A Takes A Village (Part 2)

There I stood, stupefied.  I wanted to run, but I was too scared.  I knew Mrs. Cavellini could catch me like she caught the others, and that would only would make it that much worse for me.

She was in her early '40's then.  Dark hair and olive skin.  She was short, but with a lithe and athletic build. Her green eyes seem to go right through you when she was angry, which seemed to be always.

She walked towards me, stopping about 2 feet away.

"Why do you kids do this?!"  She said in her slightly accented English. "I tell you no play here but you play anyway!"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Cavellini. I didn't...." She cut me off before I could finish my sentence.

It Takes A Village (Part 1)

I was relating a funny story to my son about something that happened to me when I was a boy his age. After telling it, he said I should write about it, so here is it is.

Kids today are spoiled. You can't even yell at kid without someone butting in and telling you are abusive.  Some people raise eyebrows just to the fact you looked at your child at what is perceived as a menacing manner.

When I was a young boy, I was lucky if I even got to my mom intact if I did something boneheaded.

Here is one example on what I mean.

A View From Afar (Part 2)

Carrie paused a moment, trying very hard not to loose her composure. She wipes her eyes with a napkin, then straightens her form out, sitting back further in her chair.

"I'm sorry".  A glint of embarrassment showed in her face.

"It's okay."  That all I could say, a little anxious about on how this was going. I put my open left hand, facing palm up, on the table. She placed her small hand in mine. She squeezed with a strength that surprised me, with all the power her small lithe frame could muster.

"I wasn't always like this, you know."  She said.  Her face seemed to show the frustration I know had to be there.

The Genesis Of A Muse

As long as I have been writing, something has inspired me to put the words down one way or the other. My very first time I tried a hand in writing something creative, I scribed a poem for a pretty girl in my class. 

Her name was Carmen and I thought I would marry her, something that usually doesn't cross the mind of a ten year old boy. She moved away soon after, but I wrote a few stories on how she was a princess and I was the knight that rescued her.

So that was my first muse. 

A Boy's Best Friend (Part 1)

I was running through my neighborhood a few weeks ago during an unusually cool summer morning. It is the normal course of events to bump into people who are walking their dogs.  Dozens of them I recognize from seeing almost every day.  A Basset Hound named Fred (Yes, he was named after the comic strip, I asked.) A Toy Poodle named Fluffy (not kidding), a Pit Bull named Chops (I didn't ask), and a Mini-Bull Dog named Rocky.

There is one, however, I did not recognize. A beautiful Black Labrador Retriever. His name was Shadow, and he had the most engaging orange- yellow eyes.  I wanted to take him home with me. I asked the owner if she was selling, I being half serious knowing it was no way she would part ways with such a beautiful canine.

I Will Read Your Stuff, Maybe

I was reading an article by Academy Award nominated screenwriter Josh Olsen. He writes in it that he will not read anyone's script, and stated his reasons for this somewhat controversial stance.

Now from my view as someone who is a virtual nobody in the writing world, I say his reluctance in reading someone's screenplay, along with the reasons he gives, is because of competition. It does plays a small part.

The Tune And The Pen

I have this view that music is everything.

It is in my blood. My family comes from a long line of musicians.  My dad was a professional drummer for many years for numerous bands, both on the road and in a studio. My uncle, dad's brother, was a guitarist of some renown in the New England area for a long time. Their mom (Grandma) was pianist who had taught children to play.  My mom and sister are singers. I myself dabbled in music as a youngster, playing in garage bands and was an occasional studio fill-in.

Music for me, is like breathing.  I feel like I am suffocating if I go too long without it.  It soothes the savage breast,  calms the soul of inner turmoil. You can get lost in it, tuning out the outside things you might not want to deal with at the time.

A View From Afar (Part 1)

One day, a few months back, I was getting my morning coffee at my favorite franchise. I always go inside to the counter. (I make sure they get it right, it has been made wrong a few times.)

As I walk toward the entrance, a woman that seemed to be about thirty years old approached me. She looked kept and clean, her clothes in good condition. She surprised me with her first words to me.

"Excuse me, sir.  Can you please spare some change to get a cup of coffee." I saw sadness in those intelligent brown eyes. They told me how difficult it was to ask for help.