Thank You Michael Perry

Thank You Michael Perry

Taped on the inside of my notebook--my motivation.

I would like to talk to you about a video I linked at the bottom of this post. It's an interview with author Michael Perry. It's about his new book Visiting Tom. I feel strongly about acknowledging the role Michael Perry has played in my life, and in my desire to write. Whether you know me personally or only via your visit(s) here at Raining Iguanas please do yourself a favor and take the time to see the piece. Grab a cup of coffee, turn the television off, and see what I see. When I first stumbled upon Mike's book, Population: #485 - Meeting Your Neighbors One Siren At A Time, it was like finding a hidden door that opens up to a world you had been searching for all your life. The parallels of Mike's life growing up in rural America to my own is what hooked me. What dragged me into the boat was the courage he had to keep penning his way to the life he was drawn to create. Mike equates his writing career to cleaning calf pens-"just keep shoveling, and eventually you've got a pile so big, someone will notice." From the moment I first read that quote I was hooked. I used the few small pieces I had submitted locally as kindling wood to start a fire that keeps burning brighter each day. Getting the opportunity to meet him at a book signing some months later was like hitting that campfire with a generous squirt of lighter fluid. Since that day I have been blessed with the support and encouragement of author Jon Katz and my Hubbard Hall Writing Group. I will refer to that lottery win as Stage #2.
There are two specific things that draw me to Mike's writing. One is the style in which he writes. It speaks to me so easily. It flows as sweet and smooth as, "a tipped pitcher of warm maple syrup." The second is how genuine Mike is. It beams from his writing and spoken word. He knows exactly who he is and he has no intentions of trying to portray anything different. It doesn't get any simpler than that. It's what gives me the courage and determination to tackle uncomfortable or unfamiliar ground in my search for more out of life. I may get nervous about entering a new venue, but I keep telling myself--to be myself. It's not that I don't care whether you like me or not, because I do. I think we lie when we say otherwise. The truth is, I can't function unless I am being myself. It's too difficult to pretend. I don't write this because I think you are that interested in my story. I do want you to read it so you too might have an 'ah ha' moment that ignites a fire. I have a long way to go--I hope. I am smart enough to know the limits of my talent. I am also dumb enough to keep forging ahead regardless. As long as the pen has ink and there is a pencil left in the junk drawer, I will be here, or there. What I won't be is fermenting. I plan to keep showing up at work until the prox-card beeps red. I plan to remain the annoying husband who forgets where he leaves things. I will continue to photograph, write, tell stories, and compose an eighth grade level line or two of poetry but I will do it for me, in hopes it will do something for you. Thank you Michael Perry, I wish you much success. You have already placed a platter of it on my picnic table.

Here is the link to the interview:
 http://sneezingcow.com/2012/10/10/for-the-record-interview/

Mike is the young guy on the left holding his book, Truck: A Love Story. 

Pee Wee

Pee Wee

Pee Wee is the sailor on the far left of the front row. My father is the second sailor in from the left poking through the railing. This was taken on the deck of the USS General W.C. Langfitt. 

Pee Wee is not a fictional character. Pee Wee was a real life sailor who sailed aboard the USS General W.C. Langfitt with my father during WWII. My father, Pee Wee and their unit spent time stationed in Adak, Alaska. While I was sitting at the foot of my father’s hospital bed one evening just before he passed away, he began talking in his sleep. The conversation was as clear as a bell and if you had been listening from around the corner, you would have thought he was telling this story to a group of visiting friends. In retrospect he probably was. Dad had reminisced fondly of his fellow sailors and their varied personalities in the past, but this story was new. He was grinning from ear to ear as he slept and recanted this anecdote about Pee Wee. I tried my best to write this down as dad told it. It is as accurate as I can remember. 

Pee Wee was from Arkansas, a real backwoods hillbilly who grew up hunting squirrels, birds, and rabbits. Pee Wee’s father shook him out of bed one morning and told him to go out and get a squirrel for breakfast. Because they were dirt poor, they had little money for extravagant things like ammunition. They would manage without bullets by throwing stones to hunt small game. Following his father's orders Pee Wee pulled on his britches and headed for the cabin door. As he sauntered down the dirt path and into the woods, and with his face beaming with confidence, he bellowed back toward the cabin, “Don’t worry Pa, I’ll throw left handed so’s not to mash up the meat.” 

J.R.G.2.23.09

Dad passed away 2/27/09.  I dedicate this anecdote to his memory. 


I wrote down the piece above  just a few days before dad passed. He loved hearing and sharing these types of stories. I can't explain in words the feeling I had listening to my father tell this story in his sleep. I knew he was failing. There was nothing left to do but absorb every last bit of him in his final days. He loved to share anecdotes, a cold draft and sometimes a shot of brandy or two with his friends. I miss his stories dearly. I miss the man who told them more. 

This is my father Ralph and my Grandmother Frances in the back yard of their home at #176 East Ave. Saratoga Springs, N.Y.
circa. 1942

So Many Ways A Flower

I took these photos with my little Sony RX100. The early morning sun beckoned. The air was cold and glove worthy. One thing led to another and this is the result. I tried to write something to compliment the collection but no matter what I wrote it came up short. Somethings are better left unspoken. There are so many ways a flower can say it better. 

Thanksgiving Happy

Thanksgiving Happy 
By John R. Greenwood 

Here's why I am both thankful and happy:

I am thankful that the first and only women I ever loved is still preparing our Thanksgiving dinner. I enjoy it more and more each year because with each passing autumn I realize that the most important ingredient of the feast is love.

I am thankful one thousand times over for my two sons. They taught me why patience is a virtue and why  cars have insurance. Sons are pride and joy wrapped  in, "What now?" gift paper.

I am thankful that every morning the alarm goes off I have a good job to go to. No matter how much I complain about the stress and late night phone calls when it gets down to it I am appreciative of every paycheck and what it has provided me and my family. From the minute I swipe my prox card I am surrounded by good, honest, hardworking people who give their very best each and every day. My life has been encased by caring individuals looking out for their neighbors and friends, men and women who are unselfish and giving. My life has been blessed with beautiful friends working by my side. I am a fortunate man.

I am thankful for the freedom to roam. I live in a country where I can walk out my back door without fear. I live where there are high peaks to the north and cities of opportunity to the south. I have rolling farmland to the east and valley's with rivers flowing through them to the west. The skies above are blue and bomb-free. My house is my home and my mortgage is not rent.

I have my health-- creaks and groans included. Most of my parts still function, although my mind needs a jump start on Monday mornings.

I am thankful for having had parents who loved me, grandparents who spoiled me, and a cherished sister who still calls me little brother.

There are many things around us that we take for granted. Thanksgiving is a day to take inventory and reflect on the things that are important. Shopping and excess may be on your list but they should not be at or near the top. Walk next door today and hug that precious neighbor who brought you comfort when times were thin. Call a dear aunt who sent you birthday money until you were eighteen. Tell your spouse you love them, maybe even twice in one day.

Be thankful today. Don't complain about the weather. Don't worry if the turkey is a little dry. Who cares if the plates don't match or the Cowboys lose by a touchdown, what really matters--is that you're here--and not there. Life is too short not to make everyday Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving Happy,
Raining Iguanas

When To Write?

When To Write?
By John R. Greenwood

When to write? Three simple words swirled me awake at 5am on a Saturday morning. When a love of writing has you in its grasp, finding time to write can be a tug of war between husband and wife, employee and employer, need and desire.

My mind is in constant motion searching for something to describe, explain, or share -with the world around me-from the world around me. As I thought about it I realized that the need to write, and the need to share it, are two separate things. Is it a love of writing, or is it a love of sharing, that fuels my personal struggle-when to write?

The creative urge is strong and the desire to share it can consume you. When I pulled apart the question I had placed in front of me it suddenly became more complex. I tried to chase down the birth of my writing bug to see if  could find why it burned so strong in a man on the further side of life. Did the fire start the day a columnist from a local newspaper called to ask if they could publish a story and poem I had submitted. It seemed to go back further. I kept digging. Each time I thought I could see the bottom of the well it took another turn and went deeper into my childhood.

As I traveled deep into my preteen years I stumbled upon a handful of loose leaf pages folded pocket-size and covered, seven pages worth, with a story written with an old plastic Bic pen. It wasn't a homework assignment or an essay on what I did over summer vacation. It was a junior high school idea of funny. It was called, "The Bigger and Better Bob Burke Blue Book Biography" by Beatrice Barrett (my apparent ghost writing name). I must apologize to my classmate Bob Burke. My attempt at humor was not directed at him even though it was titled in his honor. It was a preteen creative spark gone awry. A seven page story full of words beginning with the letter B. It was a cry for attention and it worked. When a group of  junior high boys are gathered around a desk laughing, it's only a matter of time before a teacher with a class to teach will lose her sense of humor. That is exactly what happened. "What's so funny boys? Would you like to share with the class Mr. Greenwood?" Well I really did, but I was smart enough to know Mrs. Not Real Happy was about to declare me a failure. My creative spark doused with a stern stare of disappointment. To Bob and Mrs. N.R.H. , I hope you can forgive me-the creative spirit runs deep.  What would drive me to bury my homework at the bottom of a pile and then put so much effort into something so childish and immature?  It was the need for attention over knowledge. It was more fun, less challenging, more creative, less structured. The amazing thing about that silly B saturated manifesto is that I have saved it for almost fifty years. It remains folded, yellowed, and dear to my heart. It was my first and only book.

So there you have it. The beginning spark ignited so many decades ago. The question of when to write seems clearer now. You write when the pull pulls you and the drive drives you. I tend to freeze under pressure or direction--a writing rebel without a clause. A rambler and a gambler throwing words out into the wind and letting them float softly to the ground. I receive no compensation for my words other than the joy of tapping away my thoughts and dreams for all to see. There are millions of others out there just like me. They write songs and stories, plays and poems. Writing is painting with a pen, singing with a keyboard. Below is a photo of page one of my first book. 

Page #1
1967 ?