Montessori Rules ~ A Tribute to Peggie Ann Kilpatrick

On rare occasion, we realize upfront a person is special. Peggie Ann Kilpatrick was such a person.

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Ms. Peggie and the kids indulge during the 1996 Halloween party. (Children’s faces have been blurred to prevent identification.)

When our daughter turned three, Bonnie and I decided to place her in a preschool for socialization and early education. Our acquaintances’ children were older, and our daughter had no one her age for company. Finding a good school, however, wouldn’t be easy. State regulations governing preschool operation were loose, to say the least. Employment required little or no professional training or educational background. Many facilities were (and probably remain) so poorly regulated, they were at best safety hazards. Beyond regulations, many, if not most, promoted the teachers’ and owners’ political and religious agendas. Such schools were not for us. We required a secular school that served children without regard to racial, social, cultural, religious, or ethnic group, that reflected community diversity and respected the child and child’s family without promoting ideological agendas.

We began our search with traditional schools, but none lived up to their promotional material, operating more like babysitting services than preschools or kindergartens. So we turned to schools based on alternative teaching methods. Among the few in our area, only one discipline intrigued us—Montessori. Montessori educational method dates to 1907 when Maria Montessori, realizing a desperate need in Italy for a more effective educational system to serve lower income families, opened Casa dei Bambini—the Children’s House—in one of Rome’s low-income districts. Although few U.S.-based Montessori schools today serve specifically low-income families, most encompass Maria Montessori’s methods by centering on whole child development, including the physical, emotional, social, and cognitive aspects, with younger children learning from older children who reinforce what they’ve learned by teaching the younger, a system that mirrors how most people socialize and learn in the world at large. Further, Montessori method incorporates special tools and aids for students to learn and experience through sensory-motor activities to develop cognitive powers such as sound, sight, smell, taste, movement, and touch.

We visited the first Montessori school on a chilly midweek morning. Children ranged from three to five years in age but reflected no cultural or racial diversity. They sat at small tables, engaged in solitary activities, from puzzles to coloring, in a large room that exhibited obsessive attention to order. As the owner spoke with us, a “teacher” drifted around the room, hands behind back, monitoring and instructing kids to do tasks in a certain way rather than encouraging them to explore. What struck us most was the room’s extreme quiet. It was mid-morning with lunch soon approaching, and not one child was talking. It felt uncomfortable. Our daughter expressed no interest when the owner offered to show her some of the activities. We left, disheartened. If this school was representative, how could anyone praise Montessori method as better than Snaggletooth Dorothy’s Backyard Babysitting Service?

The second school renewed our hope somewhat. Kids were more engaged and social, better reflecting Montessori basics, but tuition proved prohibitive for our budget. That’s when we visited Peggie’s school, a converted house that had once served as a restaurant, the main room large, but not cavernous, to accommodate the complete student body when the kids weren’t in smaller, open rooms involved in group and individual learning activities. About twenty-five children—Japanese, East Indian, black, white—engaged in a variety of tasks, assisting and interacting constructively with each other. Without invitation, our daughter squirmed out of my arms, walked over to a table, sat down next to a girl about her age, and began to work on a puzzle.

Peggie—Ms. Peggie—grinned. “Looks like she’s found a home.”

Tuition, though lower than that of the other schools, threatened to exceed our budget, but Peggie was completely open about operation costs, with every penny justified as she ran the school on a shoestring, serving as owner, CEO, lead teacher, curriculum developer, chef, chauffeur, handyman—you name it, Peggie filled the bill. When we did the math, we concluded Peggie had to be a magician. So we found a way to fit tuition into our budget.

Peggie and the two teachers she employed—in particular, Beth Allison Young—engaged every student with respect and positive guidance, loosely termed Montessori Rules, to create a dynamic, cooperative, fun community of little people developing their educational and social skills. Peggie’s Montessori Rules became the foundation for personal responsibility and action that still guides our daughter today, some twenty years later.

Peggie’s grace extended beyond the children to their families. When conservative politicians forced a federal government shutdown in the mid-1990s, they created budgetary havoc in households of federal employees, including ours. Peggie offered to delay tuition payment during that time, something we could not accept. She was overextended already, but her gesture was an example of how she cared for others, how every family whose child attended her school became a part of her own extended family.

As our daughter progressed from preschool into kindergarten, Peggie underwent medical tests that revealed smoking-related lung scarring. By then, she’d lost twenty percent of her breathing capacity due to early-stage emphysema. A week after the medical news, someone sideswiped her on her way to work, putting her car upside down in a ditch. She crawled out through a broken window with minor injuries, lucky to be alive. If parents brought up either the accident or the medical results, Peggie deftly shifted to another subject. She steadfastly refused to burden the school’s parents with her problems.

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Peggie (far right) dances with the kids as fathers perform a special version of “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” during the 1998 kindergarten graduation ceremony. (Children’s faces have been blurred to prevent identification.)

Shortly before the end of our daughter’s last year with Peggie, a friend and I performed a program of folk songs for the school. The kids enjoyed the show, and Peggie asked us to perform a couple of songs at the upcoming graduation ceremony, the school’s biggest annual event. My friend couldn’t make it, but two other Montessori fathers—Jamie Gauthier and Joe Schartung—joined in to play a song we designed specifically for the event, a blues-rock version of “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.”

Flustered and flushed when speaking to a roomful of adults, Peggie persevered until she could redirect the spotlight to Beth, a child, or a parent, deflecting praise for herself to others, no matter how much she deserved honor. During this graduation, however, she couldn’t dodge the compliment we fathers built into the song. As Peggie and the kids danced together, we belted out the last verse:

“Young Ms. Peggie has a school, E-I-E-I-O
“And in that school are wonderful kids, E-I-E-I-O
“Well the kids learn here, the kids play there,
“Learn here, play there, grow in Montessori care.
“Oh, young Ms. Peggie has an excellent school, E-I-E-I-O.”

Our daughter remained in touch with Peggie after kindergarten, visiting during elementary, middle, and high school, once to conduct a hands-on juggling presentation for Peggie’s Montessori kids as part of a high school class assignment. Even Peggie tried to juggle. The kids loved it just as they enjoyed most events and activities Peggie arranged, activities that included rudimentary lessons in Spanish and Japanese, a professional clown’s performance, and child-and-parent cultural demonstrations on food and clothing.

Not long after the juggling presentation, Peggie retired, and our contact with her became more sporadic. Shortly before moving to another state a couple of years ago, I bumped into her at a department store. Her emphysema had worsened, and she now required supplemental oxygen, a topic from which she quickly moved with “Let’s talk about that girl of yours.”

Each of us encounters so many people along life’s path, but few have profound and permanent effect on us. Peggie’s influence was broad and substantial as she equipped young children with the tools to build a solid, respectful, moral, productive foundation for success in all areas of their lives. Whether by negligence or design, the Peggies of the world traverse their journeys mostly unrecognized and unthanked. Luckily, we were able to express several times to Peggie our appreciation for all she had done for our daughter. In typical Peggie style, she’d say, “The credit lies with that girl.”

Each day the world loses special people. Everyone is transitory, a brief flicker in the firestorm of time, but some survive death through the reputations they craft in life. Peggie is one of those people. The influence she’s had on hundreds of children and their families will extend for generations to come. The children she taught—and their children and their children—will continue to employ, benefit from, and pass on the values Peggie instilled, the values of Montessori Rules.

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Peggie Ann Kilpatrick
November 19, 1949 – July 9, 2016
Please visit the online memorial.

The Signatures a Naughty Delight

From the initial elevator lift to the novice attorney’s office floor, the reader realizes Stacee Pocket will provide one heck of a funny ride, erotic or otherwise. In Molly Haven’s The Signatures, Stacee bubbles with an innate naiveté and friendliness—not to mention a heck of a body—that can either endear her to others or drive them nuts.

In an early scene with her more worldly friend Evie, Stacee reveals herself as a young woman with little carnal experience outside “true love.” But Stacee’s got plenty of licentious episodes coming her way when her boss sends her on a mission to obtain eight signatures on documents connected to THE big case—signatures needed “to plug up some dangerous holes.” What could be easier than plugging holes? She has an entire day to do it—never mind the offhand remark that “quite a few associates” before her have tried and failed.

Stacee sets out, confident she’s equipped with whatever it takes to get those signatures. In ways she hadn’t before considered, Stacee exploits her assets fully to get ahead by satisfactorily completing the assignment. From a retired, hustling magician to a movie star, a fashion designer, a nerd in a Jetsons T-shirt, and several other colorful characters, Stacee encounters a number of challenges that lead to extraordinary sexual romps as titillating as they are time-warping and hilarious.

An occasional suspension of disbelief is required, primarily to cram so many sexual shenanigans into a single day, but time is not the story. Discount the time element and simply accept that, yes, encounters as weirdly sensual and funny as these can happen, and try not to wonder, “Why don’t they happen to me?”  The Signatures is Molly Haven’s debut novel. The author has handily achieved a high standard of explicitly sexual humor, delivering a salaciously delightful read.

The Signatures is available through many outlets, including Amazon.com, Kobo, B&N, and Smashwords.

Moral, Moral, Lesson Be

This essay was written originally for PoetryRepairs.com and entitled “The Moral of It All.”

In a review of my short story collection Rise Up, a critic wrote that “…many of these tales [are] meant to leave the writer with a moral lesson, or at least comment on morality in the modern age.” Although it was expressed as criticism, I took the comment as compliment because I believe a piece should imply more than the description on the page and impart some kind of moral or position. When my work achieves that, I feel lucky.

I’ve published short and book-length material, nonfiction and fiction, poetry and prose. By far, my short work, especially poetry, is the most satisfying to produce. Everything is story, and the most challenging form of story is the poem—the shorter, the better. What’s more, if the narrative on the page implies an extensive story beyond the words, then, in my opinion, it has succeeded on a greater level. And if it imparts a moral? Pure gravy.

The poet whose work I admire most was a master at achieving story and moral beyond the printed page. Raymond Carver is celebrated most for his short stories, but he was a master poet as well. Take “The Net” as example. The narrator describes passing a one-armed fisherman who’s wrestling with a fishing net. The narrator assumes the fisherman is simply doing his job. But when the narrator looks back from a greater distance, he sees the fisherman is caught in the net, struggling to free himself. In its simplest interpretation, the poem’s net is a metaphor for life or circumstances. The distancing of the narrator from the fisherman is a metaphor for achieving objectivity by seeing the “big picture.” Of course, much more is going on in this poem, but even its most simplistic story and moral demonstrate the power and depth of short, concise, precise writing, of creating an expansive story within the confines of a poem.

My poem “Studebaker” accomplishes what I try but regularly fail to accomplish in each poem I write. “Studebaker” has appeared in several journals and is included in my first collection of poems, White Trash & Southern ~ Collected Poems, Volume I.

Studebaker

There, next to the polished Mercedes,
the yellow Studebaker,
rust holes in the fender walls,
paint-chipped hood,
worn seats—nothing like
the old man’s.
He kept his sparkling, let me tell you,
just like the Model T before,
and the Thunderbird, the ’56 Chevy,
and the entire freeway of cars
that sped through my youth,
but none was so striking
as that hand-buffed Studebaker
with its whitewalls,
its custom steering wheel,
its immaculate seats,and that night,
coming back from Andalusia
when they thought I was asleep
in the back,
and he reached over,
grabbed her hair,
jerked her hard enough
to spin her head to the side.
I found two spots of dried blood
the following day,
and I remembered how the moon
had hung in the rear window
just below a cluster of stars
as he muttered, Christ,
why’d you make me do that?
And she had rested her head
back against that perfect seat
as the hum of new tires on asphalt
rose through the floorboard.

The story beyond the words involves a family plagued by domestic violence—a father/husband who prizes flashy cars over his relationship with his wife, who rules with anger and violence, whose behavior taints the very things that should be cause for celebration and enjoyment, a man who blames others for his own failures as a human being. Further, the poem’s second half implies that life itself is a cynical journey because everything that’s perfect in the poem—immaculate seats, custom steering wheel, whitewalls, new tires, moon, stars—is corrupted by the dark side of reality. As for lessons, draw your own conclusion, but, if I had to define a moral, it would be that people should value one another at least as much as they value their toys. Does the fact the poem communicates a moral make it less important, less enjoyable, less relevant?

As “Studebaker” suggests, I’m not a fan of poetry that relies on abstract, philosophical musing. I don’t condemn such writing. Certainly not. It’s just a matter of preference. I prefer to write and read poetry derived from and descriptive of everyday struggle, failure, success, and celebration, poetry that relates life through specific events and situations that may or may not be similar to the reader’s experiences. Through such work, we can relate to circumstances that might otherwise be foreign to us. We can sympathize and empathize closely with characters. And we can learn something new or validate something old, even if it’s the simple fact that not every reader enjoys work with a moral.

Personal Experience Effect

No matter the effort to avoid it, personal experience—from the drama of relatives to political shenanigans—creeps into every writer’s work, whether it’s fiction or nonfiction. The Confederate flag hoopla and the fight for and against the rights of people of color, women, and homosexuals are examples of issues that have proved provocative, disruptive, even destructive in interpersonal relationships and a godsend for the political powers who use division as a control device. Buying into the propaganda of political and media organizations, we make extreme decisions that affect our interpersonal relationships for the rest of our lives. When those decisions involve a writer, you can bet the effects will be reflected in the writer’s work.

Politics is naturally contentious, each generation viewing its own political tomfoolery as more contentious than what came before. Since the advent of 24/7 “news” channels, whose primary purpose is not to report news, but to stoke fear, frustration, hatred, and anger, politics has been exploited fully as a tool to divide and punish rather than to find compromise and serve the common good. I’m not so naïve to believe this use of politics is something new, but its in-your-face nature has strengthened exponentially in recent decades, thanks to technology. We’re assaulted relentlessly through our televisions and radios, computers, smartphones, tablets—umbilically connected to designer “news” sites that feed our prejudice and fear to the point we lose grip on reality and rationality and strike out at all who differ in opinion, worldview, gender, sexuality, religion, lifestyle, or race.

I grew up in South Alabama and Northwest Florida during the late 1950s through the early 1970s. The region wasn’t then nor has it become one of the most tolerant of diversity. Flaming midnight crosses lit up country pastures. Robed, hooded figures gathered like kids at a mega weenie roast, singing angry, hateful campfire songs about folks born of different race or religion, preaching the end of the world was nigh if lesser races acquired the same rights whites already enjoyed. Oh, save us, Jesus! It’s Armageddon! Color me silly, but I don’t think Jesus the Jew would be welcomed at such an event.

A close relative was then and remains a man of the white robe, flames flickering in his eyes, despite his interaction over the decades with a variety of people of color and cultures, thanks to his public sales business. He has never felt a need or desire to question the region’s prevalent stereotypes and fears of people who’re different, to overcome the hatred, to grow. Why, I don’t know. To my knowledge, he’s never suffered physically, financially, or mentally due to malicious acts by any person of color. And he certainly hasn’t lost his rights to groups or individuals gaining their own. He has, however, been a willing, unquestioning consumer of the Wallace/Thurmond/Trump/Helms/Cruz/Santorum/Fox/et.al. stream of fear and hate mongering, never once seeking objective verification to even the most extraordinary claim, never once attempting to understand any issue through a viewpoint other than his own bigotry.

During a phone conversation four years ago, I voiced support for the Affordable Care Act, better known as Obamacare. “Don’t you tell me,” he growled, “you like what that communist nigger’s done.” I wasn’t shocked by his response. We’d debated his use of such small-minded epithets on numerous occasions, especially this particular word which he uses not only in reference to anyone black, but also to persons of Middle Eastern, Mexican, and other cultural and racial backgrounds. I suspect he used the word this time simply to anger me as he began a litany of irrational charges against President Obama, that the President had “ruined” the economy, that he’s Muslim, that he’s waging war against Christians, that he’s not even American—all the batty, right-wing talking points and conspiracy theories that even reality can’t counter in the true believer’s mind. Then he asserted that the U.S. should have never pulled out of Iraq, that Obama had secured the destruction of America by doing so.

“We never should have invaded Iraq in the first place,” I said.

He took a breath. “That’s something we agree on,” he said. “We should’ve nuked the hell out of them because them A-rabs ain’t even human.”

That was it.

We were done.

After a lifetime of shared, reluctant tolerance, our relationship had abruptly come to an end.

Earlier this week, my spouse received an email from one of her relatives, an email purporting that the factual histories of the Civil War and Rebel battle flag are instead myth, that the war had little to do with slavery, that the flag is a symbol of only southern heritage, not racism. The sender did not copy me on the mail, perhaps because she understands my view of such bigotry and did not want to risk rebuttal. When my spouse replied to the mail, she copied all to whom the original had been sent, and she copied me as well, addressing the original mail as though her relative had offered it as an example of how gullible people are when something supports their bigoted worldview:

“People will believe anything rather than admitting that it’s been 150 years since the end of the Civil War and we still have racism. How sad and disappointing. As a nation we have made progress, but we still have far to go.”

A day later, the following landed in my mailbox, thanks to my spouse’s relative who hit “reply to all.” It’s presented unaltered:

“No one living today is a slave or has owned a slave, am I wrong in not liking group of people who have different views of life than I do? I have always been told ‘your rights end when they intruded on mine’ how much longer do we as Americans need to bend over and take it up the as…before these people realize they need to start to take care of themselves? This crap has been going on for years. The American public has, in my opinion done way too much to make amends for what has happened in the past and they still want more, work for it like the rest of us have done and quit asking for a hand out.”

It would have been wise not to reply to the rant, but I’m not a wise man. I thought that, by engaging the writer in a rational, fact-based discussion, he might look beyond the hyperbole of pundits, might change his mind. So I responded, copying all on the list:

“Thanks for your entertaining mail. If you would like to engage in a rational debate on specific issues, backing your points with objective, valid sources (not political organizations such as Fox News or DailyKos), I’d be happy to debate you. However, specifics are required. For example, instead of generalizations such as ‘these people,’ define whether they are black, of Mexican descent like yourself, Jewish, Middle Eastern, East Indian, Asian, etc., since the average southern white lumps all races of color into the same lesser-than category. Another example would be ‘handouts’ and the group to which the so-called handout is provided–social security, Medicare, food stamps, housing assistance, etc.–and how it affects you and how or why it is right or wrong. Back your argument with objective sources. Another example is ‘your rights end when they intrude on mine.’ Be specific. For example, do you mean you have the right to fly a Nazi flag on your property, but you don’t have the right to demand government or public entities to fly the flag on their buildings or property since that property represents all people? Or I have the right to worship the Flying Spaghetti Monster but not to force you to say my prayers in school?

“You get the idea.

“If you and the others in this mail exchange do not desire a rational debate but would prefer to vent anger and frustration over issues based on the ‘factual’ nonsense regarding the Confederate flag that began this exchange, I prefer to be left out of the loop.\

“Take care…”

A few moments later: “Fuck you.”

My response: “Okay.”

Then: “Just forget my email address and I don’t ever want to see you or any of your family again. Chris you are a looser.”

“For future reference,” I replied, “it’s ‘loser,’ not ‘looser.’”

When we refuse to engage in rational discussion, when we set our minds so rigidly based on irrational hatred and fear, when we refuse to consider another point of view unless it agrees with our own, when we refuse to grow, all of us are losers.

From fiction to poetry, creative nonfiction to straight reporting, personal experience colors my work in some way. One example of experience influencing my nonfiction work began with intervention in three on-the-street domestic violence incidents in Hawaii in the early1980s, which led to an article for Honolulu Magazine on the state’s problem of domestic violence, what police termed “local love.” The article helped in a small way to push a mandatory arrest bill through the state legislature to become law, requiring police to arrest aggressors when responding to domestic violence calls. In fiction and poetry, the above relatives, as well as others, have provided models for characters in stories such as “Side-Road Shack” and “Luau,” the novel Big Daddy’s Fast-Past Gadget, and in many of the poems in White Trash & Southern ~ Collected Poems, Volume I.

We writers are grateful to the relatives who manufacture drama, the politicians who stir the pot of fear and hatred, the citizens in our communities who fuel suspicion and discontent. By simply being who they are, these people prove an ironic benefit to writers. We thank them for helping us to explore the irrational, the hateful, the destructive through the characters they inspire. If, by chance, our work benefits the reader or society at large in any measure, we owe them that much more gratitude.

Yes, we’re deeply indebted to them.

I wish we weren’t.

Common Sense Be Damned

As a writer of fiction and creator of characters, I’ve advocated for the use of common sense as saving grace, the obvious right way to function in the world, to react to situations, to make things better, to succeed. Boy, was I wrong.

Common sense, as defined by Dictionary.com, is “sound practical judgment that is independent of specialized knowledge, training, or the like; normal native intelligence.”

How can any judgment, if independent of knowledge and training, be sound or practical? How can it be called intelligence?

I’ve reexamined stories I’ve written, and it’s obvious that successful characters employ something more than what I once considered to be common sense, their actions, instead, based on knowledge, training, and a cultivation of ability and understanding. Those characters who employ actual common sense end up filling the bellies of zombies.

Let’s stroll down Common Sense Lane to one of its most popular houses, Science Denial. Global warming, despite what you’ve heard in media laughingly calling themselves news services, is not scientific fantasy, and it’s not a hoax. Scientists leave fantasy to science fiction writers and hoaxes to pundits. Politicians and corporate persons, however, have cynically refined misinformation to convince many purveyors of common sense that global warming does not exist. Even if it does exist, members of the U.S. Senate majority sneer, humans are completely guilt free and in no way cause changes in climate. These senators quickly point out that they’re not scientists. But why let that get in the way? What do scientists really know when it comes to science?

North Alabama’s congressional rep, Mo Brooks, a proud and vocal resident at Science Denial, posed this question in 2011: “[W]ould it be fair to say then that there has been a cooling of global temperatures at least over the last 13 years compared to 1998?” The answer is, of course, no, it would not be fair, nor would it be accurate or anywhere near factual. The last decade was the hottest on record since record keeping began, with 2014 the hottest year on record. But Mo’s sisters and brothers in denial in the Senate didn’t let such indisputable data get in the way of being independent of specialized knowledge. Instead, the majority tapped Ted Cruz, a vocal science and climate change denier, to head the Senate’s Subcommittee on Science and Space and James Inhofe, one of the most notorious climate change deniers in government, to chair the Senate’s Environment and Public Works Committee.

Leadership! But nothing more than a reflection of the electorate.

We Americans pride ourselves in our smarts, and we elect politicians who reflect our astounding acumen. Want more examples of our prodigious common sense? According to a 2006 McCormick Tribune Freedom Museum survey, more than half of us can name two or more Simpson cartoon family members, but only one in four can name more than one of the freedoms guaranteed by the First Amendment. Our constitutional prowess gets even better. According to a 2007 survey by The First Amendment Center, 55 percent of us (75 percent of Republicans and evangelicals, 50 percent of Democrats) believe the Founding Fathers wrote Christianity into the Constitution, establishing the U.S. as a Christian nation (pssst…they did not). Despite specific constitutional language ensuring freedom of worship to citizens of any religion—Christian, Muslim, Spaghetti Flying Monster, none at all—people are far less willing to extend to religious groups they consider extreme the freedom they enjoy in exercising their own beliefs.

In that same survey, nearly half of the respondents said teachers in private and public schools should be allowed to use the Christian bible as a factual text in history class. Further, some 60 percent of us Americans believe the biblical story of Noah’s Ark to be literal. Fifty percent believe a biblical rapture is in the near offing, with Jesus himself leading the faithful into heaven from an Earth that 50 percent of us claim to be only 6,000 to 10,000 years old, despite fossils, carbon dating—well, despite scientific fact. A good 10 percent believe that Barack Obama is Muslim, except during those moments when they’re condemning him for his membership in Trinity United Church of Christ of Chicago. Then they say he’s a radical.

More than a decade after we destroyed Iraq and ensured generations of hatred toward the U.S., 30 percent of Americans still believe that Saddam Hussein was directly responsible for the September 11, 2001, attacks (he had nothing to do with the attacks). In a 2003 National Geographic survey, only one in seven respondents between ages 18 and 24 could identify Iraq on a map even though we invaded it because Saddam Hussein purportedly possessed weapons of mass destruction (he did not). Only 29 percent could identify the Pacific Ocean, that big ol’ blue pond off the California coast (Cali-what?). And up from 20 percent in a 1999 survey, a full 26 percent of Americans in a 2014 National Science Foundation survey said that the Sun revolves around the Earth. Yes, they truly did.

That’s our common sense in a nutshell. When it comes to the politicians we elect, we have nothing but “sound practical judgment that is independent of specialized knowledge, training, or the like” to blame. Politicians understand we Americans aren’t adept in government operation any more than we are in science, history, or geography. Take our inability to interpret the annual budget. A 2010 World Pacific Opinion survey found that most American voters want to cut foreign aid because they believe such aid comprises at least 27 percent of the budget. It’s less than one percent. Seventy-one percent of us, according to a 2010 CNN poll, also want to cut the size of government, and we want to do it by at least 50 percent, according to a 2009 Gallup poll—never mind that such drastic reductions would slash Medicare, Social Security, and Medicaid, cuts that 70 percent of us oppose. Politicians thus pander to our fears, stoke our prejudices, and keep us ignorant, in line, and reliant upon common sense.

I once believed common sense to be a higher level of logic and reason common to all but accessed by few. But I’ve learned that common sense is nothing more than the collective stupidity of a culture or people, utilized as standard operating procedure and erroneously promoted as extraordinary and desirable. Denying responsibility, rejecting fact, perpetuating ignorance, operating out of hate and fear—that’s  common sense and the foundation for stagnation, regression, and deterioration. It’s uncommon sense that takes a society forward. We advance only when we disengage “judgment that is independent of specialized knowledge, training, or the like,” and embrace a higher level of reasoning reliant upon fact and truth to benefit the common good.

Now that’s good common sense.

If I Were, I Would!

Embark on fantastic adventures in a whimsical universe of poetry and art where everything is possible. Explore and celebrate the wonderful and diverse world through imagination! And if you see the authors there, wave!

“…a charming and heart-warming journey.” ~Joanna Dreiling, M.Ed., reading specialist

“…a feeling of hope and the certainty that happiness and goodness are still out there.” ~Cynthia Harris, author

If I Were, I Would! is available in trade paperback, iBook, Kindle, Nook (Barnes & Noble), Kobo, and audiobook (Audible.com, Amazon.com, iTunes). The audio enhanced iBook, available from iTunes for iPad and other devices, features print-book layout and full read-along audio to assist in vocabulary expansion for young readers.

Download an iBook preview with audio at  https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/book-title/id916556775?mt=11.

View the Youtube trailer at http://youtu.be/WccgaGyM3xs.

If I Were, I Would!  is available through most bookstores and the following links:

iTunes: (audio enhanced for iPad and other devices): https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/book-title/id916556775?mt=11

Amazon.com:  (print edition): http://www.amazon.com/If-I-Were-Would/dp/1501046942/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1410276021&sr=1-1&keywords=c.s.+fuqua

Kindle full-layout HD edition: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00NE1Q146

Kobo: (standard ePub edition): http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/if-i-were-i-would

CreateSpace: (print edition): https://www.createspace.com/4981387

Beth Young is an award-winning artist with an extensive background in commercial, creative, and instructional art. A specialist in Montessori Method instruction and certified in early childhood education, Beth is a full-time elementary school art teacher, affording her intimate knowledge of the types of illustrations that appeal most to young children.

C.S. Fuqua’s books include Muscle Shoals ~ The Hit Capital’s Heyday & Beyond, Hush, Puppy! A Southern Fried Tale, the award-winning The Swing: Poems of Fatherhood, and The Native American Flute ~ Myth, History, Craft, among others. His poems and short stories have appeared widely in publications such as Main Street Rag , Christian Science Monitor, Chiron Review, Cemetery Dance, Year’s Best Horror Stories, and The Old Farmer’s Almanac.

Muscle Shoals: The Hit Capital’s Heyday & Beyond

From Dexter Johnson’s garage studio to James Joiner’s “A Fallen Star,” Tune Records to FAME and Muscle Shoals Sound studios, Aretha Franklin to the Rolling Stones and the Black Keys, from the beginning to present day—Muscle Shoals: The Hit Capital’s Heyday & Beyond is an updated, expanded version of Music Fell on Alabama, the original book-length history of the Muscle Shoals music industry, first published in 1991, chronicling the cooperation of black and white producers and artists during one of the most volatile times in U.S. race relations, cooperation that produced many of the most celebrated and enduring songs of all time.

Much has been written about the Muscle Shoals music industry and even a movie produced, most accounts crediting the area’s phenomenal success to some mystical power divined from the Tennessee River. Myth makes for good drama, but Muscle Shoals: The Hit Capital’s Heyday & Beyond details the true source of the industry’s success: the tenacious determination of talented individuals obsessed with the desire to make a difference in music.

And what a difference they made…

Purchase Muscle Shoals: The Hit Capital’s Heyday & Beyond online at Amazon.com, Kobobooks.com, B&N, and other retailers. Muscle Shoals can also be ordered through most local retail bookstores.

White Trash & Southern explores joys, sorrows of living

Collecting 232 poems spanning more than three decades, White Trash& Southern explores the beauty, joys, challenges, and sadness thatencompass life. From the book’s cover:

“Poetry in this data-saturated age is not, for most, a viable way to make a living. So why expend the time and energy to create something that few people will read and even fewer will purchase? To which I must ask, why do people sing in the rain, paint pictures, dance? Because it provides pleasure and reward and perhaps even keeps them sane. As a writer of fiction and nonfiction, I am most concerned with story. When I write poetry, I view it not as some lofty literary tool to fool or condescend, but as an exercise in crafting story within the strictest confines. White Trash & Southern is a collection of such exercises, spanning nearly three decades. To create a complex story within a limited number of words—to communicate far more than appears on the page—is a challenge that can provide enormous reward and satisfaction. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I don’t. But at least I remain sane. Sort of.”

“With an eye for the particular and an ear for the music of everyday life, C. S. Fuqua shares with readers his brave and lyrical view of human experience. An unflinching examination of the sorrows and joys we experience while moving through the world, White Trash & Southern is a fine collection of poems.” ~Dr. Wendy Galgan, Editor, Assisi Literary Magazine

White Trash & Southern is full of empathy and honor for the human condition that we ultimately all share. This is a wonderful book of poetry, and a fine achievement that will greatly enrich its readers.” ~Devin McGuire, Editor of the Unrorean literary magazine and author of After the Hunt (Encircle Publications 2013)

“White Trash & Southern [by] C.S. Fuqua [is] gritty, insightful, humorous, tragic, and celebratory … [B]egin anywhere, skip around, or read it from back to front … a well-written, coherent collection … however you read it.” ~Jonathan K. Rice, Editor/Publisher, Iodine Poetry Journal

A good friend asked whether the poems in White Trash & Southern are autobiographical.

Yes.

No.

All of the poems evolved out of experience, certainly, but that doesn’t mean the events explored transpired exactly as detailed. Some did. Some didn’t. Some sort of. Many of the ideas came from other people. Some poems are simple exercises of placing myself in other people’s situations. An idea has a way of becoming more on the page, transforming into something completely different from the original inspiration and intent.

Don’t believe anything you read.

Believe everything.

White Trash & Southern is available in paperback, Kindle, Nook, and audio formats.

The Cooperative Option

Publishing has experienced extraordinary change over the last 35 years. I began writing as a journalist, first for newspapers, then for magazines, both on-staff and freelance. I wrote about sports, about politics and politicians, about laws made and broken, about things that affected people’s lives, but the writing was journalistic and strictly a vehicle for information, information that was readily available via other vehicles. So I turned to writing fiction and poetry, writing that enabled me to communicate more than bare facts, writing that allowed me to explore reality through fantasy, truth through lies. The most difficult obstacle, however, wasn’t developing a style or voice. It was finding a publisher.

Back then, self-publication wasn’t an option, at least for me. It suggested the writer’s work wasn’t good enough to be published by a legitimate publisher, which meant it wasn’t good enough to be published at all. Self-publishing required an extra helping of self-confidence and a solid bank account because publishing wasn’t cheap. Self-published writers were suspected of being well-off egotists, satisfying their vanity by buying a byline. It’s not quite the same now. Thanks to a conservative traditional publishing industry and significant advances in publishing technology, the stigma once associated with independent publishing has vanished

Traditional publishers always have been somewhat conservative in the projects they take on, limiting risks because getting a book to market requires substantial investment. As large publishers gobbled up smaller publishers, decreasing diversity and competition, they became even more hesitant to take on new authors and new ideas, resulting in today’s homogenized market of copycat copycatting. Occasionally, however, something new breaks through. J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series and James Loewen’s Lies My Teacher Told Me come to mind, both starting out at small publishers where their works proved successful enough to entice major publisher backing, backing that set about exploiting every possibility that could be connected to the works. Success stories like theirs, however, are the exception rather than the norm.

Despite random breakthroughs, traditional publishers have systematically narrowed offerings into predefined marketing niches, limiting diversity and denying opportunity to authors whose work penetrates the boundaries. And the writers who do sign with conventional publishers find themselves saddled with increasing responsibilities once the publishers’ sole domain—promotion, design, production aspects, and more. In short, publishers once took care of business, and writers took care of writing. No longer. Writers today progressively are burdened with the bulk of pre- and post-publication tasks while receiving a shrinking percentage of their book’s net earnings.

Enter technology and the path to accessible independent publishing, enabling writers and artists to get their work to audiences affordably and without the assistance of conventional publishers. Technology upended the music industry in the 1990s, and now it’s doing the same to the publishing industry. Unbridled access, however, enables both the talented and talentless to publish easily. For conscientious writers, for professionals, some basics of traditional publishing must be retained and maintained. That’s where writers’ cooperatives come in.

Frustrated after thirty-one years of writing professionally for traditional publishers, I’ve joined with other writers, musicians, and artists around the world to form Cooperative Ink, a collective of creative individuals with decades of experience in traditional publishing who have decided to seek broader audiences for their work through independent publishing. Professional artistic cooperatives offer no haven for the vanity author. Instead, a cooperative’s strength is built upon creative people assisting creative people, from basic editing to book layout and publishing, from drafting news releases and development of conventional promotional avenues to managing social networking and personal appearances—all with the goal of providing a diverse variety of high-quality, professional literature, music, and other entertainment to audiences bored with the umpteenth version of the latest copycat darling.

A place will always exist for traditional publishing and those within who make their living off the work of writers—editors, marketing personnel, agents, etc. But technology now affords worthy writers once shunned by an industry insisting on conformity the chance to take their work economically and professionally to the public. Both writers and readers are far better off for it.

Please visit the Cooperative Ink website at http://www.cooperativeink.com as members release new work they’ve enjoyed creating, work they hope you will enjoy experiencing.

Enter Edward Herda’s World of Vaughn Frogg

When it comes to new music these days, it takes a special talent and sound to excite me. I’m weary of the fragile, breathless female pop voices, the auto-tuned dimwittedness of those who can’t or are too lazy to sing, and the half-whispered, near falsetto pretense of male “singer-songwriters.” When an artist with a distinctive style comes along, writing and performing songs that are both pleasing to the ear and intellectually stimulating, I listen. I listen with delight.

A few days ago, an email query came in on a guitar I have for sale. The writer made no mention of his profession, but his email address contained his URL. I took a look, and I’m glad I did.

Edward Herda is an LA-based musician and songwriter who recently released his first album, The Wondrous Folly of Vaughn Frogg. The album’s increasingly drawing attention—with good reason. Besides a playful charm that suits the stage well, Herda’s developed a distinctive vocal and instrumental style that pays homage to American roots music while exploring new directions in lyrical storytelling. Pigeonholing his music would be a disservice because of its appeal beyond any single category. It’s best simply to listen and go where the music takes you.

In a recording so intimate that, if you close your eyes, you can almost believe he’s in the room singing only for you, Herda and his band’s perfection on Frogg is satisfying and complete. The album features Herda on guitar, banjo, mandolin, baritone, and harmonica; Max Allyn on bass, percussion, guitar, piano, baritone, ukulele, and saw; Leah Kouba on vocals; Matt Bradford on Dobro and lap slide; and Diane Hobstetter on accordion.

Herda’s artistic endeavors include stand-up comedy, work as a creative director, and now music. He fancies himself a storyteller which is evident in his song lyrics, proceeding in unexpected, but logical directions that keep the listener guessing where his tales will end up. With Kouba’s haunting harmonies augmenting Herda’s warm vocal, the songs offer a new, and yet comfortably familiar sound. Each presents a self-contained tale within the album’s overall narrative, culminating in the final track, “Searching,” a contemplation on the quest to find one’s soul mate.

Frogg—alternative folk, country folk, alternative country, or whatever you want to tag it—is not for anyone looking to have music strictly as background noise. Herda’s songs, as he points out, are for “folks who care to listen.” Each of the dozen songs on Vaughn Frogg is well worth the time it takes.

As for the guitar sale, it didn’t work out, but that’s okay. I’m up in the game with the addition to my library of superb new music by this talented artist. But if you know someone looking for a collectible, unique Gibson LG-2 guitar, send her or him my way. A good deal awaits. (Update: That deal has been snatched up by a lucky fellow in New Mexico.)

To purchase The Wondrous Folly of Vaughn Frogg in CD or download format, and for more information about Edward Herda’s music and performance dates/venues, please visit his website at http://www.edwardherda.com.