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Monday, June 22, 2020

Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer - Kaye Spencer #poetry #firestarpress #baseball




For my May blog article, I wrote about my favorite poem My Papa’s Waltz (Link HERE). 

Continuing with a poetry theme, my June article is about a baseball poem by Ernest Lawrence Thayer: Casey at the Bat

This poem was published in the San Francisco Examiner on June 3, 1988.

According to the website Poets.org¹, Ernest Lawrence Thayer was born on August 14, 1863 (d. August 21, 1940) in Lawrence, Massachusetts. He graduated from Harvard University. While there, he met William Randolph Hearst, who would later have the San Francisco Examiner. Hearst eventually hired Thayer to write a humorous column for his newspaper, which turned out to be Thayers’s most famous work, Casey at the Bat. Thayer wrote under the pen name “Phin”.

Ernest Lawrence Thayer - Reference¹

Wikipedia²  tells us:

  • DeWolf Hopper “gave the poem’s first stage recitation on August 14, 1888 at New York’s Wallack Theater as part of the comic opera Prinze Methusalem in the presence of the Chicago and New York baseball teams, the white Stockings and the Giants, respectively.
  • Hopper reportedly recited the poem an estimated 10,000 times on the low side and up to 40,000 times on the high side.
  • The first recorded version of this poem was by Russell Hunting, who spoke in a broad Irish accent.
  •  Among others who have recorded this poem, James Earl Jones recorded a version with the Cincinnati Pops Orchestra in 1996.
  • The poem has been referenced in many movies, television shows, books, comics, and parodies as well as being set to music as a song and adapted into an opera.
  • On July 11, 1996, the U.S. Postal Service issued a commemorative stamp depicting “Mighty Casey” as part of a commemorative American folk heroes set that included Paul Bunyan, John Henry, and Pecos Bill.

Mighty Casey Commemorative Stamp -  Reference³

My first recollection of Casey at the Bat is from watching this 1946 Disney cartoon.


 
Once I discovered Casey at the Bat via Disney, my grandpa, whom I talked about in my May article, read it to me many times thereafter. He was a big fan of baseball, so he didn't mind at all. :-)

Read the poem HERE

Until next time,
Kaye Spencer


Stay in contact with Kaye—

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Resources:



1. Poets.org, Academy of American Poets, poets.org/poet/ernest-lawrence-thayer.



2. “Casey at the Bat.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 31 May 2020, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Casey_at_the_Bat.


3. Sine, Iqzero.net and Dick. “US Stamp Gallery >> Mighty Casey.” US Stamp Gallery >> Browse Stamps through the History of the United States, usstampgallery.com/view.php?id=279473ac9b832af457fc5d895faed6782083c783

Sunday, June 21, 2020

CAT SUMMER WINS BIG PURRS, by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer




I have some great news! Cat Summer, (FireStar Press 2019) has won a Certificate of Excellence for Books: Sci-Fi Fantasy in the Cat Writers’ Association Annual Communications Contest.

As a longtime member of CWA, this is not my first COE, but the thrill never goes away. The association has a strict judging policy, and there is no guaranteed winner if the judges deem no work is up to their high standards. So, yay! Three separate judges consider Cat Summer to be of the highest quality!


Now the book competes with others in its category for the coveted CWA Muse Medallion which will be announced at the CWA Communications Contest Virtual Awards Ceremony in August.

Cat Summer is Book One of the Cat Seasons Sci-Fantasy Tetralogy. Here’s the blurb:

Lise has a special destiny: to help a clowder of sentient cats save the world from an evil older than history itself. It is a terrible battle, but Lise and her feline comrades prevail, putting an end to war, poverty, ignorance and want. The world is a better place. 

Or is it? 

A century later, it becomes clear that something has been lost. The new civilization produces no artists, no musicians, no scientists, no philosophers. Inertia has taken hold. Lise, now at the end of her life, must join her cat-friends once more to restore the Spark of the Human Spirit, but the goal cannot be reached without sacrifice.



To note, I also received COA’s for two of my cozy mysteries, and one for a set of cat poems, so I’m really happy right now!

The Cat Writers’ Association is a global cat-centric professional organization dedicated to excellence in written, visual and audio media.

Find out more on my blogsite: www.lecatts.wordpress.com
@MollieHuntCats
Sign up for Mollie’s Extremely Informal Newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/c0fOTn.




Thursday, June 18, 2020

The Book Tour Episode Seventeen: Scotty




I give a talk in a community center in Memphis which goes well — an attentive older audience — but they haven’t come to buy my books, even prettily signed ones. After the talk is finished, they want to tell me about themselves, their ancestors, and their family histories. So I listen. Then, catch a bus south, to Mobile, Alabama.

A man sits beside me in the station, one of those tall, slender, livewires with a full black handlebar mustache and wild grin. He’s one of the funniest people I’ve ever met, but the comments and one-liners come so quickly, I don’t have time to remember a word. He’s a quick magic person, the sort you meet rarely in life: no ready-made jokes for him, no reworked stories, just another way of seeing things, seeing them quickly, and knowing how to manipulate irony. What does he do for a living? He’s a coal miner.

I must have stared with astonishment as the old mining images race through my head, mining communities described as “open cesspits” where, “after the covering of trees was ripped out, mud slid down the hills in torrents, covered tents, and smothered the men inside.” In those places, there was no good water to be had; lice were combed away with bowie knives; to fight rats, wild cats and snakes were kept in the tents during the day. Some mineworkers were uneducated slum dwellers from the east, people who had only known deprivation and filth. Unwilling to adopt sanitary measures, preparing food in the open but refusing to use privies, they contaminated their water supplies and created the perfect environment for cholera. People died like flies, and unburied bodies were left in the open air for scavengers to eat.

Of course, this clever man’s life is far from my horror tales. In the mining town where he lives, he, his buddies, and their wives have a great time. Every Friday and Saturday night they get together, create floorshows and theatrical performances, eat, drink, and are merry. Those wretched old stories are just… wretched old stories. With a jaunty step and cheery goodbye wave, he travels on homeward.

Heading south, the bus is crowded. A few seats away, a vast woman sits with two children, a baby who never stops crying, and a boy who plays endlessly with an obnoxious bleeping game: as Sartre said, “hell is other people.” Ignoring both tots, mom reads, Low Carb Success: How to lose weight and keep it off. She remains seated at every stop: calorie burning is not part of the plan.

There is beautiful countryside in this part of the world, but a bus isn’t going to leave the main road and go exploring, so we pass the usual: lots for sale, cookie-cutter suburban sprawl with enticing names — Magnolia Homes, Forest Green Parkway, Woodland Terrace — but hardly a tree in sight much less a copse. There’s other housing out there, too: shanties. Many aren’t connected to the public sewage system, nor are there septic tanks. Instead, PVC piping carries waste several yards away, dumps it into ditches or onto waste ground. No surprise that outbreaks of E. Coli are common, and that many people are still hookworm infested.

Much of this poverty is due to “heirs’ property” the land purchased or deeded after the American Civil War. Informally inherited without a title or will, after several generations, it is difficult to determine who the legal owners are, who has paid their share of taxes, who has helped maintain the land. Sometimes, the heirs don’t even know each other. Without a clear titles, there is no possibility of obtaining grants, improvement loans, or disaster relief funding. Heirs’ property is the leading cause of substandard living conditions among African Americans, Native Americans, and the Mexican American colonias in the states of Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, Texas, North Carolina, Virginia, Florida, and Louisiana.

      Surrounded by a lot for sale, a modern consumer palace, and a fast-food emporium is a large tent with a big sign: With God All Things Are Possible. That’s certainly good news for some, and particularly for Mary Scott.

I met Scotty many years ago when she lived around the corner from me in a small California town. The mother of too many grubby but well-behaved children, she had been widowed once, and a more recent ex was serving endless time for first-degree murder (“it wasn’t his fault, really”). She was a small, lean woman with long, slightly chewed-looking naturally white-blond hair and very pale blue eyes. She wasn’t beautiful — she looked a little too backwoods and bony for that — but her smile was warm, and she was kindly.

Scotty passed her days sitting out on the front steps of her slapped-together shack (similar to the dump I was then living in) making lovely necklaces from the glass pearls of old rosaries she found in charity shops. She wasn’t committing any sort of heresy by using sacred material in this way, she said. On the contrary: the beads had a magic power and would bring protection and happiness to those who bought and wore them.

Several times a day, a big motorcycle passed, a Harley. On it, sat a black leather-clad handsome rider with a thick black beard and long black hair tied by a bandana (people didn’t fool around with sissy stuff like helmets back then.) He would smile, and wave; she would wave, smile in a certain secret way, and just keep on stringing those pretty glass pearls. She was weaving a spell, she said. Those beads would eventually net her Don, the delicious motorcycle man: at the moment, he had an “old lady” tucked away somewhere.

After a while, Don began slowing slightly as he passed. Then, he took to stopping at the weedy curb. Scotty would sashay down the cracked walkway, go talk to him, her hips arched sweetly, her eyes knowing. And, when he drove off again, she’d come back to the front steps, sit, smile in that secret way, and string those magical beads.

I moved away and lost contact with Scotty. But one day, as I was walking along a street in a nearby town, a tall dark, handsome well-groomed man in an expensive dark suit approached me. Didn’t I recognize him? It was Don, the former motorcycle man. He and Scotty were married, now. Why not come back home with him, say hello to her. They were just about to go off traveling.

I followed him to a vast new house, gaudy and pretentious, in an excellent neighborhood — a world away from that former shack of hers. The greatest shock was seeing Scotty. She was dressed in a long flowing white robe and had transformed herself into a radiant beauty with flowing golden hair and a beatific smile. So beatific, I swear I could see a halo hanging prettily over her head. Surrounding her were the angelic-looking offspring.

Yes, she and Don had done well, Scotty said. The Virgin Mary had come to her in a vision, had told her she had a calling. Now, with Don as her manager, she was constantly on the road, preaching the word to thousands who packed into huge prayer tents all across the country. Not only was she a blazing success, Don assured me, they were also pulling in an enormous amount of money. Well done, Scotty, wherever you are.

In Mobile, the bus station is quite a distance from downtown. Which direction should I take to get there? Once again, the three young ladies behind the counter come up trumps: “Oh, you can’t walk there. It’s at least a couple of hours away.”
“Really?” I try not to feel discouraged. “Is it a nice city?”
They look at each other and shrug. I could be talking about the center of Vladivostok, as far as they’re concerned.
“What’s of particular interest in Mobile?”
More shrugs.
“But there’s a nice mall a little further out,” calls a woman from the back. “Tell her how she can walk there.”
Since I’ve already had this same conversation back in Thunder Bay, I now know the world is divided up into two sorts of people: Mall People, and Other People.

In the end, I set out anyway, and discover it’s only a twenty-minute walk. One that takes me past once-glorious mansions, formerly set in verdant countryside, and now falling to bits between used car lots, fried chicken outlets, and watery suburbia with reassuring names: Casa Marina, Cool Waters. And in town, overshadowed by tall skyscrapers and the usual tedious high glass office blocks, is the usual preserved-for-tourism historic center. But there are also so many remarkable Victorian houses, my imagination reels with story possibilities. Can I just climb in a window, please? Take a peek? Pretty please? Come live with you for a while?

Back at the bus station, I think about going to Tallahassee. “What’s it like?” I ask.
All around, there are only shrugs. No one seems to have been there. Then one man pipes up: “Long time since I seen it. Lots of beaches, just beaches, that’s all you can see. Must have changed since then, though. Bet it has.”
Since Tallahassee is inland, I’m sure his conclusion must be right, and I decide to head for Panama City instead.


More about my books and passionate life can be found at http://www.j-arleneculiner.com
and on my story podcast at https://soundcloud.com/j-arlene-culiner

Tuesday, June 9, 2020

Behind the Literature V: Shakespeare Society of America

I’ve written several posts in the past about the pleasures of discovering literary history in my own back yard (Behind the Literature I and Behind the Literature III: The Hardboiled Streets of San Francisco), and also stumbling upon literary surprises while traveling (Behind the Literature II and Behind the Literature IV: Ojai, CA).  Today, I'll tell you about a discovery I made while visiting the beach near Monterey, CA, earlier this year.

While I'm not much of an outdoors-woman, I love to kayak on the Elkhorn Slough off Monterey Bay (especially in a double kayak where my husband does most of the paddling).  The estuary is a habitat for all sorts of wildlife like sea otters, harbor seals, pelicans, herons, egrets, and hundreds of species of plants, animals, and birds.  Before taking off in your kayak, you watch an informational video that includes instructions on what to do if a harbor seal tries to climb aboard your kayak.  (Note - This is not a video of a seal trying to board our kayak as we did not encounter that issue, but we did see an otter eating its lunch.)


After a few hours of rowing against the wind and current (or any time, for that matter), my husband and I are always ready for lunch and a margarita at The Whole Enchilada in Moss Landing.  



Moss Landing is a small community with a population of only around 200.  It is rated one of the best places in the U.S. to watch birds and spot sea otters.  Its "downtown" appears to consist of a few quaint short streets with antique shops and galleries.  As we were driving through after lunch, I saw a building with a large depiction of Shakespeare on the side, so of course we had to stop and check it out.  We found ourselves in front of the Shakespeare Society of America.


The Society was founded in 1968 in Los Angeles with a mission to provide public benefit programs that inspire education and personal development through the works of William Shakespeare relating to history, culture, literature, theatre, and art in America.  In 1972, the Society built and began operating the Globe Playhouse with a replica of the interior of Shakespeare’s 1599 Globe Theatre.  It produced Shakespeare’s 38 plays in succession twice, from 1976-1979 and 1981-1984.  The Society relocated to Moss Landing in 2008.

As we entered the building, we were greeted by a docent who immediately began to educate us on common phrases said to have been invented by Shakespeare. 


He handed me a sheet of paper with dozens of words printed on it that Shakespeare had possibly contributed to the English language.  


He told me that he could identify my age (or close to it) by how many words on the sheet that I didn't know the meaning of.  I thought he could likely identify my age just by looking at me, but I played along.  When I told him I knew what all of the words meant, he correctly guessed my age range (oldish).  He said that many younger people aren't familiar with quite a few words on the sheet, "dauntless" and "zany" being a couple of examples. 

Thus enlightened, we browsed the Society's collection (or the small portion of it they had on display), which includes rare books, museum memorabilia, visual art, and theatre arts archives consisting of playbills, posters, reviews, photographs, slides, and props.  We thoroughly enjoyed our visit, the docent's affability, and happening upon a literary gem in an unlikely place.

What is your favorite Shakespeare play?  I like many of them, but if I had to pick one, it would be Much Ado About Nothing.  





Angela Crider Neary is an attorney by day and writer by night. She is an avid mystery reader and especially enjoys reading novels set in interesting locales. She was inspired to write her first mystery novella, Li'l Tom and the Pussyfoot Detective Bureau: The Case of the Parrots Desaparecidos, by one of her favorite areas in San Francisco, Telegraph Hill.  Her second book, Li'l Tom and the Case of the New Year Dragon is now available.  To learn more, visit her on Facebook and Amazon.


Friday, June 5, 2020

The Character I Hated


One guess who forgot her post last month? Yes, it was me. Sigh. My posts are due the first Friday of each month. Last month I suddenly realized late on the first day of May "Wait a minute. Today is the first Friday of the month." So, to make sure I don't do that again, I'm writing this post well in advance of the due date.

I'm super excited that Dances with Werewolves, the newest entry in my Kudzu Korners sweet paranormal romance series is now live! You can see the details HERE.

Livia did a wonderful job on the cover!
Sydney Hall is the heroine of Dances with Werewolves and readers and I both met her for the first time in Dial V for Vampire, the first book in the series. I worked on the first draft of Dial V one year during NaNoWriMo. My husband made it a point to check in with me every day and ask what was going on in my story. One of our conversations went something like this:

Hubby: "So, what's going on in your story?"

Me: "I really hate my main character's best friend."

Hubby: *blinks* "What do you mean you hate her? You created her!"

Me: "Yes, but that doesn't mean I like her." (Writer brain completely baffles my husband.)

Not only did I not like Sydney upon our first meeting, I pretty much detested her. This was a problem because I knew she was supposed to be the heroine in Dances with Werewolves. How could I expect the hero to fall in love with her if I couldn't even like her? Fortunately it turned out that once I got to know Sydney a little bit better and understood why she was the way she was, I liked her just fine. Crisis averted!

I guess even in the world of fiction it pays to get to know someone before judging their actions. Who knew? #lessonlearned

Until next month, take care and keep reading!


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