Great Heats -- The Story Behind Its Writing

After a journey that began in 2009, my third book, "Great Heats" is now available on Amazon.com. In a couple of weeks, it will hit Kindle e-readers followed by Baker and Taylor Library lists and Ingraham Distributors for bookstores.

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The story is set in prehistoric Portsmouth, Ohio (a Native American word), around the year 1000, centered on what is now Mound Park. At that time, the area was an important ceremonial center for the peoples who lived there, including two smaller centers across the river. The Portsmouth ceremonial center is depicted in Robert Dafford's Floodwall Mural, "The Mound Builders," a detail of which is used on my cover.

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Mound Park today has only one of the horseshoe earthworks remaining, and we are fortunate to have this 2000-year-old artifact with us, a reminder to each person of those who lived lives here and cared for the land.

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In 2009, when I visited Mound Park and the Floodwall Murals, I began wondering about the lives people would have led then -- imagining the beautiful river valley, the lack of conveniences, yet the triumph of persevering. I began researching, visiting the Hopewell Cultural Park in Chillicothe on the way back to Philadelphia. I used to visit this park with my Mother and Dad in the 1950's when it was called "Mound City," and I started to reminisce:

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My Dad would often take Mother and me for a Sunday Drive. Twice a year, we would take the “Trail,” Rt. 23, from New Boston to Chillicothe. Dad’s stated objective for the drive was to visit Mound City, although I suspected that it was really all about his affection for Dairy Queen, a new ice cream only available in Chillicothe.
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On the Trail, we would pass the Stone Pipe Inn at Lowry Hollow, and further up the road, the sign for the Wakefield Mound, and then finally, we would arrive at Mound City State Park in Chillicothe; little did I know then that they were all historically connected, even the route that we drove, back and forth.
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My youthful imagination ran wild as we gazed at the mounds of earth and the low walls that had been built by ancient peoples many years before Columbus encountered this hemisphere. What did the mounds mean? How were they used? No one knew for certain...no written record had ever been found.
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Later, we would visit the Sulfur Springs in Chillicothe and Dad would have a drink, as would I; Mother refused, always. Then to get the taste of sulfur out of our mouths, we enjoyed a cone of twisted Dairy Queen Ice Cream, for the long ride home..The memory of Mound City never left my mind, nor the questions those mounds raised. Then, 2009, I realized that Portsmouth was also an important region for these people; I began to write.

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For those who have read it, "Great Heats" is an enjoyable and easy adventure, which leaves the reader wanting more. In each chapter, the main character, an artist, is ten years older and has meaningful, even fateful, encounters. A contemporary "Epilogue" answers many of the questions left by the surprise ending.

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Although Portsmouth--called "Ohi'yo" in my book--is the main setting, Chillicothe--another Native American word, called "Chi'cotha," in this story--also plays a prominent role as an important village and ceremonial center. Other centers were "N'urk" (Newark), "Cawnis" (Marietta), and "Pee'qwa" (Piqua). There is more information in the Preface.

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I hope that this drama, played out among the Mounds and Earthworks that dot the landscape

today from Ohio south to Florida and Mississippi and North to Wisconsin, is not only entertaining and enjoyable, but also that it connects us in a new way to our common history.

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"Aiyee, my friends. Aiyee."

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"Horseshoe Mound" Photo by JQ Jacobs

http://www.jqjacobs.net/photos/

Happy 45th Anniversary!

Forty-five years. February 19, 1966 -- Millvale Pa. Christ Lutheran Church. Joan and I exchanged wedding vows.

We had met four years earlier at Ohio University where I was a Junior and Joan was an incoming Freshman. Actually, the meeting was more of an observation on my part.

It was the first day of class, and I was in my seat on the aisle in the bass section of the large auditorium. Coming in a little late and having to walk all the way down to the remaining seat in the alto section was was a thin young woman with green hair. Green. No one had green hair in 1962! I had to meet her.

I happened to know the alto she was sitting next to and asked her to let the green-haired beauty know I was interested in meeting her. The next rehearsal, I introduced myself; it did not go well.

Little did I know that the green hair freaked Joan. She had not wanted it and was mortified to have it, but had been nice and friendly with her new roommate, another freshman, who really had not wanted to come to college but rather wanted to be a beautician, caring for and coloring other people's hair. Joan had humored her and allowed her to put just a little black rinse on Joan's lightish brown hair. Voila -- Green hair.

Also playing into our first meeting was a habit I had picked up at the Little Theatre of Portsmouth, Ohio -- touching people (I have since modified this behaviour.) "Hey, David (elbow in the arm), nice prat-fall." Or ... "Betty, I loved the way you 'glided' across the stage to Chuck" (pat on Betty's shoulder).

So, when I walked up to Joan in her green hair, who was leaning on a table after rehearsal, and said "Hi, Joan, I'm Ron Giles," as my hand covered her hand that was on the table. She pulled it away. Who knew that Lutherans don't touch each other. It didn't go well.

One of the 5 fellows that lived in our house on E. State Street in Athens, worked in the Cafeteria of the dorm where Joan lived. Dewey kept me informed of Joan's comings and goings. It turned out that she was very popular, particularly with the fraternities, going out practically every weekend; I was not a fraternity kind of guy.

Weeks passed, till finally, I screwed up my courage and called her at her dorm, inviting her to go with me to a movie on Wednesday night; she was busy.

I called her the next week and asked her to go to the Lantern for dinner and some 3.2 beer; she was busy.

I called her the next week and asked her out for Saturday night, and ... she was busy.

Little did I know that she started turning down dates to keep one open for me. You can imagine my excitement when she finally said "yes." It was the beginning of many dates.

I tried to marry Joan after I graduated in 1964, and she still had another two years left. In those days, propriety called on the man to ask the Father for permission, which I did. Her Father, a salesman, talked me out of it, preferring that we wait until she had graduated. We honored that, but Joan hastened the date of her graduation by attending summer school, which is how we ended up getting married in the month of February and scheduling our Honeymoon in the traditional place of the day -- the frozen Niagara Falls.

Our wedding day produced a lot of nervous energy for everyone; Joan made a lovely bride, no one fainted, a few tears were shed; it was a joyous affair. After the reception, and after a private party at my now in-law's house, Joan and I left in my new blue Volkswagen Beetle, driving to the Mercer Pennsylvania Holiday Inn, halfway to Niagara Falls. We arrived at 9:30pm.

For the occasion, I had with me in the trunk of the VW (which as many of our Dear Readers know, was under the hood since the motor was in the rear), a bottle of Great Western Champagne from upstate New York, center of America's wine industry at the time. In our room, Joan and I shared a glass, wishing for a long and loving life together.

I managed to jam the cork back into the bottle to save some for the next evening, and without thinking about it, I put the bottle on top of the in-room heater. I know that's where I put it because at 3:22 in the morning, we both were awakened by an explosion as the overheated champagne popped the cork, frightening us both.

Tonight, we have another date, this time at Allegrios BYOB Italian Restaurant to celebrate our 45th wedding anniversary. We'll reminisce and talk about our children and grand children. We will drive there in another blue car and sip some Great Western Champagne from upstate New York, and remember how blessed our loving life together has been.

Joe's American Restaurant -- New Boston, Ohio

Last Sunday, Joes American Restaurant in New Boston, Ohio, closed. It was a landmark in this proud little village -- romances flourished and were dissolved there, dance steps were tried and mashed potatoes with gravy, available 24 hours a day.

My 2008 memoir, "On Harrisonville Avenue" contained a short tribute to the American Restaurant. Here is the excerpt on the occasion of this icon's closing; the year is 1955.

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In the mail was my class schedule for the 8th Grade. It showed the classes I would be taking and the teacher for each class. A printed note showed Holidays, Christmas and Easter breaks and non-school days. There were no School Buses because we all walked to school. High School kids with Driver’s Licenses could drive to school or you could bring your bike. There was one bike rack and there was no school parking lot, so you had to park your overflow bike or your car on the street. This produced a battle between the residents of Glenwood Avenue and Glenwood High School for parking.

Nearby, Joe’s American Restaurant had a small parking lot, but everyone knew not to park there because you would get towed.

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I don’t remember ever meeting "Joe" or hearing anything about him, but his establishment was “the” place for Glenwood Jr. Sr. High students. Since the School had no cafeteria, Joe’s benefited from all those hungry mouths – donuts or toast at breakfast or a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup for lunch or French fires with cheese or gravy and a soda fountain coke after school – all waiting for the energetic, always hungry teenage crowd.

And, there was the Juke Box which could be played from each of the booths or from the main box. It was a Rock-Ola Comet Juke Box with rounded glass columns that you stood between to make your selection. The columns had illuminated glass of various colors and caught your attention with their flashiness. Although there were three record formats – the older 78 rpm, the 45 rpm and the long playing (LP) 33-1/3 which contained multiple cuts and was called an “Album”, like a photo album -- the Rock-Ola only played 45’s; it held 80 of them. You could watch the mechanics of the machine through the large clear cover.

Each week, the Juke Box Company would come by and refresh the machine, taking out older records getting less play and adding new “Hits” by new stars – Pat Boone, The Coasters, Fats Domino, and Perez Prado. Sometimes, new dances would sweep through like the Cha-Cha Cha to “Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White.” Most kids, though, danced what was called the “Bop,” which had replaced the Jitter-bug of the 1940’s.

One girl, Tina, always attracted a lot of attention. She was a 7th Grader, a year behind me. Only a few boys would ever dance with her – she was too good. Maybe Dick or Gary, but everyone else shied away from Tina. She didn’t need a partner. She “interpreted” the music with her nimble and elastic body.

Small and slim, Tina often waved her body, like a snake, or would swirl like a skater. Sometimes her hips moved in ways that caused gasping from some and whistles from others. Tina was a free spirit in her dancing and dress and attitude.

But when somebody punched B-6 – “When You Dance” by the Turbans -- and Tina took the floor, the crowd at Joe’s circled around to see what she would do.

It was always a show at Joe’s American Restaurant, across the street from the high school.

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Cheers !!!

Ron Giles

rdgiles@chesco.com

Remembering "Blue Laws"

Blue Laws have been on the books since Puritan Days in New England, probably starting out as a way of enforcing the commandment to keep the Sabbath holy. In the late 19th Century, as the Temperance Movement (headquartered in Westerville, Ohio) took hold, it became illegal to sell booze on Sunday. This lead to a whole list of things one could not do on Sunday:
... Shop
... Trade Horses
... Buy Tobacco
... Buy Cars (still on the books in several states including mine, Pennsylvania, where the Liquor stores are still mostly closed on Sundays)
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An interesting exception to these Blue Laws was the Drug Stores who remained open on Sunday to satisfy emergency needs for medication. This is also how Drugstores began to be book stores, grocery stores and stock sundry other items, since they could be open on the Sabbath.
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I grew up with Blue Laws. Nothing but gas stations and the Rexall Pharmacy were open on Sundays; it was truly a day of rest, except in our family, because we went to visit each other. Lunch after church with Mom and Pop Borders (fried chicken). Then off to visit my Dad's parents, Mom and Pop Giles who lived in Portsmouth in an apartment that was up against the floodwall (boiled chicken and dumplings).
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Sometimes, we went places on Sundays, driving to Chillicothe for a new treat, Dairy Queen. Of course, anytime we were in Chillicothe, Dad had to have a drink of sulfur water from the sulfur springs there. The water tasted exactly like it smelled. Uggghhhhh.
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There were no organized soccer games, no Little League, no school activities to attend on Sundays. It was a day to relax, to attend church and be with family, and it was all thanks to Blue Laws. I miss Blue Laws.

Great Heats -- the final review?

In the agony of re-reading my words for the umpteenth time, I kept questioning this word or that punctuation or that phrase. But finally after two weeks of inspection and introspection, I sent my comments and requests for changes back to the publisher. And, now, I await the proof copy. Hmmmm.

While writing and re-writing, I would go to one of five restaurants for breakfasts and then to the local Library in the afternoon. Trying to write at home was too distracting -- too many things to take my mind away from trying to cast myself as a Sentinel on lookout from a hilltop, imagining how he would feel in his isolation.

"Your toast, sir. More coffee?" Even the pleasant, young waitresses in this distant setting were not a distraction, a fact that perhaps would disappoint them.

Now, I am home... waiting for the proof copy to arrive... waiting. I want to start the next book. Actually, I have started it; am almost 30 pages in, but the need to move ahead with more words advancing the story has left me. Waiting...

Although I have used the word "ennui," I think now, I am stuck in it, like being inside the Bermuda Triangle. Hmmmmmmmm. Hmmmm. ZZZZZ.

From "The Writer's Almanac"

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind
by William Shakespeare

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude, as man's ingratitude.
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy teeth are not so sharp,
Although thy breath be rude, although thy breath be rude.

My faithful friends draw nigh
And look us in the eye
It is a wealthy man who has good friends like you.
Through darkness, cold, and snow,
Wherever you may go,
You bear my friendship true, you bear my friendship true.

Now warm these gentle folk
With maple, birch, and oak
And turn you front and back to feel the cheerful blaze
And be of cheerful mind
And bless the wintertime
Its calm and starry nights and bright and silent days

There are angels hovering round
To carry the tidings home
To the new Jerusalem
The shepherds came with joy
The sheep and cows stood near
The child lay asleep

"Blow, blow, thou winter wind"
~~ William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616.

Smoke

Anticipating the mundane, Monday task of taking out the garbage, I went outside the garage on a lazy-late Sunday afternoon. The moisture-heavy air was clean, allowing the pungently sweet smell of wood smoke to penetrate deeply.

I have always responded to the smell of burning wood -- whether in my home environment or in locations around the world. Smoke stirs something in my DNA -- genetic memories of an icy night on the Kentucky frontier, or the warmth produced in the stone fireplace of a medieval cathedral residence, or the comfort of roasting a rabbit in Gaul, or the smoke made while drying fish caught in the Black Sea. The response to smelling smoke from a wood fire is immediate and friendly.

Watching the smoke curl out the top of my neighbor's chimney, seconds turned into minutes, as the sky darkens and then turns pink-orange in the west as the sun rests for the day. The pleasant odor continues to permeate, as the sky fades to black.

Tomorrow. I can do things tomorrow.

At the Stroke of Midnight

I will stay awake tonight. I Will stay awake tonight. I'm going to do my best to be awake one more time to hear ...

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
in days of old lang syne ?

CHORUS:
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

The Scottish poet, Robert Burns, penned these lines in 1788, although the sentiment was borrowed from other earlier writers. It was paired with a Scots folk tune and was sung off and on at New Years thereafter, due to the sentiment and the rhetorical question -- should we forget old friends, or should we remember them?

In 1929, the era of mass communication and radio, cemented "Auld Lang Syne" as the song for the stroke of midnight when the Canadian band leader Guy Lombardo played it at the nationally carried live broadcast from the Roosevelt Room in New York City. Thereafter, from 1930-1976, it was nationally broadcast from the Waldorf Astoria.

Old acquaintances. Those of us in our "maturity" have many acquaintances which we have acquired over the years and, even though we may have not seen them for decades, we carry them in our minds; some, we carry in our hearts.

This week, Joan and I visited a cinematographer that I worked with in the 1960's. We had not seen one another in 30 years, and yet it was as if that were yesterday as we recalled fun times together and consoled each other over tragedies in passage.

How precious and delicious that process is -- revisiting, recalling, remembering, laughing, crying -- together.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

May you and yours, Dear Reader, have a joyous and prosperous new year, for auld lang syne!

Cheers!!!

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

"Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse."

This poem (full verses below) was written in 1823 and published in a New York City newspaper, becoming an immediate hit. Its author, Clement Clarke Moore, did not confess ownership until 21 years later in 1844. Mr. Moore was a professor at Columbia College (now Columbia University) and he preferred anonymity, but finally relented due to family pressure.

Mr. Moore's family was a prominent one at the time. His father had been the Bishop of New York City and officiated at the inauguration of George Washington as the first president; his mother was famous for her rabid anti-monarchy views in pre-revolutionary times. Clement himself, married Catharine Elizabeth Taylor, a direct descendant of the powerful Dutch family, the Van Cortlandt's. Together, he and his wife owned 160 acres on the western side of Manhattan which they called Chelsea; the area they owned is still called Chelsea today.

"A Visit from St. Nicholas," as his poem was called, established Santa Claus and his image, as well as the reindeer, their number and names, the way the "jolly old elf" gets around, and the idea that Santa brings gifts to children. Prior to 1823. there were many ideas about St. Nicholas, but none like this.

While many of us have read this to our children, we also recognize the great gift that was given to all -- the gift from God of a baby in a manger who would grow to become the fulfillment of the prophesies of the Old Testament. From the latest Gallup Poll ...

• 95% of Americans celebrate Christmas;
• 51% say the day is "strongly religious" for them;
• 93% of Americans exchange gifts on Christmas;
• 88% put up a Christmas tree;
• 62% attend religious services on Christmas Eve or Christmas.

Following a tradition established when I was born, 68 years ago, I will be in church tonight. Yet the duality of the celebration is brought home simply by hearing sleigh bells.

A joyous holiday season to all. Merry Christmas to you and yours, "and to all, a good night!"

"A Visit From St. Nicholas"
by Clement Clarke Moore, 1823

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Hymns of the Season and Their Stories

Ever wonder what a Carol is? Or what "Nowell" ("Noel") means? Or what many people think is the most often piece of music sung in churches? If you are in the West Chester, PA area, plan on attending this event to find out..

Hymns of the Season and Their Stories
Ronald D. Giles, Baritone -- Joan E. Giles, Accompanist
First Presbyterian Church, West Chester, PA
Wednesday December 15, 2010, 6:30pm
The Presbyterian Hymnal, 1990

1. “People Look East” – Text: Eleanor Farjeon; Music: French Carol
Verse 1 – Ron; Verses 2 & 5 – All in Unison

2. “Comfort, Comfort You My People” – Text: Johannes Olearius, 1671
Music: attributed to Louis Bourgeois, 1551, arranged by John Ferguson
Verse 1 -- Ron; Verses 2 & 3 – All in Unison

3. “The First Nowell” – 17th Century English Carol
Verses 1 & 2 in parts

4. "Away In A Manger” -- Text: Verses 1&2 – unknown;
Verse 3 – McFarland, 1887 ; Music: Wm. Kirkpatrick and J. Murray --
Tunes: Mueller, Normandy, Cradle Song; arranged by Mark Hayes
Hymns 24 & 25 Verse 1 – All in Unison; Verses 2 & 3 -- Ron

5. “Silent Night” – Text: Father Joseph Mohr, 1818; Music: Franz Gruber, 1818
Arranged by Mark Hayes and Joan Giles
Verse 1 - Ron in German; Verse 1 -- All in English; Verse 3 -- Ron

6. “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” – Text: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1863;
Music: John Babtiste Calkin, 1872
Verse 1, Ron; Verse 2 All in Unison;
Verse 3 – Women; Verse 4 – Men;
Verse 5 – All in Unison

7. “Joy To The World” – Text: Isaac Watts, 1719; Music – L. Mason/G.F. Handel
Verse 1 -- Women; Verse 2 -- Men; Verse 4 -- All in Parts

Hush, Hush, Somebody's Callin' My Name

By the time Christmas rolls around, will it be anti-climactic? Will it be just another day of "Ho,Ho,Ho" and Burl Ives singing "Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas?" Will I be so numbed by the rush of gift buying or parties or rehearsal/concerts that when December 25 comes, I will be empty?

It seems like I ask myself these questions each year. Part of it must be that our children are not here on Christmas morning, wide-eyed and excited, checking whether the carrots were nibbled by Santa's reindeer or the cookies half-eaten by the jolly old elf himself.

Joan and I used to put the tree up after church on Christmas Eve, after the children went to bed. Seeing the words "some assembly required" at 1:00am after the tree was decorated was not a welcome sight on a Big Wheel, or a bicycle. But what's another three hours without sleep when the effect on our two children was so amazing? (Alright, the slide whistles in the stockings that were opened at 6:00am were not a good idea and I got a little testy in my bleary-eyed state. Everything can't be Currier and Ives all the time.)

So, now the tree goes up early with Sounds of the Season from cable channel 436 in the background. The house and the lamp posts get decorated and our neighbors nicely bring over a cheesecake, and we talk. Joanie bakes her cranberry bread and I get out my "Noel" tie. Its all special but somehow, not heartfelt.

Maybe, I should build in some quiet time -- no computer, no radio, no books, no TV -- just quiet. The kind of quiet that comes during and after a deep snow. A quiet that allows one to listen -- to your own heartbeat, to the melting snow, to the cry of a baby in the distance... the cry of a baby, in the distance.

Touch Now!

December 1, 1977 -- the launch of QUBE, the first interactive TV experiment in Columbus, Ohio, by Warner Cable. -- and I was there, 33 years ago.

Five months earlier, I had been in Cincinnati at WCPO-TV as the Executive Producer of Programming, a position I had held for three years. In my office at Channel 9, I was reading the July edition of Broadcasting Magazine, when I noted under equipment purchases, that Warner Cable of Columbus had purchased nine studio/portable RCA cameras.

The article piqued my curiosity so I made a few calls and became aware that an old acquaintance -- Ron Castell -- was involved. Through him, I met with Mike Dann, a CBS legend of programming, who was involved in QUBE, as was Dr. Vivian Horner of Children's Television Workshop, and Steve Carlin, the creator and Producer of the 50's game show "The 64,000 Question." Someone had assembled a stellar cast of Television luminaries for this project, and I wanted to be involved as well.

Cable Television, at that time, 1977, was confined to rural areas and the suburbs, but the real money for cable companies was to be made in the cities when the number of family units per mile was a 20-100 times what it was in the tree-lined single family dwellings on the outskirts. QUBE was Warner's way of demonstrating to city governments that Warner had the star power, the technology, and the stamina to be the choice for the long run.

Over some mild objections from my wife, we moved to Westerville to become a part of QUBE. (Her objections to my relocation would get stronger and stronger after this, our third house.)

As a Producer-Host for "Columbus Alive," a live two hour talk show, December 1, 1977 was the start of a series that I would be a part of for the next two years. QUBE lived up to its hype by developing interactive programming -- game shows, talk shows, "You-Call Football," kid's shows -- pay-per-view programming, a remote control, 15 or so specialized channels, including one called Nickelodeon and another that would grow to become MTV. And -- get this -- a weather channel.

Another by-product of QUBE, was that it produced a deep and intense level of friendship among the 300 or so who were there -- unlike any staff relationship at any TV facility of which I have been a part. Reunions, phone calls, lunches, Facebook, emails, all serve to keep the contact and camaraderie going.

WOULD YOU BE A PART OF QUBE TODAY?

1. Yes

2. No

TOUCH NOW!

(Touching 1)

Wine and Juice Tasting

On the Friday after Thanksgiving each year, we have a Wine tasting. We also invite to the table the Grand Children and non-wine drinking adults for a Juice tasting as well. This year 15 people came to the event -- 7 wine tasters and 8 juice tasters, including two adults; one who abstains and a second who is in her 7th month of pregnancy.

Five red Zinfandels were tasted. Surprisingly, most tasters preferred the least expensive Peachy Canyon Zin ($8.00, rated 88) over the other more expensive ones, including one rated 94 and costing $34.00.

But the real surprise was the voting in the juice tasting, now in its eighth year. We taste five juices as we taste five wines, with each juicer having spoken comments as well as a pencil; the one exception was the 15 month old who smiled and bounced up and down on her mother's knee when she liked what she was tasting. Her voted counted just as much as those with a pencil.

It seems predictable that the juice with the most sugar content will win each year. This year that juice was Welch's Concord Grape Juice with a whopping 38 grams of sugar. The other juices were Dole's Pineapple (22 grams), Kern's Apricot (22 grams) Albertson's Cherry (27 grams) Bionaturae' Organic Plum (28 grams).

Surprise, Surprise -- the Apricot and Cherry were preferred, although the 15 month old had an extra glass of the Plum but then had to walk it off. Oh, and don't read anything into her unsteadiness; she still needs a finger to hold when cruising.


So much to be thankful for!

"Great Heats" Back Cover Copy Quandry Resolved

Dear Readers:

Thank you for your many and varied responses. Yesterday my mailbox was replete with emails, Facebook notes and comments ranging from "what the *&#% does 'pithy' mean?" to "the word 'replete' is stuffy" to "a love story, worthy of the ages," to "a tender and beckoning tale." Tender~ ooooooohhhhh, I like that word.

Wow! What a range.

Some suggested that the preceding paragraphs of the back cover made it clear that this was a story of human emotions and behavior, so no need to reference our common humanity with the ancients (a reader-suggested word).

One comment about "mysterious" almost inspired me to go back and write another chapter, centering on the village reaction to... let's see... the simultaneous events of an eclipse of the sun, fertility rites, and the discovery of a jawbone from a moose. The coincidental collision of forces, or was it intentional? -- but I stopped myself from writing... mysteriously.

Others of you suggested eliminating the phrase "human nature" and substituting things like "human experience," "humanity," "full of ...". Most were in agreement to drop the word "replete" which was the thing probably stymieing me, although "fraught" was a tempting substitution from a Dear Reader.

A few urged simpler language and more sparse wording, adhering to Mark Twain's grammatical advice when writing to shoot most adjectives and adverbs on sight, reserving them for an impactful moment. Although, the "complexity" suggestion made me want to use that word some place in the final line.

So, putting all of your wonderful advice together, I chose straightforward, unmodified brevity:

"Great Heats" – a novel of historic fiction, rich in detail and human experience.

THANK YOU SO MUCH !!!

Back Cover Copy for "Great Heats"

Despite my best efforts to avoid doing so, I have decided to write my own back cover copy. I know what you must be thinking -- Ron, you are the last person who should do that because you are too close to the story.

Yet, I couldn't help myself. After revising, and after comments from my chief editor -- Joan, my wife -- I now have come up with a problem -- the last line of the copy.

So, Dear Reader, would you care to offer your opinion? I am happy with the way the paragraphs below are written, but the last phrase of the last line is giving me pause. What do you think?

GREAT HEATS BACK COVER COPY – 11.11.10

Living among the beauty of ancient mounds and earthworks a thousand years ago, the people of the Village of Ohi’yo enjoyed an idyllic life. Village women cared for their families, shared farming duties, and were responsible for choosing the chief, while men protected the village and hunted for game. Yet, with each new sunrise, change was in the air, threatening the village in ways that they could not understand.

Young Heron, tall and artistic, has met his love, Lone Bird, a young woman from another clan living in his village. The two unite in the moving Ceremony of One, but secrets from his past create tragic circumstances, keeping them apart, except for occasional covert and passionate meetings.

As time passes, rain and snowfall decrease in the region, while the summer’s heat increases and lengthens. The fertile and replenishing floods of the two rivers gradually halt their annual immersions. Insects emerge from the drying ground to attack the village crops; deer begin moving away, as coyotes move in; people start to leave, following the deer. The village way of life is in jeopardy.

Against this backdrop, Young Heron finally sees hope for a normal life, as he reunites with his family. In a shocking moment, the secrets, kept hidden for decades, confront Young Heron, and the conclusion seems predestined to be tragic. Years later, the results of this man’s life are revealed in a surprising way.
Great Heats – a novel of historic fiction, rich in detail, and replete with human nature.

"replete with human nature" -- is that too pithy? I am torn because I want a line to dispel any thought that something written about a people who lived 1000 years ago will be difficult to read because their unfamiliar culture will get in the way of understanding the story. Yet it seems
in reading it that I am inviting the reaction -- "well, of course, archaeology breath -- they are people like you and me -- riiiight?"

What do you think? rdgiles@chesco.com or Facebook or here, although the comments function here is spotty.

Thanks, and I hope that your day is replete with happiness.

Great Heats -- Behind the scenes

I began writing this novel of historic fiction in September of 2009. Writing mostly every day, the writing was finished in April. Then I began the painful (for me) act of revision. Going back over the words, choosing better words, eliminating unnecessary passages, saying what I really meant to say, using consistent character names rather than changing the name from chapter to chapter.

I gave it to Joan to read. She is a rock when it comes to the rules of grammar, so my pages were well-marked when she had finished. simultaneously, I gave portions of it to people specifically chosen for their reaction -- to grand daughters who are readers, to an academic for his expertise and sensitivities in burials.

I sent it to an editor to conform it to the Chicago Manual of Style who took all of my double space bar hits down to one -- who knew that one space was the new standard? I also got very confused about "Chief of Chiefs Village" not being possessive, deserving an apostrophe.

Then I shopped it around to several publishers and a couple of agents. I knew that the first paragraph of Chapter One was not "snappy" and full of questions, but I wanted to start the book and end it in the same vein; the final line of the Epilogue was written first but echoes the first line of Chapter One and that is what I wanted, which was perhaps too subtle for publications managers who see hundreds of first paragraphs a day -- only. They don't read the last one as well. I still like the structure, despite what it may have cost me.

Now, October, finally that process is underway. I had hoped for it to be published this year, but now I am not sure.

I think it is very good. Although some of the words are unfamiliar renderings of contemporary words (due to the setting 1000 years ago), it is still an easy reading experience. And, even though it has moments of tragedy, it is balanced by emotion and sensuality in between. Such as:

"She looked deeply into my eyes and whispered, 'I want to join with you.' "

Hmmm. Maybe I should have opened the book with that line! RATS!!

"Hello, Publisher. Is it too late to make a teeny-weenie change?"

Soccer

I took my four year old grand daughter to her soccer game this weekend. She lives in an affluent area where the parking lot was crammed full of Lexus, Land Rovers, and expensive pick up trucks. I am happy that my daughter and her husband can afford this area and the costly outfits, shoes, equipment, and bags that children here have to wear to play. Hundreds of children in team colors, numbers, and braces -- the 9-13 year old boy's football teams have their own cheerleaders, including my 12 year old grand daughter.


It is good that the sports are organized so that all can play in organized leagues on organized teams, good for... for the children.


Yet, I found myself wondering if children, when left to their own devices, wouldn't do all that themselves -- minus the team colors. Bill and Bob and Harold and Dick and Jerry and John and Ron did years ago on Harrisonville Avenue in New Boston. We played football and baseball in a vacant lot between two houses, next to Mr. Travis' house. I painfully remember knocking on his door and confessing that I was the one who hit the baseball that broke his window. So, yes things went wrong, but even that had a benefit, to me, and perhaps Mr. Travis who got a new window out of it.


There were no trophies to be handed out (don't get me started on every kid gets a trophy), no patches, no parties, no pictures because it was play, for the sake of play. Boys, working things out when things were questioned -- no rule books, no referees. Seeking fair solutions among themselves.


Yes, it is true, I now sound like the old farts that I knew at the time, men who wanted a return to the ways of yester-year, older men that I tolerated then, but privately thought their arteries were getting harder every week as they sat on the church pew outside Shorty's Barbershop.

Ahheeeem. I do not have a church pew!


Dads and Moms are with their children today as the game wraps up. They are more involved in their children's activities than my generation or my parents were. The fields are not vacant for long as a new batch of older children with different colors replace the younger ones, and it will go this way every hour until 3:00pm.


Back to their house, it is time for me to take the 10 year old to her soccer game. Its exhausting, executing this schedule. I needed a nap in the afternoon.

A Birthday

Yes, birthdays -- mine. My father-in-law used to say that if he knew he would live this long, he would have taken better care of himself. Joan asserts that mothers should be feted on a child's birthday since they were the ones who did all the work.

Birthdays -- a day to enjoy the well wishes of friends near and far through cards and Facebook and phone calls and smiles and hugs and gifts. My grandson gave me a Bat House which he and his other grandfather made for me. It will get hung on a tree in the woods next week so that we can see it and the frolicking, happy bats from our back windows.

Birthdays -- days of quick reflections, snippets of past events. Some of them happy, moments filled with pride of achievement, smiling faces of children, joy of this or that, naughty moments. Some are sad moments, mistakes, loss, pain. More happy reflections than sad. A smile, just now.

Birthdays -- just another day? Not really. Perhaps, a day for another... memory.

Why Women Still Won't Vote for Women

I leave this to the Dear Reader to decide for themseves if they agree or not. From
www.phyliss-chesler.com. The writer is a retired professor of Women's Studies at City University of New York.

Why Women Still Won't Vote for Women
By Phyllis Chesler

Published October 15, 2010

Phyllis Chesler, Ph.D. is professor emerita of psychology and the author of thirteen books including "Woman’s Inhumanity to Woman" and "The New Anti-Semitism." She has written extensively about Islamic gender apartheid and about honor killings. She once lived in Kabul, Afghanistan. She may be reached through her website: www.phyllis-chesler.com.

It is 2010, ninety years after American women first won the right to vote, and nearly fifty years after Betty Friedan’s influential work "The Feminine Mystique" was published, and women still do not want to vote for women.

And women definitely do not want to vote for Republican women.For example, in Connecticut, Republican Linda McMahon has only 34 percent of the female vote as compared to Democrat Richard Blumenthal who has 61 percent of the female vote. In Delaware, Republican Christine O'Donnell has only 25 percent of the female vote as compared to her Democratic opponent Chris Coons, who leads with 58 percent of the female vote; in Nevada, Democrat Harry Reid is beating Republican Sharron Angle by a 51-33 margin. According to pollsters, Sharron Angle is a “staunch conservative, something that tends to turn off female voters.”

Possibly, women as a group may view the Democratic Party as better on certain issues such as women’s reproductive rights and equal rights in the workplace. On the other hand, like men, many women have also lost their jobs, pensions, and homes, and will equally bear the consequences of a foreign policy gone wrong.

Whatever the reason, female candidates just can’t seem to please the female electorate. Women criticized Hillary Clinton for craving power in a non-feminine and “emotionless” way—and liked her when she showed emotion, not when she discussed policy. Women judged her harshly for sticking by her man—and then just as harshly for doing so in order to further her own political ambitions. Women, including progressive women, wanted perfection in their first female Presidential candidate. No political or character “hair” out of place. Thus, Professor Susan J. Douglas had this to say about Hillary:

“Hillary, by contrast, seems to want to be more like a man in her demeanor and politics, makes few concessions to the social demands of femininity, and yet seems to be only a partial feminist. She seems above us, exempting herself from compromises women have to make every day, while, at the same time, leaving some of the basic tenets of feminism in the dust. We are sold out on both counts. In other words, she seems like patriarchy in sheep’s clothing. If she’s a feminist, how could she continue to support this war for so long? If she’s such a passionate advocate for children, women and families, how could she countenance the ongoing killing of innocent Iraqi families, and of American soldiers who are also someone’s children? If it would be so revolutionary to have a female as president, why does she feel like the same old poll-driven opportunistic politician who seems to craft her positions accordingly?”

Today, women describe Linda McMahon as too “relentless” for a woman-- but certainly not for a politician. Women say they don’t like McMahon because she is “buying her seat” with money (as if this is not exactly what men do), and because she is attacking her opponent in “needlessly personal and caustic ways” (ditto).

Until pollsters start asking Republican women if they, also, dislike and will not vote for a female Republican candidate, let me suggest that what may also be going on is some vast unfinished psychological business between women.

As the author of "Woman’s Inhumanity to Woman," allow me to spell it out for you. Like men, women are also sexists. They still expect women to behave in “feminine” or maternal ways; this includes choosing a man as a protector, not as an opponent to publicly defeat in a very aggressive, “male” way.

Women and girls are more comfortable with expressing their aggression indirectly in less visible ways, through gossip, slander, and ostracism.

In addition, despite exceptions, women do not necessarily like, respect, or trust other women. Even more important, woman do not like another woman getting more attention than they themselves get; cheerleaders, beauty queens, gorgeous actresses are envied and ostracized more often than befriended by other girls and women. Female politicians are in the limelight; their female voters are not.

Psychologically, women do not like “difference.” Women feel safe when their female intimates dress, think, and behave as they do. If a female candidate looks, acts, or thinks “differently” from the female majority, women feel that their own life choices are not being honored. Thus, tough Republican businesswoman, Carly Fiorina, who faces tough career politician Barbara Boxer in California, has been advised to soften her image, to literally pose in her kitchen and wear pink—something she has done.

Yes, feminist women have worked hard for both male and female feminist candidates, and some Republican women are now working hard for Republican candidates, both male and female. And yet, the problem of our collective sexism still remains and will continue to determine how campaigns are conducted and who wins.

Jeff Hart -- Driller/Hero

This is from Michelle Malkin's Blog. It is her writing in her voice.

In a different day and age, Jeff Hart would be the most famous American in our country right now. He would be honored at the White House. Schoolchildren would learn of his skill and heroism. [It is likely that] more people in Chile will celebrate this symbol of American greatness than in America itself.

Jeff Hart is a driller based in my home state of Colorado. The father of two has been drilling water wells in Afghanistan at U.S. Army bases. When the San Jose Mine in Chile collapsed in August, he flew to lend his renowned expertise to the rescue effort. As part of an amazing three-way race to the trapped miners, Hart drilled for 33 days straight and was first to reach the caved-in workers. The AP recounts the story — and what strikes me again and again is how the world turned to American ingenuity and American fortitude and American equipment and American enterprise to get the job done:

Jeff Hart was drilling water wells for the U.S. Army’s forward operating bases in Afghanistan when he got the call to fly to Chile. He spent the next 33 days on his feet, operating the drill that finally provided a way out Saturday for 33 trapped miners. “You have to feel through your feet what the drill is doing; it’s a vibration you get so that you know what’s happening,” explained Hart, a contractor from Denver, Colorado. A muscular, taciturn man with callused hands and a sunburned face, Hart normally pounds rock for oil or water. He’s used to extreme conditions while he works the hydraulic levers that guide the drills’ hammers…

…Geotec operations manager James Stefanic said he quickly assembled “a top of the line team” of drillers who are intimately familiar with the key equipment, including engineers from two Pennsylvania companies — Schramm Inc., which makes the T130 drill, and Center Rock Inc., which makes the drill bits.

…Standing before the levers, pressure meters and gauges on the T130′s control panel, Hart and the rest of the team faced many challenges in drilling the shaft. At one point, the drill struck a metal support beam in the poorly mapped mine, shattering its hammers. Fresh equipment had to be flown in from the United States and progress was delayed for days as powerful magnets were lowered to pull out the pieces…

…Hart has a home in Denver but works for long periods abroad as a contractor for the Layne Christensen company based in Mission Woods, Kansas.
The miners will ride back to the surface in a rescue capsule as early as today through the shaft Hart and his team drilled.

He told the Denver Post: “This is the most important thing I have done in my work life and probably the most important thing I will ever do.”

Hart’s company, Layne Christiansen, celebrated the achievement:

“Plan B” worked. Winning the three-way race to reach the 33 miners trapped in Chile since Aug. 5, drillers from Kansas City-based Layne Christensen Co. broke through at 8 a.m. Saturday.

“This success required the extra special knowledge and skills only our team could provide,” said Dave Singleton, water resource division president for Layne Christensen.
About two weeks after the collapse, Layne’s Latin American affiliate Geotec Boyles Bros. brought in a Schramm T130 tophead drill. Layne also sent in two drillers, Jeff Hart and Matt Staffel, who had been drilling water wells in Afghanistan to support U.S. troops stationed there. Assisting the drillers were two Spanish-speaking drilling helpers, Doug Reeves and Jorge Herrera, from Layne’s western region in the U.S.

Working as a team, Layne and Geotec drilled a 5-inch hole nearly 2,300 feet, reamed it to 12 inches and finally to 26 inches in diameter – large enough to accommodate the “Phoenix” rescue capsule. A cheer went up as families and rescue workers joined in a celebration when the drill broke through. “I’m on top of the world,” Hart told a TV reporter.

It took the drillers 33 days to reach the 33 miners. “Had Layne and Geotec not been there, it probably would have taken until Christmas for ‘Plan A’ or ‘Plan C’ to break through,” Singleton noted. “We cut more than two months from the original estimate.”

“It’s a first for our company to be involved in a rescue effort like this,” added President and CEO Andrew B. Schmitt. “It’s also noteworthy that we’re celebrating our 15th anniversary with our Latin American affiliates,” he said. In 1995 Layne merged with Christensen Boyles Corp. and became the joint-venture partner with the Boytec group of companies in Latin America.

Now in its third century of operations, Layne started in 1882 as a water-well drilling company in the Badlands of South Dakota. Headquartered in Mission Woods, Kan., a Kansas City suburb, the Nasdaq-traded company operates worldwide, providing products and services for the water, mineral, construction and energy markets.
Hart and his crew are headed back to Colorado and are eschewing the spotlight:

Hart decided to leave the mine now that his work is done and will be watching the rescue from a distance.

“I want to let this become the miners’ and their families’ story and let them have their time,” he said.
Chile won’t forget the quiet driller from Denver and his teammates (also from Colorado): Matt Staffel, Doug Reeves and Jorge Herrera. Neither should we.

Hart’s proud wife, Dora, is looking forward to welcoming them home:

“I was just in awe, really,” she said. “I am just really proud of what he has accomplished.

All of America should be.

***

I must also call your attention to NASA’s invaluable contributions:

Rescuers finished reinforcing the top of the 2,041-foot (622-meter) escape shaft early Monday, and the 13-foot (four-meter) tall capsule descended flawlessly in test runs. The white, blue and red capsule — the biggest of three built by Chilean navy engineers — was named Phoenix I for the mythical bird that rises from ashes.

The miners will be closely monitored from the moment they’re strapped into the claustrophobic steel tube to be hauled up the smooth-walled tunnel. For the last six hours before surfacing, they’ll drink a special high-calorie liquid diet prepared and donated by NASA, designed to keep them from vomiting as the rescue capsule rotates 10 to 12 times through curves in the 28-inch-diameter escape hole.
More:

When Chilean rescuers begin pulling 33 trapped miners from their cramped quarters a half-mile below ground, perhaps beginning tonight, the work of NASA scientists will be put to the test.

For example, the miners, who have been trapped since Aug. 5, have been doing leg squats, taking salt tablets and loading up on fluids full of protein and electrolytes. Also, they will wear pressure stockings.

These techniques and others are designed to stabilize the miners’ blood pressure during the 20- to 30-minute trip to the surface. Doctors also are trying to prevent nausea.

The Chilean health minister has been consulting with NASA experts since the cave-in occurred. One of them is Dr. J.D. Polk, a native of Washington Court House, who is stationed in Houston as chief of space medicine.

Polk, who spent a week in Chile in late August, said fainting can be a problem when a person stands up after having been in a position with his or her knees locked for any long period.

“The idea is using pressure garments to force the fluid up, which helps keep the blood pressure up, so you don’t pass out with your knees locked,” said Polk, deputy chief medical officer at NASA.

Polk is former medical director for the Ohio Emergency Medical Services division. He was an emergency-room doctor at MetroHealth Medical Center in Cleveland and the chief flight surgeon for the hospital’s Metro Life Flight.


http://michellemalkin.com/