Monday, September 2, 2013

Mr. Kinning's Providence...an excerpt from my upcoming book, Lost Adolescence



June, 1969

Les Kinning does not say much and if anything really does bother him, he never shows it.   

Perhaps that is why I find him so interesting. 

Life, to me on the other hand, seems chaotic, confusing and unpredictable. Life makes me afraid.

Since I am smaller than my classmates at North Arlington High School and still speak with a squeaky soprano voice at age sixteen, I have few friends and prefer to hang around with older people who will not make fun of me. My parents have recently returned to church after a long absence:  a Baptist church, in the neighboring town of Rutherford. The church is attended by mostly elderly people and there are no other kids my age. I think that my parents feel needed there and the old people are kind to me, so I feel safe.

The old stone building, however, is far too large for the congregation’s needs and in constant need of repair. Les Kinning has volunteered to do much of the routine maintenance and I like to help him. So, I am often found following him around the building while he dusts the dark, lacquered pews or stands on an extra-high ladder replacing light bulbs. Perhaps, since he has two adult daughters, Mr. Kinning enjoys having a boy around for a change or perhaps he just misses having younger children.

I am, admittedly, not a happy child. Typically, I am upset about something or other: the loss of a pet, or a bully at school or just feeling lonely. My father tries, but does not understand me; “I don’t know what to tell ya…” he says, in almost every situation. I feel like I have no one to talk to, except my crazy uncle Ed and now, perhaps,  Les Kinning.  He may not know what to say either but always gives me a reassuring hug or makes an odd, but comforting, grunt, which I assume is something that all British people must do.

This particular afternoon, there has been yet another traumatic event:  my parents have just announced that we are moving away from the house where I have always lived and into a small “garden” apartment about half a mile away, on Ridge Road. I am distraught at the prospect of leaving my familiar surroundings while they seem delighted at the prospect of having their own home and away from the dominating influence of Nana, my father’s mother.

It is Sunday after church, but I have not heard a word of Pastor Greenleaf’s sermon. I am sitting outside on the concrete steps, crying. After a while, Mr. Kinning sits down next to me. He doesn't say anything for a few minutes and I think he must be angry with me. He already seems to know about the impending move. Finally, he puts his hand around my shoulder and speaks. “Sometimes, we just do not have control over things that happen to us. It’s not luck or fate…they are things without heart…no, it’s something people used to call providence.”

“A long time ago, my father was a young man in England. His first job was working for a ship company and his first assignment was on a brand new ocean liner. Now, he lived a good ways from the port and had to take a train there. As providence would have it, the train broke down and stood still on a siding for hours. As a result, my father was late arriving at his destination. He liked to tell me the sad, sad story of standing on the dock, watching the great ship already out in the bay and slowly disappearing in the distance. 

"Bad Luck,"  I comment,  wiping a tear off my cheek.

"Oh no,"  Mr. Kinning continues,  "That ocean liner was the Titanic and two days later it would sink in the North Atlantic. My father lost his job, but his life was spared, all due to a broken down train...and here I am alive today!"

I stopped crying...and from that day on...I have never used the term Bad Luck again.




Saturday, August 31, 2013

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Publisher

I have sent my book Lost Adolescence -- The First Part  off to a publisher for a professional editing.

Finally.  Yes, finally.

And why did it take say,  about fifteen years,  my buddy Roger from New Jersey asks?

Good Question.  Well, it's like this  (how about a three point sermon?);

One.   There were Psychological Factors:  my utter lack of self-confidence was showing but even deeper, fear issues;  fear of making a mistake,  fear of offending others,  fear of rejection.  What could I do if I were not afraid?, I wondered.  I finally had to decide simply that writing was the best thing I could do...and I do it good (or should that be well?).

Two.  There were Discouraging words:  I went to a writers' conference a few years ago where a major publisher basically said "don't bother writing, people don't read anymore."  Well, if he meant the heavy hardbound volumes he printed,  I guess so.  Then there was my former pastor who replied to a short article that I had written with "I've read better."  I hope he has...no aspiring writer expects to become Shakespeare. But such comments discourage;  it took me a long time to dismiss them.  

Three. Hmmm...maybe it just wasn't ready yet. Lost Adolescence was originally a collection of short stories; then a novel (even with a great fight sequence!) but now a two part memoir that I simply hope will be helpful to others who may find themselves or loved ones in similar situations as I, though the settings may be different.

I've had many encouraging words more recently, which have helped immeasurably to get this project off the back burner for which I am most grateful.

I will be including samples from the book in this blog. Thanks

Deano