Watching  the World Walk By

I’m so lucky that my new house has  a back yard that is pleasant to sit in—bushes, trees, flowers, birdsong and an occasional bunny.

But the best part is that It  is just a few steps to the  walking path…a 3.5 mile loop.

It is busier than usual these days as all other activities in Sun Lakes have come to a virtual halt. 

Perhaps it’s the only exercise left…fitness center and swimming pools closed.  

I’ve even pulled a chair closer to the path so I can often hear snippets of their conversation.  Writers are always encouraged to eavesdrop so we can make our dialogue more realistic. (I do that a lot in restaurants too, but obviously not these days). 

Two women seem to be talking more than a man and woman walking together. No surprise there.  My favorites are the dog walkers…every breed imaginable. Oops, misplaced modifier my English teacher would say. Dog breeds, not human breeds, although walkers themselves come in all shapes and sizes and have interesting gaits. Power walker, arms moving as well as their feet, the ambler, long strides,  and those plugged into their headphones. Are they listening to music, a book?   It’s also a fashion shows of sorts as I’ve discovered the variety of  hats and head gear for sun protection.   Most of the people say “Hello” or wave as they go by and some even consented to a photo for my blog.  

A variety of head gear and sun protection. A fashion show of sorts.

Pace varies…those walking alone usually have headphones…are they listening to music, an audible book or just plugged in, in  case that important call from a grandchild comes thru? We can only hope it’s from the grandchild and not your stockbroker.  At any rate, it’s a time when we need to stay connected any way we can.

I think today I’ll put Alexa out there and play music for the walkers. Since the average age here is probably mid-70’s, they might like a sound track from the 60’s-70’s. I’m thinking a little Cat Stevens or the Beatles.  A song I’ve been playing a lot these days, as I look at the beautiful blue skies of Arizona and the great outdoors we can still enjoy is “How Great Thou Art.”  Truly, HE is.

So these challenging and often lonely days, If I can’t go out into the world, I can in a small way bring it in to me.  One walker at a time.

Clive Cussler, author of over 85 books with sales of 100 million copies, passed away in Scottsdale, AZ at age 88.   I had the pleasure of meeting him in 1994 when he did a book signing at my bookstore, Pages, in Ahwatukee.  He certainly made that event a fun time for many.  

First of all, I should say that when I learned that such a successful author lived nearby in Scottsdale, I called his publisher to see if he would book a signing. I did not have much success with that effort. Perhaps we were too small a fish in the big book pond.  

About a month after that I attended some type of author luncheon where he was the guest speaker. After the meeting we were both standing outside the restaurant waiting for a valet to bring our cars and I asked him if he would come sign at my store. He replied, “Yes of course” so quickly and graciously, I immediately liked this man for the person he was. I was already in awe of his success (me an aspiring writing) and his visit further proved his kindness. 

During the signing (there was a long line waiting for him) he did not appear rushed. He spoke for several minutes with each person and wrote things like, “We’ll always have Paris” in some of the ladies’ books.  J

I had arranged with him ahead of time that I would like to offer a “ win a lunch with Mr. Cussler”.  Anyone who bought any of his hard cover books (versus the many small paperbacks he already had in print) would be put into a drawing for lunch with him.  

We had a wonderful  Chinese restaurant next door to the book store and his wife joined us.  It was during this lunch that he told us the story of how he got his first book published through a hoax.  

Clive grew up in Alhambra, Calif., a poor student but an avid reader of adventure stories.

“I detested school,” he told Publishers Weekly in 1994. “I was always the kid who was staring out the window. While the teacher was lecturing on algebra, I was on the deck of a pirate ship or in an airplane shooting down the Red Baron.”

He attended Pasadena City College briefly, but left to join the Air Force when the Korean War began in 1950. He became a mechanic, flew supply missions in the Pacific but never saw combat. While stationed in Hawaii, he learned scuba diving and explored underwater wrecks. 

He began writing fiction at home in the late 60s, but his first two books, “Pacific Vortex” and “The Mediterranean Caper,” were repeatedly rejected. Unable even to get an agent, he staged a hoax. Using the letterhead of a fictitious writers’ agency, he wrote to the agent Peter Lampack, posing as an old colleague about to retire and overloaded with work. He enclosed copies of his manuscripts, citing their potential.

It worked. “Where can I sign Clive Cussler?” Mr. Lampack wrote back. In 1973, “The Mediterranean Caper” was published.  

Despite an improbable plot and negative reviews, “Raise the Titanic!” sold 150,000 copies, was a Times best seller for six months and became a 1980 film starring Richard Jordan and Jason Robards Jr.

Mr. Cussler, who named his franchise hero after his son Dirk, acknowledged that Dirk Pitt’s character was his own alter ego. His later novels, many co-written by his son or others, often included himself as a character who saves the day. His son, a daughter and friends were also used as characters in his books.

“I’ve been doing Dirk Pitt for 30 years,” Mr. Cussler told The Times in 2000. “Maybe I can find another writer down the line to take him over. It’s not the money; it’s the fans.

“I’d like to retire,” he continued. “I’m toying with the idea of Pitt having a son who shows up. He’s getting a little long in the tooth. When we started out, we were both 36 years old. Now he’s a little over 40, and I’m pushing 70.”

His “hoax” story should be an inspiration to any author  to be creative and believe in yourself.  (In fact, why haven’t I tried that?” )

RIP Mr. Cussler and thank you for your stories and mostly for your kindness.

We Are All Connected.

Years ago my daughter Berta traveled to China occasionally for her work. On one trip she brought home a few souvenirs for me.  A beautiful miniature Mahjongg set since I was just learning the game, and a set of these coasters pictured here in a variety of beautiful colors.  

These coasters are probably 13 years old and yet their colors are as vivid as the day I received them. I like them so much that I take them back and forth with me each summer when I go to Munds Park for three months. They lay perfectly flat and can also serve as a cover to a coffee cup to keep it warm, especially useful in Munds Park where the morning chill can often be in the high 30’s for the entire month of June.

This morning I was doing just that…. using one of the coasters as a lid to my coffee cup. I examined the beautiful stitching more closely and marveled at how intricate it was.  With the Corona virus raging in China now I thought of the hands that made this coaster and wonder if that person is still there.  Is she (I’m assuming it’s a she—and probably bent over a sewing machine rather than hand-stitching) or one of her family members affected by the virus?

Her hands touched this coaster at one point and now here am I, thousands of miles away, touching it also. In fact, I was drinking my coffee in bed while I did my morning readings. How much more intimate could it get?

It made me realize how connected we all are in this big wide world.   Of course that leads me to Disneyland and It’s a Small World After All. Okay, I apologize for putting that song in your head.  I hope it doesn’t twirl around there all day as it will in mine now,  but I do hope I also don’t forget how people we don’t even know often touch our lives.  We are all going about our daily lives so earnestly on this planet that is at once so large, yet so small in the vast universe.  Time to read Ecclesiastes again.