Wanna make a MILLION BUCKS?

If I were a young man, which I'm not, and wanted to make a lot of money, something I never craved, I would take advantage of the slump in the publishing business. Isn't that what the big-buck boys like Warren Buffet and Donald Trump say to do, capitalize on the problems of someone else?
A Washington Post story highlighted the issue. For the first time more self-published books were released last year than were sent into the pipeline by the large trade publishers, whose output was cut by more than three percent. The big outfits are laying off people. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt has stopped buying manuscripts. Some are turning to print-on-demand technology for certain books.
Borders, one of the two largest book retailers, is having problems but still has to acquire books for its shelves. So does Barnes & Noble, Books-a-Million and all the other retailers, including Walmart and Target.

Now here's my idea. Three or four energetic young people with a little capital and loads of ambition jump into the field without having the overhead of a publisher or a retailer. They would produce a catalog on slick paper listing. . .oh, let's say the top hundred self-published books. A super salesman would call on the book buyers for all the brick and mortar stores and online sites. Small ads would run in the New York Times book section, reviews would be sent to Publishers Weekly, Kirkus and anywhere else that might lead to sales. The outfit that handles library recommendations would be high on the contact list.
Where does the money come in? The young entrepreneurs would figure that out. A percentage, an upfront sum, the opportunities are numerous.
Another possibility is a bulk publisher such as PublishAmerica that accepts almost anything will jump in and do it first. A lot of the writers would leap at the chance, but many of its books are crap while a few are as good as anything from a major publisher. Only the best of its 30,000 or so books could be used. The upfront money would come from the writers.
Will one scenario or another become a reality? Bank on it, and soon. With the publishing business in a state of flux, there's money to be made with a new approach. Somebody will make it.

http://www.dickstodghill.com/

Old enough to die, too young to drink

One of the local police departments proudly announced last week that its sturdy men in blue had broken up a ring of lawbreakers and hauled the culprits off to the hoosegow.
Who were these vicious people? A wild bunch of 18-, 19- and 20-year-olds who got together to party and had the gall to drink alcoholic beverages. The shame of it all.

No matter that a high percentage of men getting shot at and blown up in Afghanistan and Iraq are that age. No matter that an equally high percentage of men and women on our navel ships are that age. Trust them to do those jobs, send them off knowing that some will die, but heaven forbid that they drink a glass of beer or a shot of Jack Daniel's finest.

There is something badly flawed with the mindset of a society that allows that. If someone is too young to drink, what sort of person would say he or she is old enough to die in the service of the country? You can't have it both ways. If they are too young for one they are too young for the other.

But they aren't too young. That is the age of countless men who have fought the battles down through the ages. My friend Harry McKitrick was a sergeant, a rifle squad leader, when he was killed in Germany at the age of 19. My friend Lewis Gorkowski was an infantryman of 18 when he died in Italy. The list would fill volumes of those that age killed in every war from the American Revolution to those of today. Include those from all nations and you'd fill a library.

But many do-gooders with twisted thinking say some of those 18, 19, and 20 are immature and irresponsible. True. So are many at the ripe old age of 21, 31 or even 81.

It's a farce and anyone who says otherwise needs to give it some serious thought. Either bring everyone under the age of 21 home or welcome them back with, "Let me buy you a beer."

I was months short of my 20th birthday after having survived some of history's bloodiest battles. Had someone said, "That's nice, but you aren't old enough to take a drink," I would have handed them my rifle and said, "Here, you do it."

www.dickstodghill.com

Fourth of July Fireworks

Hours before first light on July Fourth it began, a massive artillery barrage that lit up the sky with brilliant flashes of gold and silver. Ships in the nearby English Channel joined in. Their shells passed overhead with a rustling sound like snakes slithering through dry leaves. The sound of death about to strike.
We watched from our staging area not far off , unable to sleep with the crash of exploding shells shaking the ground and the sky close by such a brilliant hue.

Last night we watched a fireworks display from our sixth floor balcony. It was excellent, noisy and colorful, yet puny by comparison with that earlier display. That one had been the beginning of a major offensive that failed to get off the starting line. In afternoon we were placed on alert, ready to move forward if the American front line collapsed.
It was morning before our hike began under threatening gray clouds. It was a circuitous march because flooded ground and a large morass separated us from the battle. We crossed a bridge where Eisenhower and Bradley were reported. We didn't see them. In late afternoon we stopped for a few minutes. Just in front of me was a milepost pointing the way to the town of Meautis. A short time later we halted and were told to dig in for the night.

The next morning was bright, the sky clear. A few minutes march brought us to the highway running south from Carentan. Our objective was the crossroads settlement of le Verimesmil. We entered a field to the right of the highway and I counted nineteen men from another division lying in their slit trenches, stabbed to death with their own bayonets. What had happened here? There was no way of knowing.
After hiking south a hundred yards or so the ripping sound of fast-firing German machine guns and the distinctive crack of rifle fire broke out. The men ahead had made contact, the fighting had begun. We ran forward to the sound of the guns.
By noon our company commander was dead. By evening we had lost four of our six officers and a hundred men, more than half of those in the company. For the first time we had made the acquaintance of a German SS division.

It had been one helluva Fourth of July fireworks display. The next ten days proved to be one helluva battle. Replacement poured in and died before they knew where they were, or why. Historians write about it but they don't know what it was like. It's listed as the Battle of Sainteny, the Battle of Sainteny Hill, the Battle of the Isthmus, the Battle of the Hedgerows. Take your pick, it doesn't matter.

http://www.dickstodghill.com/

Forbidden is a Dirty Word

This is the time of year when Americans are supposed to think about independence and freedom. A few may take time out from barbecuing and watching fireworks to actually do so. When the mood strikes I always think of one word: verboten.

As a young man I was taught that life in Nazi Germany was not exactly a stroll in the park. There were certain things a person needed to do, others that better not be done if plans had been made to go on living. Soon after my nineteenth birthday I found myself in Germany and was amazed. Not by the destruction, although there was plenty of that, but by the number of signs warning against doing just about everything except breathing. That word verboten - forbidden, not permissible - was everywhere.

A year later after being transferred to the military police I was living in a slave labor barrack complete with a high fence topped by barbed wire. The war was over, I wasn't a slave, but it was hard to turn around without seeing that word verboten. Sometimes I even heard it spoken or actually said it myself: "Das ist verboten."

When I returned to the States, life was much different. Aside from murder and armed robbery, not many things were forbidden. It was a live-and-let-live society so only now and then did you see a sign telling you something was verboten.
Over the years that has changed considerably. First you no longer could do one thing and then another thing and if they didn't come right out and say you couldn't there was always someone to warn that you shouldn't. Fortunately there still are few signs saying something is verboten and life isn't as grim as it was in Nazi Germany, but we're getting there. It would not come as a shock if someone were to tell me that even writing these words is verboten, or should be.

#

I have written about the few months in 1966 when I decided to get rich by peddling drugs. Legal drugs, of course, although a short time later the company's two leading products were outlawed because their main ingredient was methamphetamine. Soon after taking the job I spent a week at the firm's plant where the joys of meth were highly praised. The company made another product we were told not to push because it could harm a person's inner workings. After more than forty years the government made it official a few days ago. Acetaminophen can do bad things to the liver. No big deal for me because I have always looked upon it as verboten.

http://www.dickstodghill.com/

Losing a Little Friend

Our little hamster Sophie has grown old before her time and soon will no longer be with us.
A hamster, they say, will at best live a thousand days. Sophie hasn't had quite six hundred.
From the first day she came to live with us Sophie has been different. She looked over her four-story cage and decided the little house at ground level was not for her. She wanted her nest to be on the top floor and that meant sleeping on hard plastic and out in the open. I think that was because the spot she chose was right beside the tube she uses to crawl up to the top. That gave her a place to dive into if danger approached. There was nothing to fear, but she didn't know that.

When it became apparent that Sophie was adamant about where her nest was going to be, Jackie gave her a stack of shredded paper to keep the cold air from her. On cool days and nights, Sophie packs the tube with some of the paper to keep the cold away from that direction.

Jackie fixed one of the little houses up for her potty and placed it beside her nest. From the very first, a hamster will hurry to the potty when the need arises no matter how comfortable their nest might be or how busy they are doing something they enjoy.
For Sophie, a quiet little lady, contentment means having a large supply of food nearby. No matter how well-stocked the larder may be, she never has passed up an opportunity to beg for a special treat.
Sophie know that Jackie is the mommy who provides her with food, fills her water bottle and keeps her nest and potty fresh and clean. When she comes out in the evening she walks along the table and lies down facing Jackie. When Jackie gets up from her chair, Sophie keeps looking in the direction she has gone until she returns. She tolerates me because I sometimes give her a few sunflower seeds or one of the yogurt drops she loves.
Rolling around in her plastic ball has become too much for Sophie so Jackie gets down on hands and knees and lets her walk around on her own. Jackie's hand always hovers close by so Sophie doesn't get herself in trouble. Hamsters have a tendancy to do that whenever possible. Sophie also likes to watch TV and when there's a lot of action she moves closer for a better view.

Like all of her kind, Sophie keeps very clean. She licks her front paws and washes very thoroughly many times during an evening. Washing also is something little creatures do when in danger. By doing something routine they hope that by the time they have finished the danger will no longer be there. It's a vain hope, of course, but the only way a hamster, mouse or rabbit has to ease its fear even if just for a moment.

Now little Sophie has grown weak. Her hind legs no longer work the way they should. She has trouble climbing up to her nest. I believe she thinks it is only something temporary and her mommy will soon make everything better.

People who don't know about them tend to think little creatures don't amount to much and don't really matter. The truth is each of them is different and has its own personality just as humans do. To them their life is just as important as any human believes his or hers is important. They share the same emotions and have the same need and desire for the basic comforts.
I have never been sure if little animals know about death or think that life will always go on just as it has. They know fear, of course, but do they know the things they fear can mean more than just pain? I always hope they don't know life is going to come to an end some day. I hope Sophie doesn't know that. I hope she believes her little world will always be the same.

Humans know better, though, and that can hardly be considered a good thing. We watch Sophie, care for her as best we can, and know we will miss her when she no longer is here just as we miss all the little friends who were with us before her. We know the time to say goodbye is close at hand, and knowing it makes the time we have with her more precious.

http://www.dickstodghill.com/

Just an Army AWOL

When my orders arrived I read them, read them again and then read them a third time. Then I read Fleming's and Goulding's. All were the same: name. rank, serial number and "report from Fort Benning, Georgia to Company K, 145th Infantry, 37th Infantry Division at Camp Polk, Louisiana."

A clerk had slipped up. No date to report, nothing saying "by the first available means of transportation." Just report, that was all. Opportunity had knocked so I answered.
I was an old veteran, Fleming and Goulding were new to all this so that was their tough luck. My lips remained sealed.

Our 14 weeks of Weapons & Leadership School had proved to be nothing more than infantry basic training. The graduation ceremony was like that at any high school. One man at a time marched across a stage and was handed a diploma. I was eager for it to end because a northbound bus would soon be leaving nearby Columbus.
Then disaster struck. We had to march across the stage a second time so officers could smell our breath. Not surprising as half the men were drunk. I wasn't, but time was of the essence. Finally it ended and those not arrested milled around saying goodbye to friends they had made.
Not me. I ran to our barrack, grabbed my loaded duffel bag and flagged down a bus headed for town.
Somewhere along the way I changed into civilian clothes and arrived in Akron early the next day. A week of relaxation followed. I visited the people at the place where I had worked before being called up for the war in Korea, watched the Little League team I had managed play a game, goofed around in general.
When it began to seem likely that military policemen might be coming to the door I talked my less-than-enthusiastic father into driving me to the railroad station in Cleveland. A New York Central train took me through Muncie at first light the following morning and then on to St. Louis. From there the Missouri Pacific carried me through Little Rock and then arrived in Texarkana at midnight. There was a four-hour wait before a Kansas City Southern train would take me to Leesville. There are few places more dreary than Texarkana in the wee small hours.

At Leesville about nine in the morning I changed into my uniform and caught a bus for Camp Polk, expecting trouble when I arrived. Instead when I walked in the door of the orderly room Warrant Officer Fred Slabaugh jumped up, came around his desk and shook my hand while calling, "Captain, come and see who's here. Stodghill's back."
Captain Prasher was all smiles. Slabaugh said the company was out in the field and wouldn't be coming back until the following evening. He said, "Should we send Dick out with the chow truck?"

The captain shook his head. "He's probably tired. Have him just take it easy around the barracks until the men come back."
So I did. I'd go to the mess hall and eat before the chow truck would leave, head for beer at the PX when I was thirsty, sleep when I was weary.
Fleming and Goulding spotted me when the company returned my second night there. They were outraged. Questions such as, "Where have you been?" were fired at me. I grinned and said, "Akron." Their anger peaked.

When they ran out of breath I said, "You young guys need to learn how to read orders." They simmered down after a week or ten days.

http://www.dickstodghill.com/

A Most Unusual Man

Evan Owens was a funny man with a weird sense of humor, an irreverent outlook and an uncommon talent for painting word pictures. For several years his desk and mine were side by side in the newsroom at the Muncie Evening Press. In the afternoon after deadline we enjoyed meaningless conversations about nothing at all. Horatio Alger books were a favorite topic. Evan kept a long row of them at the back of his desk.
Once in a while when city editor Jack Richman had finished the last of his duties and was headed for Frosty Miller's Tavern we would hail him with a question about Horatio. Jack wouldn't slow down or even glance our way. He'd just say, "You two belong in an institution." He could have been right.
One rainy winter morning several reporters called in sick. Jack Richman was ready to spit nails and then Evan called. Jack's only words were, "Evan, you're not allowed to be sick. Get down here!" He soon arrived, red-eyed, nose dripping.
Our telephones had buttons so reporters could take calls at their desk regardless of who answered the phone. Evan would talk only on the phone on which a call came in. When a reporter would yell, "Evan, line three," Evan would get up and walk to the desk of the reporter who had hailed him and use his phone.
At times Evan was secluded in his own little world. One day as deadline approached people rushed to a window at the sound of a loud crash. A city bus had smashed its way into the front of the Strand Theater. Jack Richman yelled, "Somebody better get down there." Roy Bigger said, "It's OK, Jack, I see Evan coming back from City Hall. He's almost to it."
When Evan walked into the newsroom Jack said, "What's the story on the bus, Evan?" Evan stared around the room, bewildered. "Bus? What bus?"
City Court had just adjourned one day when an elderly man thought his car was in reverse and crashed into City Hall. Evan watched in amazement as the man shifted gears and backed full speed into a parked police car. He shifted again and took another hunk out of City Hall. Again he threw it into reverse and wiped out a second police car. Finally getting the wheels turned, he roared across a side street and smashed into an office supply store.
Evan ran to a phone, forgetting a reporter should never arrive breathless. When Jack Richman picked up his phone I could hear Evan say, "A car. . .a car. . .a car. . ." That was enough for Jack. "Well goddammit, Evan, what about a car?"
An assistant editor who hated Evan always held down the city desk on Saturday. One day after he had been particularly critical Evan, a touch typist, deliberately positioned his fingers over the wrong keys. He wrote a two-page story, grinning slyly all the while. When he filed it the editor read, "Xzsbtuq. . ."
Years before I knew him Evan's older brother, a doctor, died, leaving a wife and young children with no means of support. Evan married the widow and raised the children as his own. They loved him as a husband and father as time passed.
Because the father of my uncle by marriage had been a singer with the Metropolitan Opera, Evan decided I could sing. Whenever there was a company party, he would have a few drinks and then seek me out. "Sing for us, Dick," he'd say, "sing for us." This would go on for a while until finally in desperation to end it I'd get up and sing. People would cheer and throw pennies and nickles. Evan would beam.
When he retired, the company gave Evan his typewriter so he would use his wonderful talent to write stories. He never did. Too bad because Evan could take the most commonplace event or person and weave a fascinating story.
From reading Evan's stuff I learned to write a few paragraphs and then drift off onto an entirely different subject and then tie them together in the final sentence. I learned from Evan that nothing is dull or boring except to dull and boring people. Watching him taught me that no matter how battered a fedora might be, no matter how greasy the hat band, it never reached the point of being ready to throw away. Nowhere else have I found someone willing to have a "serious" discussion for an hour with neither party cracking a smile or believing a single word that was said. Only Evan Owens could do that. He was one of a kind. I miss him.

http://www.dickstodghill.com/