The Sky's Promise

From this morning to early afternoon, the sky turned from white to charcoal grey, the air thickened with moisture. Winds kicked up in short gusts, only to subside momentarily, like the capricious calm on the New England coast right before the North Atlantic unleashes one of her notorious nor’easters.

It rarely rains here in the Sonoran Desert, which encompasses most of southern Arizona, the southeastern corner of California, and the western half of the Mexican state of Sonora stretching south to the tip of the Baja peninsula.

Occasionally, a dramatic cloud sprinkles a few drops then scoots away leaving blue sky and unsatisfied soil.

But when a monsoon thunderstorm rolls across the hot desert floor, giant raindrops bullet down in sheets of water from black skies exploding with spidery lightning balls and thunderclaps so loud they sound like a hundred jet fighters blasting through the sound barrier at once.

The day’s foreboding weather makes me certain we will see such a storm. Then, for hours after the sky began to threaten, nothing. Even the wind gusts settled, a gentle breeze carrying the distinct aroma of the desert before a rainfall the only remaining hint of possibility.

Finally, it’s dark, the afternoon’s damp breeze replaced by a dry hot wind, an impending downpour the ghost of a lover’s promise.

Arizona summer weather writers daily life writing diary

A Tragic Prelude

Title: USCGC Escanaba/USAT Dorchester 1943
Size: 20"x16"
Media: Acrylic

While the inspirational World War II sacrifice of the Four Chaplains, and their role on the USAT Dorchester is well-documented, the artist who created the painting above, Dick Levesque and I have run into similar frustrations uncovering the rest of the story -- the true history of the sinking and rescue, and the fatal errors in judgment that lead to the Dorchester's vulnerability. It's these questions that make the sacrifice of the Four Chaplains, and the tragedy of the deaths of 675 men, including my grandfather, especially poignant.

The ship in the foreground is the USCGC Escanaba, one of three Coast Guard vessels charged with escorting the USAT Dorchester and her convoy to Greenland. When the Dorchester sunk, courtesy of a German submarine's torpedo, the Escanaba was first to the rescue. The larger ship in the distance is the Dorchester, and in the far distance, the USCGC Comanche, the second of the convoy's three Coast Guard escorts.

With much gratitude to Dick for allowing me to post this work, and, perhaps more importantly, for sharing with me his interest in establishing the true history of the ship and its men, below is an account of his painting's creation.

* * *

USCGC ESCANABA/USAT DORCHESTER

My name is Dick Levesque and I am a retired Coast Guardsman and marine artist. I have previously read accounts of the Dorchester sinking and the remarkable sacrifice that the four Army Chaplains made on that bitterly cold morning of February 3, 1943. Most of my marine artwork revolves around historical events that pertain to the U.S. Coast Guard.

While researching the history of the USCGC Escanaba I became intrigued with the Dorchester incident. I knew that I wanted to portray both ships but was unsure how to go about it. I tried some rough sketches at first showing the sinking but I felt that this was too gruesome. I even attempted depicting hundreds of men floating among the wreckage struggling for survival with others lifelessly adrift being held up only by their life preservers. I rejected this also as it seemed too disrespectful to these poor souls and the families that might have the opportunity to view the finished painting.

My research indicated that the Dorchester sank rapidly shortly after midnight with one survivor account stating "it was a moonless night and bitterly cold". There was no fire visible when she slipped below the surface and another account indicates that "star flares" were fired about 45 minutes after the sinking. This would make a portrayal of the sinking very difficult as there was no illumination for some time.

I shelved the project for many months randomly wondering how I could complete this painting. One evening while dozing off to sleep it suddenly hit me that the most reverent way was to show both vessels in their glory the day before this tragedy.

After a very restless sleep I awoke and could hardly wait to begin. I had all the research information on both vessels and hastily put it to paper to see if it "worked".

It did and I think it honors all those involved including the USCGC Comanche barely visible on the left horizon. I have received reviews including: "You have really set the stage for one of WW11's major tragedies. The sea, sky, color, all puts in your mind that something bad is going to happen. Sadly, it did!" And, "It brings a chill to see the Dorchester in the background, knowing what would happen soon afterward." And finally, "You can almost feel a bitter cold wind. You can look at the picture and wonder what those guys must have been feeling and what was about to happen." I am very pleased with the results and feel blessed to have been able to pay tribute to the four Chaplains and ALL that gave their lives that fateful day.

* * *

After much thought, and a conversation with Barry Sax and David Fox of the The Immortal Chaplains Foundation, Dick decided to attempt a 5'x3' painting of the sinking of the Dorchester and was kind to give me a glimpse of his unfinished work. It's haunting, chilling, terrifying, particularly to the granddaughter of one of the figures he has carefully painted on the ship. As soon as Dick has completed it, he's agreed to allow me to post this painting, also. The final work will be donated to the Immortal Chaplains Foundation.


World War II Four Chaplains heroism faith honor courage Patriotism creative non-fiction writing

The Teenager Gets a Job

Remember your first job? Not the first time you mowed a lawn or baby sat the neighbor’s kids; I mean the first time you showed up at a place of business wearing appropriate clothing, did whatever your boss told you to do and, a week or two later, came home with a paycheck. Your first real job. Or, at least the first job your parents called a real job.

My first real job was at a health insurer processing claims for two summers in a row. I like to think of it as preparation for my next medical mystery.

Ok, so it was deadly dull. But it sure felt good to start college with a few thousand dollars in my savings account.

The Teenager believes his future lies in the film industry. A noble thought. Since Steven Spielberg hasn’t offered him a position as executive producer, however, his car remains devoid of gas, his calendar devoid of dates, and his plans to go on a three-month road trip with his Teenager Buddies a pipe dream, at best.

Since The Teenager is, after all, an intelligent, capable and clever human being, he sought only jobs he believed worthy of his potential. He prepared a resume, developed a job hunting strategy and filled out applications at every computer or sporting goods store within a 10-mile radius -- all to no avail.

Why? Everyone wants those jobs. Three months into The-Great-Job-Hunt-of-2006, and the Teenager had not so much as flipped a burger for $5 an hour.

“I don’t understand it, Mom. How can J get a job so easily? He's lazy, and a space cadet besides!”

“Where does he work?”

“Baskin-Robbins.”

“Why don’t you apply there?”

“Nah, I don’t want to scoop ice cream.”

“What about where that wild-haired buddy of yours works. Why don’t you apply at Barnes & Noble?”

“Nah, I don’t like books.”

“Maybe you should try cutting your hair?”

“Come on, Mom, this is serious.”

We knew he’d hit bottom when he called ten of his friends to find someone to join him for a movie, and all of them were busy. Why? They all had jobs.

Then, Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw threatened to take away his (gasp) truck. The Teenager responded with renewed verve. He cut his hair, expanded his strategic sphere, and, miraculously, an interview appeared on his calendar.

Friday, the good news arrived.

The Teenager is now The Ace Hardware Man.

parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary

Lessons in Raising a Teenager: Part II

Be forewarned, all ye Southern Californians: The Teenager and his Teenager Buddies will tour Tinseltown Aug. 3-5.

Yup. I caved.

parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary

Lessons in Raising a Teenager: Part I

I was 17 when I graduated from high school and moved out of my parent’s house. The Teenager knows this. Therefore, he believes that since he is now 17, he’s eligible for all the rights, responsibilities and privileges his mother enjoyed.

Lesson 1: Never tell your child anything about your childhood. He will use it against you.

The Teenager and his Teenager Buddies have mounted a well-planned and brilliantly executed public relations and marketing campaign to convince their parents that an unsupervised trip to Los Angeles in a rickety Ford with a bad transmission is a critical step toward their future as movie moguls.

The Teenager, in particular, displayed notable business development skills:

Smart Move #1: The Teenager first determined which of the six parents was the most likely to succumb and create a domino effect of agreement among the other parents.

Smart Move #2: Next, he determined the key points most likely to convince said parent, and developed a sales pitch complete with Excel spreadsheets and Power Point slides.

Smart Move #3: Given that Teenager Buddy J rarely strings two words together to make a thought, much less a sentence, and Teenager Buddy C has hair so wild it sends lurking coyotes yelping for the nearest dark cave, the Teenager nominated himself as the Public Relations Spokesperson.

Lesson 2: Never teach your child business sense. He will use it against you.

The conversation went something like this:

“Mom, I need to talk to you about my career in film. It’s really important for me to spend as much time in L.A. as possible to develop connections. Also, because of the set designs in my next film, I need J and C to learn more about the technical side of lighting, and there is no better show to demonstrate this than “Stomp.”

“No.”

“We’ve each saved $200, we’ll drive J’s car, which is very fuel-efficient, we’ve stocked it with plenty of water and a first aid kit, and we can purchase temporary driver’s insurance so that we can all drive and no one gets too tired.”

“Isn’t that the car that you guys are always pushing out of parking spaces because it doesn’t have reverse? No.”

“We’re staying with C’s uncle who is a responsible adult.”

“No.”

“We’ve planned….”

“No.”

“Mom, please...will you listen to me before you say no.”

Smart Move #4: Pull the guilt card at precisely the right moment.

Anyone care to lay odds on Queen Mom and Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw joining The Teenager and Teenager Buddies in a remake of The Nuclear Family Goes Skiing titled The Nuclear Family Goes to Tinseltown?

parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary

The Sounds of Silence

Setting.

In a two-minute conversation with Jim Fusilli at Thrillerfest, my writing changed forever. “Setting will anchor your story,” he said.

All I can think about now is setting.

Yesterday, Toni McGee Causey posted a beautiful essay about her life growing up in Cajun Louisiana. Setting.

And this morning, Bill Cameron responded by posting a poignant story about his nomadic life growing up following his mother’s inclinations. Setting.

But, my experience of my surroundings will never be the same as it was when I was growing up. Not since February of last year, when I suddenly and inexplicably lost most of the hearing in my left ear to have it replaced by a constant ringing sound.

Go find a piano and hit high “G.” Now imagine that note as a ringing tone in your ear. Constant. Night or day. 24/7. 365.

And medical science has no idea why, nor any clue how to fix it.

Deafness, even partial deafness, is an isolating experience. I listen to jokes, but miss a lot of punch lines. When more than two people talk at once, I can’t hear a word anyone is saying, making conversations with two or more a challenge. And at large tables of people having dinner together, I can only comfortably converse with one or two people on my right, since I can’t hear much of what anyone else is saying. Unless they shout. And that just annoys everyone.

I've never liked a lot of attention, so I don't usually tell people lest I make them feel they have to treat me like a princess. Instead, I'd rather feel stupid. And I often do. Because I know I'm missing important points in conversations.

And once in a while, I'll meet someone with a voice I simply can’t hear at all. Then I'm brave, I straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath, I boldly tell them I have a hearing problem and what it is and what it means. But people don't really understand. So, after saying "huh?" a hundred times, I'll give up and smile and nod and hope they don’t ask me something that will reveal I haven’t heard a single word they’ve said. I don't want people to think I'm not interested. I am. I just can't hear so much.

I long at times for what I once had, but I still have much to be grateful for. I have two friends who are completely deaf. They grew up deaf and know nothing else and are happily married to each other in their own silent world. They've never heard the sounds I’ve heard and they never will and they don't care. They don't think they are missing anything at all.

The world is rich with sound, and the story of sound plays an integral role in my strongest memories of the places I’ve lived.

Setting again. All i can think about right now is setting.

The sound of the ocean waves crashing rhythmically against the beaches of Long Island Sound, playing in the cold water until our lips turn blue, salt air tickling my nostrils, cool breezes against our damp skin, the setting sun turning the water a cool grey-pink. Setting.

The constant hum of a busy urban city punctuated by sirens, honking cars and the distant shouts of pedestrians, the gritty scent of New York City’s air, the dark that's never really dark because there are so many lights…I always think of New York City first at night. Setting.

The pure silence of the Arizona desert in the ‘70s, before everyone on earth started moving here. My friends and I would ride our horses out a few miles and stop in the middle of nowhere and marvel that we could hear nothing. Nothing but the sound of our horses breathing and the warm dry wind in our hair. No planes. No cars. No hum of heaters or air conditioners or anything else from the modern world. And in the middle of a hot desert day, not even a bird. Nothing.

And that is what I miss.

I still hear birds and crickets and frogs. I still hear ocean waves. I can hear the hum of a city, blues music on the radio, and if I listen really hard and overcome my fear of calling attention to myself, I can still hear a lot of what people say.

But never again will I hear the sounds of silence.

Writing paradise

The monsoons have come to Phoenix: towering thunder clouds and psychedelic sunsets, dust storms and distant lightning, and thunderclaps so loud I bolted out of bed at 2:30 a.m. last night wondering who dropped the bombs. Somehow, our wild weather seems like the perfect way to end the first ever conference of the International Thriler Writers, Thrillerfest 2006.

I've attended all kinds of conferences in my various and sundry professional positions, but never, EVER, have I attended one where the camaraderie between attendees was so instant and complete; never, EVER, have I talked so much, laughed so much and slept so little; never, EVER, have I met so many industry stars who were so eager to lend a hand to newbies like me; never, EVER, have I attended a closing conference lunch with so many red-rimmed eyes and gigantic smiles; and never, EVER, have I left so fully and completely inspired on so many levels.

I attended because it was cheap, set in my hometown of Phoenix and I knew I'd get to meet Clive Cussler. I left with 350 new best friends and a brain so full of ideas it's about to explode.

To the founders of the International Thriler Writers and the intrepid organizers of Thrillerfest 2006, a giant thank you!!