Watermelon in the Bathtub

Our family was—and still is—enthusiastic about fireworks. There was a time David even slipped in some illegal in North Carolina, the kind purchased across the border in his state of South Carolina. Every Fourth of July, we sat on our lawn in anticipation. David stood yards in front of us on the street and lit the torpedo buzz, the rockets, all the funny-sounding popping crackers. We cheered and clapped and buried our faces in ripe slices of watermelon.

July 4, 1996, Daniel was in the hospital having his monthly chemo injections. Our celebration of our nation’s birthday would have to be held inside Daniel’s hospital room. Daniel looked forward to watching the fireworks, hoping his hospital room window would provide a good view. But a nurse informed us there wouldn't be fireworks from Kenan Stadium that night; the reason was unclear.

Daniel bounced back from his disappointment when friends Sue, and her twelve-year-old daughter, Becca, entered the room with a watermelon and a knife. "We came to celebrate July Fourth with you!" said Sue in her vibrant Rochester, New York, accent.

Sue cut slices for each of us and served them on paper plates. Becca placed a plate on Daniel's tray table.

Daniel dipped his mouth into the fruit. With juice running down his cheeks and chin, he took another bite. He found a black seed and, facing Becca, spat the seed toward her and then, grinning, waited for her reaction.

She laughed; he filled his lungs and cheeks with air and let out another. It landed on his sheet. Our family comes from a long line of watermelon-seed-spitters. Mom had won contests, but it looked like Daniel needed some tips from her.

After the two left, Daniel said, "I think I've had enough watermelon." He lay on the bed, comically rubbing his tummy and grinning.

I looked at the half-consumed treat. It was too big to store in the fridge in the communal kitchen down the corridor. "Where can we put it?" Where did other patients keep their watermelons?

I'd read the thick binder about Daniel's medications and various procedures, but nowhere in any of the literature was there a section about proper protocol for taking care of leftover fruit.

"How about in the bathtub?" Daniel said.

What a great idea! "Why not?"

And so, we did just that.

[The above is an excerpt from the memoir, Life at Daniel's Place, by Alice J. Wisler. Get the book here.]

Life at Daniel's Place --- The first part of the journey to getting a book out there

The road to publication is a long one. If you have a literary agent that lands your manuscript with a publisher, most likely you have waited a number of months for this deal to transpire. By the time your book is available for sale, you’ve experienced the process of deep editing, cover design, and marketing.

My first novel, Rain Song, was accepted by a publisher (Bethany House) two months after my literary agent sent my manuscript to them. Oh, happy day, when I got the phone call! I was going to finally, finally, have a book published! Then I had to wait 20 months (that’s not a typo) before my debut novel was published. The waiting was long. During that wait-time, I started this blog.

This time, with my memoir, Life at Daniel's Place, I decided to pass the whole agent/publisher process and publish on my own. Here’s where I have to be honest, this manuscript of mine has never been sent to an agent or a publisher. I have, after much prayer and thought, decided to independently get my book out to the masses. In the past, I’ve published three memorial cookbooks on my own, so I know a little about the work involved. For the stuff I don’t know as much about as I need to, I turn to the Internet and the gurus who can help.

I hired an editor. I think every good book needs an editor . . . or two. A book is only as good as its editor, someone to get the commas in the right place and check for inconsistencies. Publishing houses either have their own in-house editors or hire freelancers. There are masses of developmental, copy, and line editors out there, as well as proofreaders, ready to be hired. And that's a good thing because they are needed. It’s hard to catch every mistake when it’s your own work. Another pair of eyes does wonders.

I sort of worked backwards with this book. But I have often not followed the "rules". I created the title, then the cover on Canva, and then wrote the back cover blurb. I set a date for publication, hoping that would motivate me to write the content. Actually, I have so many files pertaining to a story about my son Daniel and our family, that it was really a matter of selecting which scenes to include. The dream for this memoir has been brewing for years.

So, this is my quick update about my newest book to arrive this summer. I plan to write more about this journey as time goes on. Thanks for reading!

Memoir Writing Workshop

So this morning when I couldn't sleep due to those middle-age night sweats and pain in my left ankle from when Levi, the boxer-dog ran into me, I thought.

I thought about the memoir I've been slaying over, and, after jotting down a few notes in the darkness, I was reminded that I haven't posted on this blog in too long. So on my memo pad, while my husband and boxer slept, I wrote: Write a blog post tomorrow.

Shame on me for not keeping up with posts here. I am not sure what excuse I have but I suppose I could blame it on our business, working on my memoir, and those other aspects of life that worm their way into the day-to-day threads of living, some good, some just frustrating.

Having said that, my memoir is at a good place. I think. Oh, ask me tomorrow. Tomorrow I might want to toss it out the window. This memoir is much harder to get right than any novel I've ever written. Just when I think I'm content with it, I learn something new and realize that some chapters must be re-worked.

The surprising news is this: A fellow author asked me to facilitate a memoir writing workshop, and although I am no expert on the subject, I said YES. I figured that with all the articles, books, and webinars I've poured into my brain on memoir writing, I can share my self-taught knowledge with others. So I'm up for the task.

I've learned about so many of the components of writing a memoir as I've educated myself through the gurus who hang out on the Internet. I've listened to talks on finding themes and plots, structure, and strong starts and significant endings. I've read dozens of memoirs this year, analyzed what I have enjoyed and what I haven't.

But yippee, I get to share my knowledge at a workshop!

The memoir writing workshop starts April 2 and will be held for five weeks at the Princeton Public Library in Princeton, NC. Not Princeton, NJ, so don't head there. The workshop is free; yes, you read that correctly. It is being offered thanks to a grant. The workshop will be given each Tuesday in April from 4 to 6 PM.

For those of you reading who live close enough to Princeton, NC to join me at the workshop, I hope to see you there. Bring a pen you love and a notepad and/or a lap top.

Let's discover the magic of writing memoir together!

Location:
Princeton Public Library
101 Dr. Johnnie H. Jones Jr. Blvd.
Princeton, NC 27569

Childhood on the Train

This was first posted at Geezer Guys and Gals, but I also wanted to include it here for my readers.

Enjoy!


~*~*~*


We know that any "seasoned" woman or man from an older generation is accused of telling anecdotes of how as a child she/he used to have to walk to school uphill in the snow. For at least ten miles. Without a warm coat. I didn't have to walk in the snow to school, but I did have to ride the train. That was forty-seven minutes to school and forty-seven minutes back. "So," I tell my kids, "Your mother had it rough." But looking back, I wouldn't trade those experiences for anything.

We were six years old when we started riding the Hankyu line to school in the sixties from Awaji to Karasuma. During the winter mornings, the windows steamed up and we wrote our names on them. In the late afternoons, we crocheted long red scarves, tried to make sense out of math homework, and avoided conversing in English with Japanese men with brief cases.

You had to know a thing or two in order to be a proficient train rider, and the younger children learned the ropes from the older kids.

Rule number one was to walk briskly out our gates from our missionary homes. Once the five of us blond-haired American kids gathered, we marched past the incinerator behind the Yodogawa Christian Hospital, out the hospital gates, to the left, toward the station. Sometimes at 7 AM there was a dusting of frost on the grass. Sometimes one of us lagged behind due to racing back for forgotten homework or a lunch box. We had to pick up the pace; we had a train to catch and it would, sure as tofu is made from bean curd, not be late---even if we were.

Once the train pulled into the station, doors slid opened and passengers boarded the already packed car. Gloved station attendants pushed commuters onto the cars as the whistle blew. Inside the car, we lifted book bags onto the luggage racks or held them between our feet. Then we grabbed the hand rails—loops of plastic suspended overhead—as the train picked up the pace toward Kyoto.

The next rule was to be extremely quiet as the train doors opened at Takatsuki-shi. I think we heard David O talking to himself even before he boarded the car. We held our breath and closed our eyes, as though those actions would keep him from spotting us. As silent as we were, he always managed to find us.

"Hey," he said one morning so that passengers five cars down could hear. "I got this new chemistry set. Wanna see it?" He hoisted a brown square bag.

No one responded.

David O nudged me, his elbow poking both me and a woman trying to read a paperback. "It's really cool."

I was shy, especially around a boy who was two years older than I. While the other kids engaged in conversation leaving me alone to talk to David O, I shook my head and clung to the handrail.

At last, sensing he was being ignored, and the train was too congested to show us vials and test tubes anyway, he offered to show it to us later.

The third rule came into play at our destination. Immediately, when the doors opened, we were to head up the platform stairs as fast as we could. We raced past ladies in gray kimono and weaved between businessmen so that we could be first in line at the taxi stand.

Our final part of our journey was to ride a cab (five of us missionary kids packed into one Nissan) for six miles to our tiny international school where spelling tests and math equations greeted us. At recess, we enjoyed games of Kick the Can and Red Rover, Red Rover.

I have fond memories of those long treks to school. I smile to think how unusual we must have seemed in a land where the natives all had black hair and dark eyes, were dignified and soft-spoken. We were blond, tall, loud and rowdy.

And as for David O and his chemistry set, I did get to see it. One afternoon on a rather empty train car, he spread his set of chemicals and glass beakers onto the seat. As the train rounded a field of rice paddies, the whole car jerked, and my friend Josephine and I watched the green seat turn red and yellow. The conductor raced out of his compartment in a fury, yelling at the Canadian boy for damaging the train seat. David O hung his head while the conductor covered the stained seat with mounds of newspaper.

Which brings me to the next rule for riding the trains---this one became extremely important for survival. When the train conductor fumed over a spilled chemistry set, it was best to run---not walk---away as fast as possible.

And as Josephine and I crouched inside another car, we closed our eyes and were silent, hoping that perhaps no one would notice that we had anything to do with the boy who had caused a scene.

~ Alice J. Wisler grew up in Japan where she rode the train to and from school and dreamed of being an author. Now she lives and writes in Durham, NC and looks forward to the release of her fifth novel, Still Life in Shadows from River North. Her other novels are: Rain Song, How Sweet It Is, Hatteras Girl and A Wedding Invitation (all published with Bethany House). She also teaches writing workshops, both online and at conferences. Visit her website.