Farewell Vancouver

By Mark W. Danielson

Like many people, I spent the last two weeks glued to the Olympic television broadcasts. Every athlete competed to the best of their ability, and with few exceptions, they graciously accepted their results. For North America, this was a spectacular showing with Canada earning a record-setting 14 gold medals, and the United States setting a new record with 37 total medals. Even more impressive, the US earned medals where no one expected them to win. Sixty-two years had passed since Team USA’s four-man bobsled team won gold, and never before had we won so many medals in Nordic and Alpine events. But what impressed me most about this Olympics was the athletes’ sportsmanship. Through falls, disappointments, injuries, and personal challenges, all of these athletes shined. This is the image I’ll remember most.
Of course, the Olympics’ finale was the ultimate hockey match-up between Canada and the USA. Both teams played an amazing game, and Canada won in overtime. Sacre Bleu! How did this happen? It’s simple—their NHL players out-played our Canadian NHL players. Think about it—even Team Canada’s coach is with the NHL. So why the disappointment in Team USA’s faces after the game? Even while receiving their silver medals, their faces remained sour. Didn’t they realize how hard they worked to get into this game? Didn’t they realize they were representing their nation and that millions of people would be watching them? Even Apollo Ono remarked that these men should have stood tall and celebrated their medals with gracious smiles. Oh well, at least there were a few smiles during the closing ceremony.

Yes, the 2010 Olympics leaves us with many memories, and not all are related to competition. Canada did a superb job with their opening ceremony, and left everyone smiling in the closing. Our athletes looked sharp for the closing ceremony, but during their competitive events—not so much. They looked great in their silver jackets and knit caps while standing on the medal platforms, but who came up with these denim-looking pants and star-spangled tops? With the exception of our red Nordic team uniforms, too many of our outfits looked like pajamas. And whoever came up with baby blue-on- black for our speed skaters? And why were our bobsleds so boring? Okay, I’m complaining, but didn’t anyone notice the eagle on Russia’s sled? Now that looked cool. So, although we set a record for medals, fashion-wise, we didn’t even place. No doubt we can do better next time. (I’d be happy to provide suggestions to anyone who is interested.)

When you get down to the brass tacks, a country’s uniforms don’t really matter. The international athletes provided us with over two weeks of solid entertainment, and Vancouver and Canada sparkled throughout the event. Thanks for all the beautiful images and memories, and congratulations to every Olympian. You are truly the world’s greatest.

You Gotta Have Heart

By Beth Terrell

The topic du jour at work of late has been the Olympics. We’ve seen story after story about these athletes—the greatest in the world—and the sacrifices they’ve made to get to the winter games in Vancouver. We saw a pairs skater go onto the ice with torn tendons in one ankle; she skated beautifully, and no one watching could have guessed she was in terrible pain. We saw a speed skater with metal pins holding the bones of his forearm together. We saw a downhill skier who, after a debilitating accident, competed in her sport of choice three weeks after doctors told her it would be months before she could even begin to walk. We saw a skater perform on the day of her mother’s death, and we saw the team from Georgia carry on after the tragic loss of one of their teammates on the first day of the games. No doubt about it, these young men and women have a special kind of courage—the kind we often call Heart.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I have what it takes to hobble out into the snow with a sprained ankle, put on a pair of skis, and pitch myself down the side of a mountain. Thankfully, as a writer, I don’t have to. But I think writing requires its own brand of Heart.

Like Olympic athletes, writers spend thousands of hours honing our craft. I’ve read that you have to write a million words before you become a master of your art. That means showing up at the computer (or paper, or typewriter), whether we feel like it or not, whether inspiration strikes or not. Day after day, word after word, one sentence after another.

Like Olympic athletes, writers “put themselves out there.” There’s no place to hide when you’re the only one on the ice, or the only one on the ski slope, and there’s no place to hide when your name is on a book that can be picked up and read by potentially thousands of readers. Olympic athletes have to deal with judges and timers. Writers have to deal with critics and reviewers. Olympic athletes give a hundred percent to every competition. Writers give a hundred percent to every book. We put our hearts on the page for the world to see.

Olympic athletes never give up. In the face of injuries, poor performances, broken equipment, and discouraging words from others, they persevere. Writers persevere as well. Today, I read an article about a writer with an impressive number of published short stories—and 11,000 rejections. Can you imagine how hard it must be to keep writing and submitting after 11,000 rejections? Now, that takes Heart.

No, I don’t have what it takes to be an Olympic athlete, but I hope I have—or at least can cultivate—that special kind of courage it takes to be a writer. I hope I have a writer’s Heart.

Eating Your Young

by Ben Small



I think it was Bob Knight who once responded to a reporter’s question about how his son Pat played in a certain game with the comment, “Now I know why some animals eat their young.”

When I heard Knight make that comment ― I’m a born-and-bred Hoosier who loves his school and his basketball ― I said to my wife, “Wow! What a great comment. Maybe I can use that comment someday.

Guess what? Today’s the day.

As you may know, my son, his wife and L’il Ella, now ten months old, are visiting for a couple weeks. Now Ella is a dream, just the sweetest little girl you could imagine. And what a joy to play with her, babysit, and then when the diapers get dirty, hand her back.

But man, the paraphernalia that comes with managing a baby is daunting. Thank goodness I have a rich friend who has three young grandchildren. He let us borrow everything. My wife and I are at the point where we want to downsize. We’re giving furniture and hand-me-downs to our family members as fast as we can. Simply put, we’ve got too much stuff. Most people our age do.

But having a baby around is a stuff-magnet. Sure, bedding and playpens, or a combination thereof, and diaper and feeding stuff I anticipated. But the toys…

My god, the toys…

I had no idea I’d been so deprived when I was a child. I don’t remember having many toys with batteries. Most of my toys were big plastic bubble space helmets, which probably aren’t even permitted now by the Consumer Products Safety Commission, metal cars and trucks, spinning tops and pop-goes-the-weasel boxes. Oh yeah, I had a wooden map puzzle and some ABC stuff, and of course, a teddy bear, but that was about it.

And we were middle class.

I’d never even seen a C battery before this week. I thought there was a gap between the As and the D, that whopper that powers my ancient boom box and my club-sized flashlight.

What’s a C battery? Does that designation stand for “Child”?

I’m buying these things in bulk this week. They power the toys that have suddenly filled my house. And all these toys flash lights, make noxious noises, spin, tumble, or speak.

Who comes up with this stuff? Some nerdy goofball who figured out that blinding strobes, ear splitting sirens, banging drums, and spinning wheels attract even those with an attention span measured with a stopwatch?

Where’s my Xanax?

Some of these toys come with a seat attachment that allows the little ten month old to spin around the toy table like she’s on an amusement ride. Her little legs are moving so fast, she’ll be toddling in a week.

Another dose please.

These aren’t toys, they’re ingenious machines. Toy companies cannot be paying these toy designers enough. I’d always thought the purpose of a baby’s toys was primarily to keep them distracted, maybe teach them a little something, like maybe the identification of some sounds or pictures.

Hah! Baby toys today will prepare a kid for college and create Olympic athletes at the same time.

Oh boy. I can’t imagine what Ella’s Terrible Twos will be like. I’ll need a Xanax drip.

But I dodged a bullet this time. I didn’t have to buy all this stuff. I was able to borrow it from my friend. Trust me, I’m going to keep this friend close. His three grandchildren are slightly older than mine. I’ll be in the gravy borrowing train for some time. The cost of this stuff, for just one baby, mind you, might fund Detroit’s Big Three.

Thinking about this made me wonder about the next generation of toys, what they will do and how much they’ll cost.

Which brings me back to Bobby Knight’s comment...

The TRUTH

More than once, I’ve considered writing a book on The Truth. Of course, it would have to be non-fiction—or would it? After all, does anyone know really what “the truth” is? (For that matter, “Does anybody really know what time it is?”) So, does “truth” exist, or is it a perception of whatever one believes the truth to be? Hold that thought.

In nature, there are few absolutes. Physics and math come to mind as two that may qualify, but even “death” leaves room for interpretation. While death in our dimension is permanent, death in other dimensions leaves many unanswered questions. This is an interesting concept that I may explore in a later blog, but for now, let’s get back to the original topic.

During my last visit to Venice Beach, California, I saw a young man with “TRUTH” tattooed the full length of his lower legs. I have no idea why he did that, or what “truth” he was referring to, but I do know that his tattoos are permanent fixtures—at least until he has them removed. You see, even with tattoos, there are no absolutes.

The great thing about writing fiction is I can deny everything by claiming, “I made it all up.” So, even when I write about real events using real settings, my disclaimer frees me of liability. Whether writing about the actions of a past president, or a real in-flight fire on a cargo plane, any and all similarities can be denied—and “that’s the truth.”

When I write non-fiction, it is critical that my facts are accurate. If they weren’t, my writing career would quickly end. But I also recognize that when I write something the least bit controversial, each reader can have a different perception about what I wrote and challenge my version of “the truth.” In such cases, the magazine’s editor usually allows me to respond, and if it’s warranted, I do. However, I usually accept the other person’s view, realizing there is more than one way to view it.

Even the Beijing Olympics had controversy over “the truth”, as was the case of the Chinese gymnasts’ ages. Were these young women really sixteen, or fourteen, as some claimed? Some of the gymnasts’ documents submitted to the IOC showed these teens were legally sixteen, but there were other papers that suggested otherwise. And then there’s the question about their physical development, so what is “the truth?” This controversy will continue for years with no probable resolution.

More than once, I’ve thought about writing documentaries, but I’ve found it far more fascinating incorporating real events and settings into my novels. Fiction lets me tell stories within stories, and whether the reader picks up on the truth behind my fiction is irrelevant.

Invisible

(Stork on a nest, Hungary - Photo 1979 by Pat [Cokely] Browning)

By Pat Browning

Are you ready? Experts got together in July at Microsoft headquarters to talk about sending an elevator into space along a 60,000-mile carbon fiber ribbon.

I have three words for them: Tower of Babel. (Genesis 11:4 for those who haven’t read their King James lately.)

If an elevator into space isn’t enough to send us reeling, here’s a quote from an AP story:

“Scientists at the University of California, Berkeley have engineered 3-D materials that can reverse the natural direction of visible and near-infrared light. As a result, the research raises the possibility that someday people can use the material in cloaking devices that render objects invisible to the human eye. That type of tactical technology goes well beyond the realm of H.G. Wells and Harry Potter, especially considering that some of the project's funding came from the U.S. Army Research Office and the U.S. Air Force Office of Scientific Research.”

Now, those people I can help. The easiest, cheapest way to make a man invisible is to put him in an Olympic swimming pool with Michael Phelps. Example: Laszlo Cseh of Hungary.

In the 200-meter butterfly, Phelps takes the gold. Huzzah, huzzah! Cseh takes the silver. Yawn. The time difference is a matter of seconds. Same thing in the 200-meter individual medley. Ditto the 400-meter medley. Cseh is a shadow behind.

A commentator carries on with news that Phelps is double-jointed at the knees and elbows, his heart pumps more blood than an ordinary mortal’s, he stands 6 feet four, and has a wingspan of 6 feet eight.

WINGspan? Well, there’s a clue. Laszlo Cseh should have brought a stork to Beijing. Seriously. The stork is a good luck symbol in Hungary. It brings babies, prevents house fires. No word on a stork’s opinion of Olympic swimming, but it’s worth a shot.

Storks love people. Hungarians love them back. Year after year, storks fly in from Africa to spend summer in Hungarian villages, usually in nests on top of telephone poles.

The photo here was one of those lucky shots a tourist seldom gets. I put my cheap little camera against a tour bus window and clicked. That was almost 30 years ago. To be sure the storks still nest on telephone poles, I did some Internet research.

At www.caboodle.hu, a Hungarian news and culture web site, I found several photos, plus information on the Hungarian Ornithology Association’s campaign to protect Hungary’s nesting storks.

Hungary has an old and checkered past. Russia claimed it after World War II, and rolled tanks into Budapest to crush a 1956 uprising. When I was there, Hungary operated under a kind of “goulash communism.” Shell holes still pocked the Citadella, an old fortress overlooking the Danube, and a Russian statue stood on the roof.

Hungary was finally free of Moscow in 1989, and is now a parliamentary democracy. It joined NATO in 1999 and the EU in 2004. Through it all, the storks came back to nest on telephone poles. In this rapidly changing world, that’s nice to know.