This is a little spin on my “Characters I Have Known” series. Settings can be inspiration for a story, a character—or simply mined for atmospheric or physical detail. 

I grew up next door to a college chapel. This beautiful gothic-style building had a soaring roof, antique stained-glass windows, angels carved into wooden beams, and long wooden pews.  Assemblies, concerts, graduations, and other special events were held there. 

It was also the ultimate spot on campus to play hide-and-go-seek with other “campus kids.” I remember resting once in a small back stairway that led down to the basement--my heart pounding painfully from the exertion of running. What fun! The basement was a damp-smelling jumble of classrooms and offices, and I remember the sound of my bare feet smacking the concrete as I darted from place to place.

My family would occasionally attend concerts there. One of the most notable being the popular singing group that would cause pessimists to run for the hills: Up With People. (Sing it with me now: "Up, up with people/You meet ‘em wherever you go...")

Let it be known that I’ve been an unrepentant optimist ever since.

Not all of my experiences were as sunshiny. I’d taken piano lessons at the college all through grade school and junior high, and guess where they had the end-of-the year recitals?  Trust me, there is nothing more humiliating than slaughtering “Hungarian Rhapsody” (Liszt) on a grand piano in a big, echoey space…with witnesses. That one did it for me: after I slunk back to the second pew, I decided I was Done. With. Piano. (I took up guitar soon thereafter.)

There are poignant memories, as well…  

On the side closest to our house, there was a set of steps leading to a heavy wooden side-door. I helped my father up those steps to attend the 1979 Commencement Ceremonies. His health had been failing for a couple years (long-term effects of childhood polio,) and I carried his portable oxygen tank. Years later, someone reminded me that then-governor Bill Clinton had been the commencement speaker. Really? I only remember sitting next to my 54-year-old father, listening to his labored breath and worrying about him. I was nineteen.

Less than two weeks later, I sat at his Memorial Service in that chapel—listening to the college jazz band playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” (requested by my father prior to his death—he had a spectacular sense of humor), and the “Hallelujah Chorus” played on the amazing pipe organ. Those loud, fantastic notes vibrated the chapel in celebration of a great man.

In 2009, I stood in the chapel with my mother and sisters for another kind of ceremony. We looked out over faces of our families, as well as guests we hadn’t seen in many years—friends, relatives, former and current college staff—all there to honor the memory of my father, The Rev. Dr. Charles E. Angell. We presented the college with a bronze plaque to hang outside “Angell Hall” —a multipurpose room in the newly renovated basement.

The late-June sunlight illuminated the deep blue of the stain glass windows over the balcony. I was nervous, but in a different way from my junior-high self. This was nervousness born of excitement and love. 

As part of the ceremony, my sisters and I sang a song I wrote in my father’s memory entitled “Then I Could Count the Stars.”  The last line of the chorus: If I could count my every blessing, then I could count the stars.

What a beautiful experience in a place that has touched my life at so many points. It is a setting rich with details that are locked into my memory--waiting to cast inspiration on my page. Like my father, this chapel has left me with a legacy of stories, of emotion; of love.

On a two-leg flight recently, I decided to make note of what other passengers near me were reading. On the first leg, my row mate was reading CATCHING FIRE, book two of The Hunger Games trilogy. Good choice! (I later cringed when she folded the page to mark her place.) The couple across the aisle weren’t reading anything. 

More readers were on the second flight: My row mate was reading LONE SURVIVOR, a military memoir. The man across the aisle was engrossed in STRATEGY FORMULATION AND IMPLEMENTATION, a book about business models. His female row mate was reading MOCKINGJAY, book three in the Hunger Games trilogy. Good choice!

Lastly, the man catty-cornered to me was reading a magazine article entitled, “Perils of Panflation.” (Me either. I looked it up just now: it refers to global up-sizing and super-sizing things like clothing and food.)

To summarize, we have:

Two Young Adult novels by the same author

One business book

One memoir

One magazine dealing with global economy

In my strictly unscientific analysis, the women apparently preferred losing themselves in a good novel. In this case, a dark, troubling—and extraordinary—make-believe world.  The men apparently preferred reading about true acts of heroism and bravery during war; viewpoints on the world economy; and developing and maintaining a successful business. (Details from a sometimes dark, troubling—and extraordinary—real world.)

What are the larger implications? No idea. But it was fun being a stealthy observer—a literary Harriet-the-Spy, if you will—surreptitiously gleaning titles and writing them down in my handy little notebook. Once my mission was accomplished, I settled in with my copy of Writer’s Digest.  

Hmm… I wonder what that says about me? 

I’m pleased to introduce my first guest, singer/songwriter Greg Trafidlo. Greg hails from Virginia, which makes the fact that I met him at a Chicago-land dog park pretty amazing. We chatted as our dogs played, and soon realized were both songwriters. We kept in touch and subsequently did some co-writing, which resulted in “Carved in Stone” (see My Musical Side.) 

Greg has a long list of performance and publishing credits. His song “Crossing Over Into the Valley,” co-written with Barbara Martin, was recently recorded by Charlie Sizemore for his Heartache Looking for a Home CD.  He frequently backs up folksinger Tom Paxton, and has been a fixture at The Swannanoa Gathering for many years.

Greg is particularly skilled in the arena of humorous lyrics. When he emailed me his parody of the children’s book GOODNIGHT MOON, by Margaret Wise Brown, I knew I had to post it here. He kindly allowed me to parley it into an interview. Enjoy…

Goodnight Tune

by Greg Trafidlo

(With Apologies to Margaret Wise Brown, Author of GOODNIGHT MOON)

In the practice room

There is a microphone

And a red guitar

That I play in bars

Books about my music heroes

A computer full of ones and zeros

Reject-letters, paper reams

Legal pads and broken dreams

Next-door neighbors yelling, “Hush!”

(They don’t like my music much)

Goodnight Fender Telecaster

And amp so loud it cracks the plaster

Chords augmented and diminished

Verses that I never…… finished

Goodnight lyrics, goodnight chair

Good night tunes lost in the air

Goodnight posters on the wall

Pleasant dreams, goodnight to all

We’ll meet again at day break when,

With luck, the muse returns again

CAK: Welcome, Greg. Your parody is brilliant--how did it come about?

The director of the Roanoke Regional Writer’s Conference—which is held at Hollins University—sent out a call for entries for parodies of GOODNIGHT MOON, by Margaret Wise Brown. She graduated from Hollins in ’32, and they were having a year-long celebration of her work.

CAK: So…did you win?!  

Being selected to present it was really the award. There were some good ones! These were all pro writers—mostly novelists and short story writers from the Roanoke Regional Writer’s Conference. They want me to teach a songwriting class at the conference at Hollins in January. I guess that’s really my prize.

CAK: I love your attitude. Do you have any advice for writers in general…particularly those of us who are seeking publication?

All the good things that have happened in my career have occurred because I’ve tried to put myself “out there.” Meaning, going to Nashville and other music cities; performing; entering contests (I won the USA Songwriting Competition in the Novelty category.) And, I’ve performed with some of the biggest names in the business just because the timing was right—including Tom Paxton, Janis Ian, and Peter Yarrow.

You can either sit at home and hope for a career, or you can put yourself in a place where good things can happen. Find out what you’re best at. I’ve been very fortunate—by doing these things, I find out where I fit in the food chain. Most of the radio airplay I get are for my funny songs. That’s what gets me heard. And I love writing that kind of material.  When I was asked to contribute to the GOODNIGHT MOON parody contest, it was the kind of challenge that I love to have.

CAK:  Great advice. I’m inspired by your perseverance and positive outlook. What’s up next?

I have some gigs with Tom Paxton coming up; and I’m contemplating my next project…possibly a compilation of my funny stuff. On a side note, our co-write “Carved in Stone” will be performed on Memorial Day at The Vietnam Wall Memorial (in DC) by my friend and co-writer, Barbara Martin.

CAK: That’s wonderful news, on all accounts. Thank you, Greg, and best wishes in your writing/songwriting efforts.

SPECIAL GIVEAWAY: Greg’s latest CD, “Carved in Song,” will be given to a random commenter. The contest will be open until Sunday, April 29, and the lucky winner will be announced in my next blog post. (I’m biased, of course, but trust me when I say it’s a fine CD!)

There are characters all around us. You know the type: folks that are unique and stand out…or make an impression on us for one reason or another. Pure gold for a writer! This will be a series that I’ll revisit every few weeks. 

Ethel P— was the self-proclaimed hostess of the small liberal arts college where I grew up. She was retired and lived in a trailer on the edge of a small field that abutted the Science Building. Lively and eccentric (at least to us kids), she dashed around campus in stylish dresses and high heels; grey hair piled high in a bun. Full of purpose, her manner was brusque and no-nonsense, tempered with a sharp sense of humor. 

No doubt she accomplished a lot in one day.

Apparently she had studied ballet at some point in her long life, because my sister and I were invited over for a ballet lesson. I loved to dance, and visions of graceful leaps and twirls floated through my imagination. Perhaps this would be the beginning of a new hobby, eventually leading to a pretty outfit and toe shoes. I could hardly wait!

At the appointed hour, we met Mrs. P in front of her trailer in the shade of a large oak. She was wearing a black leotard and ballet slippers, but no tights—due, I suppose, to the summer heat—which under most circumstances would be fine. However, the grey body hair protruding out from the edges of her leotard was a bit much for a pre-teen. My excitement was eclipsed by embarrassment for an old lady who was leading us in deer-like leaps through the parched, brown grass.

That was the extent of my ballet career. 

Mrs. P was one of those “real-life” characters who continues to live in my memory in a file marked “Fond.”  And who knows? She just might take a “deer-leap” into one of my stories someday.

A funny thing happened on the way to Trader Joe’s recently. I slowed down to let a man cross from the parking lot as he headed toward the office supply store next door, and thought, Gee…he looks just like Stephen King! It wasn’t, of course, but naturally my imagination was off and running: What if it really was Stephen King, visiting the area and needing some writing supplies? How cool would that be?  I envisioned him stocking up on his tools of the trade: pens, pencils, writing notebook, printer ink… 

Leaving him to it, I parked and headed in to TJ’s to buy rice bread, eggs, olive oil, and organic carrot juice. When finished, I moseyed up to the checkout line—blithely gazing at the displays of dark chocolate—when I realized that Mr. King’s doppelgänger was checking out in front of me. He was chatting with the checker and said, “I’m here trying to work through a problem in my novel.”

Ha! Don’t you love how the universe works? (And yes, I resisted laughing out loud and saying, “I can relate! I’m a writer, too.”)  I went to TJ’s for food, and ended up with a daydream come to life.

Last week, my family and I spent a few days in Galena, Illinois. This beauty-of-a-historic-town had it’s boom during the 1800’s when lead ore was in demand, and at one time it’s population exceeded that of Chicago.  Now, instead of bustling with riverboat commerce, it bustles with tourists. Attractions include quaint shops, exemplary restaurants, President Grant’s home, hilly streets with beautiful old mansions, and the sleepy Galena River where one can walk atop the levy for a nice view of the river and town. 

Back to the exemplary restaurants…

We splurged one night and ate at Fried Green Tomatoes, a highly-rated establishment that features—you guessed it—fried green tomatoes. (Delicious, by the way, even if the tomato was mostly a vehicle for melted cheese and a marinara sauce. Mmm…)  The setting was lovely, with exposed brick walls, dark wood, and elegant light fixtures that were dimmed for appropriate ambiance. 

The attentive waitstaff brought us warm parmesan-encrusted Italian bread and a big bowl of salad for sharing. Our entrees were exceptional. Here are the exact descriptions from the menu: 

Chicken Marsala—a breaded chicken breast sautéed with marsala wine sauce with mushrooms, potatoes and roasted onions.  (Me)

Tortalloni—spinach and roasted garlic stuffed pasta, tossed with asparagus, zucchini and tomatoes in a citrus cream sauce.  (Husband)

Gnocchi Primavera—potato gnocchi sautéed with sweet peppers, eggplant, tomatoes, and sugar snap peas in sesame oil. (Nineteen year-old vegetarian daughter)

Meat Lasagna—hand rolled with fresh cheese and sausage with our house red sauce. (Seventeen year-old carnivorous son)

Our conversation ran along these lines:

“Yum.”

“You have got to try this.”

“This is so good.”

Too stuffed for dessert, we walked one block over to the above-mentioned levy where we enjoyed the mild temps and a black sky painted with stars. Tree frogs serenaded us as we strolled along, wrapped in the peacefulness of the quiet town. There was sweetness in simply being in each other’s company and enjoying the moment. 

Beautiful details; beautiful blessings.

My writing routine has been jiggled around the past couple weeks…by glorious weather, of all things. Chicago, land of weather extremes, has been Chicago, land of consistently warm days and mild nights. Things are blooming in March that shouldn’t be. Fifty percent more skin is feeling the sun and breezes. Neighbors are (gasp) mowing their lawns.

I’ve been dragged away from my computer by flower borders pleading “Rake me! Rake me now!” By my dog, Luci—queen of tragically expressive looks that imply wouldn’t now be the perfect time for a walk?” (There’s a chance I’m projecting…); and by my gardening instincts that are springing to life about five weeks early. Not that I’m complaining, but I usually count on March to be chilly and dampish so I can continue to hole up in my cozy office. 

On the plus side, I’m noticing details I’ve never noticed before: The magnolia-like tulip trees that are plentiful here smell sweet and wonderful. And the flowering pear trees that are are in every third yard, absolutely stink!

I’m guessing that in previous years, the cold temps held the “scent molecules” at bay. This year, said molecules are riding the warm air currents with reckless abandon. Luci must be confused by our intermittent walking speed as we either linger in areas of heady perfume—or speed past the white-blossomed beacons of manky-ness.     

At any rate, I’ve decided to take the philosophical approach: Next time the siren song of perfect weather pries my fingertips off the keyboard, I’ll grab a dog leash or gardening gloves and head outdoors…all in the name of writer-enrichment.*

*See? Writers can rationalize anything.

Have you noticed how emotional association with a “place” can strengthen memories of it?  Like the college cafeteria where I dropped my tray: The sound of dishes and utensils hitting the hard floor, followed by snickers and scattered applause from my friends… My memory skates right back on the feeling of embarrassment.

Years later, in early September of 1997, my family was on vacation in the Pacific Northwest. We spent two days at Crater Lake in Oregon—a crystal-clear lake in the caldera of an ancient volcano. The afternoon we arrived, we drove around the perimeter and stopped at various overlooks. I was in awe of the astounding beauty of the place, and amazed that we could see the other side, seven miles away. 

We lingered at the overlook for Wizard Island, a volcanic cinder cone in the west end of the lake. It rises several hundred feet above the surface. Amidst this incredible beauty, and the happiness of being on a trip with my family, I felt sad; my heart heavy. I wasn’t alone in my grief—the world had been reeling from the death of an English princess for two days. I wasn’t a fanatical royal watcher by any means, but this compelling woman had been a part of my life since 1981. 

I’d been traveling in England a few weeks prior to The Wedding. Every shop window displayed pictures and mementos of the royal couple, and my friends and I were caught up in the excitement. The day of the wedding, I turned on the television before dawn and watched her walk down the aisle in her fairytale gown. She’d been part of our culture ever since. “Always around” in television and print. 

And now she was gone.

As I leaned against the guard rail and reflected on the demise of Diana, I formed an emotional connection to Wizard Island. To this day, that connection carries me right back: I see the rugged, conical-shaped island reflected in the glass-like water; the evergreens growing straight and tall; the expansive blue sky; my husband and kids nearby…   It is an emotional swirl of grief, beauty and location.

There’s a purity of emotion when it is connected to “place.” As writers, we tap into this well of emotional truth—enriching our work with memories that are three dimensional, and details that are often as clear as the water in Crater Lake. Feelings of love, sorrow, joy, anger, embarrassment, happiness, accomplishment… Hop on and see where they take you. You just might find the detail you need.

We all write under the influence of something, be it emotional, mental, physical, or spiritual. These are factors that affect our output in one way or another.

Today, I’m writing under the influence of bluegrass music. My husband and I heard a Chicago band Saturday evening called Sunny Side Up. The members were talented musicians who delighted the audience with musical prowess on mandolin, guitar, banjo, bass, and fiddle. Good singing and a humorous stage presence completed the mix for a terrific show.

I’ve noticed a pattern. Every time I experience great live music—whatever the form—it bolsters me creatively. My imagination neurons seems to fire faster. Why? I’m not exactly sure. Perhaps I’m inspired by the high standards, or maybe it’s a result of the happy joy I feel while listening. Perhaps those notes and melodies are absorbed into my psychic bloodstream. Whatever it is, I do know this: when we steep ourselves in creative excellence, we are influenced by it. 

Stellar writing is another example. Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes is my favorite summer read. I  submerge myself in her beautiful sentences and barely come up for air. Mary Doria Russell (The Sparrow, Doc) is another author who wows me with her talent. And there are many more writers whose skillful handling of language impresses and feeds me…a gift beyond measure.

Of course, there are other influences that affect our writing: amount of sleep, responsibilities of daily life, inner and outer harmony, self-discipline or the lack thereof… the list goes on. It’s how we respond; how we internalize/process/overcome these things that makes us—and our writing—unique. 

Today, I have rhythmic echoes of Bill Monroe in my fingertips—the residue of great music mixed with my imagination. Creative excellence…my favorite kind of influence!

What’s influencing your writing today?

I often find myself viewing random details with the eyes of a writer. For instance, I don’t just see half-melted snow on a sidewalk, I see melted shoe-shapes in the snow on the sidewalk. And the light shining in my bathroom window? Nothing so mundane. I see light reflected in tiny droplets on the glass, like miniature suns. Or, that strange winter’s night when the street was a black ribbon that disappeared into the fog…

Does this ever happen to you? 

I blame it on Sol Stein. In his excellent book, Stein On Writing, he admonishes us to write in a writerly fashion. In his chapter “The Writer’s Job…,” he writes:

“Despite our alleged reverence for fact, the truth is that our adrenaline rises most in response to effective expression. When a writer or speaker understands the electricity of fresh simile and metaphor, his choice of words empowers our feelings, his language compels our attention, acceptance, and action. When Shakespeare speaks, when Lincoln orates, we are moved not by information but by the excellence of their diction. Alone in a living room, our book lit by a chair-side lamp, we are enraptured by what is said because of the author’s choice of words and their order on the page.”

In other words, be creative and original. At the end of his book, he has “Ten Commandments for Writers.” My favorite is #7:  “Thy language shall be precise, clear, and bear the wings of angels, for anything less is the province of businessmen and academics and not of writers.”

Now that’s a directive. 

I’ve found that being writerly encompasses not just writing, but the way in which I interpret the world around me. Details are processed through the filter of creative language, and from there to words on the page.

Be alert, be aware, be writerly… and listen for the whisper of angel’s wings.  

(Thank you, Mr. Stein.)

There are characters all around us. You know the type: folks that are unique and stand out…or make an impression on us for one reason or another. Pure gold for a writer! This will be first in a series that I’ll revisit every few weeks. 

Gertrude Temple was an elderly woman who lived in Hunt, Arkansas--a town in the Ozark foothills consisting of a church, a few homes, and not much else. I’d heard about “Miss Gertie” from my father--a college professor and ordained minister who would “supply pastor” occasionally at the Hunt Presbyterian church. One Sunday, he invited me to accompany him there. We were greeted by Miss Gertie, who was a thin, elderly woman with white hair. Sweet and welcoming, it was her job to unlock the church each Sunday. And afterward, she always invited the minister to her home for lunch. She’d been doing this for years.

After church, she led us to her tiny two-room home that had paint peeling off the clapboard exterior. Dad and I sat at her kitchen table--about half the space in the room--as she served us a delicious lunch of roast beef, green beans, and mashed potatoes. Miss Gertie didn’t eat with us, but hovered in the background making sure we had everything we needed. This was due to the fact that she had no teeth. The most she’d do was gnaw on a dinner roll. 

I only went that one time, but I’ve never forgotten this woman who gave such loving service to others. I later heard that a group of teachers and students from the college swooped in one Sunday morning while she was at church…and scraped and repainted the outside of her house. When she returned later with the visiting minister, she had the surprise of her life: a freshly painted house and a bunch of cheering people. What a gift for everyone involved! Over forty years later, I still get teary thinking about it.

Miss Gertie was a character who lives on in my memory. And in this case…my heart.

Who is a character you have known?

Last week I had the pleasure of attending a concert by a dear friend, Russell Stern, pianist extraordinaire. His program was entitled “Songs of Love,” and he played pieces by notables such as Chopin, Puccini, Rachmaninoff and Gershwin, as well as his own compositions. Several of his pieces were accompanied by other amazing talents, such as Mark Agnor, violinist, and Laura Hamm, flautist, among others. The concert was in one of the most beautiful churches I’ve ever seen—Our Lady of Perpetual Help, in Glenview, IL.

One of Russell’s compositions was called “Heartsong,” and included flute and violin. He explained how it was inspired by images of a man and woman falling in love and marrying. The three parts represented the man, woman, and the presence of God. It made both aural and visual sense—the melody was beyond lovely, with the three instrumentalists playing together and in counterpoint.  

As I listened, I couldn’t help but make comparisons between this piece and the elements of a story: 

Setting. A beautiful church with wonderful acoustics, where notes floated up past golden walls to kiss the curved, blue ceiling.

Characters. Three instrumentalists interacting in a meaningful way, eliciting emotion from the audience. 

Plot. In the form of intricate melody—a framework for the thrilling nuances of love. It had a beginning, dramatic middle, and satisfying denouement.

This composition opened my heart in the same way an incredible love story does—where at the end I’m breathless; caught up in those final reverberating notes as they dissolve into light and air. 

Then I breathe again, and cheer.

Have you noticed how something ordinary can reach out and grab you when you least expect it? Some might call it a waking dream, others might call it a sign.   

I was sitting in an airport Starbucks last year during a layover. I looked at the cardboard “sleeve” on my tall soy chai (no foam) latte and read: Stories are Gifts. Share.   

Not only was it a lovely directive, it was an affirmation for writers and storytellers everywhere. Being in the middle of manuscript revisions made it especially applicable—a little tap on my shoulder from the universe saying, “You are doing something worthwhile. Keep it up.”  

The other customers probably interpreted my big smile as “she’s really enjoying that beverage!” Wanting to share the love, I collected a couple more sleeves during my trip and gave them to my writing pals at our next meeting. Mine is still pinned to the bulletin board in my office: for inspiration and a nice memory. 

There’s synchronicity involved, don’t you think? Here’s a place that is a magnet for writers and readers who enjoy a dreamy beverage and either reading, writing, or chatting with friends. It’s all about connecting and sharing and enjoying life. I call that (raising my biodegradable cup) a very good sign, indeed.

 Writers use the power of paradigm to great effect. An unexpected twist, a shift in how a character is perceived, a unique world view that leaps out of left field…  The possibilities are endless.

I was once at a seminar where the presenter played a recording of what sounded like a New Age-y choir. There were many voices—men and women toning and harmonizing in a way that was interesting and lovely. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever heard. And then the presenter said, “What you just heard was a recording of grasshoppers…slowed down 10,000 times.”  

Grasshoppers, folks. Talk about a paradigm shift! I experienced the connectedness and intelligence of life around me in a new and unexpected way. It was life-changing. When I now encounter a field of grasshoppers, I know that beneath the cacophony and seemingly randomness of sound, there is order.

This is the gift writers give readers: the pleasure of paradigm shifts and surprising perspectives that make a story even more enjoyable and compelling. And it all starts with funneling creativity and imagination into words on a page.

Now isn’t that just plain fun?