Me and Ray

He took me by the hand and led me to strange and wonderful worlds. He taught me that time does not necessarily move forward, that the past surrounds us, that living on Mars might be preferable to living on Earth. He introduced me to the Golden Apples of the Sun and The Illustrated Man and The Fog Horn and even a middle-of-the-night return of Laurel and Hardy as they moved the piano up that long flight of steps.

His name was Ray Bradbury and he wrote his final sentence last Tuesday.

I knew he was old (91), in poor health; still, he found the words and ideas to write an essay for last week’s New Yorker magazine, a special issue on Science-Fiction. The title of his essay? "Take Me Home." I guess not even this magnificent writer could find an alternate ending, a way to slip past the encroachment of time. 

Really, though, is any writer ever dead? His stories and books rest on my bookshelves and speak in my imagination. I see myself at the age of 14 or 15, lying in bed at night by the lamp, totally lost in one of Ray’s worlds. His choice of words, his phrases, his ideas were like music and poetry to me. I still can see the large spread in a 1952 Collier’s Magazine, featuring his story “A Sound of Thunder.” It boggled (love that word) my mind. There’s a line in that story that showed how changing the past, even minutely, can have shattering effect in the present. A traveler to the past comes back to the present, to a world that has changed drastically. He discovers one of his boots is covered with mud. He looks at his boot.

“Embedded in the mud, glistening green and gold and black, was a butterfly, very beautiful and very dead.” 

I still have “The Big Book of Science Fiction,” edited by Groff Conklin, published in 1950, signed by Ray on Nov. 14, 1996. I bought that book when it was new, read the stories by Theodore Sturgeon, Murray Leinster, Lester del Rey, Arthur C. Clarke, Robert Heinlein. But the master, for me, was Ray Bradbury. I saw him on two occasions, when he was in St. Louis for book signings. 1990 and 1996. I stood there with my books, making dumb conversation, trying to prolong the moment as long as possible before the line behind me got impatient.

In our digital age of Kindle and Nook, Twitter and Facebook, emails and blogs, a time when publishers are fearful and anybody can publish a manuscript quite easily....In this age, it’s comforting to know that some things remain. I can walk by my book shelves, stop and look at Ray’s books, touch the cover as I would touch a friend on the shoulder. 

I can say, “Good to see you, Ray. Glad you’re here.”

The Past Is Not Past

I’ve been to France but didn't get to Normandy. I’ve never stood on Omaha Beach, stared up at the intimidating cliffs and wondered how men accomplished this impossible mission.

“D-Day” is one of those links to the past that trigger images of an old war with black and white photos of the Normandy invasion in 1944. It is remembered by aged men, most of them frail and fading. You see them interviewed on TV occasionally, their memories of those awful days 68 years ago as fresh and painful as though it happened just last week. Men whose number dwindles sadly with each passing day. You see their names in the obits with little American flags next to them.

I have nothing to add to their story, to this day of tribute. I’ve seen the movies, read the books, attended lectures. I was 9 years old when “our boys” landed. To me, it was adventure of the highest order. The stuff of comic books and movies and newspaper headlines and stories in Life magazine. I don’t recall seeing many pictures of dead, dying, wounded, maimed, suffering. 

About 4 years ago I interviewed a man, then in his mid-80’s, who was there. At Omaha Beach. His name was Charles and he had lived a productive, happy life since the end of the war, raised a family, was still married and owned his own modest home. He and I were doing a video for his kids and grandkids. About his life. He talked about the war, the landing, the hard road across France.

We got near the end of our conversation. He returned to one memory of D-Day, nothing deep or revealing, just a thought about being so thirsty. He paused. I asked him, “Are you a hero, Charles?” He looked at me, then looked away for a long time. I thought maybe he hadn’t heard the question. Then I saw tears in his eyes. It was the first time in the 2 hours we had been talking I had seen such depth of pain and feeling. Charles turned back to me and struggled to say, “The heroes are buried over there. Or they’re at the bottom of the ocean. I’m not a hero.”

Maybe that’s what D-Day means to me. Sure, part of it is the amazing bravery shown on all the beaches during those days. But the other part is the pain that continues decades later, the memories that remain buried. Or almost buried, only to resurface at the most unexpected moments. 

To me, they were all heroes. And I pause to think of them them today.

Photo by Susan Manlin Katzman, taken at

Normany in May, 2012.

Susan's website

47 years ago today

The year was 1965. Mary Lee and I had just been pronounced "man and wife" by her uncle, Monsignor Don Hartnett, at Ste. Genevieve DuBois church in Ladue. My parents were there, her parents were there, and my dad's sisters from the Old Country were there, somewhat uncomfortable in a house of worship that had a large statue of Jesus hanging up front. They made it through the ceremony without fainting. So did I.

After a strictly first-class reception at Old Warson Country Club, Mary Lee and I climbed into my 1965 Olds Jetstar Convertible. Top up. Didn't want to mess up her hair. Or mine. We waited with friends at a hotel near the airport, then caught a plane for Las Vegas. Our honeymoon was storybook: 3 nights in Vegas at The Riviera, 2 nights at Disneyland (my choice), and a week and a half in Mexico (Mexico City and Taxco). What a grand beginning for our life adventure.


And now, here we are, still having fun, still in love, still seeking adventure, though maybe a little more cautiously. This includes trips to Chicago where Gregg lives, or New York to see Holly. 


I was lucky to find Mary Lee, even luckier when she said she'd marry me - even though she later confessed it was just to get out of her house. Our road has had some interesting twists and turns, which has just gone to make our lives more interesting and our marriage more solid. And she's still beautiful.

Happy anniversary to the woman I love, Mary Lee. 

Sidenote: Last year a young man called from Kansas City. He had bought a '65 Olds and found the owner's manual in the glove compartment with my name on it. He tracked me down, and brought the car to St. Louis. The same car Mary Lee and I had left in so many years before. Some things are meant to run for a long time.

D'Arcy, Masius, Benton and Brigadoon

Once every one hundred years, so the legend goes, the Scottish village of Brigadoon emerges from the mist of the past and lives once again for only one day. Maybe D'Arcy isn't a fitting subject for a musical or movie, but it sure is capable of maintaining the magic. So it was yesterday, when - thanks to the efforts of Jerry Sexton - many of us gathered at a local pub in Kirkwood to rub elbows and share hugs and stories and laughs and a glass of brew or wine. Some new faces were there since the last appearance, and some faces were missing. Still, the village of DMB&B continues to live, if only in our hearts.

I never seem to find the time to talk to all the people I want to. Conversations are too short, memories too prevalent, questions and interests arise and disappear too quickly. I see a face across the room, someone I want to reconnect with, but don't quite get around to. It's as though, like Brigadoon, the mist will swirl in much too early, leaving dangling conversations and stories without punch lines, an intended handshake or hug unfulfilled. 

Fortunately we don't have to wait one hundred years for the next opportunity. As long as Jerry Sexton has an extra supply of name tags and the time to pull it together, the village will return much sooner. 

  

Charlie at 123

123 years ago today, Charlie Chaplin was born. To save you the math,

that makes it 1889. That was the same year the Eiffel Tower opened,

the dam in Johnstown, Pennsylvania broke, and Thomas Edison showed

his first motion picture. 

That’s about as much as I’m going to write about today. The rest of this post is written by Charlie. Actually, his words extracted from various interviews. 

The only thing I’ll add is a couple of photos: one of him at the London Poor Law School at Hanwell, where he stayed in 1896 and ’97; 

and one  of him with the Fred Karno Troupe from England in 1913. Charlie is standing, second from right. Stanley Jefferson is standing, second from left. Stanley later changed his name to Stan Laurel. And that’s Fred Karno seated.

So now I’ll turn this over to Charlie.

(1915) I was born in a suburb of London 25 years ago. I went on the stage because there seemed nothing else to do. In fact, I don’t know anything else. Both my father and mother are on the stage, and so were all my ancestors as far back as I can trace the family tree. The first time I looked at myself on the screen, I was ready to resign. That can’t be I, I thought. Then when I realized it was, I said, “Good-night.” I had always been ambitious to work in drama, and it certainly was the surprise of my life when I got away with the comedy stuff.”

(1918) I want to be myself, that’s all. Why can’t people dissociate an actor from his work, and take the work as it is, and the man for what he is, as they do a business man? I like people. But I like them only when they’re perfectly natural and when they let me be perfectly natural. When in a great bunch of human beings I see on every face only one emotion, curiosity, I want to get away as fast as I can.

(1940) I doubt that at any picture of mine people have said, “This is it. This is the great moment.” Because I don’t spill over. It is better to suggest, to reach almost the  great moment, the final pathos, and then go on. I hate spilling over, and fear it. I am protected by being a charlatan. To be honest, I don’t search for truth. I search for effectiveness. Do you know why most writers fail in the theatre? Because they try to write what is worthwhile rather than what is effective.

(1967) I’ve never been obsessed with friendship. In the first place I’m shy. In the next place I’m busy. People usually think I’m very sad, but I’m not sad. Perhaps I’ve been sad in my youth for want of other companionship, but it was never suitable to me. So I’ve been alone. I’ve lived alone all my life I’d say, with the exception of this family and this last twenty-odd years which have been wonderful. What has always sustained me has been my work.

(1972, Tribute at Lincoln Center upon his return to the U.S.) 

This is my renaissance. I’m being born again. It’s easy for you, but it’s very difficult for me to speak tonight, because I feel very emotional. However, I’m glad to be among so many friends. Thank you.

Thank you, Charlie. 

And Happy Birthday.

Bones in the River

This little story was inspired by Linda O'Connell in a recent post on her blog, Write from the Heart. It's a beautiful reminder of the Arch and Riverfront. Her story took me back. Here's a link to the post:

http://lindaoconnell.blogspot.com/2012/04/on-warm-afternoon-this-past-weekend-we.html

Bones in the River

1964 was a  year filled with excitement and change. LBJ was elected to continue the vision set by JFK. Khrushev has been tossed out by the Russkies. China showed the world it now had the atomic bomb. The Cardinals, led by a voracious Bob Gibson, won the World Series over the Yankees, led by a struggling Mickey Mantle. And I landed a job at KMOX-TV, the CBS station in St. Louis, at 12th and Cole Streets. 

I was one of the few single men there, which gave me a sense of freedom not enjoyed by most of the other guys. Then, to my good luck, three months after I started, the National Sales Manager hired a very attractive secretary. Her name was Mary Lee. She, too, was single.  So we began to hang out together. She was vivacious, in the mode of one of my favorite actresses, Betty Hutton. She was beautiful with a dynamite figure. And she had a great sense of humor, evidenced by how easily she laughed at all my jokes. 

Mary Lee and I would get together occasionally for lunch, or drinks after work. She went for Chablis, I preferred scotch and water, tastes now both thankfully put to rest. But our favorite lunch date was known by the code words, “Bones in the River.” As in, “Would you like to throw some bones in the river today?”

Here’s how it worked. We’d get into my 1960 Corvette convertible, top down, and head across Eads Bridge to East St. Louis. We’d wind our way through some side streets until we came to a small wooden shack with a take-out window and a hand-painted sign that said “Nichols BBQ.” We’d get two slabs of ribs, laid over slices of Wonder white bread, soaked in sauce, wrapped in wax paper, and head back across Eads to the St. Louis waterfront. We’d park on the levee, sit on the wall, and dig into the ribs. Oh, I forgot to mention. She had a root beer, I had an RC. In glass bottles. 

Behind us, on the hill overlooking the river, the St. Louis Arch was inching its way into the sky. Cranes crawled up the stainless steel legs, adding sections  slowly and carefully, approaching the day when the two legs would be joined by a final span. 

The grounds around the base were pretty much of a mess, looking like most other construction sites. But I’ve got to admit, it was exciting to think our city would soon have this distinctive structure. And there we were, Mary Lee and I, in its shadow, talking and laughing and getting sauce all over our mouths and hands. 

As we finished our ribs, we’d walk down to the edge of the Mississippi and ceremoniously toss the ribs into the brown, swiftly moving water. Sometimes we’d make a wish, but usually it was just a simple flip of the bare bones into the river. I don’t know if any of our bones ever made it to New Orleans, but I hope so.

Then we’d head back to the station and go our separate ways. 

That was in 1964. In 1965 we were married.

This May we will celebrate our 47th anniversary.

You may wonder if we ever went back for Bones in the River. We did. For our 25th anniversary. That was in 1990. A lot had happened in 25 years, including a completed Arch surrounded by beautiful grounds and an imposing staircase from the levee to the Arch. Nichols BBQ was now an empty lot, but we picked up some ribs that day at a BBQ joint in Soulard and sat on the levee once again. Mary Lee was still beautiful, still had a great body, and still laughed at my jokes.

Fortunately, some things never change.

A Beautiful Dog Needs a Home

This is for you if you love dogs. This is especially for you if you want a beautiful dog.
A friend of mine must find a home for SilverBelle, her Weimaraner. Here is the link to info about the dog, some photos, and contact information for Mary Ann. She lives in St. Louis. If you know someone who might be interested, please forward this to them. Thanks. I can vouch for SilverBelle; I've been around her and would take her, if it weren't for Sadie, our Golden Retriever. Thanks.

 http://dogs.facebook.oodle.com/view/silverbelle-is-looking-for-her-new-forever-home/2927665845-saint-louis-mo/?cm_mmc=FB_Friend_Email-_-120217a73f67045cd8cf6e00087637c3f20d2e-_-Listing_Friend_Title_IDP-_-1610168011&fb_framebust=1