Actors and actresses tend to have huge egos.  William Holden was no different.  Born in 1918, a year before my dad who is now 88, Holden died at the tender age of 63, alone, during a drunken ramble through this two-storied apartment..

Holden starred in dozens of movies and won the academy award for best actor in 1953 for the movie Stalag 17.  His wife at the time said it was because his role in Sunset Boulevard was overlooked.  Holden likely believed that this was true because his acceptance speech, “Thank you,” was the shortest ever given.

I didn’t see Sunset Boulevard or Stalag 17 (although I am going to make it a point to do so) but I saw him in my three favorite Holden movies:  Picnic, The Bridge on the River Kwai, and The World of Suzie Wong.

Picnic was written by the second greatest American playwright of all time, William Inge.  What a movie!  There were too many wonderful performances in this movie to mention, but Kim and Bill stole the show.  This movie will rip your heart out, I promise.

The Bridge on the River Kwai is so powerful that it defies description.  Even the bad guy, played by Sessue Hayakawa, has depth and substance, and Bridge has possibly the finest ending in cinematic history.

Still, my favorite Holden movie is The World of Suzie Wong.  A disillusioned American gives up his secure career and moves to Hong Kong to be an artist.  He moves into a Chinese brothel and soon becomes enthralled with a prostitute named Suzie Wong.  Holden’s character and Suzie fall in love through the course of the movie, a production that doesn’t have a standard Hollywood ending.  The cinematography is wonderful, and remains in my memory long after viewing the film.  When I saw the movie, I was a teenager and I fell in love with Nancy Kwan and her inevitable tragedy broke my heart.

Yes, I like William Holden movies and The World of Suzie Wong is my favorite.  Thinking about it now, though, maybe it was just Nancy Kwan that I liked so much.

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Discarded Commode

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My mother had three sisters, Wardie, Marguerite and Dot, and a brother, Grady, and they would all usually congregate at my grandparent’s house for Thanksgiving. I loved it, playing outside with all my cousins and inhaling the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen.

No one loved it more than my grandfather, the head of the family we all knew as Grandpa Pitt. On Thanksgiving Day, he held court, his arms folded and a smile on his face as all his children and grandchildren paid homage to him. On Thanksgiving Day, he was truly “King of Vivian.”

It was never really cold in northwest Louisiana. Still, by Thanksgiving Day tree leaves had all turned red and gold and there was usually a nip in the air that went well with the nip of excitement the holiday brought with it.

What I remember most are the post-dinner conversations that always took place outside on the back porch if the weather was warm, or in my grandparent’s bedroom if it was too cold outside. What I remember is the sound level caused by four sisters and a brother, all talking at once and not one of them seeming to notice, or care.

My Grandma Pitt would be lying on the bed, contentment showing on her otherwise stoic face. My Grandpa Pitt would sit on the edge of his old cane rocker, occasionally interjecting a comment into the raucous conversation. Whenever he raised his hand the room would go ghostly quiet, waiting for his latest regal pronouncement.

My Aunt Artie, Uncle Grady’s wife, would usually join in the melee but not my Dad Jack and Uncles Frank, Henry and Bert. They would be standing together in the tiny kitchen, their arms folded and knowing expressions on their faces. They had all been there before.

Those days are long gone, as are my grandparents, all my uncles, my mother and one of my aunts. Dot, Marguerite and my Dad are still alive, all with their own grandchildren and great-grandchildren now. Still, when I see a turkey emerging from the oven and smell the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen, I think of Grandpa Pitt, the first and the last “King of Vivian.”

HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO EVERYONE!

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During my first trip to Mardi Gras, my fellow drill team members and I hiked a portion of the distance from Jackson Barracks to Bourbon Street.  Along the way, we stopped at an old wood-framed bar in Araby, a small town located in the Lower 9^th Ward devastated by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita.  We drank several pitchers of Regal Beer before continuing on our way.

The beer was good, and cheap – a pitcher costing less than a dollar.  There were thirteen breweries in the New Orleans area during the time, the most famous being the Jax Brewery.  Since Hurricane Katrina, there are no operating breweries in New Orleans.

Those of you that have read my novel Big Easy will remember detective Tommy Blackburn ordering Dixie Beer.  Sadly, Katrina also destroyed the Dixie Brewery.  Dixie Beer still survives, but is presently produced and distributed by proxy brewer Huber Brewery in Wisconsin.  If Dixie owners Kendra and Joseph Bruno have their way, this will all soon change. 

The Brunos are fighting to bring the Dixie brewery back to the Big Easy, planning a complete renovation of the facility – state of the art equipment and a European-style beer garden on the rooftop.  The Brunos hope their renovation of the Dixie Brewery will ignite an economic area upturn.  I for one hope the Brunos succeed, and for sure Detective Tommy Blackburn does.

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Traveling west on Route 66, about a quarter of the way between Bethany and Yukon, Oklahoma, you will reach a bridge crossing the North Canadian River. To your left is Lake Overholser, one of Oklahoma City’s manmade lakes that supply water to the people of Oklahoma County. Once, on the south corner of Route 66, just before crossing the bridge, was a place like no other. It was a honky-tonk bar the locals knew as Pauline’s Bait and Tackle Shop.

Pauline, a crusty old woman, and her daughter ran the combination bar, restaurant and bait shop (yes, you could buy minnows outside the restaurant).. The old wood-framed building sat alone in an otherwise vacant lot. On weekends, cars, pickups, Harleys and horses populated the unpaved, often muddy parking lot.

The single-storied building sat on cinder blocks. When you entered, from the front or side door, you were instantly taken aback by bare wooden rafters decorated with stuffed ducks, other birds and animals, all dusty and musty with age. There wasn’t a rug in the place. It was all bare, unpainted wood - old wood, including the floor.

Country swing bands often played live music on weekends, catering to hundreds of sweaty dancers - I don’t recall that Pauline’s had air conditioning. You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten a hamburger and drank a longneck at Pauline’s.

Alas, Pauline’s is gone, razed to make way for a strip center that never materialized. Only memories remain of a place unique in a world Wal-Mart’s, Outback’s and Barnes and Noble’s.

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Yesterday, I talked about the mysterious Ouachita Mountains where I did my geology thesis, and the deranged hillbillies that my ex-wife and I met. It was late fall, the days dull and weather dreary.

Gail and I had visited a mine so deep in the forest that we had to follow an azimuth with a Brunton compass (those were the days before GPS).  The mine wasn't large, at least not nearly so much as those in the western United States.  Still, it formed an imposing edifice, a bald knob amid a sea of forest green.

The Davis Mine hadn't operated since the Civil War.  Lead was mined there by the Confederates, supposedly using Federal prisoners.  The few old publications we could find about the mine hinted at torture and atrocities.  I don't know if there were ghosts, but the place imparted a definite chill down my spine.  It was late when Gail and I finally left the difficult to reach lead mine.

We had parked our old 62' Ford Pickup on the side of a narrow dirt road.  Before we reached it, we heard the rumble of an even older pickup truck moving in our direction.  When we rounded a corner, we encountered it directly in our path.  The bed of the pickup was loaded with groceries and other supplies, and two unkempt men occupied the cab.

Gail and I both noticed the gun rack in the window behind the two men, rifles or shotguns behind them.

"You two lost?" the one-eyed driver asked, spitting a wad of chew out the window before either of us had a chance to answer.  "We got a mine up by our place no one even knows about," he told us when we explained what we were doing in the middle of nowhere.  "We'll take you there and show it to you," he offered.

We declined, then thanked them and began walking away at a rapid clip.  "Don't look back," I told Gail.

Finally, we heard the pickup's engine fire and then rumble away in the opposite direction.  I'm a fairly large man and I'm sure the two hillbillies noticed the pickhammer in my hand.  Were they being friendly?  No!  I was freshly home from Vietnam and I still had a well-honed sense of danger, both real and imagined.  These two men were dangerous and I have no doubt that they had little regard for human life.

My memory of these two appear, almost verbatim, in my novel A Gathering of Diamonds.  Now, years later, I can still feel the dread when I recall this story.

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As a grad student at the University of Arkansas, I quickly learned the beauty and mystery of the geology around me.  My thesis advisor, Dr. K, wanted me to complete a thesis on the stibnite deposits in southeast Arkansas.  Dr. K was, and is, my geologic hero, and I wanted whatever he wanted.

I began spending every weekend in Sevier County near the little town of King.  The campground where my ex-wife and I stayed is a dead-ringer for the one that I describe in my novel A Gathering of Diamonds.  Gail and I spent days, deep in the forests of southwest Arkansas.  Although we are no longer together, I will say this for her: she was a trooper, following me into blind canyons, dark abandoned mines and musty caverns with no fear for her life.

In Gathering, Tom and Mary Ann meet two deranged hillbillies, deep in the Ouachita Mountains.  I didn't make this up.  Gail and I were actually terrorized by two crazy-as-hell hillbillies and were both happy that we lived to tell about it.

There is a road cut near Caddo Gap that is a geologic wonder.  I wish I could find my old pictures, and someday I will return to duplicate them.

I want to visit three more geologic wonders, Jamaica, Iceland and the Afar Triangle before I die.  I have already seen the greatest geologic spectacle of them all, and it was deep in the heart of the Ouachita Mountains.

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For every hero or heroine that has won a medal in the service of their country, there are tens of thousands of others that also served and are no less patriotic.  My brother and I were both in the Army during the Vietnam War.  My Dad was in World War II, in Germany and France.  When the war broke out, my Aunt Carmol joined the Marines and served throughout the conflict.  None of us were heroes but we were there and proud to serve.

So many people served their nation without fanfare, often never receiving a single thank you.  Many have never talked about their experiences, even to their family.  Aunt Carmol is dead now, and Dad has Alzheimer’s.  I wonder, how many stories are left untold and how many sacrifices went unheralded, even unnoticed.  To these people, to everyone of you out there, I say THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart.

This is not something that I just thought of.  Here is an excerpt from my novel PRAIRIE SUNSET.  High in the Ouachita Mountains of central Arkansas, an old man with a heart condition is prompted to tell a story about the war that he has kept hidden inside himself his entire life.

EXCERPT FROM PRAIRIE SUNSET

Comforting darkness, piquant chili and pacifying effect of strong beer combined to loosen their tongues. Coaxed by Attie, Lillie Mae and especially Hulk, John told several amusing vignettes from his youth."

            Hulk finally said, "Were you in the war, John?"

            After hesitating a moment, he said, "Yes, I was."

            "Well tell us a war story," Hulk goaded.

            Poignant memories flooded John's mind and he smiled sadly, unconsciously grinding his toe against an empty cardboard carton in front of him.

            Hulk prompted, "We're you in the Battle of the Bulge?"

            Waves of nostalgia crested John's mental bow and he said, "Wasn't supposed to be, but I was."

            "Please, John," Lillie Mae said. "Tell us."

            John did, beginning slowly, and then warming to the tale. "The Bulge was Hitler's last attempt to turn back the advancing Allies," he said. "For a month and a half the Battle lasted, called the 'Bulge' because Germans failed to break through the line, only succeeding in bending it. I was a radioman in the signal corps, too young to serve but I had lied about my age and joined anyway. One night an old colonel appeared at the communications tent, needing to relay a message to Patton. Since we were out of direct radio communication with the main force he decided to deliver it in person. He conscripted me to drive the jeep for him.

            "The night turned bitterly cold. Snow had fallen for days, piled high on both sides of the road. Continuing night and day the line of battle had spread out many miles, constantly moving, like an angry sidewinder. When sun came up the following morning, we realized we had somehow crossed the enemy line.

            "Germans, besides many other things, were excellent soldiers. We found ourselves caught, along with an advancing column of American infantrymen, in a crossfire ambush. Fresh from the States, our boys were young, mostly teenagers, barely out of diapers, and none had ever seen a German, much less been under fire.

            "Finding yourself caught in the middle of a fire fight is like walking a railroad track at night. Hearing the loud blast of a whistle behind you, you turn and stare into the lights of the monstrosity, twenty feet away, and bearing down on you - the remains of your best friend already chewed up beneath its wheels.

            "When the attack began, the noise was frightening and extreme - beyond imagination for the uninitiated. Along with gunfire and violent explosions, steel, dirt and stone whistled randomly around our heads. When our inexperienced boys dropped their rifles and ran for cover, German marksmen began dropping them in their tracks. Blood was running in the ditches, staining the snow crimson, when we reached the center of the column. Unarmed, the old colonel jumped from the jeep and ran directly into the path of the retreating GI's."

            "Thrusting rifle after rifle back into the hands of those child soldiers, he admonished them to hold their ground. Around us, the battlefield was alive with explosions, hot lead and  the mortally wounded, screaming for help. A mortar round exploded near the jeep, spraying me with dirt and shrapnel. When I wiped my face, the blood on my hand was not my own.

            "Any one of a hundred Hun marksmen could have dropped the colonel. None did. Maybe they were awed by his bravery and coolness under fire. Maybe a higher force was protecting him.  With confused soldiers dying all around him, he coursed the length of that bloody road, exhorting them to turn and fight. One-by-one their youth dissolved in a mire of smoke and torn flesh, and they became men in the hot cauldron of battle. They did turn and fight, hanging on until reinforcements arrived."

            John grew silent and Attie squeezed his hand, feeling the intensity of his pain. Finally he chuckled and it drew into a hoarse laugh.

            "Know what's funny?" John's rapt audience shook their head without answering. "I remember the Colonel as old, but he was probably no more than forty. Thirty-five years younger than I am now and I still think of him as an old man. I can't remember his name and I don't suppose you'll ever read about him in any history book, but he did as much as anyone to defeat the Nazis."

            Suddenly aware of frogs, crickets and distant owls, John realized no on had spoken for an interminable period. When she saw he had finished the story, Lillie Mae put her arms around his shoulder like a mother comforting a child. Hulk remained silent, torn by his own conflicting emotions.

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I have installed an interesting application - BlogJet. It's a cool Windows client for my blog tool (as well as for other tools). Get your copy here: http://blogjet.com

"Computers are incredibly fast, accurate and stupid; humans are incredibly slow, inaccurate and brilliant; together they are powerful beyond imagination." -- Albert Einstein

The oil boom and ensuing oil bust of the late 70s and 80s is long past and seems almost like a dream to me now.  I can recount stories about the era for hours, some of them funny and some of them sad and I still chuckle about one that happened to me and my then wife Anne.

Anne was an oil and gas accountant – a damn good oil and gas accountant.  She and I formed a small oil company and began drilling wells.  I love oil business, but Anne was passionate about it.  She poured her heart and soul into our company (and I suppose so did I).

Caught up inextricably in the bust, we both fought with every sinew of our beings to save our floundering company.  We set out on a quest for a “white knight,” or at least a friendly banker.  Alas, we found neither but we had a few adventures along the way.

I have often heard that people that live together for a long time begin to look alike.  If this is true then Anne and I were identical twins.  Why, because we were together twenty-four hours every day.  Hey, and we both had reddish-blonde hair.

Anne and I traveled the country looking for a friendly banker to bow up our company, suddenly needy with Oklahoma banks and companies crashing right and left.  We thought we had found a home with a bank in Los Angeles.  On a trip there, we pitched our company, and our souls.  The banker, a large man with long hippy hair, a longish beard and John Lennon glasses, listened to our impassioned plea with a happy Santa Claus smile on his round face.

“I’m curious,” he said when we finished our presentation.  “How did a brother and sister happen to start an oil company together?”

Neither Anne nor I had a good reply and it didn’t really matter as his inane remark gave us the answer to the question we had just spent an hour asking.

We never found our white knight, or our friendly banker.  Like so many companies during the 80s oil bust, we went belly up.  Yes, the bust is long past and seems almost like a dream to me now.  Some of the stories were funny but many, so many, I keep buried deep in my heart – until moments such as now when they come bubbling up painfully to a surface still frothy with crushed emotion.

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Eric and Anne – 1982

Last night my fourteen-year-old step-daughter Kate searched the refrigerator for something to eat.

“I’m hungry,” she proclaimed.

Marilyn recited the litany of food in the refrigerator, freezer and pantry.  “I’m not taking you to Johnny’s for a burger,” she said.  “It’s too late and I already have my nightgown on.”

Unhappy with any of her mother’s suggestions, Kate began pawing through the pantry.  Marilyn joined her search, hoping to find something to satisfy her baby’s insatiable teenage hunger.

“Check this out, Kate,” she said, showing her a specially decorated commemorative can of Spam.

“No way,” Kate said.  “Spam is horrible and only poor people eat it.”

“Have you ever tried it?” Marilyn asked.

“No way!”

“Then how do you know how it tastes?”

“Who cares?  No one even knows what it’s made of.”

“It’s just ham in a can, Kate,” Marilyn said.

Kate was having none of her mother’s argument and finally micro-waved a Hamburger Helper.  Still, the discussion caused me to think about the food I ate while growing up in Louisiana, and how much enjoyment people miss out on because they have preconceived notions.

My parents were simple working folks, my mother a housewife, my dad a pipefitter.  My dad never made much money but I never thought of us as being poor, and I don’t recall ever missing a meal.  I remember my mother’s Spam and eggs for breakfast, Spam sandwiches for lunch, and Spam and green beans for dinner.  Spam wasn’t the only thing we ate by any means, but when we had it, I liked it.

Heck, I also enjoyed eating potted meat and Vienna sausages.  One of my aunts sent me a care package when I was deep in the jungles of Vietnam and I remember enjoying the can of Vienna sausages included in the prize better than I would have a lobster or filet mignon.

Money supplies the necessities of life but do more expensive purchases equate to a happier existence?  I think not.  A Rolls-Royce won’t take you a single mile further than a Chevrolet, or get you there any quicker. 

As the saying goes, money can’t buy happiness.  Now I wonder, how much happiness do rich folks miss out on because of their snobbery?  This I know - sometimes what you miss most are the simple things you never even thought about, until you lost them.

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Please check out my new book trailer video.  Thanks, Eric

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e15ePGVK26s