Two Books (2025)

Being housebound these past 6 years has presented some problems I never expected to encounter. One of the most challenging has been how to keep myself supplied with fresh reading material. Sue has, as with most things, made it very easy for me. She simply brings home 6 books at a time for me to choose from, in addition to reserving which I specifically request on line from the 3 different County Libraries near where we live. (Cabarrus, Iredell and Mecklenburg) Those books come from Municipal and County Libraries as far away as Louisiana! 

In addition to that she buys me books from the Discontinued pile. Some branches simply give them away. All in all I read about 2/3 of them. And many of those are out of print. Some real gems, as with Desi Arnaz's autobiography titled "A Book." His friends were always asking him when he was going to write a book, and so he did. 😀 That one sells for about $80 on line in poor condition, and much, much more in new condition. 

Anyway, here are 2 new books (2025) which I never would have picked, and didn't intend on reading, but turned out to be real gems. 

The first, "Concrete Dreamland" by Patrick Dougher, is a wild ride by an independent artist who actually went to my high school, James Madison in Brooklyn, in the early 1980's. It deals with his struggle to find his place in life amid much hardship. But, he prevails. And that's not a spoiler because the story isn't in the end, it's in how he got there. 

The next book, by Barry Diller, is about the author's life as the son of very wealthy and detached parents. If you read the screen credits on many of the films you see you will know his name. He pioneered, actually invented, the TV miniseries in the late 1970's. And he also brought the TV series "Star Trek" to the big screen. His struggles were with himself, trying to find out which "hat" fit him. He eventually became the President of Paramount Pictures. And once again that is not a spoiler because, just as with the first book, the story is in how he got there. 

And, today, in addition to 6 new books, Sue brought home 2 shopping bags filled with memoirs from the discard pile, which will keep me occupied for a few months!

It's Only Me - Chapter 1 - Roots

I was born and raised in Brooklyn, which believe it or not, is on the ocean- swim far enough and you'll hit Spain direct from Sheepshead Bay. Brooklyn is the largest borough in the City of New York, and with 2 and a half million people, would be, if it were a city unto itself, about the 6th largest in the country. It is filled with people from everywhere and is crowded and tumultuous and smells of 30 different ethnic foods (and people) all at once. You can buy the latest in knockoff Chinese goods, the best of the new Paris and Rome Fashions, fireworks by the crate just in from China , drugs, women, watches , everything but time.

I grew up in a Jewish, Italian, Irish area known as Sheepshead Bay/Gravesend. We lived in a 7 story apartment building with 70 other families. We had Jews, Italians, Germans, Irish and even Cuban exiles from Castro’s 1961 purge.

We observed one other’s holidays with respect; yet tormented one another over religious differences. We fought, laughed and lived in a crowded hodgepodge of humanity, where nothing was sacred or exempt from the strongest drug known to man-laughter. We laughed at everything-Jesus on the cross, Jews in the oven, it didn't matter. We were literally raised on comedy and laughter.

If I cut school we would take 15 cents, ride the subway and go into Manhattan. We'd walk around in the Village and look at the Hipsters and what was left of the Beatniks and even see a couple of early hippies (1965-6) We'd ride the ferry to the Statue of Liberty, which was never crowded back then at all. For 35 cents we would play on that island all day! The ocean breeze coming up the channel, or the cool North wind blowing down the Hudson River felt good to us. We were free.

Sometimes we'd take the bus and go the other way and be on the beach all day, laughing in the sand, looking out beyond the horizon and wondering where we were all heading. Eternal questions plagued us- Is the fog we see at night on the beach even close to the nothingness or great void that existed before creation took place? Couldn't be, nothing is nothing, fog is something. These are the things we talked about.

My family was a conglomerate of nationalities. We were Irish, Welsh, Russian and Polish. When they talked about the “melting pot” in school, I thought they meant my family!

My father’s side was composed of the Burkes and the Williams’. The Burkes were the first to arrive. Stephen and Ellen arrived with their 3 children. They were Thomas, James and Elizabeth. They were amongst the first wave of Irish to emigrate in great numbers around the time of the potato famine (1857). They first appear in the Census of 1860 and all subsequent ones through 1930.They were learning to read and write according to the 1860 Census and their chief health complaints were a sore foot for him and Rheumatism for her. He worked as a Wheelwright/Blacksmith.

The youngest daughter of their son Thomas, Mary Burke, married William Shone Williams shortly after World War I ended. She used to tell me about meeting my Grandfather William S as he walked by in his soldier suit in Park Slope Brooklyn. He turned back and asked if she could “go walking”. They married and had 6 children; Mae, Roy, my father William, Richard, Gloria and Gladys.

The Williams family were relative newcomers in 1900 and 1904 when they arrived, Isaac first, as a bricklayer and later Catherine and the children. They came from Wales by way of Liverpool and settled in the Park Slope Section of Brooklyn, New York. They brought with them their son William Shone and daughters Katherine and Marion. They were literate. Isaac had served as a Church Guard in Wales. He worked as a laborer and brick mason and is supposed to have worked on the Empire State Building just before his death in 1931.

His son, William Shone Williams was a decorated World War I Veteran, having enlisted at 16 years old. He served in France during the 2nd Battle for Verdun in 1918. He became a NYC Police Officer in 1921 and passed away on the job in 1946, leaving Mary Burke a widow at 45 years old with 6 children to raise. Known as a strict disciplinarian and a hard drinker, he was both feared and loved- a true enigma of a man. He was the epitome of the price paid by many World War veterans for the "War to end all wars."

My father, the 3rd eldest of the 6 children, went to Maritime High School in NYC aboard the SS John Brown, a converted Liberty Ship, graduating in 1947. He then joined the US Navy as a submariner , sailing aboard the USS Torsk out of Groton, Conn from 1948-50 as a reservist. Later he would be drafted into the Army for the Korean War.

Around this time, in 1947, he met my mother, Ruth Marcus while he was an usher at the Kingsway movie theater in Brooklyn.

The Marcus family was in the so called last wave of Russian Jewish Immigrants. William and Elizabeth arrived in 1911 with their children, Pincus, Sophie and Minnie. None of the family spoke English- they got in based on their skills- he was a tailor and she a Cutter. Pincus would go on to make and lose a fortune several times in the Garment Industry as a manufacturer of lingerie. He married Dorothy Henkin.

They had two children, Walter and Ruth, who was my mother. Dorothy left Max in 1929, the year of the depression and got paid with government bonds after catching him with another woman. Consequently my mother was well off during the depression. She took horseback riding lessons, piano, skating, art etc.

The Henkin family is somewhat of a mystery. We have no paper work showing who they were and where they came from. No one seems to know how or where and when they slipped into America. Nevertheless, here they were.

It seems likely that they came out of Russia and through Poland and then on to Italy. From there they would most likely have proceeded to Canada and then down to Philadelphia and finally to Vineland, New Jersey. This was a farming community of Russian immigrants and Uncle “I” claimed it was his birthplace. Some sources indicate Philadelphia as the correct place, but once again, there is no documentation to support this.

They were typical of the Russian immigrants of the time; rural and poor, but literate and Jewish. They left Russia largely due to persecution and economic hardship.

Max “Pops” Henkin (we think that’s the last name- again, no proof) had a livery stable in the “old country”. Very vague-somewhere near Kiev in the Ukraine region - Some small shetl that, no doubt has long been gone. But it would’ve been nice to know the name. “Pops”; everyone called him that; met and married Rebecca and it was there that he operated his livery stable. Rebecca’s maiden name is unknown.

Rumor has always had it that Max was involved in the sale of a horse that belonged to the Czars’ Army- Cossacks. This was to have a profound effect on the future of the Henkin’s family.

One day a man came in with a wonderful looking horse, well bred, fed and easily led- a mighty steed 14 hands high with a haughty manor. “Pops” could not afford him and he turned away. But the man made him an offer he could not refuse and so he became the owner of this prize animal. Accordingly, and expecting a great profit, he put the horse up for sale, advertising everywhere within a day’s journey of his shetl outside Kiev.

All hell broke loose soon after when he was charged with being in possession of a horse belonging to the Czar. He was released pending a trial in which he would have surely been convicted.

This influenced his decision to go to America where he would continue working with horses, first at a livery stable as a hand, later as a foreman and finally by 1920 he was in business for himself.

“Pops” had 3 children in America with Rebecca. They were Nathan, Isaac and Dora. Isaac was my Grand Uncle through my mom. He and “Pops” had lived with my grandmother Dorothy and her children throughout the World War II years. “Pops” died in 1948 and my parents married in 1950. They lived with Grandma Dorothy and her maid Mary until 1952 when they got their own apartment in the same building at 3619 Bedford Avenue. At that point Isaac moved into a hotel in Manhattan- where he would reside for the next 23 years, until he passed on in 1975. He was a Grandfather to me and no words can express the love I had and still have for this man.

Occasionally, he would stay over, especially if a game had gone into extra innings or overtime, depending on the season. He would sleep in my bed and I would take a folding cot in between my bed and my brothers. I would cover it with blankets and sheets and get underneath, pretending that this was my submarine. When I emerged I was always confronted by the sight of his teeth in a glass on my desk.

He was born, alternately, depending upon whom you asked, in Vineland NJ; Philadelphia or New York City. Though his birthdate is listed as Aug 15th- the year varies- 1893, 95 or 98- take your pick. He was old enough to collect Social Security when I was 5 but worked until a year before he died in 1975. And he was too young to serve in World War I- registering in August of 1918, just 3 months before the Armistice. He probably was trying to avoid detection as an illegal for fear of being sent back. His father had crossed the ocean to escape Europe and Irving had no desire to retrace “Pops” steps – he didn’t want to go back - as a deportee or a soldier.

He apparently worked for the American Railway Express Co and later went into the Garment Industry as a buyer of furs. He used to bring me samples and to this day I can tell real from fake chinchilla, mink, sable, rabbit even lamb. We had raccoon tails by the armload and attached them to the handlebars of our bikes and the backs of our hats, even flew one from the antenna of the old Plymouth.

When I was younger, he would take me and later, when I was older, I would meet him at the furriers where he worked on 7th Ave in the mid-fifties. This was the Garment District.
The skins, the cutters, the tailors and sewing operators treated me royally and I was fascinated by this aspect of my Uncles life.

Although he was already 60 when I was born, for 20 years he took me every Sunday to the beach in the summer, movies in the winter, ice cream sodas and walks on Friday nights, always regaling me with the stories of whom he had met in his business as a furrier and how everyone knew him all over the city.

The Friday night walks were the most special times I spent with Uncle “I”. In spite of his age he never failed to make that 1 hour trip each way to watch the news, eat dinner and talk a walk with me. By talk a walk- I mean that we would talk and walk. We would go to the candy store on Kings Hwy and 15th Street and he would buy me an ice cream soda and afterwards he would give me a Standing Liberty or Benjamin Franklin half dollar. And when magic time was done I would walk him around the corner to the Quentin Rd entrance of the BMT for his 1 hour train ride back to Manhattan They said he had nowhere to go, but I know better- he came to see me.

He took me to baseball games at the Polo Grounds, Shea Stadium, Yankee Stadium, to the circus at the Old Madison Square Garden, to Radio City Music Hall for the Christmas Show. He was Jewish to the core but the blue lit Nativity scene- complete with real Camels on stage- made him weep from the majesty of it. He knew every doorman, every usher, and every cabbie. We would go to the Stage Delicatessen on 7th Ave and he knew all the comedians, actors and characters there, including the owner, Max.

We would miss parts of first acts trying to get to our seats as he stopped to acknowledge greeting after greeting, mostly from the people that worked in the places we visited, but sometimes people already in their seats would call out to him, as if they desired his recognition , as well as to say hello. He was a gentle man, yet he seemed well liked and commanded some degree of affection and respect wherever we went.

He would go to Las Vegas every year to feed the slots and bring home the old solid silver Morgan Dollars from the 1880’s and the Peace Dollars from the early 1930’s. He never won, but he’d save those 2 dollars for my brother and I.

I still recall how, at least once every summer at Rockaway Beach, he would duck into a bar for a beer to catch the game for a peek at the score. He didn’t smoke or drink but he would order a beer and bum a cigarette. He’d smoke without inhaling, enjoying a moment of male camaraderie. It always seemed so mysterious to me, the bachelor world he lived in- hotels and restaurants. It was glamorous on the one hand and lonely on the other.

If I characterize this part of Irving’s’ life as mysterious, it is probably because I never once went up to his hotel room. I suppose he considered it improper or ill advised to take a child up to the room with him. But he gave the most important gift of all to me - his time.

To Be Continued......

It's Only Me- Chapter 3- Odd Jobs and Fishing

Brooklyn was a great place to pick up odd jobs as a kid. Consequently I was never without some money- in addition to the odd jobs I had an allowance of $1 per week. I was 7 years old at this time. But still, at 15 cents a day for an ice cream bar times seven days a week I was still left with a shortage of 5 cents- and that was just for the ice cream! If I wanted to indulge in anything else- like a movie or comic book then I needed some form of extra income.

Living in an apartment building had advantages and so I struck a deal with the janitor and the doorman- I would sweep the halls for the janitor and collect the newspapers from the Incinerator Rooms, which would then be tied up for the ragman to pick up. I got a cut of the newspapers. It wasn’t much but coupled with the 50 cents from the doorman for wiping the lobby mirror I did okay.


As I got older I added to these chores by “minding” the Good Humor man’s pushcart while he went for a haircut or more often to the Off Track Betting Parlor on E. 16th Street. This was about 1966.

My first real job was delivering the NY Post by bicycle in the afternoons. First I went downtown Brooklyn to obtain my “working papers” and then to the local storefront the Post rented on Bedford Ave and Ave T to pick up my papers and deliver them. My route was in Sheepshead Bay and up Ocean Avenue. I would park my bike, locking it at each building, and take my papers in to leave at the doors. Collecting was much harder- no one was home on those days! Most of the money went for sodas and ice cream and records, so I usually broke even. It was an enjoyable job with my 6 transistor radio strapped to my handlebars and listening to “Light My Fire” and all the other hits of 1967. I especially liked “MacArthur Park” by Richard Harris and whenever I hear either one of those songs I am back in Brooklyn delivering the Post.

At 13 I got a job delivering groceries for Krauses on Coney Island Ave and Ave R. The deliveries were made on one of those old grocery bikes with a front wheel stand and basket. Some of those loads were heavy for me- I was always skinny but somehow I humped those boxes of groceries and made some good tips as well as the money Mr. Krause paid me. The best part of the job though was the deliveries themselves. Most women would order by phone and wait for the delivery boy (me) to show up.

Knowing I was coming over you would think these women would get dressed. But luck was on my side and they usually were attired in some sexy lingerie or a slip and bra. My love of sexy lingerie to this day can be traced back to these women and I can never thank them enough for sights both seen and imagined.

Life at home was a bit stressful- my Mom was sick all the time- with ulcers, colitis and later all manner of cancers. So the household was run by my brother and I. We each had an alternating list of chores- from making beds, vacumning, getting groceries and doing laundry. Of course we never did any of it well enough to suit my Dad but I always felt that I was doing my part to help.

Between 1962 and 1965 I was friends with Donald Solomon who lived on East 15th Street between Ave R and Kings Hwy. His family had a house! With a backyard garden! This was magic to me and we played there all the time. When my first turtle died at age 8 I buried him there in the flower bed. His Mom was one of the nicest women and always made time to talk to me and ask about my Mom when she was ill. She also made us lunch and generally treated me with an extra measure of kindness. This would become typical of most of my friends parents and something that I have never forgotten. Aside from playing in his yard, Donald and I went to the movies at least once a week at the Avalon on Kings Hwy and East 18th Street. He grew up to be a Realtor and we still speak- or write letters- about once a year.

Also around this time I was in Pack 40 I think of the Cub Scouts along with Mark Shorr and Gary Jetter to name a few. Somehow I talked my Dad into being Cub Master for the pack. Later, when I quit just after achieving Webloe status he was stuck with the job for an extra year- and he made me go to every meeting with him at the Avenue R Temple on East 16th Street.

When I was 11 my Great Aunt Katie died in Park Slope, Brooklyn. This was quite an event and I went on a rare trip to her house- a brownstone near Prospect Park in Brooklyn. The Williams family had settled there some 62 years earlier,in 1903.

The house was all Victorian, over furnished and very formal- I remember there was even a parlor with classic sliding doors. The whole place was trimmed in dark mahogany wood and I remember the place as always being dark. There was a player piano in the upstairs parlor and the kitchen and bathroom had all the old time sinks and tubs with claw feet. There was a very unique love seat which held the flag that had draped my Grandfathers’ coffin when he passed in 1946. He was a legend to me- having died before I was born.

But the item which intriqued me the most was a small octoganal walnut or mahogany box. It was hinged at the rear of the lid and emblazoned with the word Jerusalem on top in English and in Hebrew.

At this point I should mention that I was the product of a "mixed marriage" , as it was called back then, between my Irish Catholic father and my Russian Jewish mother. Hebrew wasn't all that strange to me. The thing that really puzzled me was how this box got to be in the home of an Irish Catholic family. Adding to this mystery was the fact that this side of the family was pretty anti-semetic at the time. My parents marriage was a problem for the family and so our visits to Aunt Katies were few.

The house was sold and the furniture divided amongst the living and I got the box. It sat in my parents house in Brooklyn for several years while I sailed the world and even got to Jerusalem several times. Each time I was there I thought about this box and the mystery of how it came to be in Brooklyn.

In 1986 I married and the box came to rest in Baltimore, Maryland. The box would disappear occasionally and without explanation for several months at a time. Then it would just as mysteriously re-appear as if it had never been gone. A genuine oddity….

Recently, while compiling a family history I found that the Williams family had a Jewish boarder named Phillipine Eckstein from Liverpool, England in the 1890 Census. Apparently she came over around the same time as my grandfather, who had emigrated from Wales through Liverpool. Ms. Eckstein came to live with the Williams family in Brooklyn. Now I am not saying that she is the source of the box- but it would seem likely.

Oh, and by the way- currently the location of the box is unknown.

My Mom and Dad were not the most encouraging of parents. For instance, at the age of ten I wanted a guitar and got one- but my parents said I would never be any good at it. When I wrote they would tell me that it was good but I would never make a living at it. So it is no wonder that, when I was 12 years old and planned to use my earnings from the delivery of the NY Post to go fishing, I was told that I would catch nothing.

Setting out early that day- at least by my standards- about 10 o’clock in the morning - I headed to Sheepshead Bay which is about 1 mile from where our family’s apartment was on Avenue R and East 14th Street. I had used my weeks earnings to buy a rod , reel and fishing tackle box complete with hooks, sinkers and lures.

I set up at the end of one of the piers along Edmonds Avenue and threaded my line with a hook and a fresh , live, wriggling worm. There was not, in my estimation, a fish in the sea that could resist this attractive piece of bait.

I sat for hours, hoping, indeed praying for a bite. I felt the sudden tug on my line several times and reeled in frantically to claim my prize, I was rewarded with a sucession of an old rubber boot, a large Horseshoe Crab, and other assorted non edible residents of the Bay.

Lunch had come and gone, I feasted that day on a bologna sandwich and a Yoo Hoo-But still no fish on the line. I was already dreading going home empty handed and listening to the “I told you that you wouldn’t catch anything” that I was sure to hear from my parents and the ribbing I would have to take from my older brother.

I was still sitting there with the weight of the world coming down on me at 3 PM as I realized that yet another dream was about to be dashed by the unrelenting forces of reality. At this time of day the fishing boats began to return to their piers, laden with fresh caught Tuna, Flounder, Snapper and the like, all underscoring my failure to catch something edible.

The merchants assembled on the pier to purchase the fresh catch, which they would then take back to the various neighborhood restaurants and fish shops for sale. I was devastated by my failure to make a single catch while all about me the boats were unloading tons of fresh caught beautiful, aromatic fish.

Slowly the crowds of buyers left the piers, bound for shops, restaurants and homes where there would be fresh seafood that night. The skipper of the boat nearest me was hosing down the deck and began tossing some things into the Bay, catching my attention.

Meekly, I approached the boat and standing dejectedly with my rod and tackle box in hand, I must have made a lonely and forlorn sight. “Catch anything?” asked the skipper, pausing in his cleanup. “No, no luck today, but tomorrow I’ll try again.” was the only reply I could make. “What ya using fer bait?” asked the man. “Worms” I replied. “Well, Hell’s Bells, no wonder you didn’t get nuthin’- you need some real bait.” With that he tossed me 2 fish, each about as large as my 12 year old hand. “Try these” he said and then returned to his work.

I contemplated trying them as bait when I realized the answer to my predicament was now right in my hands. Sitting on the edge of the pier I put hooks in the mouths of my 2 Behemouths and strung them to a short lead, just like in the movies, or like Opie and Andy on TV. Now I was ready to go home.

As I entered our apartment my Mom said from the kitchen, “Didn’t catch anything, right?” Now I had her, “As a matter of fact I caught two” was my reply. Surprised, she shot back- “ Well , you got lucky that’s all.” But there must have been some surprise that I had anything at all because my Dad arrived home a short time later and took a photo of me holding my prize catch. And then they threw the fish away, because they were probably “dirty” and not to be cooked or eaten.

But if you look closely at the picture , you can see it in my eyes and the smile on my face- I had 2 fish- no matter how I got them – I had them. And for years my parents kept that photo in a frame on the piano and would proudly exclaim “Look at the fish Robert caught in Sheepshead Bay!” I think that’s the part of the story I like best.

A Mother's Nose / A Mother Knows

My Mom was really very sly. Oh, she had the sweet Mother thing down pat, but she was shrewd. I like to tell this story about her and me;

I used to visit my Mom in the hospital. Whenever I was in town I would go to see her. I have always been a smoker of the left handed persuasion and this was an issue between us. So before I would visit her I would eat something, or have a mint or swish mouthwash. Then I would walk into her room and bend over to kiss her. The result was always the same. She would ask me why I was still smoking. I would ask her what makes you think I still smoke. She would always answer the same way- “A Mother always knows.”

About a month before she passed away I went to see her at home. It was very clear that she was going fast and this might be the last time I would see her. I went through the usual routine of mints and gum etc. Then I walked up to her bed, bent down and kissed her. I got the same result as always, “When are you going to quit smoking?”

Looking at her laying there dying I had to know the answer to a question that had bothered me for several years, How did she know? So I asked her, “Mom, how do you know I’ve been smoking? Every time I see you I try to cover it up- but you know! And I’ve got to have an answer- how do you know?”

She looked at me with amusement in her dying eyes as she answered, “It’s in your beard.”

"Now and Then" by Joseph Heller (1998)

I’ve been re-reading some of my favorite books in the past few weeks. In “thinning out the herd” of the books which I have accumulated over the past years I ran across this book about growing up in Brooklyn’s Coney Island area during the Great Depression.

The book is filled with everything good about that experience. The walks to and from school, the street games played by all kids, the foods in the area around the Boardwalk, the subway, the stores; it’s all written in a wonderfully engaging style.

Joseph Heller is the author who bought us the sensational novel of wartime futility “Catch 22”. He had a unique insight into that subject as he served in the Second World War under similar circumstances to those in his iconic novel. That experience is also briefly covered here as well as the author's childhood years.

But the real joy of this book; at least for those who grow there; are his recollections of Brooklyn in what Woody Allen would later refer to as “Radio Days.” If you have parents, or even grandparents who grew up in Brooklyn during the Depression, then this book is a unique look into the world they inhabited and an insight into just who they were as people. And that's a key to who we, as their children; and later, their grandchildren; became.

"The Autumn Balloon" by Kenny Porpora (2015)

This is a searing self-portrait; written in an understated fashion; making it all the more colorful, just as the cover implies. They keep telling me not to pick the book by its cover, but I do anyway, and usually with wonderful results. This book was no exception to that method.

Kenny Propora was raised in a very unusual fashion; by very unusual people. You can tell that by the end of the first chapter when his mother is berating him for being a faggot while she drinks her Vodka. When she runs out she asks Kenny to get her a refill. Kenny was in 2^nd grade at the time.

Born to a father who was several decades older than his Mom, the author grew up in a world inhabited by the uncivil war raged by his mother against the whole world; while his father’s war encompassed mostly his own failings. Still, he is a sympathetic character in an otherwise nightmarish world, where home is sometimes the family’s old broken down car.

Relationships between parent and child are hard enough without the twin demons of substance abuse and mental illness to cope with. As a child the author had to have transported himself to a “safe place” in his own mind in order to get through the ordeal presented by his particular circumstances. And that “safe place” often informs the soul of the person who is forced to retreat there. In this case that alternate world turned out an inquisitive and sensitive young man. But how much of that is the result of just blind luck and circumstances; as opposed to fate; would be hard to determine.

Although this is Mr. Porpora”s first book, if his writing here is any indication of the depth which he is capable of reaching, then we are all in for a treat with any of his subsequent books.

The Removers" by Andrew Meredith (2014)

They tell me not to pick a book by its cover; but I keep on doing it anyway. Maybe I've just been lucky, but it seems to work out well for me. The first time it happened was when I read “Moby Dick”; the giant tail on the cover, flailing in the sea and swamping the small whaleboat, promised all kinds of excitement within. And the book delivered beautifully, so I've been doing it that way ever since. I was 11 at the time.

Now this is no Moby Dick; let’s get that straight right from the start. But it has a compelling quality to it which reveals itself as you find yourself turning the next page eagerly. It is the story of the a young man who was cheated out of a portion of his adolescence by his parent’s failed marriage; and it is also the story of how he allowed that loss to rob him of the ability to live and love for many years afterward.

After his father is fired from the university where he teaches; for “inappropriate” behavior with a female student; his marriage to the author’s mother crumbles. No one ever divulges the details of just what his father did; was it a physical relationship, or just becoming too familiar with someone? Or was it what today would be deemed as an “emotional” affair? Silence reigns supreme in his home. No questions are asked and no explanations offered.

Silence never really accomplished much in the way of resolving things; and so it goes with Andrew’s life. He is living among the ashes of what was once a secure home; his mother and father along with his sister were an average family until this one event rocked their world, crumbling its foundation. You have to wonder; as the author does; how solid that foundation was to begin with, and why neither parent seemed capable of even attempting to deal with the problem?

As his father finally settles into a job as a “remover”; someone who removes the body and takes it to the funeral home for final preparations; his son follows suit. As he learns the craft of cremation he draws analogies between his life and the work he performs. He finds that he has shut himself off from all emotions, building a wall which will never reach its full height. No wall could ever be high enough to keep his emotions from spilling out; nor could it ever be high enough to let other emotions in.

After trial and error; coupled with some heartbreak and a trip to the west coast; he finds himself back in the Philadelphia area where he was raised, living with his mother at the age of 27. As he continues to grow he learns about his ability to get beyond that wall and let things flow in and out. He finds answers to the unasked questions which have troubled him; and his father; for so many years.

This is a quickly read and yet deeply written book. The author had to dig deep to write this, and as such it is well worth the read. His conclusion is somewhat like my own; that in the final analysis we all carry our own water. And, as such, we need to be careful not to waste any by either splashing it on others; or using too much of it in an attempt to rinse ourselves of the past. But either way, that bucket of water is ours alone to carry.

"Take This Man" by Brando Skyhorse (2014)

The very first thing you need to know about this book is that the author is not an Indian, as his name would suggest. Neither is he Mexican, as his mother is. He is not really Filipino either, which is a shame because his real dad was. If you can wrap your mind around that then you are off to a good start in a very unique memoir that takes place in the Echo Park area of Los Angeles in the 1970’s and 80’s.

The author takes you on a journey through the dysfunctional world created by his Grandmother, who is Mexican; and his mother, a woman who has fashioned herself into an American-Indian. The problem is that she really believes this to be so. She has a child with a man from the Philippines. And then rejects him with the threat of having him deported because he is here illegally. And this is just the beginning.

Brando is raised within a whirlwind of new men his mother meets- 6 in all over the years- and each one becomes a possible father to the boy, only to fade away under the strain of dealing with his mother and grandmother. Or else they just leave on their own. These experiences with repeated hope and disappointment inform the man that Brando becomes.

This book will actually keep you engrossed, if only because you have never read a memoir like this before. There is no blatant physical or sexual abuse; just a succession of poor decisions by every adult in Brando’s young life. He is constantly on the verge of having the father he wants and needs so desperately, but never finds in the men his mother chooses.

I actually identified with the yo-yo type of existence the author lived due to my own mother’s long and severe illness. It’s hard to grow up when you are told one of your parents will be dead soon. And even harder when they don’t die, leaving you to experience the same pain over and over, each time loathing yourself for wishing it would finally happen and put an end to the anxiety. Of course this leaves you scarred and feeling guilty. And those feelings then claim whole parts of your life until you can find a way to deal with it. I’m one of the lucky ones; some never do.

After failed relationships and a move from Los Angeles to New York, the author; with the aid of time and distance; is able to gain some clarity on just what the hell happened to him while growing up. It took a long time, and was not an easy path, and in many ways the author still struggles to see what the meaning of it all has been.

Later in life he finds the family of his real father, where he is accepted by his half-brothers and sisters as an equal; a true sibling. After a journey of a lifetime the author finally gets his family and learns that love takes many different forms, and families come in many shapes and sizes. What counts most is the love.

This is a very different kind of memoir; it’s more of a search by the author to find out who he really is. And once he figures that out he still needs to assess the damage which has already been done. As the author’s mother used to say, “Well, at least it’s never boring.”

"It's Only me" by Robert Williams (2009) - The E book Version

In 2009 I wrote a short memoir called; appropriately; “It’s Only Me.” It consists of 30 chapters, with photos, written during 30 sessions of approximately 1 hour each over the course of 4 months. I posted it here as I wrote it; which means that it has never been posted in one spot all at the same time.

I suppose I could do that now, but that would be one long post! Instead I am going to post it here as my version of an “e-book.”  The real purpose for this post is so that I can have all 30 chapters in one spot. If anybody actually reads it; well, that’s always a plus!

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/07/its-only-me.html

 

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/07/its-only-me-chapter-2-early-years.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/07/its-only-me-chapter-3-odd-jobs-and_09.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/07/its-only-me-chapter-4-juinor-high.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/07/its-only-me-chapter-5-friends-and.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/07/its-only-me-chapter-6-politics-working.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/07/its-only-me-chapter-7-getting-high-with.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/08/its-only-me-chapter-8-sex-and-ulcers.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/08/its-only-me-chapter-9-2132-ocean-avenue.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/08/its-only-me-chapter-10-ohio.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/08/its-only-me-chapter-11-harry-and-als.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/08/its-only-me-chapter-12-lost-year.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/08/its-only-me-chapter-13-little.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/09/its-only-me-chapter-14-in-navy-boot.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/09/its-only-me-chapter-15-learning-ropes.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/09/its-only-me-chapter-16-leave-and-my.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/09/its-only-me-chapter-17-uss-milwaukee.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/09/its-only-me-chapter-18-merchant-marine.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/09/its-only-me-chapter-19-usns-pawcatuck_25.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/09/its-only-me-chapter-20-usns-jupiter-and.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/09/its-only-me-chapter-21-baltimore.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/10/its-only-me-chapter-22-concerning.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/10/its-only-me-chapter-23-usns-sirius-and.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/10/its-only-me-chapter-24-meeting-sue.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/10/its-only-me-chapter-25-licensed.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/10/its-only-me-chapter-26-victory-at-last.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/10/its-only-me-chapter-27-kids-and-jobs.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/11/its-only-me-chapter-28-wedding-and.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/11/its-only-me-chapter-29-family-life-baby.html

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/11/its-only-me-chapter-30-rick-stines.html

"The Investigator" by Terry Lenzner (2013)

What began in Selma, Alabama on March 7, 1965 as a peaceful one day protest, degenerated into a 3 week odyssey that wound its way through the Courts and into the living rooms of all America. Terry Lenzner was there. He was a young, idealistic assistant attorney for the Justice Department who had just cut his teeth the year before on the murder of the 3 Civil Rights workers in Philadelphia, Mississippi.

With a clear and crisp style, Mr. Lenzner takes us on a journey through the decades of the Civil Rights Movement; with all its attendant violence and moral outrage; and on into the Watergate Affair and beyond. From his first work with Robert Kennedy’s Department of Justice, and on through his later work as an independent Legal Investigator, he has been a front row participant in much of the history of the 1960’s and 1970’s.

The author defended the Berrigan Brothers for their ant-war activities, which were controversial to even those in the anti-war movement. His portrayal of the men, and their cause, were a bit of an eye opener for me, as the author paints a picture of the nuns and the brothers, taking communion with wine smuggled into the courtroom before the proceedings each day. It should be noted that Mr. Lenzner is Jewish. His account has changed my mind about the sincerity of the Berrigans, whom I considered to be a bit “over the top” in some of their actions. Although I still don’t condone the way they protested, I now understand their motivations more clearly.

I found the Watergate section of this book to be particularly interesting; and although Mr. Lenzner draws a slightly different conclusion than I do as to who started the chain of extortion which was at the heart of the Watergate Affair; the excitement of those times comes to life in his words. He is, after all, the first person to have ever subpoenaed a sitting U.S. President. And, in the end, both sides were the bad guys; with the CIA doing its level best to bring down the President by having him help cover up a botched burglary which he knew nothing of; and the President trying to blackmail the CIA with what he knew about Castro, the Bay of Pigs and even Dealey Plaza. It’s just a case of who was trying to screw the other one first, and more importantly; why?

The author has also represented the CIA’s “Dr. Death”; Sidney Gottlieb; an expert in poisons and the man most responsible for the suicide death of Dr. Frank Olson, who jumped from his room at the Statler Hotel in New York on November 28, 1953. Gottlieb’s testimony was instrumental in shedding light on the American government’s use of mind altering drugs to achieve “parity” with the Soviets, who were ahead of us at the time in this area of espionage during the Church Committee Hearings into the operations of the CIA and the MK-ULTRA program. Although the author seemed impressed with Dr. Gottlieb, this reader sees him more for what he was; a monster. Although his motivations may have been pure, his actions were monstrous. But, in the end, he was given immunity in exchange for his testimony.

When Mr. Lenzner moves into the private sector he finds no shortages of clients to serve. When the Mugar family of Boston wanted to purchase the RKO TV station, Channel 7, in Boston they faced a huge hurdle. They had to prove it was in the public’s best interest to have license transferred from General tire, the entity which held title to it at the time, to the Mugar family.

The only way to do that was for Mr. Lenzner to travel to Mexico in search of 2 disgruntled employees of General Tire who had been forced into retirement for their part in a scheme which made the company a lot of money, but got them fired and exiled to Mexico, where they could presumably avoid prosecution.

Carefully courting the 2 former mid-level executives produced a boatload of information involving foreign bank accounts used as political slush funds, as well as skimming of profits from one company to another. Armed with these revelations, Mr. Lenzner was able to successfully make the case for a change in the license. The Mugar family now owned Channel 7 in Boston.

From Civil Rights and Watergate, to his work on the Alaskan pipeline, and the investigations into Princess Diana's death, the Swift Boating of John Kerry, and even the Monica Lewinsky Affair, Mr. Lenzner has been in the forefront of just about every major headline making case in the latter half of the 20^th Century. And, aside from Civil Rights and Watergate, many of those cases have had at least an indirect effect on all of us as citizens.

His career is storied and his path has been, at times, arduous. But the results he has attained; both in the form of his accomplishments, as well as the formation of his company, Investigative Group International; have always been the result of a deep seated belief in the proverbial “little guy.” And, who could ask for a better legacy than that?

"This Boy's Life" with Robert DeNiro and Ellen Barkin (1993)

Leonardo DiCaprio plays real life author Tobias Wolff as a young teen in the 1950’s  whose mother, Caroline, played by Ellen Barkin, decides to leave her dead end boyfriend in the East and re-locate to Seattle with her son. There she meets Robert DeNiro, who plays garage mechanic Dwight Hansen. 

On the surface he is the kind of man a woman in the 1950’s was looking for; hard working, a bit charismatic, and full of charm. Before long, Dwight and Caroline wed, which leaves young Tobias in an awkward spot. He is at once thrilled to have a “real” father again; yet he is also put off a bit at having to share his mother with this new man. It doesn’t take too long for the cracks to show in this “picture” of growing up in the 1950’s.

As Tobias quickly learns, his step-father is an abusive man, both verbally and physically. He feels that young Tobias is not manly enough and ridicules anything in which the boy takes an interest.  Dwight also struggles with a drinking problem, making him even more unreasonable than he already is.

      

As the boy struggles through school and his ever increasing problems with his step-dad, his mother begins to see things as they really are. Toby, as Tobias Wolff is called in the film, is anxious about breaking free from the small town in which he lives, and the image of manhood which it portrays.

When his friend Arthur, an unabashedly homosexual boy, makes a pass at him, Toby quietly rejects the advance, yet doesn’t hold it against him. He recognizes in the other young man the same desire for something different to break the monotony, and destiny, they both face by staying in the town. Toby dreams of being accepted by a college back east and becoming a writer; an idea his father constantly ridicules him for.

Caroline eventually recognizes the failure of her husband on just about every level, and in one of the most dramatic scenes of the film, gathers her son and leaves Dwight standing alone wailing aloud, “What about me?”

In this film taken from Tobias Wolff’s memoirs; with a screenplay by Robert Getchell; director Michael Caton-Jones presents the story of the father and son relationship in an effective and convincing way. And Robert DeNiro, as always, is at his usual best with a young Leonardo DiCaprio in this moving portrait of growing up.

"Cruel Harvest" by Fran Elizabeth Grubb (2012)

Prepare yourself to be shocked and disgusted by the treatment of Fran Grubb and her sisters at the hands of their father, Broadus, an itinerant farm worker, in this brave and gutsy memoir. I have never been able to understand the concept of the Stockholm syndrome, in which people can be made to withstand the most horrific treatment, yet form sort of a “bond” with their tormentors, or captors. But, apparently this is a real phenomenon and well documented.

The narrative takes place in the late 1950’s and 1960’s; the exact dates are not that important; except that it always shocks me to read of this kind of trauma actually occurs. Ms. Grubb’s father makes a sport of humiliating and beating his wife before graduating to the sexual molestation of his daughters, some as young as 12 years old. Their mother is powerless to protect them from her husband’s alcohol infused episodes of violence. Life is lived on the edge, with everyone in the family always on their toes, lest they do something to trigger their father's rage.

Writing this review is hard, as I cannot even imagine living like the author has. While my own father was verbally abusive, he doesn’t even register on the scale of Ms. Grubb’s father. He seems to thrive on the misery he causes. At one point he even kills his own newborn baby.

The author wonders constantly, as a little girl, what she has done to upset her father, and at times blames her mother for making her father angry. She actually wishes her mother were dead; or her father; either way might break the cycle. The guilt she endures for wishing the death of a parent is wrenching. The only reference I have to this, in my own life, involves my mother being very ill for many years and my thoughts that if she would just die then life would be normal for the rest of the family. This is a heavy burden for a child to carry around, and the guilt lasts a lifetime, even after you have come to terms with the reasoning behind the “forbidden” thoughts.

As the family bounces from one harvest to the next, things just seem to get worse and worse for the family. As each of the daughters comes of age; about 12; their father begins to molest them sexually, often beating them savagely afterwards. Again, their mother seems powerless to protect them, lest he turn his attentions towards her. And that’s the part that baffles me; how can a woman stand by silently and allow her own daughters to be treated in such a way?

To her credit, the mother and oldest daughter do plot to kill him, but after they are overheard by Ms. Grubb, she pleads with them not to kill her “daddy.” She would live to regret that.

When their mother turns them over to the Connie Maxwell Home in South Carolina, the children learn that there are such things as mattresses and clean clothing; not to mention 3 meals a day. They are used to sleeping on cardboard and old army blankets in any deserted farmhouse or sharecropper’s shack that they can find as they travel about, following the harvests. And food is always scarce due to their fathers drinking up all the money the family earns picking cotton and fruits. Ms. Grubb thrives, along with her sister, at the Connie Maxwell Home, but not for long.

When their father shows up with his sister in tow, the children are taken out of the orphanage and on a journey through hell as their father seeks revenge on his estranged wife by taking it out on his children. Along the way they encounter people who realize what is happening to the children, but in those days it was considered unfortunate, and so the abuse continued.

When Ms. Grubb’s father meets a woman named Millie, he charms her and her daughter into traveling with them. Millie is larger than Ms. Grubb’s mother, but no match for the brutal man she has attached herself to. Her daughter soon becomes the target of physical abuse, and Millie does nothing to protect her child. Once again, I cannot even fathom this line of reasoning. Eventually Millie prods the girls to run away, leaving only Fran to be abused. And soon after that, she helps Fran to flee from her father as well.

After a last standoff between her father’s employer and her dad, she is finally free of her horrors, although it would take years to overcome the abuse she suffered at his hands. With the help and guidance of her husband, Wayne; and through their faith; Ms. Grubb comes to terms with all that has happened in her life; and recovers her scattered siblings; finally gaining the family she always longed for.  This was a well written and very important book; but not an easy one to read; and I am glad that in the end the author is able to forgive her father; because I sure as hell can’t. That alone is testament to the power of the author’s words.

"Dyn- O- Mite" by Jimmie Walker (2012)

This book came as a total surprise to me. I had just seen some short sound bite thing about the author while passing through the living room the other night. Sue had on some show, ET, etc., and I caught him out of the corner of my eye. I have no idea what he was saying, as I didn’t take the time to listen. TV in the mid-seventies was a blank for me; I was simply too busy doing other stuff.

So, when I went to the Mooresville Public Library the other day; and saw this book staring me in the face; I took it as an omen that I should read it. I’m glad I did. The author, veteran stand-up comic Jimmie Walker, one time star of TV’s “Good Times”, has written a really good book. He discusses everything with candor, from his own upbringing; and his father’s desertion of the family; to his experiences in the projects of New York City, and his slow climb to fame. Along with the likes of Jay leno and david lettermen, the author came of age in a world of comedy where it was okay to be edgy, but there were still boundaries not to be crossed.

I was amazed at his relationship with legendary Norman Lear, the groundbreaking producer behind shows such as “All in the Family”, as well as well as his connections to other “white” comics of the era. The author’s flexibility allowed him to be influenced by, as well as becoming an influence to, many of his colleagues. He has remained in contact with many of those people to this day.

His stories of the last days of the old “Chitlin’ Circuit” are priceless, as those are times that will never be with us again. Although for good reason, one can’t help but wonder if the hardships these guys endured as a result of racial disparity actually added to the edge which they bought to comedy. After all, sometimes the only thing you can do is laugh.

The book is written in the imitable style of Jimmy Walker; fresh and irreverent. He gives his side of the ups and downs of TV sitcoms, versus standup comedy, holding nothing back. He quotes accurately from his former colleagues Jay Leno and David Letterman, and along the way has managed to introduce me to several more writers and comedians to enjoy.

The real complaint, if any, which Mr. Walker has, concerns the producers who said he was “too black” black in the 70’s, and then found him to be “not black enough” in the 90’s! This is something I have read about in other actor’s memoirs, and some good actors were passed over for this very reason, which seems silly now, but was of great significance back then.

This book has me watching some re-runs of “Good Times” on You Tube, and it’s actually a pretty good show, which captured 25% of its audience time slot for 6 years, in spite of constantly shifting nights in order to aid another show. Some of the plots were edgy for their timing, and relevance, to the black community; but to paraphrase Director Norman Lear, it was so much more. It was the first time in which white Americans got a look inside the projects, and realized just how similar all of our problems are. And Jimmy Walker played no small part in communicating that message to us all. This was a very surprising, and engaging book.

"Man Made" by Joel Stein (2012)

From the moment that Joel Stein sees the small smudge on his wife’s sonogram, signaling that they are going to have a boy, he is thrown into a panic attack of epic proportions. In reaction to this, and much to his credit, the author sets out to find what it really means to be “a man.” He is not alone in his insecurities about his own manhood. Many men, myself included, have gone to great lengths to discover the true meaning of term, and come up with some surprising conclusions.

In a most entertaining style, Mr. Stein recounts his own insecurities, and then comes up with a novel idea. He will confront his self-doubts by becoming all of the things he thinks he is not.  So, accordingly, he begins his journey into perceived “manhood”, by joining the Boy Scouts for an overnight camping trip; doing a stint of duty as a firefighter; and training with Major League Baseball Star Shawn Green. In addition to these testosterone laden exploits, he manages to find the time to take on Ultimate Fighting Champion Randy Couture; joining a stock firm as a day trader; and also doing some time in Boot Camp for three days with the Army. These are only some of the exploits which the author undertakes in his misguided quest for “manhood.”

For the record, the Fire Captain tells him via e-mail, prior to his tour with the firefighters, “Not to dismiss your entire premise, but none of the activities or skills you plan on doing define becoming a man. A man is honest, kind, and courageous, protects women, is humble, bold, moral, seeks truth, loves children, and fights for what is right.”

While battling to convince himself that he is truly “a man”, he also recounts some humorous adventures with his feminist leaning wife, and explores the societal roots of what we have come to think of as “manhood.” All of this results in a highly readable and entertaining book, which in some ways mirror my own self-doubts as a young man. Indeed, one of the reasons I joined the Navy many years ago mirror the authors own perceptions of himself as being “less than a man.” Some of those doubts can be attributed to a lack of talent in sports, or the lack of a bond formed with one’s father. I can identify with those facets of Mr. Stein’s thoughts.

This book works on so many levels; humor, self-analysis, and introspection all combine in the author’s vibrant and creative style, to bring us face to face with just what it takes to be a man in today’s world. And when all is said and done, this is a very entertaining, and uplifting book.

"The Billy Bob Tapes" by Billy Bob Thornton with Kinky Friedman (2012)

This is a very well written, and organized, account of the life of Billy Bob Thornton, who is surprisingly “normal”, whatever that is. With a foreword by Angelina Jolie, and some guidance by co-author/editor Kinky Friedman to keep him on track, the book is the result of the audio tapes which Mr. Thornton made in lieu of “writing” an autobiography. It’s kind of like Harry Truman’s “Plain Speaking”, which is a true “oral” autobiography.  Interspersed with commentary from his close friend Tom Epperson, as well as peppered with some recollections by the likes of Dwight Yoakam, and Robert Duvall; with whom the author feels a deep kinship; this is a very upbeat and honest look at the life of the author.

Written candidly, and talking about his likes and dislikes, as well as his own disabilities; he is severely dyslexic; this book beguiles the reader into a sense of camaraderie with author, it’s almost as if we have made the journey with him. It’s just nice to have had company, albeit unknown.

One of the most enjoyable chapters in this book concerns the making of “Sling Blade”; which Mr. Thornton wrote; and his experiences with John Ritter and Dwight Yoakam. Mr. Yoakam’s understanding of his own character in that film is quite remarkable for its insight into the dark side which inhabits us all. And the story of John Ritter’s haircut, done just days shy of his Public Service Announcement being filmed, is hilarious.

Living in a rural town in Arkansas during the 1950’s and 60’s was a very sparse existence. Perhaps this helped shape the author’s thirst for life outside of that small world. Who knows? But his accounts of playing in “garage” bands, and his subsequent brief foray into, as well as his continued interest in,  life as a musician, all speak to the wanderlust which eventually lead him to Hollywood. Along the way there are trips to New York, sleeping in the car as they crossed the country on $500 coast to coast, eating donuts for a week while waiting to get paid at the pizza place, all filled with the characters we have all known; the characters who shape our individual worlds.

And that’s the best part of this book. Mr. Thornton becomes aware at an early age that he has a special talent.  He “sees” all those characters, and then effortlessly portrays them. Initially encouraged by a high school drama teacher; and later an acting coach, as well as Billy Wilder; he is able to get in touch with his own abilities to really “act”. And along the way he has given us some very memorable characters, all of whom will live forever.  This was a fast, and entertaining read.

"Growing Up Amish" by Ira Wagler

When I was a teenager I dreamt of going back to a more "natural" lifestyle, one of community, homespun clothes and the hard work which goes with it. I never thought about those who were already doing that and wanted a piece of the life I was leading. Ira Wagler was one of those. As a child of the Amish community he longed to see beyond the narrow borders of his own world, just as I was straining to look into a world more like his. And that's the most fascinating thing about this book. We all want to be somewhere, or someone, else.

The author leaves home 3 different times, with a friend, in search of something different than the way in which he was raised. But he always returns, like the Prodigal Son, to the place he began. Along the way he works at odd jobs, relying on the very strengths which he learned in the Amish community to make a living. His journey is both spiritual, and in some cases, comical, as when he and his friend bought an old car. His adventures are mostly innocent forays into the secular world, for which he was not entirely prepared.

When all is said and done, Ira Wagler, and the reader, both learn that we are all more a product of our upbringings then we would sometimes care to admit. For better, or worse, we are all just who we are, plus, or minus, any changes we might make to ourselves along the way.

"Confessions of a Wandering Man" by Louis L'Amour

This book, by one of America's most prolific authors, was first published in 1989. This is my third time reading it. Louis L'Amour is best known for his paperback Western novels, which can be found on any ship at sea, or on any military base in the world. They are easily read, packed with excitement, and the good guy always wins. I never liked them much, picking them up only when nothing else was available to read. Still, the author himself was intriquing to me. He had, apparently, done all of the things he wrote about in his books. That really interested me. The idea that his fiction was part fact made me very interested in the man himself.

Not just a writer of Western novels, Mr. L'Amour also wrote short stories and some poetry and non-fiction. His memoir is one of my all time favorites. In it he recounts most of his adventures as a seaman, rodeo rider, and hobo. There is even a fascinating section on the difference betwen hobo's, tramps and bums.

At age 17 he was in Singapore while his high school class was holding graduation in Jamestown, North Dakota. The education which Mr. L'Amour received aboard ship, in lieu of high school, was to prove more valuable to him than any classroom could have ever been.

This book was reprinted in 2008 and contains some new photographs not seen before. They offer even more insight into the world of the author. The list of books and plays that he read while traveling, also give the reader a unique perspective on what influenced Mr. L'Amour's own writing, beyond his travel experiences.

But, the most important lesson impatred by the author in this memoir is that education is available everywhere, everyday, in some form. All you have to do is reach out for it and it can be yours.

"Chinaberry Streets" by Rodney Crowell

Rodney Crowell writes prose just as he does songs, there is a lyrical quality to his writing and phrasing. His words come out as fluidly as the scores of songs he has written in his 4 decades of making music. From his early years in 1975’s “Heartworn Highways” and touring with Emmylou Harris’ “Hot Band”, through the 1980’s and the heady days of “The Cherry Bombs”, not to mention his tempestuous marriage to Roseanne Cash, he has been inspirational in shaping the direction of authentic American folk/rock, as well as gospel music. His friendship with Johnny Cash is legendary. But if you are looking for tales of the life of a star, look elsewhere.

One of the most remarkable things about this book is that Mr. Crowell has managed to avoid telling the time worn story of a poor boy turned star. Rather, he has carefully crafted this as the story of his life, beginning as a poor kid in East Texas, with a dysfunctional family that is at once scary, and yet at the same time, hilarious. His affection for, as well as his puzzlement of, both his mother and father, are at times heartbreaking, yet in the same breath you can’t help but laugh with him.

If you have listened to Mr. Crowell’s albums, particularly “The Houston Kid”, and “Fate’s Right Hand”, then you are already familiar with many of the characters and places that you will encounter in this book.

Mr. Crowell begins by telling us of New Year’s Eve 1955, when he was 5 years old. His parents were having a party and with alcohol flowing freely, things were getting out of hand quickly. Tired of playing nursemaid to a group of drunks, the young Rodney Crowell went and got his father’s shot gun, blasting a hole in the ceiling. This sobered things up quite quickly.

His earliest memory is of sitting on his Dad’s shoulder’s in 1952 and seeing Hank Williams, Sr., play. He doesn’t remember Hank Williams as much as he does his father’s reaction to seeing his hero in person. From there to book goes back to 1955 and forward, chronicling the event’s typical of a 1950’s childhood. Life was mainly concerned with playing “war”, TV and just generally getting into mischief.

The chapter concerning Hurricane Carla in 1961 is of particular interest. The author’s family rode it out in the home of a family friend, until alcohol and freely roaming hands sent the family packing at the height of the storm, back to their own shack, with it’s leaking roof and dirt floor.

Fans of Mr. Crowell’s music will recognize some of the places and terms used in the book. Telephone Road is just as I pictured it, with the bar ditch and DDT spray trucks each evening. The book reads like a sepia toned photo of the era in which the author was raised.

The real universal appeal to this book is the story of the struggle we all face in coming to terms with our parent’s demons. And often, when we finally do come to understand them, and why they were the way they were, it's too late. Sadly, by that time we have taken these flaws out on our own children.

This is a wonderfully written book, giving even more insight into a truly unique American artist.