Influence by Stan Beatty

I wrote the list and typed the names. I looked and searched and wrote some stories.  Who or what was the main influence on my life?  Sort of like, who am I or where did I come from?  Why am I the person I turned out to be.  I wondered if  Shakespeare came up with his famous "to be or not to be" question while pondering this same issue?

Was it my mother, my father or maybe both?  The school I went to or the teachers that taught me?  Are they responsible?  The friends I grew up with?  The religion I was taught?  Or maybe it was the place I grew up. The valley, the lake, the mountain?  Was it one or was it all?  Am I a composite of all of the above, or is there something else to consider.?

With who, whom or what do I give the credit or with who, whom or what do I place the blame?

As I thought about my life, it became obvious to me that I am a product of all.  Each and every aspect of my life has served to shape me.

But there is one underlying current that runs through all the influences that have given me my personality.  That one thing is "luck".  That's right, good old lady luck.  Why do I say luck?  Because I truly believe in the adage "but for the grace of God, There go I".

I was lucky to have the parents I did.  I grew up in a loving home, no beatings or child abuse.  No hunger or lack of food. 
I was lucky to grow up in America.  I was not born in a place where people are killed just because of religion or politics.
I was lucky to get an education, to have decent friends, to be healthy and to be able to work

There is no question that good old lady luck played a major roll in shaping who I am and what I am.
Thank you God for planting my butt exactly where you did.

Influence a la naturale by Connie Wolf

It was good to be back with my writing group again, I knew I missed it; I missed the process, I missed the people but I never suspected what a therapeutic release it would be to write again, to keep the pen moving, and to dare, once again to be transparent. I left class Tuesday determined to write every day. On Wednesday I began. I made a three page list of the influences in my life, I was sure I was off and running. The best laid plans….. OK, so it is now Saturday and I am looking at my three page list, I found it on my bedroom floor tossed carelessly by the side of my chair, untouched since Wednesday. I’m going out of town tomorrow and will miss this week’s class. Before I pack, before I make another telephone call or answer another email, I will choose something from my list of influences, something (as Amy would say) that jumps off the page at me. Three pages of people, events, places and things and what do I chose? I chose the weather. Does that tell you how boring the other items on my list must be if climate is my influence of choice? Actually, it is my second choice, my first was going to be a discussion of hormones; they have certainly been an influence on my life. They influenced me when they raged in my youth, when they burned in middle age, and even now, dry as dust, they influence me still, if only in memory. Some how, they are connected, the forces of nature within and the forces without. The forces of my current life are like the Santa Ana winds that blow dust and grit and set my teeth on edge. Holed up in the house, hiding from the heat I feel, angry. Every nerve on edge, the sky is clear and bright in contrast to the grit and heat that beats against my windows. This weather brings out the worse in me. I love rain, it releases something within me, the rain starts and it is as if I have been holding my breath, waiting for permission to exhale, breathe easy; I can live in just this moment. There are all kinds of rains, I’ll describe just three: #1 The Beginning Rain. I have watched the clouds come throughout the day. They came, first in layers of flat grayness, but now the final layer has form in various shades of darkness, now they are dimensional clouds with thick billows of substance. The day was long with the promise of rain. I found myself drawn again and again to the window to see if it had finally started, not yet, I feel the tension rise in me like a taunt elastic band pulled and straining, it must be released or it will surely break. With agitated anxiety I wait. Now I see, on the light concrete of the sidewalk, one large drop and then another. I hurry to my porch to watch and welcome the long awaited storm at its beginning. My hand reaches out, palm up, to feel the fall of the first large quarter-sized drops. It has begun; I feel relieved, I feel a release in my spirit in tune with the release from the sky. #2 Coastal Summer Rain On the coast of Oregon there are two kinds of rain. The storms that fall in torrents lashed with wind that brings down power lines and topples trees in its fury and then there are the mushy rains of late spring and summer. This is more a ground fog gone amuck, a heavy mist so fine it has no form or sound. The only sound is the drip from the trees and the eaves of the houses; a slow mournful drip that encourages boredom and discontent. This rain looks and feels like my depression. This rain will never lull me to sleep. In this rain I can’t cuddle up with steaming mug and watch from my window. It fills the air rather than falls. It fills the air with oppression. #3 The Sudden Storm, The Storm After The Storm It rained all day yesterday and today the sky is brilliant. In Southern California you forget what a really blue sky looks like; we have come to accept the dull gray of pollution that fills our calendar of days. But today, after yesterday’s storm, the people come out and they eagerly remark to anyone who will hear, “Look! Look at the sky how blue it is”. “Look you can see the mountains”. Once again we had forgotten they were there. There are still clouds, huge white fluffy clouds in constant motion across the sky. In the afternoon a dark cloud immerges, darker than any in yesterday’s storm. It moves quickly and seems to be full of its own wind. It does not fill the sky; the incredible blue can still be seen around the edges. With a single loud clap of thunder the rain begins, not slowly but all at once. People scurry on the sidewalks, scurry for cover. Cars slow on the street, in the houses everyone stops and runs to their windows. It is a majestic show of nature, it will not be ignored. It lasts only minutes, a half hour at the most and the cloud glides off to another neighborhood, another town. Mother Nature takes her show on the road.

OLD GLORY Sept. 15, 2009 　 I love it, love it, love it. That dashing red white and blue symbol of America. When Ted Kenned passed away recently we saw flags flying in his honor. My question is, where are those flags the rest of the time? And why can’t we fly them the 365 days a year, not just on holidays or in memory of days? Not to take away the tribute to Mr. Kennedy, but let us Americans show our pride in our country every day of the year. The 50 some years of my married life a flag has flown over my home. I give the flag as gifts to friends and family. They are available in hardware stores and I get mine from Congressman Gary Miller’s office in Brea. Those have flown in our country’s capital, Washington, D.C. In the townhouse complex in which we live there are over 200 homes and two flags are flying. I want to take it upon myself to hang one on each home. The glorious flag makes the statement that I am proud to be an American, and I am proud. Perhaps that pride is waning amongst us, but if everyone had a flag waving at their front door step, I believe that pride would be restored. It seems we are quicker to find fault with our country and that just drags us down. Not to say we don’t have our faults a plenty, after all we are comprised of billions of imperfect people, yet we are in the best country of all, so let us sing it’s praises. I love the flag and what it stands for, mainly freedom. I love to pledge to it, sing to it, salute it and watch it wave in the gentle wind. Pride, that is what it is all about. Splendid, enduring and everlasting pride. Betty McCallister

Finally I belong.

I still remember how I felt as I walked onto my high school campus in my Song Leading uniform the first day of my Senior year. At last, I thought to myself. Finally I belong. I have the right to stand in the area of the quad where all the popular kids stand without feeling like a leper. The other kids smiled at me and said hi and allowed me into their circles as they talked and laughed. All I really wanted from high school was to be a Song Leader. I had tried out all three years and made it my last year. I had also made the try outs to become a Los Angeles Rams Song Leader. I was finally worthy of my peers attention and adoration. I wasn't wealthy enough to wear the right clothes or be asked to join the right sorority. I wasn't pretty enough to be asked out by the most popular boys. I wasn't important enough to be included in any club just because I had the right name or my dad had the right job. I had worked so hard to be worthy of their adoration. But then that had been the story of my life from the day I was born. Perform. Perform LoRee and maybe you will be accepted. Maybe your mother will love you enough to come and take you back from your grandmother to live with her. Perform LoRee and maybe the couple you live with will love you enough to adopt you. Perform, and maybe they will keep you once they do adopt you. Perform and maybe the boys will like you. It's very tiring to be have to perform constantly. But, if you need to be loved bad enough, you keep auditioning no matter what, in hopes of pleasing your audience, whoever that might be at the time. Thank God I finally found an audience of one who only asked that I love Him. I no long have to perform to be accepted and loved. I am loved for who I am and I perform out of pure joy. Praise God.

Blogging by Stan Beatty

I spent all summer blogging and  I thought some of you might find my experience interesting.

My blogging started when I created this site for everyone in the class to use when and if you wanted to.  My thoughts  were to have a site that we could all use to write about our experiences and practice our writing.

The first thing I noticed was that every time a new post is put up it pushes the old post off  the main page.  I thought that every time I post I will push someone else off the main page. Since I was posting so often I thought other class members might  think of me as a hog. So I decided to create a personal blog that I could post on and others could read if they were interested.  I would post on both blogs. I named my personal blog  "Old Grizz and Me".

The new blog would give me the opportunity to write and post as much as I wanted.  I could do both and not be a hog on one.  I began writing short stories and posting them but I was not getting any readers. I did not know how to get noticed by other bloggers,  In other words, no one was "beating a pathway to my door". One day I was reading Connie's profile and noticed she read a blog site called  "Sunday Scribblings", so I decided to check it out. This site offers a weekly prompt and anyone can write about the prompt.  It is similar to what we do in our class.  When you post your interpretation of the prompt on your blog you link it back to the Sunday Scribblings site and other bloggers can see that you have written a response to the prompt.  They can read what you have written and comment on it.

When I first started posting on the blog no one was reading what I wrote or at least they were not commenting on what I had to say.  My "story" was either really bad writing or there was something going on that I did not understand.  I began reading other bloggers that had contributed and discovered that they were getting comments.  Some had just a few comments and some had a lot of comments.  When  I read what they wrote I could see that the bloggers with a lot of comments were not any better or any worse writers than I am. However, I did notice that the bloggers with the most comments were also the bloggers that commented the most.

I began to emulate Amy.  I left positive comments on what they had written.  The response was immediate.  I read and commented on their writing so they read and commented on mine.  I discovered blogging is a "push me-pull you" world.  At least it is for those of us that are not famous.  "You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours" should be the national motto of bloggers.  The bloggers that get the most responses are those that spend the most time reading and commenting on what other bloggers are writing.

Is there anything wrong with this system?  I don't think so.  If you want good friends in your everyday life you have to give of yourself.  No one wants friends that just take and never give.  I have discovered some very nice bloggers from England to Australia and enjoy what they have to say and enjoy their comments on what I have to say.   It has been a very positive experience for me.  In fact, I now have three blogs besides being a member of  "Tuesday with Amy"

If there is a down side to blogging it would be the time it takes away from my original goal of writing my life story and my secondary goal of writing short stories.  However I would say the experience of blogging has been positive and helped improve my writing skills.

Memoir Workshop

The Art of Remembering Memoir Workshop will resume on Tuesday September 29th from 3:30 - 5:30 p.m. at St. Paul Lutheran Church. This workshop is for all levels of writers interested in getting in touch with their story. Offered through the North Orange County Community College District Older Adult Program free of charge. Bring a notebook and pen. Remember, your life is your journey, your journey is your story, your story is your legacy.

the lesson by Stan Beatty

We sat in the police station's waiting room,  My wife was crying, I was mad.  Why would she do something so stupid.  I know she's not guilty my wife sobbed,  She wouldn't do that,  she doesn't need money.   She confessed I replied.  She is guilty, she took the money.  But why?  It's so stupid.  Who knows?  I guess she thought she wouldn't get caught.  My wife couldn't stop crying.  Where's the lawyer?  Will she get bail?  Damned if I know, this is all new to me.  He should be here any time.  He walked in, are you her parents?  Yes, can we get her out tonight, my wife asked?  I don't' know as I want to get her out, I said.  Maybe she needs a lesson.  Maybe a night in jail would be good for her.  But she so scared, my wife sobbed.  She was crying when she called.  "Please mommy get me out of here. I don't like it in here".  She seem so scared. 

She damned well ought to be, embezzling $30,000 dollars is no joke.  The lawyer said he would see what the charges were and if bail had been set.  He went in to talk to her.

As we sat there waiting and wondering, my mind went back to my  youth. 

I was in my parents back yard.  They had friends over, people they had know for 30 years.  I could picture them as if I was right there.  Tom and Brenda Parks.  Tom worked with my dad at the steel mill.  They were both pipe fitter welders. Tom and Brenda were also rock hounds as my parents were.  They belonged to the same club and had gone rock hunting together for years.  They were truly close friends. Tom was a big strapping man, tall, strong and proud.  But that night he was a defeated man.  His wife was sobbing then as mine was this evening. 

Back then they had faced much the same problem as we did this evening.  Evan, their only son, had committed a crime.  He stole some money.  But he didn't steal from a store like our daughter had. He stole from them.  He stole from his parents.  But it was much more complicated that that.  Evan was mentally handicapped.  Not severely handicapped, but handicapped. He went to regular high school but had to receive special tutoring.  He did graduate but only because they couldn't do anything more for him. 

After high school he made friends with a wild group.  They took him with them because he would do anything they asked.  He liked them because they were the only friends he could find.  The "friends" dreamed up a plot where Evan would steal his parents check book and they would get some money to party.  It wasn't a great amount, only $500.00 but it was enough to be classified as a felony.

Of course Evan got caught by his parents.  Instead of handling the crime at home, Tom chose to call the police and have Evan arrested.  Tom was really mad.  The boy needed a lesson.  He wanted no thief living in his house.  Over his wife's pleading he pressed charges.  A little prison time would do him good.  Evan went to prison.  2 to 5 for check forgery.  They said he would be out in 6 months.  Fine Tom said, he will damn well not steal when  he gets out.  He will be a better person.  Every man has to pay for his mistakes. 

It didn't work like that.  Evan was bitter.  He hated his parents.  He never wanted to see them again.  He had been forsaken, abandoned.  He didn't understand.  He was sorry, but for Tom sorry wasn't good enough. The boy must be taught a lesson.

Evan was a bitter prisoner.  He couldn't adjust to prison life. He was a dummy. The other prisoners tormented him.  He fought back.  His Sentence was extended.  He refused to see his parents.

He was killed in a prison fight eight years after his father had him put in prison.  The lesson had worked.  Evan would never steal again.  Tom's heart was broken.  He knew he had been wrong.  But now it was to late.  Tom would live the rest of his life with a broken heart.  He had wronged his own flesh and blood.

The lawyer came out.  They set bail, he said, $50,000 dollars.  I know a good  bail bond company.   If you can come up with $5000.00 dollars, we can get her out tonight.  Call the bail people I said .  I'll put it on my credit card.  Will she have to go to prison?  She did confess.  Well sometimes, he explained, if this is the first offense and restitution is made the store won't press charges. Then it's up to the D.A.'s office if they want to prosecute.  Most of the time they do not.

I said,  I'll take a loan on my house.  I'll pay every dime back.  I don't want any child of mine in prison.

Remembering Ronnie

"Be Bold. Be Courageous. Serve Others." Ronnie wrote those words. I remember telling him, "those should be on a poster!" And what did Ronnie do? He made me a poster with those words on it. This is just one of his legacies. Ronnie faced numerous health challenges, but they never deterred him from persevering. Sometimes, he would arrive to class with an oxygen tank. He walked slowly but with a determination unmatched by most. As his health deteriorated, he sometimes used a motorized cart to get to and from the car. Whenever he could, Ronnie came to class despite the obstacles. He was forthright, honest, opinionated, direct. In one of his last outspoken moments in class, Ronnie railed against his church spending money on a bell tower. The money, he said, could have been used for more important things. His sense of social justice and care for those in need was evident in the things he wrote about. Breath is life. For as long as I knew Ronnie, he was running out of both. But he never wasted either. He wrote stories about his life, his recovery, his camping trips, his family, his beliefs, and his struggles. Writing is hard work. Ronnie worked hard at it. It was a labor of love. Our life is our journey. Our journey is our story. Our story is our legacy. There will be an empty chair at our table - but Ronnie's legacy and indomitable spirit will continue to inspire. Be Bold. Be Courageous. Serve Others. Like Ronnie.