspired
by Miss Strawn, I’ve created Olive, a young woman born into plantation slavery
who was designated as playmate, companion, and later the personal servant of her
white mistress. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their story and relationship
are only sidebars to the military tale of <b>With Might & Main</b>, but the
two women do open a gate for highlighting the civilian side of a complicated
time in war-ravaged Louisiana. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I’ve finished the rough manuscript
of <b>With Might & Main</b>, and hope the editing will be done in time for
an end of September book release. Hope you will stay tuned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1356906336724982932.post-65582112249006240262019-07-29T15:55:00.000-07:002019-07-29T15:55:18.306-07:00Lizards, Rhinos, and Waffling<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That’s me, but the critter on my
shoulder is not Leine, the star of my last novel, <b>A Different Dragon
Entirely</b>. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqnv_s6cqVJeGvyxdf4d9iVMFe25_8AlslgssP4J_NXyosDHi0iqasTi5PUwgjInFGQnjyz76TywK437V-xy3fDYr9IHTsovWrSIvbERQ7gipqJwMCml8n5z9v6kp8RM2iIA2PCjxgv896/s1600/Blog+Faux+Leine+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="813" data-original-width="1407" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqnv_s6cqVJeGvyxdf4d9iVMFe25_8AlslgssP4J_NXyosDHi0iqasTi5PUwgjInFGQnjyz76TywK437V-xy3fDYr9IHTsovWrSIvbERQ7gipqJwMCml8n5z9v6kp8RM2iIA2PCjxgv896/s640/Blog+Faux+Leine+.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Smaug is the critter’s name, and Smaug hales from Australia and
belongs to my grand-nephew Archer.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Smaug
is not a Texas horny toad as Leine is, he’s longer and has no horns at all on
head or torso. He can scuttle with great exuberance across the carpet, and he
does cling with authority to one’s shoulder with his spatula-type feet and claws.
He has holes in the side of head, which I suppose are ears. But he doesn’t squirt blood from his eyes to deter predators like Texas horny toads do, and he
certainly isn’t cabin-size and able to float and fly like Leine. And as much as
I tried to commune with Smaug via telepathic Latin, I never got so much as a
grunt from him/her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For all those differences, I
found Smaug to be a delightful faux-Leine during our weekend visit to Archer’s
house. Archer is named Archer because his parents are both nuts for fantasy
books, a genre in which a good archer is pretty much required for any company
of main characters who take on all sorts of beasties. So, we have a teenage
Archer in our McBride clan now, and Archer has his own mini-dragon named Smaug.
I don’t know if Archer can handle a bow and launch an arrow that will take out
the eye of a charging warg, but he beat me in a chess game when he was ten, and
was on his school’s chess team. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Since this post started with a
lizard named Smaug, Part 2 features a nameless two-headed rhino I found on the
internet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I showed this one to four-year-old grandson Jackson who couldn’t wrap
his head around it until I used two of his identical toy woolly mammoths to
demonstrate the illusion of a big critter who doesn’t seem to know if he’s
coming or going. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Not knowing if one is coming or
going is one of the norms of modern life in which we all face too many demands,
too many choices, and too many magical electronic gizmos we call ‘devices’
these days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Which way to go’ was also a
decision made every day for a few months for the three ranking Confederate
generals in Louisiana in the spring of 1864. That’s where my company of main
characters (who are archerless) find themselves in <b>With Might & Main</b>.
They are marched hither and yon, all over much of Louisiana for weeks, as the
Confederate brain trust grapples with how to stop an invading Union army that
is three or four times its size and supported by a strong fleet of river-born
ironclad gunships.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The climax of <b>With Might &
Main</b> reflects the surprising historical outcome of those Rebel generals’
dilemma. Rather it will, as soon as I quit acting like a two-headed rhino and
make my own final charge to get the climax written.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I tend to waffle when it comes to
letting my fingers on the keyboard finally decide which of my beloved
characters needs to die in battle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I hope August starts well for
you, and I get down to business and finish <b>WM&M</b> before Labor Day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Philip McBridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06188433158475084659noreply@blogger.com0