The Perfect Hero?

Recently, someone commented that he wasn’t a big fan of THE SURVIVALIST series because John Rourke’s character was too perfect; he was too smart, too good in a fight, and well, just too…  I wonder if this person realized that this was an intentional character flaw that we gave Rourke.  Most writers tend to make their main characters, especially action heroes, good at what they do such as shooting, driving and, getting all the girls.  Our thoughts were that too much of a good thing could turn out badly.

Here you’ve got a guy who wants nothing more than to live life with his family and protect them from danger.  Unfortunately, he knows too much about potential disasters-both causes and effects- and spends way too much time away from his family pursuing money to buy stuff to fill up a fancy cave where he intends for them all to happily live for however long the situation deems it necessary.  Can you just picture the conversation when Rourke decides the pizza is about to hit the fan?  “Hey, honey, it’s time for us to leave our home and trek up into the mountains where I’ve got this retreat.  We can stay there for years!  Sorry, no cable but plenty of VHS tapes to watch.  No, the kids can’t bring a friend. Oh, did I mention that there’s a waterfall in the living room?  Wait until you see the new microwave I got you!”

Rourke just can’t win.  He has made himself an expert on just about everything from flying planes, outdoor survival skills, to weaponry.  He speaks Russian, is a doctor who can perform life-saving surgical techniques, and he is a published author.  He sounds like a walking encyclopedia!  The one thing he could never get a grip on was the technique involved in understanding and communicating with women.

He loves his wife, Sarah, but continues a platonic relationship with another woman who is equally skilled in his areas of expertise and is, of course, beautiful.  He further destroys their marriage when he allows the children to grow into adulthood without Sarah’s involvement.  While he was searching for her, Sarah had been forced into becoming a survivor, doing whatever necessary to keep her children safe, including killing bad guys. Rourke continues to see her as a person needing his protection.

Adding to the tension, Rourke invites this other woman, along with his new found friend, a nerdy guy that he picked up along the way, to stay and live with them in this rocky retreat for however long it takes for civilization to stagger back.  So there goes any chance of having a good loud argument/hissy-fit.  Now she’s expected to cook for a crowd!  Oh yeah, and then they’re all going to sleep together!  In this cave! For how long???

Rourke and Sarah never stop loving each other but nor can they live together.  They part company.  She falls in love and marries someone who understands her.  He continues to become involved in saving the world, one person at a time. Many, many years down the road, Rourke falls in love with another woman, Emma, a self-confident woman accustomed to taking charge.  Of course, the one time comes when Emma and the family really need him and he has gone AWOL during a mission, leaving them to straighten things out.  It seems like everyone can count on John Rourke, except his family.

Actually, Rourke may be the main character in The Survivalist but really, the series has and still relies on the other characters to show their growth and resilience. None of us are born with the knowledge necessary to survive life’s pitfalls but we learn, one upset to the next.  If we don’t learn, we don’t survive.

Yes, JTR is boring.  You pretty much know what he’s wearing each day.  His basic weapons tend to be the same except for some additions over the years.  His preference in alcohol and smokes never change.  He sees the world in black and white, right and wrong.  You are either with him or against him.  Yes, he is strong; he is self-confident, but every once and a while the facade cracks and we see a glimpse of who he really is. The Ubermensch is still just a mortal man.

Sharon

THE GAME OF PRETEND

Someone said that penning fiction showed the immaturity of certain writers; that made-up stories were an easy copout rather than real stories presenting hard facts based on research.  Personally, I thought that person must be loaded with BS but without the scientific research necessary, I couldn’t prove it.  Maybe some fiction writers are immature but what’s wrong with that?  Some of our best research was accomplished at an early age.

Recently I watched the movie, HOOK, starring the late Robin Williams. It is the story of Peter Pan, now a father, with neither the time nor patience for childish ways, who must return to Neverland to rescue his two children, kidnapped by the evil Captain Hook.  Unfortunately, Peter has no recollection of his earlier life or his flying skills. He doesn’t remember ever being a child or thinking like one.  Peter must rely on help from Tinkerbell and the Lost Boys who are still miffed that he left Neverland to grow up and eventually have a family of his own and, even worse, he becomes a lawyer! 

As we know with stories like this, Peter strips away the fetters of civilized adulthood and relies on his imagination and childlike confidence to save the day.  Along the journey, he realizes that the bridge between childhood and adulthood can and should be traveled both ways.  Essentially, Peter learns to lighten up!

I think there’s a little Peter Pan in most fiction writers.  We tend to let our imagination run amuck.  We see something or hear about an incident and wonder what would happen if?  A person sitting near you in a restaurant grabs your attention and you start wondering who they really are and what are they writing on that piece of paper.  Will they slip it to the waiter or perhaps another patron passing by the table?  Voyeurism and imagination are useful writing tools.

As children, wrapping paper rolls were never thrown away until they were rendered utterly useless as swords or head boppers, finally  flattened and ripped apart after our last encounter with bad guys or our little brothers and sisters.  Our fighting skills were honed using those cardboard rolls and later reenacted by our characters in their life or death battles against evil soldiers and fire breathing dragons. 

We raced across neighbors’ yards and down alleys being either chased or pursuing bad guys, knowing that if we hit a tree or bounced off a curb at the wrong angle, the chase was over until the front wheel got fixed and worse still, Mom told Dad!  Many a car chase grew out of those high-speed two-wheeled adventures.  It didn’t take much to expand our knowledge to include double pedaling and downshifting.  But, the sounds of the motor never sounded as great as baseball cards being throttled by bicycle spokes.

We have a tendency to incorporate our family and friends into our stories.  Our children became the inspiration for Michael and Annie in the Survivalist Series, our nephew was an ongoing character in the Track Series and the whole family ended up in our novel, Written in Time, along with Teddy Roosevelt.  Real-life friends are scattered throughout many of our books, after first getting their permission. 

Fiction writing means you have to accept the fact that there is a lot going on between the colors black and white.  That huge gap can be filled with stories out of this world or over the fence next door.  What did Angie say to Bob that caused such a ruckus?  Out of all the stars I see tonight why is that one different?  I wonder why?  A writer might remember sitting inside a blanket tent with a canteen of water and a plate of Mom’s chocolate chip cookies and lifting the corner of the blanket to discover a vast jungle inhabited by deadly creatures and spear-holding natives, instead of Grandma sitting in her overstuffed chair knitting, her big yellow cat perched beside her, purring, a clock loudly ticking on the wall.

Who knows for sure what makes a person want to tell stories.  Maybe some writers are looking for their own universe to control; some might be hiding a past reality, disguising it behind a facade of fiction. Some of us just want to crow about a story and see if it will fly.

Sharon

EXPIRATION DATES: LET'S USE THEM WISELY!

Around this time of year, some of us start thinking of making special treats for friends and family.  We go digging around in the pantry and fridge for ingredients we remember having left over from our last foray into Master Chef mode.  Gathering our treasures together, we take a closer look to make sure there’s enough for our recipes and, to casually check the sell-by or expiration dates. 

Surprise!  The yellow cake mix you forgot to make for Tommy’s tenth birthday is still waiting for you and Tommy, dear boy, is playing on the local high school football team, this, his senior year.  The chocolate chips have turned a dusty gray and the raisins are little bits of rock-hard particles, not to mention the marshmallows have turned to dust.  Most of the containers on the spice rack could be sold as antiques and the vanilla extract has completely evaporated.  The back of the fridge where you haven’t looked in a long time is occupied by totally unidentifiable creatures and the freezer…well, you know.  Time to make up a shopping list!

“Use it or lose it!”  When I was young, my mother had a set of dishes that I really liked.  They were the ones she put out when we had company or family gatherings.  They weren’t terribly expensive or anything but they had scalloped edges and pink flowers and just triggered happy thoughts. When I inherited those dishes, I put them in boxes to save for just the right occasion.  Years went by and those dishes remained boxed up and after a few moves, some pieces got broken.  Nowadays I do bring out those dishes for special occasions except now we don’t have enough plates for everyone in the family.  Maybe we would if I had taken them out and used them sooner instead of saving them. 

Most things have expiration dates; some are easily visible and some not so visible.  Food from the grocery store has dates stamped on the containers.  Appliances and vehicles fall apart soon after the warranty runs out.  Bubbles don’t last forever in soft drink bottles and summer blossoms fade with the winter cold.  Some not so obvious expiration dates involve patience, love, and mortality.

Let’s face it; we are all going to expire!  Get over it!  As the end of this year rapidly approaches, many of us start regretting what we’ve not accomplished rather than what we have.  I coulda!  I shoulda!  I didn’t!  Too late now!  I regret it!  I’m useless!

We are guaranteed the moment we are in, nothing more.  What we do with that moment is up to each of us.  We can regret the past or be optimistic about the future.  It’s never too late to put aside former differences or strained relationships; sometimes a simple, “I’m sorry,” can heal old wounds.  If not, at least you tried.  Maybe it is time to learn a new skill, include new friends into your life, write a book or paint a picture.  Look ahead in your life!  Be wild and crazy!

When your expiration date comes up, make sure it can be said that every bit of you was appreciated and savored.

Sharon 

If you are looking for a last-minute gift, you might want to check out LIVE WELL and LIVE WISELY, volumes 1 through 4, available at Amazon’s Kindle Store.  Only $2.99 each.  Each volume contains lots of info to help you get through the day!  No wrapping necessary and arrives via electronic mail instead of snail mail. 

 https://www.amazon.com/Live-Well-Wisely-Vol-Survive-book/dp/B074HVL6FG/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Survive+Live+Well+and+Live+Wisely&qid=1576685999&s=digital-text&sr=1-1 

QUESTIONS and REFLECTIONS REGARDING THE HOLIDAYS

For some of us, summer has passed by too quickly, for others it lingered way too long.  Regardless, winter is approaching and the holiday season is in full swing.  Stores and businesses around here started decorating for Christmas before Halloween.  Bell ringers have been ringing away for weeks already and Christmas tree lots are open for business.  What’s the rush?  Can’t we enjoy one holiday at a time?  I guess that’s not the proper way to do things today; hurry and get it all done at once is the new mantra.

Something I’ve been giving too much thought to lately is candy.  I’m talking about the special candy in the local grocery stores bagged for Halloween consumption that arrived on the shelves in August.  It’s amazing how many people put those bags in their shopping carts every week until the trick or treaters arrive on the last day in October.  Those people were certainly ready for the arrival of the hoards of sugar-sucking children. 

By the last week in October the candy was marked down to half price then it disappeared for a few seconds and bins and bins of Christmas chocolate took over, nestled in with shiny decorations and ornaments.  Now I imagine the leftover Halloween candy is somewhere in the store’s storage area ready to be returned to the distributor.  Part of me instead imagines little elves perched on wooden pallets ripping open bags of candy and putting them into new bags marked for Christmas.  Then they get hired to remove the plastic covers on the boxed chocolates the day after Thanksgiving and replace it with covers depicting a jolly Christmassy graphic.  Hmm, are you thinking ahead to what to give your valentine?

Another question I have concerns sweet potatoes.  Most of us like sweet potatoes or yams but the price my local store had them for was a little pricey.  Lo and behold, two weeks before Thanksgiving the price dropped from $1.49 a pound to $.29 a pound.  I took a good look at them sitting on a table in the produce department.  They looked just like the ones I saw the week before.  What changed?  I picked a few up to take a closer look.  I could have sworn I recognized some of them from my previous shopping trips.  I grabbed as many as I could and put them in my cart before the upper class, expensive ones that would taste so much better, returned.

Let’s talk turkey for a moment.  How many turkeys do you cook during the year?  How many do you usually see in the grocery store?  For a little over a month during this time of the year, the frozen chickens and ducks are swept away and replaced by their cousins, huge solid blocks of headless turkeys with a little piece of useless plastic embedded in its flesh and some other bird’s neck and organs stuffed up its butt.  As with the sweet potatoes, the prices drop so dramatically that you convince yourself to buy the biggest one you can lift up without the help of a derrick. 

Putting your groceries in the trunk of your vehicle and tearing out of the parking lot you think you hear a thumping sound that you just can’t place.  Not to worry.  AC/DC sounds better if you turn up the volume.  You pull into the garage and open the trunk to find fresh produce everywhere in various stages of ruination.  Asparagus squashed, blueberry and strawberry stains everywhere.  The expensive bakery goods are now mixed together and the only edible portions need to be spooned off the jumper cables that you’ve never used. Your turkey-flavored bowling ball is new resting out of reach in the farthest corner of the trunk.  After climbing into the trunk to retrieve it you realize that you are now kneeling in broken glass and rather expensive wine.

The salvage operation takes longer than anticipated as well as the glass removal from your knees.  The purple wine stains are going to remain for a while.  The grocery bags are emptied and what can be is put away.  That’s when you realize that the turkey is too big to fit on the refrigerator shelf.  Everything comes out of the fridge, the shelf is adjusted and the food gets rearranged with the turkey which will be thawing for the next week or so, taking up most of the room.  Exhaustion sets in and after a glass or two of your cheap wine, you’ll worry about things tomorrow.

Millions of people will be gathering together to share a meal with family and friends this week.   Regardless of how dry the turkey comes out or who found the giblet bag still inside; regardless of how many Brussels sprout casseroles showed up unannounced, remember that this is the time for celebration.  Compliment those who did the cooking and or cleanup.  Stay away from religion and politics.  Don’t fall asleep and snore too loudly while others are watching the game.  Stay away from those that annoy you and don’t stand around in the kitchen when others are trying to cook.  Talk to the children; they might someday be taking care of you. 

Be safe. The weather is going to be frightful and ground and air traffic will try your patience. Being late is so much better than not showing up at all.  Life is short.  Don’t waste it on petty differences or long ago spats.  Make this a time to relax, enjoy and appreciate what you’ve got and to remember those who may not be so lucky.  And, watch out for frozen turkeys falling from the sky.

Happy Thanksgiving!  Sharon     

Old Joe

He drove an old pickup, the paint so old that the color was indistinguishable.  His overalls were worn, and it looked like he always had on the same long-sleeved work shirt but both always appeared clean.  He rented a house down a dirt road that belonged to a mill owner.  I never actually saw the house but when it got dark and my dog, Shelby and I sat on the porch after dinner, lights could be seen through the scrub trees growing wild between my house and his.  In the warm summer nights, if the frogs weren’t making a racket down at the pond, I could hear bits of conversation, sometimes laughter. When the wind blew right, the strong smell of cigarette smoke journeyed my way. 

Occasionally when I was near the road working in the garden, he would slow up and wave, yelling “Howdy Missy” through the open window of his truck and then continue driving on.  Other times he would stop to pass the time for a few moments and we’d discuss the weather or maybe he’d comment on my summer garden, asking what was growing the best and we’d both complain about the bugs and fire ants as well as the rain or the lack of it.  After a bit, he’d run an old but strong-looking hand through his bushy white hair and replace his brown fedora on his head, saying his goodbyes. Joe would explain that he had to pick up some stuff for the boys.

“The boys” were homeless men that he invited to stay at his place in exchange for whatever they could afford to pitch in towards his rent.  Some of his boarders were on parole, some had substance abuse problems, and some just needed a place to stay until they got their heads on straight.  I don’t know how many would be there at any given time; they would come and go.

Joe was a regular at our small-town grocery store.  He bought produce that had seen better days and would haggle with the butcher over lowering the price of meat that he insisted needed to be reduced, pointing out a speck or a spot of discoloration.  The people there were generous and, knowing his situation, let him talk them down to a price agreeable to all concerned, even throwing in occasional freebies.

Wanting to do more than just feeding his flock, Joe scoured the area for anything that needed fixing.  The bed of his pickup might carry home furniture that needed some sprucing or lawnmowers that had seen their day.  He picked up vehicle parts and engines, planning for when they might just need them.  Some said he just collected junk. 

A large metal building that he used for a workshop was overflowing with his finds.  Aided with tools that Joe provided, the men under his care would do what they could to refurbish anything remotely restorable.  When he came back with an exceptionally good haul I could hear the drills and saws working their magic and the rumble and roar of the portable generator.

Some of the people who lived nearby wanted Joe and “his boys” removed, complaining that the men were a nasty lot who were probably dealing drugs and doing other despicable acts.  “The building is a fire hazard,” they’d say.  “Who knows what he’s got in there?  Too much stuff is piled around the place.  Looks bad.  Kids could get in trouble!”  Occasionally a police vehicle drove down that dirt road; my guess was they did so primarily to appease the complainants.  They knew Joe was harmless and that he kept the men in line, making sure to get them to meetings with probation officers or their drug and alcohol rehab sessions. 

One afternoon Joe stopped his truck for a quick visit.  He was on his way to his son’s house to spend the afternoon with his grandchildren.  This was the first time he had mentioned a family and I got the impression that visits like this were not frequent occurrences.  In one drawn-out breath he told me he had just turned eighty-five and, that he had Cancer.  Caught off guard and not sure what to say other than wishing him a Happy Birthday, I let him get back into his vehicle and watched him drive down the road, hoping that his time with the grandkids would be a good time. Should I have given him a hug or at least taken his hand in mine?  The easy answer would be yes, I should have.  In reality, neither one of us would have been comfortable.

That was the last time I saw him.  I did see the building get emptied out and eventually, the house behind it had new tenants.  Maybe, I thought, his family had found room for him with them so he could enjoy the time still allotted to him in a caring environment much like he tried to do for “his boys.”  Maybe it was time for family reconciliation?  Later I found out that Joe had died alone in that house down the dirt road, behind the scrub trees.  At night.  Alone in the dark.  Damn them all.  Rest in peace, Joe.

Sharon