Setting up a Google Alert

I was watching “Schitt’s Creek” the other day. Johnny Rose, one of the motel’s proprietors, gets a Google Alert for the motel. The motel has gotten a bad review after Moira is ‘less than warm’ to a guest. Of course it’s a funny scene and part of a brilliant show that pulls lots of hilarity out of the ‘rich turned to poor’ trope. The true gift of the show the ‘love we found along the way’ message. If you’ve seen the show, you get it. If you haven’t, you probably don’t. All good.

I thought to myself: who sets up a Google Alert on themselves? Then I thought: probably a lot of people, and businesses, and creative directors, and managers, and public figures, and political figures, and all kinds of other people I haven’t thought of yet. I bet my friend who travels all over the world to speak to clients about ‘branding’ suggests it. I bet my super-intelligent and amazing sister in her role as a business coach recommends it.

I’ve just never thought of it. Until now.

So… I set up a Google Alert on my name “Ken A Locke”, just in case my writing has made me more famous than what I really am. Which, theonly thing the internet found is a few instances of this very blog, but that’s about it. Which is just fine. Someday my ‘as yet future self-published’ book that will sell dozens of copies (probably a lot to ME so I can give them away at Yankee Swap parties) will set off all kinds of Google Alerts for me.

When I asked for “Ken Locke” Alerts, there were a lot of them. Professors, doctors, deceased, librarians, teachers. I even found a long series of articles and discussions from a Dr. Kenneth Locke about homosexuality in different faiths. He seemed generally for it, but noted that the Hebrew texts tended to not support it, but didn’t call it super wrong. Just kinda wrong. But I only skimmed, so who knows (as Vonnegut often said)? What it didn’t find is the Kenneth Locke who was arrested in the county just northwest of us for something. A friend sent me a link to that article a few months ago. He wondered if I was in jail. Or at least being booked. It may have been a slow news week for him and he was hoping for some higher octane info. I hated to disappoint him, but I told him I was a free man; not even on the lam.

Anyway, I’ll let you know if I get an email with an alert. It’ll probably be nothing.

Today… I’m a Teacher

We spent the first two years of married life as US Peace Corps volunteers. I’m sure we changed lives when we served as PC volunteers, though I’m certain ours were changed more than anyone else’s. I then spent 26 years as an air traffic controller. I’m sure I saved lives when I performed air traffic control duties.

But… I come from a family of teachers.

My grandma, my great-aunt, lots of aunts and uncles, my parents, my mother-in-law, my wife, my daughter, most of my cousins, a swathe of second cousins, a large percentage of my social media friends, even a retired air traffic controller or two; all teachers. And not one of them who doesn’t get that look of love and fondness in their eye when the talk about teaching. Oh, they’ll tell you horror stories about bad kids or bad situations or a fight or the bloody noses and knees… but they can’t hide how much they love what they do.

This fall, I applied for and accepted a job as a teacher. I’ve been a substitute teacher since I retired 5 years ago from the air traffic job. (That ‘goodbye’ post is here). I’ve always known that teachers save lives, transform lives, make lives better – mostly in the students they face and teach and love, but in each other, too.

To this date, though, I’d never had to show up for the pre-student preparation days that real teachers attend. The training. The rules. Especially this fall, with so many extra health protocols in place and with students who haven’t seen a classroom since mid-March. What I hadn’t seen (behind the curtain) was the heart of those teachers who have set the morning alarm, put on clothes (goodbye gym shorts), gathered materials and ideas and thoughts and hopes and prayers to present as learning material for the coming students. In listening to those real teachers talk, I realized how many lives they saved or affected or improved or soothed. Teaching is the biggest life-saving operation around.

The district issued me a laptop computer. They plan to pay me. They gave me access to the building. Most of all, though, they trust me to care for students just like they do. It’s a big job and I’m pretty sure I’ll mess it up once or more. I’m humbled by their trust in me. I want to do well. I want to repay the bet that the administration took on me. Not for the glory or the money.

For the kids. The people (they’re more than just students, after all) who will be facing a scary world who need to hear that we are gonna be ok. I’m hoping we will be – we’ve got to be, right? – and that they will listen.

Goodbye gym shorts

I’m not sure when I started wearing gym shorts everyday. I’ll just say this; it’s a big deal when I put on my ‘dress’ shorts, or even – I’m pretty sure this happened – an actual pair of jeans. You know, to go to the grocery store, or the car wash, or an outdoor coffee meeting, or – that one time – to buy a tortilla press ($22 at Carniceria El Guero on W. Central).

I’ve committed to an actual job for the entire rest of the year. I’m pretty sure part of that job is to get dressed in something better than gym shorts. I’m ready, though, because it takes sacrifice and willpower and determination and grit to make the tough decisions. I’ve ironed my shirts and have my shoes ready and am (probably) going to fit into my khaki and dress pants just fine.

Goodbye, Husker gym shorts… we had a good run.

Where I’m Home

During a recent SCBWI (Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators) local meeting, we had a session of ‘flash writing’ from a prompt. Here’s my prompt:

“Regardless of where you were born, where do you feel you’re from?” Taken from the book, 642 Tiny Things To Write About, by the San Francisco Writers Grotto, purchased at Watermark Books, Wichita, KS.

Here’s my answer, originally penned (I only use Bic soft feel medium pens) into my small, tan, soft-covered Moleskine notebook I carry everywhere:

“I was born, I feel, in Box Canyon, on Ghost Ranch, on the Piedra Lumbre Grant, on the Colorado Plateau. Late of the Genízaro, earlier of the Pueblo, who took over the ground from the Anasazi.

Somehow I only recharge when I step up onto that last boulder in the Box part. I lay on my back, arched, with my eyes closed. I listen to the canyon wrens, the raven’s burring call, the soft percussion of the seeping water.

I wear both blue jeans and moccasins. I wear both a straw cowboy hat and a string bag called a bilum, which I’ve brought from the other side of the globe. I have a bicycle parked at the trailhead, a camper in the campground, and a stack of books waiting for me.

I’m from the many, many worlds I’ve read into existence, but I’m truly home in Box Canyon.”

A Legacy, Planted

My parents came to visit the other day, and we got to talking about the history or the plants we love.

My dad brought me some hollyhocks to plant. This was at least five years ago, maybe 10. I now have little colonies of hollyhocks around our side- and back-yards that bring great joy to me when those papery blossoms shout joy from the spindly stalks 4 feet off the ground. It turns out the hollyhocks have a lineage: They come from Dad, who got them from his mom. At one point, those hollyhocks came from Bern, Switzerland, where our my Gfeller ancestors used to live. I have living history in my yard. That’s pretty special.

We also planted, way back in the ’90’s (last century kids!), some Eastern Cedar trees. Sometimes I call them Junipers. I’ve trimmed them so a person can walk under them and enjoy the shade and that sharp juniper tang. It turns out the cedars that I love so much are from the 5-acre lot across the old highway from the old Foster farm north of El Dorado on Highway 77. If you’ve driven around with my relatives, you’d know how to get there. If you haven’t, come on over and we can take a drive.

I’ve planted Columbine flowers around the yard, too. Their fragile blossoms arrive best when I’ve planted them among rocks. They don’t bloom as well without some adversity in the rising. I’ve loved columbines ever since we saw them every summer on our family camping and backpacking trips. You can only see them when you get out of the city, off the highway, and into the mountains, where, if you step away from the trail, the land has changed little in centuries.

Lastly, the plural of Iris is Iris (right?). I’ve got at least 5 whole sections of flower garden that are fecund with Iris bulbs that launch a riot of blue and purple blooms in the post-frost days of spring. We had iris plants in our own backyard when I was growing, and the neighbors had them, too. Maybe there was a Works Progress Administration project that featured Iris for a few years.

Anyway, I wanted you to know how much joy I get from looking at something so simple as a plant because it reminds me of how rich my history and heritage are.

Do you have any plants like that?A

You Get 1 Minute

1 minute to sum up your current life’s effort. Camera in your face. Lights throwing heat at you. Experts judging every word. Every piece of clothing, too.

20 of those Dem candidates had an opening and a closing statement. Although I didn’t time any of the speeches, the moderators said they had ‘one minute for your opening remarks’. It seemed like they all stuck pretty close to that, didn’t it? Maybe 2.

Still… try to summarize you in that amount of time.

It struck me that, if a person ever asks me ‘what’s your book about?’, I would be totally unprepared to give them a summary that takes 1 minute or less. That’s the classic ‘elevator pitch’ that we are all supposed to prepare. It’s the ‘executive summary’. It’s the ‘thumbnail’. Every writer’s book says this on or near page 1. It’s not like I don’t know what to do, so why haven’t I done it?

I have no excuse for not preparing a 1 minute campaign speech for each of my novels, other than it’s a daunting thing. That’s one of the things I’m going to work on. Because, again someday, I’ll have a story written that I have pushed past the 60-70% completion point – the point where it’s hard to finish stitching together the rough main ideas – and want to actually take the plunge and send it to some experts to see if they want to publish it.

And I’ll make sure that I smile at the end of the speech.

An Unreliable Narrator

I learned a phrase this past Saturday at a writing workshop: unreliable narrator. As regards a storyteller in one of my novels, I learned that this can be a useful tool. In my Work-In-Progress Gladstone, old Travis is at least midway into dementia. He has moments of clarity among his days of woolly wandering, never quite remembering if he’s milked the cows or eaten lunch yet.

It takes a ‘light touch’, the experts this weekend say, to use an unreliable narrator to make a story stronger. They gave examples of writers who do it well; Stephen King and Celeste Ng, to name the two I remember. I wouldn’t presume to think my work will come close to theirs.

I think I’m going to try it, though. After all, since I’m the writer, I think he deserves a voice.

Can you think of examples you’ve read – or movies you’ve seen – where you just can’t trust the storyteller?

The Whole Incense Thing

I noticed, the other day, the thread of wood smoke on the breeze. Does that pull you out of whatever your reality is and plunk you down right next to a campfire like it does me?

It’s not like I stop everything I’m doing, but it sure does offer the possibility. Doesn’t it? Think about the chill in the dusk at a campsite, next to a brook, under those towering pines, and a bellyful of whatever camp dinner you dragged out of the cooler and cooked for yourself. No restaurant service out there next to the campfire. Don’t need it. Don’t want it.

There’s a smoothness, a clarity, a safety that is released in my brain by that thread of smoke passing my face. I don’t control it. Matter of fact, I bet some super-smart people have identified the part of the brain that says “you’re safe” when the nose knows.

I figure that’s why so much of spirituality has an incense connection. I’ve got piñon smoke incense burning right this very second in my study.

I feel safe.

It’s Already Broken

“For me the glass is already broken. Once I realize that, every moment with it is precious.”  A Buddhist teaching.

Although the above quotation was a mere introduction to the gist of a sermon I heard the other day (at College Hill United Methodist, by Pastor Jill), I spend a lot of time every day thinking about it.

I mean, what if we knew that everything is temporary? And that even our coolest stuff will break, our most dependable appliances will quit working in accordance with specifications?  That our deepest and most significant and precious people will, eventually, pass from our lives?

Wait – we know that already. Our heads know it, anyway, even if our hearts can’t face it.

I feel a tragic freedom in thinking of things I love being “already broken”. Will it be exhilarating freedom someday, I wonder?

Advanced Craft Retreat

I returned yesterday from an Advanced Craft Retreat at a monastery in Conception, MO. I went to get help with my writing. I have ALL these ideas, and have read a lot, but still had a murky idea of what my good/great/successful writing would look like. My ‘point of view’ writing, ‘tense’ writing, and character voices were all over the map. Undisciplined, unfocused, scatter shot. I KNEW this, but had no clear way to work past or through those limitations.

The fine people at Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators hosted this Retreat and found a fantastic professor to anchor the weekend of critique and focused writing sessions. Most of the other 7 writers in attendance were much farther along the path towards excellence in writing (it’s possible I ignored the “Advanced” part of the retreat title – wishful thinking, maybe).  They all had stories of editors, agents, and publishing to tell. I listened in fascination because all of that is still ahead of me.

I didn’t know what I didn’t know. How many times have YOU heard that? Lots, is my answer. I realize, now, that I can’t ‘turn in’ this novel of mine like I turned in the majority of my papers and essays in high school and college. I have to work at it. Success has usually come easily to me, but this ‘writing thing’ is going to take some effort. Some skin. Some blood, sweat, tears. Now I know.

The privilege is that I get to keep working at it. I get to meet my characters (one of the attendees said ‘take each one of them out on a date – get to know what they really think and who they really are’). Being a ‘people-pleaser/golden retriever’ personality, it is scary to think that I am the only one who chooses my setting, my time period, my character motivations, my good guys and bad guys.

It’s liberating to know, though, and I thank each and every writer who found new ways to tell me that last weekend.

I GET to be the storyteller.