Bad Cyber Behavior

Kids behave badly right out in the open. It's the impulsivity thing. By the time they've had a chance to think about it, the crime has already been committed. The crayon has already been broken, the chair has already been kicked. Adults will do the same thing, of course, but what I've noticed is that politeness is often tossed aside when they think they are anonymous.

I was recently reading a newspaper or magazine blog where someone made a horrendous comment about the writer of the article. Sure, they'd signed it, because on that particular blog, it is required for commenting. But the commenter had used what I like to call their Internet nickname, their cyber CB handle, GarbageMouth43. (The names may have been changed to further protect their anonymity.) Why do people think they can completely forgo any social graces when they are hovering over their computer keys eating fried Twinkies and sipping their YooHoo?

I know these are the same people who have thrown down that candy wrapper or that soda can that you see in the street--the very same person who emptied their car ashtray in the parking lot of the grocery store. In my utopian world, a magical police spotlight will automatically flash a high beam on them as they toss their dirty paper towel on the bathroom floor. Who doesn't get satisfaction when they pass the person who cut them off on the freeway as the offender is pulled over at the next exit?

Maybe I'll just forget about politeness, too. Maybe I'll aspire to be one of those old people with their filter system removed. I'll make loud judgmental comments at the grocery store about other shoppers' children and the items they have in their cart. There's something freeing and anonymous about that, isn't there?

Did I pay extra for that advice I got on the train?

It's prime commuter time on the train into Penn Station, so there is a certain set of rules, both spoken and unspoken.

I'd have to say, at the very top of that list would be the No-IPod-loud-enough-to-seep-out-of-your-headphones rule. But even higher on chart is the it-goes-without-saying-no-loud-cell-phone-talking rule.

One thing that I've noticed is that the cell phone rule violators usually fall into one of two categories. They are not having one of of your run of the mill casual conversations with a friend or coworker. They are either:

(1) having a heated/tearful/pleading conversation with a spouse/partner/significant other

or: (2) giving unsolicited/wise/arrogant advice.

The woman committing a category 2 prime-time commuting train transgression was about three seats ahead of me, but projecting very well at all angles. And she was giving funeral etiquette tips and advice. You gotta love that.

It went like this:

"People who go to the cemetery just assume they're going to the house after." (Hmm...I think to myself. Better write this down, lest I forget...)

Then she elaborates, of course:

"Not everybody goes to the cemetery. I'm just sayin'--it's tradition." (So what advice was she giving anyway? That the advice recipient should take a cell phone to the graveside service to give the caterer a last minute head count?)

Then she goes on to give the person tips of the Hallmark nature:

"The best thing is, I say as little as possible."

Now at this point, I'm practically falling out of my seat to get these magical words of condolence. What will they be?

Sadly, I never hear. We go into a tunnel and her phone service must have been cut off. I'm left with the realization that I'll never have the proper words of condolence filed away. And if I don't have those perfect words to utter to the bereaved, how will I show my face at the cemetery? Because I now know, if I don't go to the cemetery, I can't automatically assume that I will go back to the house after...

We All Need a Little Help From Our Friends

Who doesn't need a little help from their friends? Those of us who know Susan VanHecke as a music journalist and the co-author of ROCK 'N' ROLL SOLDIER wouldn't be surprised to see her pen a story about the Beatles. In AN APPLE PIE FOR DINNER (Marshall Cavendish, 2009), Van Hecke journeys across genres to the English countryside.

True, it is the English countryside, but the Fab Four are nowhere in sight. What VanHecke does have is a delightful cast of characters. Based on the English folktale, "The Apple Dumpling", VanHecke makes the story her own, using the universal themes of friendship and working together to take care of the needs of others. As Granny Smith sets out to make an apple pie with nothing but a basket of plums, she makes trades along the way to ultimately get what she needs and a whole lot more.

The illustrations by Carol Baicker-McKee are whimsical and unusual. Done in 3-D, the mixed media bas-reliefs make a perfect compliment to VanHecke's visual setting. I found myself wishing I could be a fly on the wall of the art studio to watch that world come to life.

As an elementary teacher, I've found that stressing the need for empathy as well as just a desire to help out our friends and neighbors is something I hope to get across to my young students all year long. Susan VanHecke has done this so well in AN APPLE PIE FOR DINNER. I would highly recommend it to parents and teachers, alike.

Please read on for interview with the multi-faceted, Susan VanHecke...

A picture book seems so completely different from what I’ve seen you do. Is this something you have thought about doing for a while?

You know, I never even considered writing children's books until I became a mom. Four years ago, when my kids were 2 and 4, I was reading a ton of picture books. Some I loved, others I thought were pretty lame. So I thought I'd give it a try.

Coming from the world of grown-up book publishing, I knew I'd have to streamline my writing style. To practice, I took several of my favorite folktales and retold them. I tried to use as few words as possible, and tweaked details – characters, settings, action – to update the stories.

An Apple Pie For Dinner was one of those exercises. Marshall Cavendish bought it as an easy reader and asked fabric artist Carol Baicker-McKee to create the amazing 3D bas-relief illustrations. I never, ever dreamed that my less-is-more writing exercise would become such a beautiful picture book!

You have written a lot about the music business and rock and roll, in particular. Are you a musician?

I come from a musical family. My mom is a church organist, choir director, and piano teacher. My dad has a beautiful tenor voice and sings all the time at church. My older and youngest brothers play drums. My other younger brother is a professional guitar player. I took piano lessons for many long years growing up, and also played clarinet and bassoon in school band.

While I was studying film at New York University, I did an internship at Island Records, then went to work at a music industry PR firm in NYC after graduating. There, it finally dawned on me that I could actually make money doing the thing I loved most – writing – about a topic near and dear to my heart – music. I became a freelance music journalist, an article turned into my first book, and it kind of took off from there.

I must confess, though, that I haven't touched a piano – other than to dust it – in years!

You must have come across some interesting people while doing your nonfiction research work. What is one of the most memorable things that you discovered?

While working on The Girl In The Box, my historical fiction for middle-graders, I learned that my ancestors in western New York were abolitionists. Not only were they abolitionists, they were "stationmasters" on the Underground Railroad, hiding fugitive slaves under their farmhouse and in a swamp on their property. This was at the time of the Fugitive Slave Law, where harbored runaways were considered stolen property. My relatives risked their livelihood, prison time – perhaps even their lives – to help slaves to freedom. It still blows my mind, and makes me so proud.

You mentioned on your website that you often work with a co-author and help people tell their own stories. What is one story that has stuck in your mind?

Actually, I worked on two books back-to-back that touched me deeply. The first was Roadwork: Rock & Roll Turned Inside Out, the memoir of rock photographer Tom Wright, who befriended guitarist Pete Townshend at Ealing Art School before Pete formed a band called the Who. Tom would go on to travel with the Who and other famous rock bands – the Stones, Faces, Joe Walsh, the Eagles – shooting the most extraordinary pix (now a part of the collection at the Center for American History) and developing them in hotel bathrooms.

It was probably inevitable, but Tom wound up with a major drinking problem. There's a point in the book where he's sleeping on the gravel floor of a friend's garage, living on red wine and cigarettes, estranged from his wife and son, questioning his art and his life. Such giant talent, such enormous sadness. Thankfully, Tom pulled himself together, but re-living that time with him was very painful.

After Roadwork wrapped, I went straight to work on Rock 'N' Roll Soldier, a Vietnam War memoir for young adults I co-wrote with veteran Dean Ellis Kohler. The things those young soldiers – teens, a lot of them, like Dean – were forced to see and do just broke my heart. No wonder they didn't, and still don't, want to talk about it. It's indescribable.

Dean had repressed some devastating memories and I hated having to make him relive them. On the other hand, my hunch is that our dredging up those experiences together and making them public, sharing them, trying to make sense of them via the book, might have actually been helpful (Dean's such a stoic, I'm not sure he'd tell me if that were the case or not).

Regardless, our veterans – of all wars – deserve our utmost gratitude for what they've endured and sacrificed for our country.

THE GIRL IN THE BOX has such an intriguing title! Can you tell us a little about it.?

It's based on the true story of a 7-year old slave girl who, with her pregnant mother, hid for 21 days in a wooden box in the back of a horse-drawn produce cart as they were smuggled from the Washington, D.C. area to Warsaw, New York. The plan of those who helped them was, no doubt, to get them to Canada. But when they arrived in Warsaw, the mother gave birth to a son – in my ancestors' kitchen! – then died soon after of tuberculosis.

Since there was no way an infant and a 7-year old, both considered fugitives, could fend for themselves in Canada, the Warsaw townsfolk rallied around the children and raised them as their own. Like all who assisted runaways at that time, these people were putting themselves and their families at great risk in order to do the right thing.

The girl grew up to become a beloved member of the community and married a cousin of W.E.B. Du Bois, civil rights activist and co-founder of the NAACP. It's really an incredible story.

The research for this book has been especially challenging, though, as not many records were kept regarding the Underground Railroad. It was just too dangerous for all involved. So I've been digging extra-deep – which I really enjoy. I almost turned a cartwheel when I discovered the pair's actual "runaway" advertisement in an 1850 newspaper!

If you weren’t a writer and editor, what would you be?

Maybe an architectural historian. I'm a sucker for old houses, have renovated two. I live in an historic neighborhood, and want to adopt every "stray" home in the area – you know, those grand old beauties that just need a little love?

For fun, I like to research the homes' histories – who built them, who owned them, who welcomed new babies and saw relatives off to war and celebrated graduations and weddings in them. I know, it sounds a little crazy. I'm a certified research-aholic!

Stay Away From the Tunnels

"Don't go in the tunnels," Mom said...And since we were such well behaved kids, we never went anywhere near them. Sure.

They were part of our apartment building and they used to be fall out shelters--tunnels that ran underground from one apartment building to the other.

"Go play. Dad is trying to study." Mom would shoo us out of the apartment, so we really had no choice...did we? It was the heat of the summer in New York and we didn't have a television.

Sometimes my brother Tim and I collected kids along the way. Nobody ever asked where we were headed. The forbidden was always unspoken.

The laundry rooms for the apartment building were down there, but there wasn't very good lighting, and the tunnels had a damp, moldy feel to them. And it echoed down there. How great is that? Perfect for playing hide and seek. The fact that none of us was supposed to be down there, combined with a creepy, dimly lit area that used to be a bomb shelter really cranked up the excitement meter on the game.

I can remember feeling such relief when we ventured back out into the hot sun. Kind of like we had defeated a villain or something down there and come out unscathed.

So when my friend Margaret and I went suburban exploring a while back and we found the abandoned house with the Keep Out sign, it was the tunnels all over again. Don't go into the house. My mom's voice came up loud and clear in the back of my brain. Hmmm...we really had no choice, did we?

My Brother is Still Kicking My Butt

Three pages a day. If it's good enough for Patricia Reilly Giff and Linda Sue Park, it's good enough for me! I figure if I set out to do three to five a day, I'll be able to come up with a solid two--easy...right? I'm going to also allow myself to adhere to the Anne Lamott SFD (loosely translated, "crappy" first draft) rule.

And here's another thing...my brother is completely kicking my butt in the blogging area. Not only is he incredibly prolific, his entries are incredibly not SFDs.

So...to keep up with this standard I've set, I need to maintain the 5:15 am start. As I pointed out to my friend, Laura, there is nothing pretty about 5:15.

This morning, I wrote about a page and a half, then went on a quick run to jumpstart the creative juices. So I'm running along the sidewalk in the neighborhood, and I see some kids emerge from the bushes across the street. I recognize a couple of them right away. They are now middle schoolers, but they were once my first graders. Something is up across the street, but being middle-schoolers, nobody is likely to squeal. So the best thing for me to do is to let them know I am on to them. As soon as we make eye contact, a tiny glimmer of panic flares up on their faces, because they know what I do; once you are in my first grade, I am forever your teacher. So I pick up the pace on the sidewalk. "Hi guys!" I call out.

"Hi," they say, nervously, wishing without a doubt they hadn't strayed from their backpacks at the bus stop.

"What's across the street?" I ask, freezing them to the sidewalk with my first grade teacher/Tony Soprano eye lock.

"Oh, nothing," one of them squeaks, weakly. "We just wanted to see what was over there."

Lame excuse, my teacher eyes tell them. Because a couple of them have lived down the street from that swamp their entire lives.

"Your feet must be wet," I say. "I'm sure you won't be going back there again, since it's just a big swamp."

They laugh nervously, trying unsuccessfully to avert their eyes from mine.

"Have a great day at school," I tell them. Don't worry, my eyes say. I'll be by again tomorrow.

ROCK 'N' ROLL SOLDIER

The dinner table at our house was centrally located, with the kitchen behind my dad, and the living room television directly behind me. There was a definite routine to it. My brothers and I sat in the same places and the television was always on, permanently tuned in to the evening news, which was the closest I ever got to Vietnam.

I have several close relatives that served in the military in Vietnam, and not one of them was willing or able to say much about it. But Dean Ellis Kohler and Susan VanHecke do in the new young adult memoir from HarperTeen, ROCK 'N ROLL SOLDIER.

It's a good thing my family is pretty self-sufficient, because I had to force myself to put this book down. VanHecke and Kohler had my undivided attention from page one. I truly felt the grit and visceral emotions of a kid just out of high school as he lands knee-deep in Qui Nhon, Vietnam, a newly trained nineteen-year-old military policeman.

Before Vietnam, Kohler, like so many young adults, had dreams of making it in the music world, in a legitimate rock and roll band. And he was living his dream, having landed a national record deal. But his life was one of bad timing, because before he and his band could set foot in the recording studio, Kohler received his draft notice.

But he never feels sorry for himself. He sets out to get a band together-- a fully-functioning, touring rock band in the middle of the muddy, mosquito-infested war.

So here is what kept me reading...it wasn't just the fast-paced action that held me...it was the incredible voice. I was there in Vietnam like I'd never been during the evening news at my dining room table. I was in the makeshift club, listening to Kohler's band, The Electrical Banana, wanting to go put their record on my stereo. Kohler and VanHecke gave me an unusual glimpse of the humanity of the war, from pondering who the not-so-obvious enemies were, to coping mechanisms the young soldiers would acquire to keep from losing themselves.

This book will stay with me for a long while.

Driving to Sunday School in the Chevy BelAir

My favorite quote from yesterday's first day of Sunday School. The five-year-olds were looking at their new children's bibles..."I've got two of these God books at home."

Whether you went to CCD or Hebrew School or Sunday School...you could probably insert your name into my story. First of all, you got the new shiny shoes. I loved my new church shoes. We weren't poor, but we didn't have a lot of extra money to toss around, so my mom was always screaming at us about not going outside and scuffing them up before we pulled out of the driveway in the station wagon.

I remember exactly what my brother looked like in his. He used to walk, looking down at them, with a big smile on his face. I was just thrilled that I didn't have to wear my ugly everyday saddle shoes, built to last and to survive a nuclear explosion. I'd tried to destroy those things. I'd get up to an earth-shattering speed on my bike, careening toward the vacant lot at the dead end of our street, and at the very last second, I'd slam the toes of those saddle shoes down on the pavement and skid to a stop. Yes, they were scratched-up a bit, but my mom would just smile with her wry, I'm-on-to-you face and get out the polish. I think that polish she soaped them up with had liquid concrete in it, because they always seemed a little heavier each time.

So back to the driveway... You'd think all would be well in the Haywood station wagon. New shoes...it's Sunday...supposed to be a day of rest and reflection. My dad will tell you there was nothing restful about the Chevrolet BelAir on a Sunday morning. That was when all the fights broke out. It usually started with our older brother not wanting to go...or maybe someone had gotten grass stain on their good pants trying to act out their best NFL plays in anticipation of the afternoon television marathon. Then an all-out battle would break out in the back seat. No seat belts in the Chevy, so when my dad took a corner, there was the inevitable sliding into your brother. And my older brother was king of the painful finger flick. He could thump you a terrible one in the arm with virtually no detection from the front seat. Then there was always a good amount of sharp kicking. We usually arrived at church with my dad careening around the corner, one hand barely on the steering wheel and the other trying to take a wild swipe at anything in the back seat. One big plus to not having seat belts was you could slide swiftly on the vinyl and out of his reach. Thinking back, I'm surprised my mom didn't get out at the first stoplight and jog off into the sunset. Whenever I see a mom with a tight smile on her face on Sunday morning, I know exactly what went on in their car.

I wore my black patent leather shoes yesterday, but my Honda CRV is not the same. I miss that Chevy BelAir. Thinking back, if I would have had any sense, I would have positioned my saddle shoes in the driveway behind the back tires. Those saddle shoes are probably in some landfill near Auburn, Washington. I can see them sitting right on the top, virtually unscathed and still shining with my mom's seventy-two coats of cement polish.