Thoughts on Heckletooth 3

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The novel is Heckletooth 3 and it was written by David Shetzline and published by Random House in 1969.

It is set on the Southern Oregon Coast in and around Sixes, a forest fire has broken out and the community and the authorities have galvanized to extinguish it. One man, Replogle, a WW II vet, has shot an elk out of season and tries to cover his poaching using the fire and confusion as cover. Meanwhile, other men in the woods fight the fire or pretend to fight the fire, and reflect on their lives and duties and dreams as Americans.

After Ken Kesey’s Sometimes a Great Notion, I would rate Heckletooth 3 as the second best novel ever written where the story unfolds in Oregon. I recently reread it and marveled at the ruggedness of the setting, characters, plot and exploration of the rural American mind. With the exception of one character, a family country doctor, who of course don’t exist in rural America anymore, everything holds up about the novel. These type of men are still living in Oregon’s hinterlands and struggling to make a living while people from the larger cities grow wealthier and distant from nature. The chasm was real then. Think of it today. It’s an ocean.

Interestingly enough, Shetzline wrote about dope coming into the land. He almost anticipates the opiod crisis that is clearcutting its way through rural areas but not the invasion of Dollar General or the Dollar Store. Someone needs to write a novel of that invasion. Shetzline also writes with insight on the relationship of rural men and the various governments that often provide their bread and butter. It is a curious relationship indeed, one I’ve observed up close in my 21 years of living on the Oregon Coast.

The book never went into paperback as far as I can tell, and is almost impossible to find for an affordable price. It has almost entirely disappeared from Oregon’s libraries as well, including all the ones on the Southern Oregon Coast. I’ve talked about Heckletooth 3 with multiple aficionados of Oregon literature and they all feel the same way about it—a regional classic—that somehow must be resurrected. I wish Nestucca Spit Press had the ability to do that.

I reached out to Shetzline a few years ago when I was writing my Lost PNW classics column for the paper then known as the Oregonian. We were tentatively going to meet, somewhere near his home outside of Eugene, but it didn’t happen and I can’t recall the reasons.

He never published another novel that I am aware of and I recently learned he’s in poor health. Where is the Oregon literary community to reprint this novel?

I urge anyone with an obsession with Oregon novels to track this book down. It came out four years after Notion but is entirely of the late 1960s and Vietnam while Notion was set in the 1950s and sounds more honky tonk than rock and roll. Both novels get logging like nothing I’ve ever read. Obviously Shetzline worked in the Oregon woods and it even says so in his biography at the end of the book.

One wonders if there will ever be another novel set in the Oregon woods written by an Oregon writer who worked in the woods and can spin a story out to readers who have never seen the Oregon woods yet live just miles from them. One wonders.

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Eagle Antidepressant

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I walked the dune trail above the South Jetty. My spirit was the color of the rocks, my mind listless and gray. I saw a 40-ounce bottle of Pabst resting atop a flat rock. Why drink Pabst? Why leave the bottle half full?

Low tide had brought the clammers to the beach and they clammed away with gusto. I checked a fort message container—nothing new.

Fat drops of rain began to fall. I heard a weird buzzing sound and saw a drone flying nearby. I kept moving away from the drone. I ate a hard boiled egg and half a pear.

There she was, perched atop a piling of an ancient trestle, my old friend here, the bald eagle. She turned her and looked at me. I looked back. We’d interacted dozens of times over the years, we were friends, but I had never thought to name her. Now I did. I named her Rachel, after Rachel Carson, whose writing in Silent Spring was primarily responsible for my seeing this bald eagle.

I snapped a couple of photographs. Rachel alighted and veered toward the ocean. I imagined her going into battle against the drone. That made me smile.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

Oregon Tavern Age: Bio Hazard

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It is an axiom in OTA country that bartenders never lie when telling OTA stories. They don’t have to make anything up.

Thus, I believed the bartender at the South Jetty on a Friday afternoon when she told two OTA men and one OTA woman sitting at the bar the following story. I could only taste scraps here and there with the damned 80s hits blaring, but it went something like this (I think):

A regular had walked into the bar a couple days ago wearing some kind of biological hazard mask/apparatus over his head that resembled the helmet of a deep sea diver. The joint was empty except for him. The bartender was understandably alarmed. Was he allowed in public? Sure. The man said it was all perfectly safe as long as he wore the helmet. He just needed to stretch his legs. The bartender was dubious but didn’t ask about the nature of the contagion. The man ordered a beer, a draft of Bud. He could drink it through a straw inserted into a hermetically sealed opening in the helmet. WTF? The bartender was shocked. Should she call the police? She hesitated a bit, then complied and watched a biologically hazardous man wearing a deep sea diving helmet sip a beer through a red margarita straw. Then he ordered a shot of well whiskey! WTF? She gunned the shot and watched him sip it down with one mighty suck. The man paid in cash, thanked her, and left.

I felt weak in the legs and had to sit down. Did I just hear what I heard? Was such an incident possible? Was the bartender and I afflicted with some sort of disease where we couldn’t tell the difference between truth and fiction? There’s a lot of that going around in America.

She came over to me and I ordered a beer. I just sat there and stared into the twinkling lights of the gimcrack drink advertisements. To my far right, there was speculation about the contagion. Someone threw out flesh eating bacteria. Another suggested radioactive contamination. I had no guess myself. I’m a writer, not a doctor, a novelist, not a mortician.

Love, Peace and Slot-Machine Coffee (Lost Oregon Writing)

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What follows is one of my favorite pieces of Oregon writing, from an anthology of creative writing from Oregon State Penitentiary inmates published in 1973 (see information below). I included it in my 2009 anthology Citadel of the Spirit and recently decided to take up a new project somewhat related to it: publishing the memoir of another contributor from that project, Smoky Epley. Before passing away in 2013, we became friends and I encouraged him to write up his life story of crime and incarceration. He did and completed it shortly before he died. At some point in the near future, I will publish his book, titled Auto, here on the blog and in e-book form. It’s truly quite remarkable and deserves an audience.

From “Love, Peace and Slot-machine Coffee,” an essay by Larry D.B. Smith, an inmate at Oregon State Penitentiary. The essay appeared in Men In Exile: An Anthology of Creative Writing by Inmates of the Oregon State Penitentiary, edited by Faith G. Norris and Sharon J. Springer and published by Oregon State University Press in 1973. The anthology was a result of Norris, a professor of English at Oregon State, teaching creative writing classes inside the prison and discovering significant interest and talent there.

Three years ago, when I was baptized and confirmed in the Catholic church, I was only vaguely aware of monasteries, monks, and the like. I had read stories that glamorized some of the monks of olden days, such a Friar Tuck of Robin Hood fame, but the reality of actually knowing a monk in a personal way was to come later. It came to me in prison, and when I was able to appreciate it most.

I had experienced a number of misfortunes, or so I thought. Things had not gone exactly the way I felt they should have gone. In spite of having worked very hard to earn the privilege of educational release, I had been denied this privilege. I met with similar denials when asking custody reduction, and again when asking for an early parole hearing. Reasons given by the authorities were not very well substantiated, and it seemed that the denials had been arbitrary. I was pretty bitter, and my studies were suffering from it. My visitors were too. The very person who had encouraged me to further my education now saw that there was a chance that it could boomerang and destroy everything that had been built up so carefully.

Unbeknownst to me, he spoke to one of the monks at a nearby abbey about me. Brother Francis sent word: did I care to correspond with him? He would like to have a “pen-pal.” Sure, why not? Letters from outside are always welcomed and Brother Francis offering to exchange letters was the beginning of a friendship. I didn’t realize just how great a friendship it would become until we exchanged several letters and I naively asked when he would be coming to see me on a visiting day. I was unaware that monks never leave the monastery for friendship visits, and rarely for any other reason, medical and church business excluded, of course.

The next letter I got was one that mirrored his frustration of having to break it to me that visits between us just weren’t in the cards, until I could visit him there. It is considered a distraction from the monks’ purpose to fully serving and thinking of God to go into the outside world. When they go into the Brotherhood, they renounce everything worldly for the cloistered life.

I’ll never forget Brother Francis’ words, “The chances for my coming to see you are quite slim. However, in the unlikely event that I should obtain permission from the Abbot, perhaps you should know what you will be meeting. I’m five feet one inch small, fifty-eight years young, with a map completely hidden behind a big beard and a perpetual smile on my face, and a funny-bone that causes me to laugh almost too much.” That proved to be an apt description.

The following Saturday, a friend of mine went to the Abbot and explained why he felt Brother Francis’ trip here would be justified. The Abbot felt the same, apparently, for he granted the necessary dispensation that permitted my friend to bring Brother Francis here. By the time we had to say goodbye, I felt that I had known this remarkable man all my life, and it was a reluctant parting when I learned that the trip could not be repeated.

Brother Francis and I began our conversation by comparing our respective circumstances. It was amazing to me that, here, I have so many liberties which I take for granted, while at the abbey, he was restricted beyond the average person’s comprehension. My few restrictions seemed to be pretty inconsequential by the time I learned that he had been in the monastery more than forty years—since he was seventeen—and had made only this one trip outside for a friendship visit in all that time. The only other trips outside had been to the optician’s, and to make the trip from Massachusetts to New Mexico, where a new colony was formed, then from New Mexico to Oregon.

Until about three years ago, the Brothers were not permitted to speak to each other except in the event that their work or safety depended upon necessary conversation. They could speak to the Abbot or any of their spiritual leaders when they sought advice or had a problem, but sign language was used otherwise. Then the silent system was relaxed. Even now, I learned, there is not an excess of talking, and the little talk there is is not useless chatter that we in the outer world are accustomed to. However, we chattered like two squirrels for over an hour.

Brother Francis asked if I might not like to share some coffee with him. The visiting room has a coffee machine, from which visitors and the inmates may purchase coffee (or a passable imitation) for a dime. I said yes, that would be nice. He asked me if I would show him how to operate the machine and then it began to dawn on me just how far out of touch with the outside world this man has been for forty years. We sat and sipped coffee and I remarked that this coffee must leave a lot to be desired, compared to monastery coffee. He said yes, “slot-machine” coffee could stand some improvement.

Later, in his next letter to me, he said, “I must agree with you that your slot-machine coffee isn’t the best, but I enjoyed that cup with you more than any I’ve had in quite some time.” Since that day, I’ve had a couple of cups with my friend who brought Brother Francis to the prison and another friend, and it even tasted better to me.

Brother Francis explained why the abbey coffee has better flavor: “It’s prepared by people, for people, not by a machine. People prepare things with love for people they love, while machines have no love for people; all they love is money.” That’s about as good a comparison as anyone could have given. If you don’t put a dime in the machine, it won’t give you a thing. The one we have occasionally has the option of taking the dime and thumbing its mechanized nose at the waiting customer. You can kick it, cuss it, or go sit down and cool off with a Coke, but it won’t give up the dime, and it won’t give up a cup of coffee.

In my discussion with Brother Francis, I talked about my college classes and the hobbies I like, and he told me of his woodcarvings. The proceeds from the sale of his carvings are shared with a T.V. program he likes, one of the few authorized programs they watch. I felt that he would have little trouble selling his carvings with such a noble cause profiting from it.

It was beautiful visit, and I was reluctant to end it so soon, but I knew within myself that somehow it had served a greater purpose than merely a social visit. It had brought me to a better understanding of myself. I realized that my disappointments were self-imposed, and in seeing and touching and talking with this wonderful example of selflessness, I found myself leaving the visiting room surrounded by an aura of calm that was new to me. It was not so strange, however, since it came Special Delivery, with brotherly love, from someone who cared enough to send His very best, Brother Francis.

Lines Written in the Fact_Fiction Workshop

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I sometimes think that telling the truth to someone who also wants to tell the truth to you at the same time is like a High Noon showdown where two people wait for the other to draw first and then fire away with the truth. This scenario raises some interesting questions: what if the person misses with the truth? What happens if the truth hits? Where does the bullet land? Does it wound, kill or actually enliven? What happens to the other person once the bullet hits or misses? Does he or she fire back? Holster the truth and walk away? Is truth even a bullet?

I keep thinking of Wonder Woman’s lasso of truth and believe that we all need one at our disposal and/or someone in our lives that will use it on us. If we did have the lasso, how often would we use it?

If we can’t imagine through writing what another person experiences, writing borders on useless for developing empathy and understanding of peoples’ differences.

The best American novel I have ever read that brought to life to an unforgettable female character is Dalva and it was written by a man, Jim Harrison.

Can a poet write an authentic poem about a clearcut without ever having walked through a clearcut? What is an authentic poem?

More people will always want to read about dragons that the Laws of the Universe. I need to embrace that fact as a writer. I like dragons, too! Is there a way to combine both?

I once communicated with a coyote—that’s a fact. He told me to let go of anger towards an institution that was desecrating a place I loved. I did. How could I not? He was the most regal coyote I had ever seen, practically white.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

Thoughts on the Blog

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The Meditations blog recently passed the 1.5 million page reads milestone. I learned this fact from an analytics program and really have no idea what the number means. I suppose it means people are reading the blog, but I can’t discern an audience out there, like I could with my books and freelance columns and essays. Sometimes I feel like I am writing to a single person. Maybe I am. Maybe that person changes.

The blog began in April of 2017 and I had no goal for it, although I did hope to raise a bit of revenue. I still don’t have a goal. I just write what interests me and post it. This process did produce the framework for the forthcoming Bonnie and Clyde Files book, but since compiling those posts about the two senior dogs at the sanctuary into a manuscript, the project took a decidedly different direction. But the blog got it going and that’s the only thing that matters with any writing—get it going—and see where it leads.

I used the blog to post new and revised Oregon Tavern Age stories that have since coalesced into a new book double the size of the e-book published in late 2016. How I’ll bring this out I have no idea. I need a benefactor who likes dive bars and taverns and storytelling in dive bars and taverns.

The blog imposed a deadline on me—six posts a week. I met the deadline. Deadlines are critical for many writers. They’ve always worked for me.

The blog also inspired me to unearth old, unpublished writing and revisit it. Some of it I have posted but there is a lot more I have not, including a full length memoir of growing up in Oregon City. Interestingly enough, having the blog rekindled my interest in short fiction and I think I might have a collection worth publishing one day.

For the first six months of the blog, I checked the analytics to determine the demographics of the readership. Then I stopped. It didn’t matter. This most recent check will probably be the last.

It was great to hear a month ago from someone dear to me that she read the blog every day. On that note, I do occasionally hear from readers of the blog, almost all of them previously unknown to me. Some had wondered what had happened to me, if I was even still alive! Some stumbled across the blog. Some were referred to it. I enjoy hearing from readers and appreciate their kind words about my writing, how it has entertained or enlightened, or simply made them think or consider.

I don’t know how long I will continue the blog, but it still feels fresh and the material keeps coming. I was never able to monetize it after the initial launch, and didn’t really try outside the message asking for support that appears at the end of most posts. If readers wanted to contribute to a writer at work, they would. Many have. Thank you. Perhaps now is a good time to renew that one-year subscription. And if not, that’s fine. Keep reading.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

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