Dan: “Hey, it’s a penny! I found a penny!”
(Brief pause)
“Uh oh, it’s tails up. I’d better not touch it.”
(Walks away from said penny, gets distracted by marker-wielding son.)
Me: “Flip it over for the next person.”
Nearby woman: Laughs.
Then, “I’ll do it…. There, I flipped it over.”
Copyright Tracy Zollinger Turner, Tinymantras.com, 2008
A couple of months ago, I entered a screenplay writing competition on a whim. They give you a genre and a topic, then you have a week to write a script of 15 pages or less. I didn’t decide to register until the very last minute. While I was looking at the competition’s web site, trying to make a decision about whether I wanted to pay the entry fee, Declan randomly pulled a book about film writing off of the shelf and brought it to me. (It was one of 300-400 books he could have grabbed from that part of the room, so it did seem oddly coincidental). Kismet! Serendipity! I was meant to do it!
Besides, the point wasn’t to try and win. It was just to write something in a format I’d never tried before and see how it went. If I was any good, maybe I’d try it for real later on, because I’m perplexed by the poor writing in a lot of movies these days. Maybe big budget films have too many editors, so by the time they get to the final copy, no one remembers what the movie was supposed to be about. I’m even starting to suspect that some big-budget films begin with a thumbnail sketch of the plot (the logline), plug in as many special effects as they can muster, and then build the script from the inside out. The result is a story that connects the way fence would, if its posts were dropped from a 30,000 feet. At minimum, they leave out the thing I need the most if I am to give a hang about a movie: character development.
I spent a little bit of time learning about screenplay formatting and reading the scripts of some movies I like. A few days later, I got my assignment. My genre: Thriller. My topic: A witness. My response: Gag! For the first six days of the seven that I had to complete the task, I didn’t write a word. The night before the script was due, I was kicking myself for throwing away entry fee money.
But then I sucked it up for a few hours, and just kept typing. I called upon the Zen writing habit that I used to be so good about nurturing in my 20s. I would open up Natalie Goldberg’s book, Writing Down the Bones, and pick her prompts to start writing and just keep my hand moving, turning off my editor and trying to find that place where writing became meditation.
I eked out a script about a pregnant vigilante in one afternoon. It was probably more suspense-like or creepy than thrilling, but I managed to finish it and turn it in before the deadline. I found out that I’m comfortable writing screenplays. And I do think that if it had a real strength, it was character development.
While I’d love to say my script magically went on to win, it didn’t. And I was even too self-conscious to participate in the discussion board critiques. But I actually came in third in my “heat,” missing the final by only one place and landing my logline in the public archives with contact information for any producer who might be interested. I’m happy with that outcome. Now, in my daydreams, someone comes along and offers me money to take that story and turn it into a feature-length script, or I come up with a new idea that helps me find an agent.
Today I watched a spider crawl into the coin slot of a parking meter, and I wondered what it would be like to live inside of a thick glass bubble that echoed with mechanical ticks and buzzes. Yesterday, Declan drew the Andromeda Galaxy on the fence out back and held a series of semi-private conversations with it. “You’re so pretty,” he told the long white smudge. Then he got into his Cozy Coupe and waved goodbye. “See you later, Andromeda.”
So maybe my celluloid dreams aren’t so unrealistic. After all, it is possible to befriend an entire galaxy, just as long as no one tells you that you can’t.
Life soundtrack: Ferraby Lionheart, Catch the Brass Ring, “Pure Imagination”
Copyright Tracy Zollinger Turner, Tinymantras.com, 2008
I felt pretty betrayed at the end of “Real Time with Bill Maher” last weekend. Being one of those people who has actually done things like written to Sinclair Broadcasting in protest of their censorship practices (they were the galvanizing force that got his network show cancelled a few years back), I’ve always found his understanding of gender politics awfully limited, but I was glad he was out there, shaking the trees for free speech.
But his “New Rules” chastising breastfeeding moms that held a “nurse-in” at Applebees restaurants across the country, just came across as petty, unfair, and a clear case of the “look-at-me-ism” he absurdly accused these women of. I know journalists like this – people who go off the rails on a topic that they know will stir things up because they just aren’t getting enough hate mail lately, and hate mail is something that they’ve come to rely on to validate their celebrity. If it wasn’t deliberately disingenuous, then it was certainly horribly, horribly researched.
First, there were some facts that he just got wrong. He said that the Applebees nurse-in was the “world’s first,” when, in fact, these kinds of formal protests have been going on for some time. Wasn’t it only last year when a bunch of moms held one outside the studio where they tape “The View”? There have also been protests of Delta airlines, Starbucks, even hospitals. The purpose of these protests certainly isn’t vanity – it is the raising of awareness of a public health issue.
Maher is one of the only pundits out there who routinely addresses environmental problems created by our food supply, the toxic nature of additives like high fructose corn syrup and the nationwide health problem of obesity. So it’s baffling to me that he knocks the promotion of a health choice that is well known to reduce the risk of childhood obesity and a variety of illnesses, has health benefits for women, is completely ecologically sound and could have far-reaching economic benefits if it were promoted more effectively (over infant formula, which is often the product of behemoth drug companies).
The events are also an opportunity to re-acquaint business owners and the general public about the breastfeeding laws in our country, many of which protect a woman’s right to feed her child anywhere she deems necessary. In other words, companies should thank “lactivists” because they typically get so much media attention, they make managers revisit laws and policy, hopefully to the point where they make sure everyone who works for them realizes that it’s illegal for us to them to ask a breastfeeding woman to leave even if they are offended by a naked breast.
Lastly, his suggestion that women just “cover up” is basically moronic, and only forgivable in that he has clearly spent no time around infants. Hello Bill – babies have arms and hands, and it doesn’t take long before they begin to figure out that they can be used to pull blankets and things off of their faces. They also don’t have the cognitive ability to understand things like “but the people around you will be uncomfortable if you do that here” or “you’ll have to eat later.” Incidentally, the American Academy of Pediatrics, along with any number of national health agencies, recommend that mothers breastfeed for a year. The World Health Organization recommends two years. So yes, in a healthier world, babies would have teeth and the ability to say words before being weaned, and after the first 2-3 months, a blanket on the head is not going to stay there long.
At any rate, I certainly don’t have any problem watching and listening to a person I disagree with. I’ve watched Bill Maher for years (since his days on Comedy Central) and liked and disliked lots of the things he had to say. But in this case, his ignorance was personally insulting. If he doesn’t do any mea culpa on this, I definitely won’t watch him again for a while, if at all.
Add this to what I read about Facebook and MySpace at IzzyMom today (namely that breastfeeding images have been removed as “obscene” even as hundreds of pro-anorexia groups are free to give women directions about how to starve themselves), and I’d say it’s been a pretty depressing news week for chicks.
Copyright Tracy Zollinger Turner, Tinymantras.com, 2009.
Declan is 28 months old today. It’s kind of hard to believe that’s all the time it has been. Mysterious coos and babbles have given way to complete sentences. Once unable to roll over on his own, he’s now the “sultan of somersaultin'” (named so by Dan). Frenetic waves have transformed into deliberate, dramatic hand gestures that accompany mini-lectures about space.
As a family, we’ve also been through a lot in that time. We lost a couple of Dan’s older family members. Dan nearly lost his eye. We lost our dear companion Samson. Even one of our cars and a laptop died (actually, Dan murdered it with ginger ale). And we’ve had horrible luck with landlords.
We had a terrifying bout with lead paint and for our trouble, got kicked out of our conveniently located (although rented) home by a man we had thought had more decency. Then the short-sighted landlord of Dan’s business helped put an unceremonious end to his nearly 20-year run.
But we also bought a house in a part of town where we have no baggage and the neighbors are cartoonishly friendly. We’ve forged new friendships with other new parents and enjoyed an awful lot of days just spending time on our own as a family. I’ve been able to do some writing work that I feel matters. We’ve learned a whole lot about space and physics, which tends to put things like craptastic landlords and life, death and illness in a very different perspective.
Tonight we’ll have cowboy-style Tuvan Throat singing, tomorrow we’ll go to a funeral for a man who has contributed a great deal to the cultural life of the city. Time, as they say, marches on.
Life soundtrack: Rufus Wainwright, I Am Sam soundtrack, “Across the Universe”
Copyright Tracy Zollinger Turner, Tinymantras.com, 2007
We decided to brave the city-sponsored “Family Fun Fest” on the waterfront over the weekend. We ran into a couple of people we knew who were leaving as we arrived and asked them how they had liked the event. Their response? “It’s kind of… a mess.”
And it was. I wonder why events supposedly designed for families with children are so often unoriginal, even a bit unfriendly towards the audience they seek? When corporations decide to sponsor these events and have an on-site presence, is their goal to actually offer a fun experience for kids, or simply to dole out logo-covered junk? If it isn’t the former, it should be. Your frisbee may or may not give me a lot of joy, but providing an authentically fun memory for me and my child will. You may not think so, but the experience is more important than stuff. And if you give me a bad one, I’m really really going to remember that.
Here is my free advice:
Rule #1
DON’T hold these events without providing a space or fun activity specifically for children under the age of five. Things that they are supposed to sit still and watch don’t count, because people under five, who are often members of families, are generally incapable of sitting still for very long. If you can’t do this, advertise that the event is for kids of a higher age.
DO come up with something specifically designed to engage the youngest people. It’s not hard. Throw down a big mat inside of some gates with some colorful pillows and balls. Get some bigger kids to volunteer to play with the little ones, because no one loves big kids as much as little ones do.
P.S. While you’re at it, make sure you also provide a space for nursing moms and babies. A tent with a few changing tables and rocking chairs will do. This isn’t progressive, it’s just logical and babies, it should be noted, are also often members of families.
Rule #2
DON’T give kids pre-drawn pictures to color. Or at least not only pre-drawn pictures to color.
DO try and inspire them to come up with some ideas on their own. Instead of giving something you think is “fun” laid out in factory form, give them a blank page and ask them to draw something they think is fun. Then praise their brilliance and ingenuity. A big open patch of road where kids could draw whatever they wanted with sidewalk chalk was one of the best things at the festival.
Rule #3
DON’T put any giveaway items out in public view that you do not actually intend to give away. This should be your rule at every event, but when children are the ones you are marketing to, the penalties for breaking this rule double.
DO try and make sure that the people who work at your booth like children and parents, and put them on in shifts, so that they aren’t worn out and disgusted by everyone as it gets later in the day.
Note: When we visited tent for the Columbus Crew – a soccer franchise that isn’t exactly burning up the ticket lines – the woman in it actually pulled a bunch of small soccer balls off of the table when Dan approached, saying “sorry, we’re putting these away, we have to save them for other events.” I’m only grateful that my two-year-old and I were far enough from the table that he didn’t quite clue into the fact that he was being denied a cheap promotional ball, especially since balls, spheres or globes are the most important things on earth. A toddler meltdown was narrowly averted by our parenting reflexes and the fact that he had a healthy nap that day. Bad form, Crew!
Rule #4
DON’T insist on having those infernal bouncy contraptions at every single event where kids may show up. If your goal is for a family to have fun together, this doesn’t cut it. It’s just a dangerous, temporary babysitter. But if you have to have it…
DO make sure that who ever runs the thing does so in shifts with big kids and little kids, or make sure that there are two of them – one for big kids and one for small ones, because small ones can get seriously knocked around just being in the proximity of a fourth-grade jumper. At least put the thing somewhere far enough away from the center of the event that it’s not there, torturing the children of parents who don’t want to either pay $1 for every three minutes of jumping or to watch their child narrowly avert death with every 11-year-old you allow in there with them.
Really, it would be better just to hire more strolling performers. Musicians, clowns, whatever. Seriously!
Rule #5
DON’T think of a family festival the same way you would think about a county fair or an amusement park.
DO try and be creative and considerate of your audience. Parents are dying for more events where the objective isn’t just a bald-faced sales pitch for stores and services. If you’re a corporation, consult educators about the activities and gear you provide.
What would you add?
Life soundtrack: Sly and the Family Stone, Anthology, “Family Affair”
Copyright Tracy Zollinger Turner, Tinymantras.com, 2007.
When I was 15, I had an ambitious 17-year-old friend who decided to jump on the forward car of the digital bandwagon and open the city’s second CD-only music store. It was a shotgun of a place in a shiny new strip mall on the north side of town. And it had the word “jungle” in its title because the owner’s sister worked for the zoo. We had baby wild animals in the store more than once. I have a specific memory of holding a baby lion in my left arm while searching for a Bartok disc for a customer.
Outside of the owner, there were two other store employees. He hired a manager who was a man-babe, by Columbus’ circa-1985 beauty standards (think Euro-mullet) and 15-year-old music-obsessed me. There were some awful things about this job. When the store crowded with new digital types, we were instructed to put on odd new age releases, Kenny G and other relative crapola designed to make people ooh and aah over the hyper-clarity of the recording and want to buy it immediately to show off their new technology. And I was never so keenly aware of the fact that the music industry was a man’s game. Over the three years that I worked there, I was the only female employee. The record label charlatans were all men. The customers were mostly men.
But there were also wonderful things. Like the boxes of import CDs that we would get and could sneak a listen to before shrink-wrapping them and putting them on the shelves. This was the time when everything was on vinyl, but record companies hadn’t put their catalogs out on CD yet. I could indulge my every curiosity: “Why do so many people want My Baby Just Cares for Me by Nina Simone?” “Are these men buying Blind Faith for the creepy cover or the music?” “Why do people talk about Patti Smith like she’s a deity?” “Did the two Hollands and Dozier really write all of these?”
As much as I knew the radio hits and a record here or there by the Beatles or David Bowie, it didn’t compare with the experience of seeing their catalogs come out and hearing the reasons that customers were anticipating one record over another.
As the store branched out to three locations, I gained more cool music guy co-workers who were at least glad I was there to answer questions about early ’80s pop radio. Because, when a customer asked which Hall and Oates record had “Kiss on My List” on it, I, of course, knew. In return, they pulled me out of a mid-’80s musical adolescence where new video idols danced like living pool noodles and synthesized keyboards were the shoulder pads of radio hits.
Instead, they would convince me, probably as much for their own sanity as anything else, to spend those hours restocking shelves and sitting behind the cash register listening to The Replacements, Koko Taylor, Gustav Mahler, the Grateful Dead , Ornette Coleman. Granted, I came to the store open-minded, with a childhood of country, classical, folk, Motown, doo wop, rockabilly and disco, but they still basically cracked my world wide open. How else would I have ended up here?
Life soundtrack: The Replacements, Let It Be, “I Will Dare”
Nina Simone, Little Girl Blue, “My Baby Just Cares for Me”
Copyright Tracy Zollinger Turner, Tinymantras.com, 2009.
“I’m the human that was boooooorn…” he says, spinning around, looking up towards the ceiling with his hand dangling over his face.
“I’m the human that was boooooorn…” he trips and falls, face-first into the carpet, then pulls himself up, sobbing.
I use mommy snuggles and kisses to coax him back into a happy state.
“Are you the human that was born?” I ask him.
“I’m the human that was born in the puzzle,” he says.
“What did you say?”
“I’m the human that was born in the puzzle.”
He smiles at me and nods, as though he’s certain I will understand exactly what that means.
Update 9/11/07: Last night he added one more (surprising) detail to this mantra: “I am the human that was born in the puzzle of modern physics.” No joke.
Copyright Tracy Zollinger Turner, Tinymantras.com, 2007.
It was a perfect, temperate world last weekend. We spent lots of time on playgrounds and in parks, visiting with friends and family and finding places where we could let the dog run loose. On Monday, we had a picnic on a Granville hillside and met the early signs of fall during a quick walk through the woods. Declan stopped to examine details along the way: a pine cone, a fallen spray of Queen Anne’s lace (“I have a flower for you, mom.”), and a sprig with two deep red leaves on it that he spun between his fingers, asking “is it like a butterfly?
On the way home, the sunset stung his eyes and he kept sneezing. I tried to convince him to wear sunglasses or hold up a book to block the sun, but he was determinedly unhappy, desperately wanting out of his car seat now, now, NOW. I was relieved when we got to the Broad Street exit and began making our way up the long incline to the Hilltop.
Then I saw this body on the side of the road, this man with his face planted into the ground, his legs twisted around a bicycle, blood on the sidewalk near his head. I started grabbing for my cell phone and trying to form a sentence to tell Dan to slow the car down, that there was a person hurt or dying or dead and alone back there. We pulled up to the next intersection so I could look for a street number to tell the 911 operator where the man was. In spite of being the granddaughter of a surgeon, I really had no idea how to help this man other than to call someone who could. The three rings before an answer seemed like a lot.
“I don’t know if he’s dead or alive, he’s just collapsed on the sidewalk and I think his head is bleeding,” I told him. Head injuries. Don’t they come faster for head injuries?
By the time we waited through a light to turn back down Broad Street, two more cars had stopped and a group of five or six people now milled around the man, a couple of them with cell phones pressed to their ears, also calling 911. A helicopter circled. We still had a crying toddler in the back seat. Not to mention an anxious dog strapped into the seat next to him who was now beginning to sense some new level of stress in the air, and who would, therefore, probably start trying to dig his way toward the trunk momentarily. I gave the dispatcher my phone number and told him that we were heading home. Dan told the group that we had reached emergency services and someone was coming. As we reached the top of the hill, an ambulance passed us on its way down.
This is the second time inside of a month that I have seen a person prone along West Broad Street, and went home wondering for several days whether I was possibly looking at someone just moments before, or moments after, their death. The newspaper didn’t shed light on either situation. I don’t think it’s important that I know.
My hope is that in both cases, they are recovering somewhere, basking in the gift of having survived, ready to soak in a perfect, temperate world and twirl the brightly colored, fallen sprigs of a Midwestern autumn in between their fingers.
Life soundtrack: Lou Reed, Magic and Loss, “Magic and Loss”
Copyright Tracy Zollinger Turner, Tinymantras.com, 2007.
Corn, tomatoes and cucumbers give all Ohioans a reason to live through the muggy muck of August. And it took Declan no time at all to learn to love the food of his ancestors (his great grandfather and great-great Uncle were once the Grand Marshalls of the Millersport Sweet Corn Festival).
He went absolutely wild at the Field of Corn in Dublin the other day, surveying the giant kernels up close, and running, running, running through the rows of ears.
Imagine this from the perspective of a 3-foot-tall person.
Ohio State has an extensive site about corn, including a monthly podcast about conditions for growing corn.
That other state that begins and ends with a vowel and is also known for corn has its own Corn Cam.
Life soundtrack: Earl Scruggs & Lester Flatt, Foggy Mountain Jamboree, “Shuckin’ the Corn”
Copyright Tracy Zollinger Turner, Tinymantras.com, 2007.
I just wrote my first review of a John Newbery Medal-winning book, The Cat Who Went to Heaven, for The Newbery Project.
Copyright Tracy Zollinger Turner, Tinymantras.com, 2009.
