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Perfection: The Impossible Dream

7/1/2022

Never once in my entire life have I ever been 100% satisfied with anything I've written. Mind you, I'm hardly unique in that; every other writer I've ever talked to says pretty much the same thing. But almost all of us strive to do better next time. You go back and re-read your favorite "how-to" or reference book. You pick up your favorite author and try, again, to figure out how he or she does whatever he or she does so perfectly that you don't think you do. And you write something, anything to try to prime the pump, get the juices flowing, practice whatever-it-is you need to learn to do better.
You reach for perfection, The Goal, that imaginary finish line that hangs eternally just out of reach.

In case you haven't figured it out (and I may be the only one who still thinks there's a loophole somewhere), you'll never actually reach that goal. When you get close enough to where you think the finish line is, it moves. That's just the way it works. It's what keeps you trying to do better the next time. And the next.

Most of us know this. I don't know why I have a hard time remembering it, but that's the way the system works and it's actually A Good Thing. It keeps us growing, stretching, learning, keeps the process fresh and the stories exciting (at least to us, anyway. The readers are the final judge on that, of course). Despite all the complaining and wailing we do about it, the drive for improvement, for perfection, makes sitting down in front of that keyboard or staring at that blank sheet of paper each day an adventure.

Recently I've been thinking about the drive to improve ourselves, to get better at whatever-it-is we love. It's such a powerful motivator.

And yet, I'm always surprised to find it's not universal.

Case-in-point: The Seattle Knights, a theatrical stage combat and jousting troupe I worked with for more than 25 years.

Way back when we started, in the early 1990's, most of the people in the troupe were passionately dedicated to the idea of learning the skills, perfecting the technique, building better fights, performing them more realistically. Learning to achieve ”flow” -- those moments when everything falls into place and a fight becomes a dance, and you and your fight partner move together with effortless grace, reading one another on an almost psychic level. Most of us treated our stage combat like a real martial art, training, running drills, practicing simple, basic moves over and over until they came automatically and naturally. We practiced footwork in our living rooms and yards, practiced targeting in front of mirrors or on fence posts. We drilled with swords, daggers, spears, polearms, axes, and almost everything else that caught our fancy, fascinated with how each weapon felt, how they worked, what uses we could put them to.

I'm one of those who started out as more of a dilletante. I was an actor with an interest in swords, fantasy, and history, not a martial artist. I joined in order to perform. But over time, I got bitten by the bug, too. Since I'm not exactly a natural athlete, it took years for me to even achieve adequacy. It never stopped being a struggle, but eventually, I actually got pretty good. Once it a while, I'd even achieve ”flow”, and it was worth all the work to get there.

As the years passed and society changed, the people who started showing up to take the classes and audition for shows changed as well. More and more rare was the history buff or martial artist willing to work with steady patience toward perfecting their craft. More and more often, we attracted those who did just enough to be able to make it into the shows, never practiced outside of class, and rarely bothered to continue their training after going through the basic classes. The true dedicate become the exception rather than the rule.

Over the last few years, I've noticed the same attitude becoming more prevalent among many new writers, especially those in Indie publishing.
Back when I first decided I wanted to be a writer (because being an actor meant I wasn't poor enough), I plunged, like every other writer I knew, into the process of learning. I read books on writing, on creating characters, on developing themes, plot structures. Being a typical victim of the American Education system, I needed help with a lot of the basics, so I read up on grammar, punctuation, sentence structure, and everything else to make sure I had the right tools in my toolbox and used them correctly. I attended workshops, took classes, and joined writers' groups. I studied the works of writers I admired, trying to figure out how they did what they did.

And virtually every fellow adventurer into the world of the written word I met, newbie and published professional alike, did the same. We swapped tips, helpful books, shared and traded lessons we'd learned in the ongoing quest for perfection. The desire to constantly improve seemed to be part of the mindset we shared, part of the writers' lifestyle. Every one of us wanted to be ”perfect”. And, of course, none of us ever got there (and some days that goal seems farther away from me than when I started), but that didn't stop us from trying.

These days, it seems as if every book I pick up, traditionally published or indie, is riddled with word usage errors, typos, plotting blunders, and basic, lackluster writing that make me cringe, and in some cases drops me right out of the story. I've had editors ask me to dumb down something I'd written because ”a lot of people won't know those words”. One even told me, ”Keep it at about an 8th Grade level" (he meant a modern 8th grader, not one from 100 years ago when they were better educated by that time than most college graduates these days).

It's not just the concept of ”don't challenge the reader” that bothers me; it's writers unwilling to challenge themselves. If you can write like a twelve-year old and your friends can understand you, why work any harder at it?

My answer: Because learning, growing, stretching while you reach toward your idea of perfection is fun. No, really!

English is such a rich, colorful language of almost unlimited potential. The imagination is a wild, wonderful playground to be set loose in. Language and the ability to manipulate it is a skill that was once held in awe, even revered. Bards were exalted in some societies. And even now, the delight and pleasure a really well-written book can bring is hard to top.

Admittedly, most of us are never going to be another Sapho or Shakespeare. But isn't that a finish line worth striving toward?

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How I spent 2021: Tales from Opa, Volume II

7/3/2021

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Having finally re-visited my site and realizing, with no small amount of chagrin, my utter failure to post even a single blog for the entire year, I figured this was my last chance to get one in for 2021. Hopefully, it will alleviate my guilt somewhat.
Like most of us, I spent this year feeling like I was in limbo, frustrated in my attempts to get something accomplished and then utterly unmotivated to do much of anything. I had readings cancelled because of the lockdown, and a speaking engagement in Fairbanks I was really looking forward to postponed indefinitely. Two people I'd really wanted to interview passed on, their stories uncaptured, and all-in-all...well, no need to beat that drum. We've all been there this year.
But upon looking back, I realize that I did at least achieve one major accomplishment: the second volume of novellas for the Tales from Opa series: Tales from Opa, Volume II: Three More Tales of Tir na n'Og.
A bit of a backstory needed here: I started the first Tales from Opa: Three Tales of Tir na n'Og, back in 1997. The first story, "Heart of a Cavalier" was intended as sort of a primer to the world of Tir na n'Og, and the other two came over the next several months, "Tale of the Golden Archer" inspired by a hilarious tabletop RPG adventure, and "Westmere" coming from the most deeply immersive, exciting, scary, and emotionally wrenching LARP game I've ever played.
When all was said and done, I shipped it off to my agent, who hated the format. He thought the whole concept of three linked stories told by a mysterious old storyteller called Opa in intervals that weave yet another story would never fly, and refused to send it to anyone. It ended up languishing for the next 10 or 12 years while I wrote The Triads and the rest of the Triads of Tir na n'Og series.
But in a wonderful, nose-thumbing reproach to my former agent's opinion, Tales from Opa, volume I, has ended up being tied for my second-most popular book after Alaska Over Israel, trading places on and off with Ironwolfe and The Strawberry Roan. Of course, it's taken better than a decade, but still. A belated nyah, nyah, nyah seems very much in order.
Over the intervening years, I've been asked for more Tales from Opa. I always thought I'd end up doing a whole series of them. I hoped that one day I'd end up editing a shared-world anthology or two by other writers setting forth to adventure in Tir na n'Og. I looked forward to seeing what magic others could spin from the same ethereal stuff, what visions others would have as they walked through my world.
Needless to say, this hasn't happened. But at least I can hold my head up on that score once again.
After Alaska Over Israel, I had begun to think I'd never write in the Triad series again. I was even thinking I'd turn my back on fiction altogether.
Then my husband, Dameon Willich, talked me into playing a tabletop RPG (TRIAD: The Game) with a few friends. I hadn't gamed in forever, but thought "what the heck" and pulled out my dice.
Lo and Behold, that adventure inspired what became "The Tourney for Don Miguel", the first story in Tales from Opa, Volume II. The second story, "Chosen", was born of my own mixed emotions over hanging up my sword and armor for good. The last, "A Journey of a Thousand Miles", came from a story fragment I'd started years ago, when a fan at a reading asked about how Mystics get their official start in the world of Tir na n'Og. Niloo is actually based on a friend and former co-worker of mine who loved my other Tir na n'Og stories and wanted to adventure in the world.
Admittedly, I actually intended to have Tales from Opa, Volume II: Three More Tales of Tir na n'Og done and out for Christmas of 2020, but Niloo's adventures kept growing and morphing out of control. However, the book received its official launch in the spring of 2021, starting the season on a bright note of optimism, fresh and shiny and new.
It made me realize that, yes, I still love writing fantasy, and I still have more stories to tell. And yes, I am ready to inspire more adventures.

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When the Muse Strikes: The strawberry roan

5/7/2020

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It's now been more than 20 years since I first wrote The Strawberry Roan, and it remains probably my favorite of my works. At the time, it was one of those books neither my agent nor any editor who read it knew what to do with; it floated between various genres without fitting neatly into any of them. It garnered effusive praise, but, well...
While re-formatting it for its re-launch (at .99 as an e-book via Amazon, Smashwords, and Draft2Digital), I happened to re-read my Afterward. And realized it still held true, and still made for a pretty fun read. Ergo, I thought I'd re-launch my blog with it. Two birds, and all that...
Enjoy. *ahem*
I wrote this book under a number of influences, among them admiration for Mark Twain’s slyly hilarious tall tales, an early indoctrination with Robert Service’s poetry, the comic adventure wild west stories of Robert E. Howard, a general appreciation for the folk tales of the old west, and my own basically warped sense of humor.
But my life-long love affair with horses is certainly a driving factor, and contributed more to the overall story than I originally intended.
I am not, nor have ever pretended to be, a great horseman. I’ve spent most of my life around horses, have been fortunate enough to know some truly extraordinary ones, and most of them have taught me just how much I don’t know.
True, Black Bess is entirely fictional, a female version of the exaggerated heroes of western folk-tales. But she is a “real” horseman, one who knows a whole lot more than I do. She’s based on some of the “old timers” I’ve had the good fortune to meet and learn from over the years. You know, the type who never says much, but works quiet wonders while everyone around him or her is acting imperious, boasting of their prowess, and making piles of money off the credulous and uncertain. Any glaring deficiencies in some of the horsemanship in this book can be blamed on either; a) my state of ignorance, or; b) my attempts to “shorthand” the process, because I figured that most readers simply wouldn’t be interested.
However, if you’re reading this, you’re either; a) interested in anything else I might have to say outside the story itself; b) incredibly nosy; c) have nothing better to do with your time, or; d) you’re like me, and like savoring everything about a book, cover to cover. So, in a fit of total self-indulgence, I would like to try and express why a good deal of the credit for this book goes to a few very special horses.
I’ve owned, ridden, or worked with a lot of horses over the years. While almost all horse people eventually encounter a horse somewhere along the line who stands head and withers above his or her peers, and who leaves those who own, ride, or love them with a feeling of having been privileged to have known them, somehow—I don’t know how or why—I have been fortunate enough to have known several of “that kind of horse.”
In the acknowledgements, I mentioned Tony and Rusty, two of the first horses to ever grace my life, though they were gone long before I donned armor and started jousting for fun and profit. Without them, I’d never have recognized Jokata, Shannar, and Magic for what they were.
In the dedication, I spoke of the “Magnificent Seven,” the collective nickname given to those seven horses on whose backs the Seattle Knights got its start as a professional show troupe. The seven were: Jokata, Shannar, Caballo del Oro (fondly known as “Kyd”), Gwenivere, Ladyhawke, Lace, and, first and foremost—to me, at least—Magic.
These horses performed at nearly every show those first few years, working alongside the rest of the actors—sometimes in unbelievably tough conditions—to establish the group on the fair circuit, and helped the Seattle Knights to become one of the most highly rated shows of its kind in the country. Only Jo, ‘Nar, and Kyd had been around people in armor before, and jousting was new to all of them. Most were older, some were experienced in the more usual horseshow arena, some not, some were better showmen than others, some faster or more athletic. But all of them quickly learned what was needed and threw themselves into the effort, giving one hundred percent of themselves at every show.
Many other horses have performed with the troupe off and on, but these seven amazing individuals were there consistently, performed brilliantly, and even developed their own fan followings. They won the admiration of everyone who knew and worked with them, and overturned a lot of smug theories—mine and others’—of horsemanship, equine intelligence, the laws of physics, and karma. They regularly worked miracles upon demand, each in their own unique way, and matter-of-factly did the impossible, some finishing with a rousing demand for applause, others wondering what all the fuss was about, content with their carrot or graham cracker.
All of these remarkable animals taught me a lot—sometimes quite painfully—but I wouldn’t trade the bumps and bruises to body or ego for anything. Whenever I begin to doubt the existence of God, I have only to think of them, and realize that not one of these marvelous, larger-than-life characters could ever have been created by accident.
Each and every one of them deserves to have a book written about them. The trouble is, each book would have to contain the words, “the kind of horse you find only once in a lifetime,” and no one would ever believe a word.
If you want to read more about the “Magnificent Seven,” go to www.seattleknights.com. They are now on the Tributes page. But they deserve to be remembered.

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HOW DO THEY DO IT: A RELUCTANT LOOK AT THE NEW INDIE MODEL

6/24/2019

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Whilst awaiting the end to one of my not-infrequent attacks of insomnia, I scanned through my Kindle's contents for something I hadn't read yet. I have a number of them; some were free, some on sale, some part of a series I was working my way through or intended to get to one of these days. You can do that with an e-reader pretty handily. I prefer print books, of course, but the Kindle takes up almost no room, and my apartment is very small.

Anyway, I found a book I'd received as a free download from an indie author, a YA fantasy that was first of a series, and realized I'd had it a couple of years and had never gotten to it. This seemed as good a time as any, so I opened it up.

The writer, a young woman, obviously has the gift for storytelling and did a good job of engaging me despite some rather clichéd situations and characters, and a world that hadn't been terribly well thought-out. That's no mean feat. I shrugged and kept reading right through bad sentence mechanics, choreography glitches, a few horsemanship gaffes, and other basic eye-rollers ... until one of the characters, a 15 year old boy, angrily referred to a professional bandit of probably twice his years as a "whelp" as if it were a vile insult. A few pages later, another character mentioned feeling "coarse", but the context made no sense at all. Later, people kept guffawing when laughter was obviously not what the author meant to convey. A character "scaled" a wall she was supposedly descending.

And it kept happening.

A couple of years ago, I wrote a whole blog about the seemingly growing trend among new young writers to use words incorrectly (The Right Word, The Right Way; March 2015). It's a pet peeve of mine. I mean, almost everyone writes on their computer these days, so how hard is it to pull up an on-line dictionary or thesaurus? There are dozens along with good old Dictionary.com and Thesaurus.com. And on any of them, a writer can actually LOOK UP WORDS he or she doesn't use every day or are not familiar with, and see if they're used correctly. Lord knows, I've made (and continue to make) my share of mistakes, but I still work at constantly improving. Anyone who truly cares about their craft should take the time to learn the meaning of words they're using. They're the basic tools of your craft.

I checked at the front of the book, and sure enough, this writer had even engaged an editing service. Obviously, all they'd done was check for typos. No help at all.

Shaking my head, I decided to look the writer up online, wondering whatever had happened to her. Here the poor kid had put her heart and soul into a book meant to be the start of a series, and no one had thought to help out what was obviously a real, albeit undeveloped, talent, and she probably had no idea why her books hadn't gone anywhere...

Imagine my surprise when I saw that, not only was the series already completed and available on-line, but she had literally hundreds of reviews, most of them 3 stars or more. And according to USA Today, she really was a bestselling author. How, I wondered in bewilderment. I mean, I know that Romance and YA are the two most popular genres these days, and the YA market is still growing by leaps and bounds, but...really?

What the heck did she know that I didn't?

Then I noticed that all her books were either free or $.99. Now, I've been party to many a discussion among indie and part-time indie writers debating the ethics and implications of putting one's books up for sale at $.99. Most authors who combine traditional and indie publishing think this is a disservice to all writers everywhere, including other indie authors. So despite some major-league writers who disagree with this viewpoint, I've never gone that route.

I went on to look over the list of all this new author's books, then looked through a long list of the $.99 offerings, the "$0.00 on Kindle Unlimited" offerings, and the "book series bundles". Most of them had dozens more reviews than I do on any of my books, had at least one "bundled" series at $10.00 or under for the whole set, and seemed to be doing very well with them.

I also noticed the first author had pages on just about every social media outlet imaginable. Heck, I thought I was doing well to have websites for myself and TFA Press, and to remember to write a blog once in a while. And FB, of course, and a Twitter account I never use for anything. This young author is obviously of the generation that thinks of computers as extensions of her body and spirit. Unlike me, who still tends to view them as works of the devil, avoided when at all possible.

Hmmmm. Maybe I should re-think some of my stances on these things.

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Moving On While Enjoying the Now

5/21/2019

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Egad! I can't believe I've let a whole year go by without updating this...my bad. I will try to do better.

Alaska Over Israel is still going strong and I'm enjoying the occasional perk, such as being flown down to San Francisco last week to meet with execs from El Al, the Israeli Ambassador, and the heads of Alaska Airlines to celebrate the 70th Anniversary of the airlift as well as the new partnership between Alaska Airlines and El Al. I got another invitation to Israel from it, and hope I can follow it up this time. Israel is on my bucket list.

Every time I give a talk, a reading, have a signing, or whatnot, people come up afterward and tell me stories about my parents, about the airlift, about their experiences with the Exodus, that are, to me, entirely unexpected and entirely wonderful. Stories are perhaps our most precious possessions in life. They tell us who we are. Who we have been. Who we may yet aspire to be. I've felt honored to be the recipient of these stories, and grateful to have been allowed to hear them. Some were merely odd, some incredibly moving, some magical. And some of them were just plain fun.

But I had no idea what to do with them.

An idea I've been toying with for a while is to simply put all the ones involving Alaska Airlines alumni into a volume or two of stories about life in the air, the adventure that flying used to be way back when. I can't go back in time and recapture the tales I heard from my folks and their friends when I was a little kid sitting on the living room floor during parties, but I have a growing collection of stories, tales, and anecdotes that, while they didn't belong in Alaska Over Israel, they very much deserve to be told.

And now, I've finally starting the laborious interview process, hunting down leads, etc.

Depending on how many good stories I end up with, this will either be one volume divided into 3 parts, or 3 volumes, all titled A Breed Apart. The first would be for the oldest tales, from just prior to World War II all the way through the 1950's. Working title: A Breed Apart: This Airline Ain't for Sissies (reference to a quote from Linus "Mac" Magee or Mudhole Smith, two of the early bush pilots who went on to found what became Alaska Airlines).

The second would be all those stories from the point of view of the intrepid women who used to be called Stewardesses or Air Hostesses. For that one, I've chosen the working title: A Breed Apart: A Baseball Bat in One Hand and a Fire Extinguisher in the Other. The latter part of that is a quote from my mother, a former Stewardess, referencing the flights where she and the other "beanies" refereed fishermen, miners, mushers, or other manly types who hadn't seen a woman in six months. Those women were pioneers in their own right, adventurers one and all, and their stories are usually uproarious, riotous, wild, and very much worth sharing.

For the last one I'm thinking A Breed Apart: I Survived Whiskey Willis. This would be all the stories from 1960 to the late 70's, when Charlie "Whiskey" Willis was President and CEO of Alaska Airlines and life in the company is a 3-ring circus. The era of most of my childhood, when Alaska Airlines was more of a clan than a company, and we never knew if the company would survive from one day to the next, and yet we thought it would never end.

We'll see where this next adventure takes us. Onward.

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Alaska Over Israel: the adventure continues

5/23/2018

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Every Indie-writer's worst nightmare is also part of the job description: self-promotion. Most of us hate it, and therefore suck at it. I know I do. So launching my first non-fiction book Alaska Over Israel (for the full story on that, check out my last blog post dated 1/6/18. Yeah, I know, I should update my blog every month. I told you I suck at self-promotion) has been a real adventure into new territory.

Surprisingly enough, I've enjoyed most of it more than I thought possible.

Although the book became available on Amazon early in January, the official book launch didn't take place until March 6th. This was because the Alaska Jewish Museum in Anchorage, Alaska, had asked to host the launch, and I certainly wasn't going to turn down an opportunity like that. Besides which, the Curator, Leslie Fried, had been incredibly helpful and supportive over the past several years while I was writing it, sort of like an unofficial midwife, and I felt it important that she be there for the birth. The Museum was going all out, with authentic Yemenite music arranged for keyboard and exquisitely played by the Rabbi's extremely talented son, authentic cuisine catered by a local chef, and posters and flyers plastered all over every bulletin board in Anchorage. Leslie had put together several clips from interviews done with my dad over a decade ago, and I'd built a 20 minute presentation, complete with slides. We'd planned for about 3 hours for the whole event.

Now, I was trying not to get my expectations too high. I mean, unless you're JK Rowling or Stephen King, who the heck shows up for a book launch? But Alaska Airlines had included a blurb about the book in the March issue of their in-flight magazine, Alaska Beyond (page 26; check it out), I'd been putting word out via every available contact and mailing list I had and I knew Leslie had been doing the same, so I hoped for the best.

Due to a screw-up by the local paper, the ad for the launch didn't get out until just a couple of days prior. One or two other glitches left me worried that I wouldn't have an audience at all. I girded my loins and visited most of the local radio and TV stations, leaving my card and a free book with everyone I thought might be appropriate. It paid off; Mike Porcaro, one of the more popular local talk-show hosts, called me up for an impromptu interview a couple of hours before the event. I crossed my fingers, took a breath, and headed for the museum with a box of books and my presentation on a stick.

Within a half-hour of the door opening, the room was packed. By the time Rabbi Greenburg got up to speak and get the ball rolling, it was standing room only. I had several local celebrities, including the former lieutenant governor, plus prominent business people, most of my family, a few old friends I hadn't seen since High School, and total strangers who'd heard me on the radio and been curious staring up at me as I took the podium.

I've been a professional actor for more decades than I like to admit to, and I've MC'd a variety of acts and events, so public speaking isn't new to me. But usually, I'm playing a character; standing up there talking about sometime real and deeply personal was nerve-wracking. I needn't have worried. The reception was almost overwhelming; the Q&A session afterward went on long past the planned time, the Museum sold out their entire stock of books and had to buy mine as well, and people lingered long, long past the end time. The Rabbi had to finally almost physically boot people out. It was awesome. I was walking on air for weeks afterward.

Since then, I've gotten the Seattle Public Library and the Lynnwood library system to include the book in their inventories, and Alaska Over Israel is now on several local bookstore shelves as well. The Museum of Flight's gift shop carries it, and I'm looking forward to doing my presentation there at some point in the near future. I've been asked to put together a film treatment for two different film companies. I've been interviewed for the Exodus archives in Israel. I've met some wonderful people and have had the incredible satisfaction of knowing that my book has touched people's lives and hearts. Even if it never gets any further than this, I can be proud of what I've accomplished.

But stopping there is not an option. I promised myself back at the beginning that I would do something every single day to help promote this book. Even if it's just one e-mail, following up on one prior contact, putting together one more promo package for future use. I may not see a result from every effort, but each one takes me one step closer to my goal. And I'm learning from each one.

I want to see this book on a Best Seller list. I want to hear other people discuss it. I want to give more presentations about the incredible aviation adventure that inspired it, so that the heroes and heroines who made it happen are finally given the credit they deserve. So that future generations hear of it, and honor those men and women.

And, yeah, okay, I want someone to make a movie about it. I mean, if I'm going to dream, why not dream big?

But that's another adventure.

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Alaska Over Israel: Operation magic carpet, the men and women who made it fly, and the little airline that could

1/6/2018

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I didn't write my first non-fiction book without a lot of struggling, I know; artists are supposed to suffer. But for some reason, I didn't expect the fight to go on for nearly 10 years.
It all started on my living room floor, when I was a little kid.
Every kid thinks their parents are heroes. It's a little odd, and more than a little wonderful, when you grow up and discover that they really are.
Mom and Dad both worked for Alaska Airlines; Dad as a pilot, then Chief Pilot, then VP of Operations, Mom as a Stewardess (that's what they called them back then) until she became pregnant with me. When I was a child, I used to love to sit on the living room floor when the other Alaska Airlines employees came over, and listen to them all swap stories. In those days, Alaska Airlines was like a family; all the employees knew each other, their spouses were all friends, their kids all went to school together, and a lot of them hung out together even when they weren't at work.
I don't remember how many times I heard stories about Operation Magic Carpet, although I don't recall hearing anyone refer to it that way. It was just, "Remember that time in Tel Aviv..." or "We were coming in over Aden..." or "...about the third trip in the C-46...." Some fabulous, wild adventure that would have everyone in the room laughing -- though I'm sure a lot of it wasn't funny at the time -- followed by some grand finale, such as "...coasting on fumes into Cyprus..." or wherever.
I remember my dad telling the story when he and some of the other pilots first arrived in Aden, the overworked British officer, whom Dad thought was in charge of the refugee camp, warning him and the other pilots about the dangers of landing anywhere in Arab territory. What would happen to them if they did – and, worse yet, what would happen to their passengers. The wording was slightly different each time, but the gist was always the same: "If you are shot down, try to land in the Red Sea, preferably near a British or European ship. If you land anywhere in any Arab territory, you and your crew may survive if their military finds you first. But your passengers will not. If any of the tribesmen reach you first, neither you nor your crew nor your passengers will be spared."
Dad was a sucker for children, and the Yemenite children left a deep impression upon him, especially their big, dark eyes that followed him whenever he walked past. He asked that officer, "Even the children?"
The officer looked at him and said, "I assure you, an Arab will look at those little Jewish children and will only see something that will grow up to be a big Jew."
I remember Dad shaking his head over the thought that anyone could murder a bunch of helpless, adorable children four and five years old. He never forgot them, and spoke of them often.
Our living room is where I first heard the story of how Bob Maguire managed to keep his Yemenite passengers safe during a forced landing in Egypt, by radioing ahead and telling the airport that he had smallpox aboard.
It's also where I heard Larry Roger talk about being shot at during approach into Tel Aviv, with his light-hearted, bone-dry delivery..."It certainly gets your attention..."
I never tired of Mom's stories of her flights, especially out of Shanghai, ferrying Jewish refugees from China to Israel by way of Hong Kong and Bombay; of the way the overloaded DC-4 "staggered into the air" while the crew held their breath, gripped their seats, and tried to pretend everything was okay for the sake of their passengers. Or of the nice little old man who stopped to pat her hand when they disembarked at last in Tel Aviv, and told her she was "the kind of girl a man would marry even without a dowry."
Or of how the last flight from Shanghai took off to the sound of gunfire coming from the end of the runway, as the Communist forces closed in.
That period of time, which included my parents' wedding in Asmara, was all part of the Mom and Dad Mythology; stories that are part of the background and fabric of my life. And as we grew up, my brothers and I stopped really paying attention to it. We took it for granted.
And then, in 2007, KTUU TV in Anchorage did an interview with Dad about his role in Operation Magic Carpet. It was shown on TV and printed in the papers in Alaska. I showed copies of the article around to my friends at work and found out that no one I knew had ever heard of Operation Magic Carpet.
In November the same year, Mom and Dad were invited to New York as guests of the Yemenite Jewish Federation of America at a big Gala in celebration of the airlift. They came back with a lot of new friends, great memories, and an award that now sits in my living room. By that time I'd started doing a bit of background research, and learned that On Wings of Eagles, which was the official name for Operation Magic Carpet, was one of those forgotten, overlooked pieces of history. So I wasn't surprised when no one I told about Mom and Dad's award had ever heard of it. But the idea occurred to me, at that point, that this was something I could actually do something about. The first seeds of what eventually became my first non-fiction book, Alaska Over Israel, were planted.
I'm a fiction writer, and the idea of taking on a non-fiction project of such historical significance daunted me more than a little. But after speaking to a few writer friends and contacting a couple of editors who were extremely interested and encouraging, I realized it was something that I not only could do, but that I had to. I started doing research, wrote letters, made queries to try to find other surviving crew besides Mom and Dad, and, hopefully, some surviving passengers I could interview. I found additional sources and gathered a lot of good information.
Unfortunately, Dad's health went south in mid-2008, and he and my mom died in 2009. Their ongoing battles with illnesses and the health care system ate up my opportunities to work on this with them, and though I tried, I found myself unable to continue with it after their deaths. I put my by-then-bulging files away to wait until the loss was less fresh and went to work on other commitments.
Then in 2013, I was asked to speak at the opening of the Operation Magic Carpet exhibit at the Alaska Jewish Heritage Museum in Anchorage. Although I thought one of my brothers should have been asked instead of me, I said, "yes" and dug out my notes.
Reading through them brought it all back; the magic of the story, the era, caught me up again and swept me away, reviving a lot of the ol' Mom and Dad Mythology. I'd read a story and remember hearing some version of it while sitting there on the living room floor all those years ago. I opened my computer and finally started writing again, determined, this time, to finish.
Alaska Over Israel: Operation Magic Carpet, the Men and Women Who Made it Fly, and the Little Airline That Could isn't the book I originally planned on writing. There is so much I would do differently, if I could have. So much I felt I fell short of the mark on. Don't get me wrong; it's a darned good read, if I do say so myself. But still.
But when all is said and done, Alaska Over Israel is not just a story about Warren and Marian Metzger, Sam Silver, or Alaska Airlines, but about all the people who took part in it. Not just the men and women who flew the overworked, overcrowded C-46s and DC-4s from Shanghai and Aden, over territory where an emergency landing meant probable death.
This is also the story of the people who fled from Germany to China, or walked across hundreds of miles of trackless desert and freezing mountain passes on the strength of a whisper and a dream, to ride the Wings of Eagles to a new life in the Promised Land.
It's a piece of history that must not, cannot-- and will not--be forgotten.

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10 Things You're Not Supposed to Know

10/11/2017

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I can't claim credit for this. I read it on a post someone made to my FB page and liked it so much, I decided to re-post it, but without all the annoying ads and pop-ups that made the original so difficult to read. The address of the original is: http://themindunleashed.com/2017/10/10-things-youre-not-supposed-know.html. It was written by Gary Z. McGee, whose bio states that he is a former Navy Intelligence Specialist turned philosopher, and the author of two books: Birthday Suit of God and The Looking Glass Man. Which I may have to look up and read soon.

10 Things You're Not Supposed to Know
The general population doesn’t know what’s happening, and it doesn’t even know that it doesn’t know.” ~Noam Chomsky
1) It is nearly impossible to pay off the national debt:“Nothing is so well calculated to produce a death-like torpor in the country as an extended system of taxation and a great national debt.”~William Cobbett

This is because money is created out of debt in a one-to-one increase in public debt. The national debt is $20 Trillion. That means the (roughly) 234 million US Americans would have to pay approximately $62,000 each to pay it off. This includes babies, children, poor people, and homeless people. There are even those who claim that it’s mathematically impossible to pay off the debt. And almost every country is in debt to every other country. It’s the height of insanity.

As former Governor of the Federal Reserve Marriner Eccles said, “If there were no debts in our money system, there wouldn’t be any money.”

2) There is no underlying thing backing money (it’s all an illusion):“Federal Reserve notes are not redeemable in gold, silver or any other commodity, and receive no backing by anything. The notes have no value for themselves.” ~The Treasury

All money is fiat money. A dollar bill is a dollar bill because everyone agrees it’s a dollar bill. The dollar bill is not lawful money, but rather “legal tender.” Money used to be backed by a “gold standard” –which meant the government had $100 worth of gold in a vault from which they made a $100 bill that went out into the market (though even gold only has value because we’ve all agreed since time immemorial that it’s valuable). However, they moved away from gold years ago, so now we must take the government’s word for it that the note is worth $100. The bill itself is just an IOU note, made from thin air, based on debt, and laundered by the government.

Even the debt issue discussed in the first bullet is based on nothing, and is nothing more than a financial concept financiers agree on. The debt isn’t actually there. But since we all just go along with it, it affects us through inflation, and devaluation, and the sky-is-falling knee-jerk reactions to money meaning something only because we give it meaning. Money is little more than a cartoon in the brain that we’re addicted to watching.

3) How to live off the grid:“Live simply so that others may simply live.” ~Gandhi
You’re not “supposed” to know how to live off the grid, because then you can’t be controlled by the government. The more self-sufficient you are, the less money the corporations can make off you. The more rain water you catch, the less you’ll need to pay the water companies. The more windmills you build and solar panels you erect, the less you’ll need to pay the electric companies. The more composting toilets you install, the less you’ll have to pay plumbing companies. The more gardening you do, the less you’ll have to pay someone else for your food.

In short: the more independent you become, the less codependent you will be on the state. And the state doesn’t like that, because they like your money way more than they like your freedom.

4) Planned obsolescence:“Armaments, universal debt and planned obsolescence –those are the three pillars of Western prosperity.” ~Aldous Huxley

Speaking of making money off you, planned obsolescence is a way for companies to keep making money off you by capitalizing on your consumerist tendencies. Let’s face it, we’re a nation of consumers with Big Macs for brains and iPhones for hearts. We need our fix and we need it fast, and we are willing to fill all the landfills in the world, and then some, to get it.

Planned obsolescence is designed into a product to encourage the consumer to buy the next upgrade. Everything from toasters to automobiles, microwaves to cell phones are prone to planned obsolescence by greedy companies that know you will come back for more no matter how many times your things-things-things fall apart.

5) Civil asset forfeiture:“The State is nothing more nor less than a bandit gang writ large.”~Ludwig Von Mises

As if police brutality, extortion, and overreach of power weren’t enough, unscrupulous police officials have been manipulating the deeply flawed federal and state civil asset forfeiture laws that give them permission to seize, keep, or sell any property allegedly involved in a crime. The key word is “allegedly.” Because most of the time property is taken without even being charged with a crime. That’s crazy!

Originally meant to be used on large-scale criminal organizations, it is now used almost entirely on individuals, ruining people’s lives over petty “crimes.” More and more police departments are using forfeiture to benefit their bottom lines. It’s less about fighting crime and more about profit. John Oliver did an excellent piece on the matter that gets right at the heart of the issue.

6) The US imprisons more of its population than any other country (and profits off it):“Some may say that jailing people over their debts makes poverty into a crime. Well if that’s true, maybe we should just cut out the middle man and put all poor people in jail. Of course, this will require new prison facilities, which we can build using people who can’t pay their prison fees. Not as workers, as the bricks.” ~Stephen Colbert

Living in what is widely considered the “land of the free,” this one should come as a body blow to anybody who truly believes in freedom. The total prison population has grown by 500 percent over the last 30 years. 500! The United States has less than 5 percent of the world’s population, yet we have almost 20 percent of the world’s total prison population. Even though crime is at a historic low.

The icing on this shit-cake is the deplorable fact that big corporations are making a killing off the prison system. Equal parts extortion and slavery, for-profit prisons do nothing in the way of rehabilitation and therapy, and everything in the way of profit and criminal relapse.

7) Forced taxation is theft:“Since few men are wise enough to rule themselves, even fewer are wise enough to rule others.” ~Edward Abbey

When taxation is forced, one cannot say they live in a free country. When taxation is not optional, the country forcing the tax is not free. Bottom line. If one does not pay their taxes, in such a country, they are threatened with violence or prison if they don’t pay. That is point-blank extortion. And since it is being done by an authoritarian government, it is naked tyranny.

If one feels like paying taxes, then they should feel free to pay. That’s fair, because that’s voluntary. But if the state is using its monopoly on violence to get money out of you, that is not fair, that is extortion. It really is that simple. If freedom is primary then voluntarism is paramount. The use of state services built off taxes is an entirely different matter with entirely different solutions, and is an irrelevant red herring to the issue at hand.

8) You’re not “allowed” to be stateless, but you can be:“A man without a government is like a fish without a bicycle.” ~Alvaro Koplovich

Statelessness is an alien concept in our world, even though it can be extended to all living beings “in principle” and “in theory,” at its irreducible bedrock truth, it is exceptionally difficult to be sovereign and stateless. This is because the entire world is plagued with the disease of statism. It is so second-nature to our existence that we never question it. We might as well be fish questioning water. But we are not fish. We are human beings with the ability for deep logic, higher reasoning, and basic common sense. That is, unless we are being oppressed into blind servitude and myopic subordination and we are unwilling to question things… And here we are.

Similar to living off the grid, you’re not supposed to know this one because then the corrupt nation states of the world would have less control over you. And, don’t be fooled, it’s all about control, as Mike Gogulski found out firsthand. Unfortunately, the cons outweigh the pros on becoming a stateless person (Though these two gents seem to be enjoying it). Especially because we are social creatures and most of the other social creatures in our world are conditioned statists. As Nietzsche famously said, “State is the name of the coldest of all cold monsters. Coldly it lies; and this lie slips from its mouth: ‘I, the state, am the people.’”

9) The police are NOT legally obligated to protect you:“There’s no weakness as great as false strength.” ~Stefan Molyneux

Most people falsely and ignorantly assume that it is the sworn duty of the police to protect and to serve. But it is actually the exception, not the rule. A cop protecting and serving is doing so in a humane capacity and not because he/she is obligated to do so. They just happen to be acting humanely while wearing a badge. The reality is that power tends to corrupt. This applies especially to police. And especially-especially to police that are trained to be offense-minded, oppressive, extorting, overreaching, and violent enforcers of a statist agenda.

The solution is not more ill-trained offense-minded police with too much power, but more well-trained defense-minded police with just enough power (a power with built-in checks and balances in place to prevent power from corrupting). In short: a complete eradication of the Thin Blue Line.

10) We live in an oligarchic plutocracy disguised as a democratic republic:“We may have democracy or we may have great wealth concentrated in the hands of a few, but we can’t have both.” ~Louis Brandeis, Supreme Court Justice

In our world, money is power. Money concentrated in the hands of a few, means power concentrated in the hands of a few. And since power tends to corrupt if it goes unchecked, the people must be free to check it, lest tyranny prevail. But because of an overreaching militarized police force, the people are not free to check it. And here we are, slipping into tyranny.
If we lived within a horizontal democracy, we would have a better chance at being free. No masters, no rulers, and hence, no chance for power to become concentrated in the hands of a few. Easier said than done, sure, but nothing worth doing was ever easy.

As it stands, it is impossible to live freely within an oligarchic plutocracy. The plutocrats will simply continue buying up power by creating oppressive laws and “legal” extortion rackets that keep the people without wealth and power in a permanent state of poverty and powerlessness. Add to that the use of lobbyists and a fiat currency based on debt, and you have a nation of hoodwinked debt slaves under the delusion that they live in a free democratic republic.

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"BACK TO ONE": ADVENTURES ON THE SET OF ONE OF THE WORST SF FILMS EVER MADE

6/20/2017

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This spring marks the 20th anniversary of the filming of The Postman (very, very- really-very-loosely based on the truly excellent SF novel by David Brin) most of which happened here in the Northwest. Despite its almost epic badness, the film holds a special place in my heart, because my husband and I, along with two of our horses, worked as extras on it. Three weeks for me, more like five months for Dameon. I wish I'd taken notes at the time, because that experience would make a great book, and at this far remove I probably wouldn't get the pants sued off me by Warner Brothers.

It all started when Dameon signed on as part of a Civil War re-enactment group for what was supposed to be a 3-day shoot in Bend, Oregon, as one of the Holnists, the army of survivalist bad guys. Being the bad guys and all, the Holnists all had to ride dark horses. Yes, really. Since Dameon's beloved gelding, Shannar, (27 at the time) was a showy Leopard Appaloosa, he asked to borrow my handsome Morgan gelding, Magic, a dark bay (a spring chicken of 22 back then). Off he went, returned a few days later, then got called back by the film company because he'd been one of the few who actually knew how to do cavalry maneuvers and could train the other riders. So, off he went again.

Phone service was spotty; he had to drive into a neighboring town when he could to call me and give me updates. His first call started out with, "You've got yourself one hell of a horse." Not that I didn't know that, of course, but it turns out the stunt coordinators, assistant directors, camera people, and Director Kevin Costner all had different and equally vague ideas of what they wanted, and not one seemed to know much about horses or how to pull off some of the elaborate stunts they planned. Riders got carted off to the hospital every day as horse after horse crashed and burned.

Except for my Magic. And, of course, Dameon. Dameon in his crazed youth did a lot of, shall we say extreme, riding, up to and including the Omak Suicide race. Twice. In Magic, he met his match. Magic had a huge ego too, and an enormous amount of "presence" that turned heads and drew attention even on the rare occasions he was standing still. He was also athletic, agile as a cat, strong, faster than a speeding bullet, and the words "I can't" were not in his vocabulary. Morgans in general are quick to say "yes" to whatever they're asked to do, but Magic didn't just say "yes"; he said, "Hold my beer and watch this."

Every time Magic pulled off a miracle and kept himself and his rider alive and upright while galloping across crumbling bridges, leading charges into raging rivers, leaping wreckage, facing a surprise flame-thrower attack, and generally pulling off stunts that the professional stunt people couldn't manage in take after take, Dameon would get asked "Hey, think you can do…?" followed by something even trickier and more insane. By the second week, he was a platoon leader in "Company C", one of the cavalry units, and he and Magic were known interchangeably as "the Magic Man", a nickname bestowed by Costner and his Master of Horse, Riley Flynn (not credited in the film, I've noticed).

In a shoot at Metaline Falls, Washington (which stood in for "Pine View" and "Benning" in the movie), the AD asked Dameon how close he could get to the camera at full gallop. "How close do you want me?" D asked. "Close as you can get." Well, they did ask, so: first take, Dameon's right boot flashed about 3 inches past the lens as he and Magic hit full warp speed. Camera man, AD, and crew screamed and leaped backward with flailing arms. For the subsequent takes, they set out a cone 5 feet from the camera and asked Dameon to stay on the other side of it. Which he and Magic did. Every time. I don't think any of those shots made it into the film.

Costner decided he wanted the gates of Benning to get blown to smithereens while the Holnist cavalry charged in to wreck havoc. Obviously, the shot could only happen once. So, when the Director yelled, "ACTION", D and Magic led Company C in the charge. Magic hit the afterburners and reached the gates lengths ahead of the other horses, just as they exploded. The Magic Man leaped through the flaming chasm with debris shooting out around them. The incredible footage got played over and over during the daily "takes" review that night. It was an awe-inspiring, jaw-dropping shot.

Which, nonetheless, didn't make it into the film either. I later wrote Warner Bros., and Costner, and anyone else I could think of begging for that footage, but never even heard back.

But back to when I came in: a few weeks into the shoot, Dameon called to tell me they needed women who could ride to play "Townies", part of the good guy army. It was okay for the good guys to have light-colored horses, as long as they didn't stand out too much. No pintos or paints. Oops. That left my first choice, Jokata, our miraculous buckskin paint mustang mare, right out (though I noticed several pinto and paint horses on set once I got there, which roused my ire considerably at the time). I took Shannar, hoping his spots would be forgiven, and headed down to join Dameon, along with three women friends and their horses.

On our first day, Costner singled out me, Lauri, Pat, and Melissa (the girlfriends I'd brought with me) and asked us to remain in the forefront of most of the shots, because he liked our "look" and because we were among the better riders there. The camera people worked hard to shoot around Shannar (though you can glimpse flashes of spots dashing past the camera on a number of scenes. And Pat and I have a full 10 seconds on screen, just our faces, waiting to die in the final charge).

From then on, the adventure sort of mushroomed, and if I'd filmed it, I'd play most of it with calliope music on the background. This is in the era before the expression *facepalm* was invented, but it could have been coined just for that film.
Example: if you've ever seen the film, you may have noticed that all the Holnists are decked out from head to toe in orange and black. This is because in the book, the Holnists are described as wearing tiger-striped camo. *rimshot* And *facepalm*.

In the book, the Holnists are led by a fanatical, charismatic, former-military cyborg warrior whose men hold him in terrified awe. In the film, the Holnists are led by Will Patton, a wonderful actor who is about as scary as a cheese sandwich. His character is a former photocopier salesman without any military training whatsoever. The Holnists fear him because otherwise they'd hurt his feelings, and follow him with varying degrees of reluctance, obviously feeling bad about having to do mean things to people when so ordered. Those poor Holnists.

My first day on-set, we filmed an ending that never made it into the film, for which audiences everywhere should give thanks. At the end of the climactic battle scene between the Postman and Bethlehem (the Holnists' Fearless Leader), Bethlehem is defeated, making the Postman the new Head Honcho. He tells the Holnists they don't have to be bad guys anymore. Gosh, we don't? Hoo-ray! The townies and Holnists all cheer and hug, someone brings out Bill the Mule (supposedly killed and eaten early on) to be reunited with the overjoyed Postman, and we all go skipping off into the sunset singing kumbayah…well, okay, we didn't actually hug and there was no singing. But, you know… *Facepalm*

Now, I admit, I'd always thought of Shannar as a good horse, but not quite in Magic or Jokata's league. Jokata was a living legend in our circle, one-of-a-kind, a level-headed lady of uncanny intelligence and immeasurable heart. Magic was…well, Magic. He should have gone through life with a big red "S" on his chest. And he knew it. I'd always figured poor Shannar had gotten to be as good as he was because he'd spent his life struggling to keep up with those two.

On the set, I learned just how badly I'd underestimated the old man.

Toward the climax of the film, the Postman leads an army of townsfolk armed with whatever they can carry to a showdown across an open field from the entire Holnist army and their mechanized weaponry. Costner wanted lots of footage of this massed charge from every angle. We were filming on a private cattle ranch, and to get the shots he wanted, we were to start out in one huge pasture, gallop across it to a narrow, dirt road, and race down that to the much larger pasture where the confrontation was to take place. The road, barely wide enough for a truck, bordered a 30-foot boulder-strewn drop into a river on one side, and on the other, a steep hill, almost a cliff, blocked off by rocks and a lot of loose barbed wire from the remnants of a fence that had seen better days. Just where it reached the other pasture, it dog-legged around a deep ditch or shallow ravine, depending on your point of view, that the river had gauged out sometime back.

Cameras lined the cliffs above us, filled the backs of trucks that ran in front of us, and waited, surrounded by protective cones and nervous film crews, at various points along our proposed route. They had us charge across the first field, yelled "CUT" just as we reached the road, followed a few moments later by the inevitable "Back to One" (film speak for "return to your exact starting point and get ready to do exactly the same thing"). We must have galloped across that field a dozen times. It only took the horses about 3 takes before they learned what the word "ACTION", roared over the bullhorn, meant. On the 4th or 5th take, I was on the ground, giving Shannar a break, when the AD yelled, "ACTION!" Shannar took off, and I made my very first flying cavalry mount from a standstill. Yea, me.

Lauri, Melissa, Pat and I had marked our "one" with a small pile of rocks around a yellow flower that somehow hadn't been trampled into mire so we'd always know exactly where to return to, but somehow we kept ending up farther and farther back in the mass. A few snide remarks directed toward us enlightened us; the other extras resented the way we were always pushing our way to the front of every shot (never mind that we'd been told to do exactly that by Costner himself) and were trying to cut us off in order to have their turn in front of the cameras. We retaliated with varying degrees of surprise, indignation, and irritation, followed by a certain level of smugness when one of the A.D.s or a crewmember keeping an eye on continuity would order everyone back to their former spots. Nyah, nyah. Okay, yes, we were probably being jerks about it.

Then came the charge down the road to the big meadow. Costner had us line up 4 abreast, which was, I thought, too much for that narrow road. I was glad to be on the far right, farthest from the river, but I was a little concerned for Lauri, Melissa, and Pat, on my left.

As well I should have been. At the cry of "ACTION", we took off. *Poof* Within yards, my comrades vanished in a cloud of dust. I couldn't see the road, the horse ahead of me, the rocky hill I knew was immediately on my right. I was wearing goggles, but even so, my eyes got hit with what felt like a hundred hot needles as half the road fought for a place under my contacts. Through the thunder of hoof beats all around me, I heard shouts of alarm and noises that sounded suspiciously like screams. The horse in front of me went down; I know this because Shannar leaped over the thrashing body and I caught a glimpse of the rider's face, a teenaged boy, looking up at us from the ground with mouth agape. We landed and raced on, and behind me came the tell-tale sounds of a major pile-up. I kept my attention forward, by then focused solely on remaining aboard and helping Shannar keep his feet.

Suddenly, I felt his haunches bunch and we were again airborne. I caught a glimpse of what looked like the Grand Canyon below us. I hadn't seen the dogleg around the ditch at the end of the road, but somehow Shannar had and decided to take the direct route. We landed, and suddenly the dust cleared and Shannar and I found ourselves racing across a meadow amidst a cluster of riderless horses.

Cut. Back to one.

I said hell with it and bowed out of the next several takes; I couldn't ask the old man to pull a rabbit out of the hat like that twice. The number of riders abreast went from 4 to 3 to 2. Shannar and I watched from behind one of the camera crews as, for take after take, mostly riderless horses emerged from the cloud of dust and raced across the meadow again and again. Melissa and Lauri were two of the few to remain a-horse; Pat had also pulled after the first take.

Shannar caught his breath, I sucked it up, and we rejoined our merry band for the next set of shots, galloping across the final meadow toward the Holnist army; you know, the one with the machine guns and cannons aimed our way. Hey, it worked for the Australian cavalry in WWII, right? Of course, the Aussies didn't stop and stand in a line waiting for the Germans to lower the artillery sights…*facepalm*, but what the hey.

Surrounded by a wall of Holnists and Townies, the Postman and Bethlehem duke it out, until Our Hero emerges victorious and one of Bethlehem's own men shoots him. The Postman calls out for a re-writing of the Rules of Eight, the laws the Holnists live by. So Holnists and Townies call out new laws while the Postman approves. I felt so sorry for some of the actors, whose only lines during the entire film were in that scene, which, like so many others, ended on the cutting room floor. But they were great. Peggy Lipton had the line, "Everyone has to learn to read," delivered with passionate conviction. There were two young actors playing Holnists who made a point of doing their lines differently every single take, but always made them believable and perfect.

Costner had the last lines. And blew them consistently for 18 consecutive takes. It was late afternoon and about a zillion degrees by then, and we really, really wanted to get out of our heavy "nuclear winter" costumes, have some water, untack our horses, and collapse. By about Take 10, we were all silently mouthing his lines along with him, desperately hoping that this time he'd get it…nope. Cut. Back to One. I notice our faces are all blurred so you can't see our mouths move in what remains of that scene in the final film.

By the way, I have great respect for Kevin Costner. The man was one of the kindest, most polite, most patient professionals I've ever worked with, and an incredibly nice guy. As a director…well…he was one of the kindest, most polite, most patient professionals I've ever worked with, and an incredibly nice guy.

And he made a miracle on set. For the town scene where the Holnists take the Postman prisoner, they'd hired a local "special needs" school to provide kids to play townies with birth defects caused by nuclear fallout. Around twenty kids came on a bus, along with their parents, teachers, and counselors. There were kids with problems ranging from Down Syndrome or severe autism to full-on mental, emotional, and physical disabilities. For many, no one and nothing else seemed to exist; they lived locked away in some inner world. Others were completely unmanageable, more like wild animals than children. They were only really needed for one shot, but none of us could imagine how anyone could pull this off. We prepared ourselves for a very, very long day.

Finally, after many struggles and general chaos, Costner approached and asked the frazzled adults if he could try something. He knelt before the children, and smiled. "Hi there," he said, as easily as if he spoke to a group of old friends. "Can you do something for me?"
It was like watching flowers respond to the sun. Every face turned to his, dull eyes lit, smiles blossomed, even on those who hadn't seemed aware of their own parents. They listened, and they did exactly as he asked. As the day wore on and they tired, attentions wandered, some shots didn't go as smoothly. But Costner's patience never frayed, his voice remained smooth and relaxed, and his smile was always there, ready for any child that needed it. And he got his takes. Every one of them.

In retrospect, I can't say the experience was an unalloyed rollicking good time. I carried a lot of bad memories from it that, at the time, overshadowed the enjoyment. But after this many years, what stands out are the moments of heart-stopping excitement, the shared laughs with my husband and friends, and especially my pride in and love for my two wonderful old friends, Shannar and Magic. Whatever version of Heaven they're in, I hope they're enjoying regaling their horse buddies with tales of their adventures as much as I do remembering them.

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A Horse is Not a Motorcycle.

2/24/2017

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I read Judith Tarr's new horse column, The SSF Equine: Troublesome Tropes About Horses, with great interest and anticipation. I'd been hoping for someone to pick up on the need for such a column since Sue Bolich's passing last year. As I expected, it's a fun read with lots of wonderful and spot-on information. If you haven't read it yet, treat yourself: http://www.tor.com/2017/02/20/the-sff-equine-troublesome-tropes-about-horses/.

She points out a few things I've rarely seen mentioned before, like how Hollywood constantly dubs in whinnying and other horse noises, as if to remind the audience that, yes, there are horses on-screen, because they're just not obvious enough. Horses are actually pretty quiet animals and only whinny for specific reasons. When I was growing up, I noticed that all movie and TV horses sounded alike, which is not the case with real ones; their voices are as individual as their personalities. As I grew older, I realized just what those nickers, chortles, snorts, bugles, squeals, and whinnies signified. After doing a little research I learned what I'd long suspected: many of the horse noises you hear in films (up until relatively recently) were produced by two horses, a mare in season and the stallion courting her, during a single afternoon around 1947. So every time you hear a horse nickering or squealing on screen, it's probably one of those two. Yes, you're hearing horses talking dirty.

But anyway, back to my initial topic. One phrase Ms. Tarr used as a sub-header really stood out to me: A Horse is Not a Motorcycle.
I no longer teach riding, mostly because my own skills have gone to hell, but my husband still does, primarily to those interested in learning to joust. Those words are something he repeats so often it's almost like a mantra: "A horse is not a motorcycle."

What does this mean, exactly? Well, there are the obvious physical aspects, of course: horses can't gallop from sunup to sundown, horses need food and water after a hard day's work, horses can't just be stuck in a box and forgotten between rides.

Oh, wait, now we're getting into the part not addressed by Ms. Tarr, largely because it is usually ignored in literature or film (though it shouldn't be). But it's a subject near and dear to my heart, and something anyone who works with horses (or wants to) should be aware of: Horses are also not like motorcycles, because – wait for it – Horses Have Emotions.

Horses are living, thinking, feeling beings, each with their own personality, needs, and desires. No two are alike. And their personality, needs, and desires may not necessarily align with your personality, needs, and desires. As with any other relationship, to build a strong one, you need to take your horse's emotions into account.

Okay, say you're new to riding, or a particular discipline, excited about it, and you want to get better, fast. Remember, your horse may not necessarily be on the same wavelength. Maybe you two are still getting to know each other. Maybe he's having an "off" day. Maybe he doesn't know any more about what you are trying to learn than you do. Maybe you don't have your communication skills down yet. Treating him or her with common courtesy costs nothing, and may save both of you a lot of grief in the long run. He or she will tell you when he or she has had enough. They're not usually shy about it. Don't be so obsessive that you work your horse too hard, push the envelope past what he or she is ready for, and so forth, because you're so focused on your own needs and goals you forget to check in with your partner.

That's "partner", not "motorcycle". You see where I'm going with this.

Okay, how about this: forcing your horse to gallop for 20 minutes around the arena because he's too "hot" or excited. Guess what? It's not going to calm him down. It may tire him out a little, but it also triggers the build-up of adrenaline and sets off his "flight" response. If you're running that hard, there must be something to run from. Danger, Will Robinson! You are adding to his anxiety levels and turning what might otherwise be fun into a source of stress. Eventually, he is more likely to blow his cookies and become unmanageable than he is to calm down and tune into what you want. Because – surprise! – he's not a motorcycle.

Motorcycles are just fine if you park them in a garage and ignore them for weeks or months at a time. But horses are social animals. Some horses do reasonably well without other horses around, but they do need some kind of companionship. Ideally, they'll forge that bond with their person. Ideally, you two would hang out in a pasture together all day every day. This, of course, does not fit into most human schedules. But you need to spend as much time with your horse as you can reasonably manage. They have no reason to give you the time of day if you can't be bothered to give more than an hour every week or two to them. I know of plenty of people who only bother to spend time with their horses right before they go into a show or on a trail ride, if then. This is not a way to build trust or any kind of partnership. Unless he's become so desensitized by serial owners/riders that he just doesn't care anymore, your horse wants and needs a partnership with you. He wants to know he can trust you, that you are going to look out for his welfare – just as, believe it or not, he would look out for yours, if you took the time to develop that bond. Pulling them out of the box after not seeing them for two weeks, riding them into a lather, and then sticking them back in the box for another two weeks is not going to build anything but resentment in your horse, which quickly erodes his performance and, thence, your enjoyment of your time together.

They always know if they're just a bottom-of-the-barrel item in your life. They're not machines. They don't work like that. Yeah, here we are, back at that "not a motorcycle" thing.

Unless he's a working ranch horse or an endurance mount, he can't go all day without breaks. Like the modern rider, most modern horses are pretty soft and need a lot of conditioning via gradual workouts to build muscle and strength. What a horse can do these days compared to what their constantly-ridden ancestors could do are two different things. But even in the past, no one galloped from sunup to sundown -- unless they were being pursued or something and didn't care if they killed their horse. Horses are pretty tough, and a horse in prime physical condition can carry a rider all day, rotating between gaits as needed, without much trouble. But he'd better have access to plenty of grass and water at the end of it all, and a good rub-down at the very least, if he's going to be much good the next day. I could go on, but, heck, just read what Ms. Tarr wrote about it. She's pretty clear.

Something else that is too often ignored in fiction: Horses sense and feed off of emotion in people. When you're scared, they get scared. When you're angry, they feel it, and it usually scares them – after all, it's a threat, like pinned ears. When you're excited, they get excited too. An adrenaline rush racing through your veins doesn't just send your pulse skyrocketing, it feeds right into your horse, which may not necessarily be what you want. Keep your own emotions in check and stay centered, and your horse is more able to remain calm and centered as well.

Horses are always more aware of their surroundings than we are. It's a survival trait. In times past, any raiding party or war band knew to pay attention to what their horses told them about their surroundings. I get a kick out of watching horses on film watching the camera for cues, or failing to spot an "ambush" because, gee, they've already rehearsed it 30 times and they know what's coming. Horses never read the script. On set, they learn what the word "Action" barked over a loudspeaker means after about three takes, which forces directors to keep making up new cue words.

By the way, ever wonder why warhorses in battle lines on film won't stand still? On the last set I worked on as a rider, the directors would tell us to "agitate your horses" while we were standing waiting for a charge or something, just to make it look more dramatic, because horses waiting patiently for their cue is visually boring.

To wrap up: if you want to realistically use horses in fiction, treat the horse like a character. No, he/she not going to speak in words, but there is plenty of emotion and reaction to what is happening around him/her to give your story extra life, color, and depth. When in doubt, contact a horse person. Most of us enjoy nothing more than talking about our horses all day long.

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A Horse is Not a Motorcycle.

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