A few days ago, I posted a photo taken in 1983 when I was lucky enough to snag an interview with Roy Rogers. It was the opening of the restaurant in our little town of Berlin, NJ, that bore his name and Roy came to meet and greet his fans. This is what I wrote in the next issue of The Journal:
“Frontier Playhouse” revisited – September 23, 1983
What do you ask Roy Rogers?
I spent all weekend rolling questions around in my mind, knowing that at 4:30 on Sunday, I’d be face to face with a genuine legend and would have the chance to ask him anything I wanted to know.
It boggled my mind. Not just because there was so much I wanted to know but because everything I could think of added up to several hours’ worth of conversation, never mind the ten minutes or so I’d be given.
Finally, in the way of all procrastinators, I gave up and decided that the questions would “come to me” when I needed them. Hopefully they’d be the right ones.
Then it was Sunday. And then he was there.
Now, let me makes something clear. I was a very small child (ahem!) when Roy and Dale rode into the sunsets singing “Happy Trails.” I have a vague recollection of the 101 TV episodes they made and, although it’s a bit fuzzy, I sort of remember standing in line at the Saturday matinee to see one of the 87 musical westerns Roy starred in. Or one of the 35 that he and Dale made together.
But unlike the kids of the 1980s, I do know who Roy Rogers is and I am old enough to appreciate what Roy Rogers is, so I have to confess to unadulterated awe.
Grinning, foolish, teeny-bopper awe.
In all honesty, though, that lasted about a second or two. After all, faced with the personality of the man, it’s almost hard to remember that he’s as famous as he is.
Roy Rogers is just plain folks.
Rich folks, yes… thanks to years of hard work and dedication to his craft, but he is warm, personable, down-to-earth and genuinely enjoying life.
Maybe his zest for it all contributes to the spring in his step as he leaps onto the platform to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd. Most people I know are not that agile at 40, let alone Roy’s highly-publicized 72. It’s obvious that he’s taken good care of himself during his lifetime. He told me he rides his bicycle every morning for eight miles, usually around 6 a.m. He trains hunting dogs, rides, walks, spends a lot of time doing things he enjoys. It looks like he’ll have many more years to do just that.
So when the awe was conquered and we sat down to talk, what did he say? What did I ask?
First off … why, after a lifetime of performing and being on display… why does he do personal appearances? Why beat around the country, visiting little burgs and shaking hands?
His answer was simple. He loves it. “I feel at home in any crowd,” he said, his surprising blue eyes twinkling. “The people out there (referring to the crowd waiting for him outside) are the kids who grew up with me. The kids who were eight and nine then are the parents and young grandparents today, and I feel an obligation to keep in touch with them, to answer their questions… sure, I don’t have to work. I’ve been fortunate over the years… but I can’t just do nothin’,” he said grinning.
Most of the time, the slight accent colors his speech in ordinary conversation, Often, he thickens the accent, putting an extra twang in his words… the quintessential cowboy. The crowd really loves that little touch.
It seemed that oodles of people had things to give to Roy. Saddle-frame mirrors, books, the gift from Berlin Borough of a piece of Lenox china, the Berlin Community School t-shirt from the kids of Berlin… so I asked Roy what he does with all the things he must receive as he criss-crosses the country. Well, things like t-shirts, he wears. “They’re mighty comfortable when I’m out training the dogs,” he said. Everything else goes into the museum that showcases his and Dale’s lives. He made up his mind, he said, that if he ever “made it” in show business, he would save everything he could. “They call me a packrat and other names like that,” he said, smiling, “but the museum is the story of my and Dale’s life together and everything goes there.”
Including a mounted lifelike Trigger, Roy’s faithful companion for twenty-nine years. Bullet, the German Shepherd who ran alongside the famous duo during their adventures, is also mounted at Trigger’s feet. Roy’s voice softens with fondness whenever he talks about Trigger, which is often. He likes it when the crowd asks about the horse… he tells about how Trigger was trained, what little nuances of unusual behavior could be elicited from the horse and he remarks, “If there is a heaven for horses, that’s where Trigger is. I hope when I get there, I can ride him again someday.”
An intense Christian, Roy refers quietly to his religious beliefs, but his inner serenity and an indefinable goodness shine through. Right off the bat, it would have been impossible to refer to him as “Mr.” Rogers. His ability to set one at ease, to make any situation comfortable, automatically puts him in the first-name-I’ve-known-him-for-years category. There is none of the taut pressure often sensed with other celebrities… none of the tension that flies with the click of the camera only to return when the lights go out. He is himself… no pretensions… no hint that his life has been any more exciting than the man whose hand he shakes in the crowd.
The facts and figures surrounding Roy’s career can be written down anywhere. Most people don’t really care about the awards he and Dale have received or the connection he has with the Marriott Corporation whose restaurants bear his name. Most people want to see him, ask him questions, touch him… most people just want to experience Roy Rogers.
He is human enough to let them, enjoying the contact as much as they.
That’s what legends are made of.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Monday, June 17, 2013
Here I am again!
It's really been a long time since I've added a new post.
Yet it seems like every day there is something I want to write about... something that begs to be discussed, poked, prodded or just plain brought to someone's attention.
I didn't post last week when I should have.
I didn't talk publicly about what happened to my friend, Rosemary.
Let me tell you about her.
It was somewhere in the early 2000s.
I noticed her sitting in the front row of a Board of Education meeting, taking notes, looking befuddled. When the meeting was over, she asked if she could speak with me to get some clarification on what had occurred. After all, Board meetings are conducted in educationese, a language much like Greek to the uninitiated. Educators tend to forget that acronyms and other technical terms aren't encountered by the average citizen.
We spent an hour or so talking and she left, vowing to learn more about the school district and its workings.
Fast forward a few years and Rosemary had become a regular fixture at Board meetings... besides being an active PTA member. She was devoting many hours each week to district causes, hosting an Open House in her home to help pass the budget, showing up at Q&As around the district to advocate for the schools. She became involved with the State Board of Education, eventually holding the position of Vice President for Legislative Affairs.
I retired in January 2008 on the heels of one of the worst years I'd ever spent in education. Our district was mired in a dispute, spearheaded by a small group of people, over a video that, while showing the various types of families, spent one segment on the families of gay and lesbian parents. The year was ugly with homophobia and resulted in the Board having to decide whether or not to keep the video as part of the curriculum. When the vote was held, Rosemary was the lone voice in favor of continuing to show students that families of gay and lesbian parents were to be valued and given the same dignity as those of other groups.
Now to the last couple of weeks.
I don't know exactly what Rosemary said because I wasn't in the room, or even at the meeting, for that matter. Accounts vary from those who say she made objectionable anti-Semitic remarks about a proposed change in the 2013-2014 school calendar to accommodate a Jewish holiday, to those who say her remarks were taken out of context and that her position on the issue was valid.
Doesn't really matter.
In the wake of the furor, again created by a small group of people, Rosemary apologized.
Still the drumbeat for her resignation grew more strident, kept alive by one local newspaper and its television subsidiary and Facebook.
No one who serves as faithfully as Rosemary has should ever be castigated and publicly humiliated in that manner. An apology wasn't enough. Only her head on a platter would do.
So, about a week after the remark, Rosemary resigned first the state post, then the local one. Both Boards of Education lost a valuable asset.
But the politicians who want the Board to be an arm of municipal government and those who have for years wanted Rosemary out of the way gained what they saw as a victory.
I am sad that we teach our children this lesson: don't ever make a mistake that gives your enemies a chance to pounce and destroy years of your good work and dedication.
Don't forgive, no matter how sincere an apology.
And above all, don't try to offer your time, your effort and your devotion to your community.
No good deeds go unpunished.
Yet it seems like every day there is something I want to write about... something that begs to be discussed, poked, prodded or just plain brought to someone's attention.
I didn't post last week when I should have.
I didn't talk publicly about what happened to my friend, Rosemary.
Let me tell you about her.
It was somewhere in the early 2000s.
I noticed her sitting in the front row of a Board of Education meeting, taking notes, looking befuddled. When the meeting was over, she asked if she could speak with me to get some clarification on what had occurred. After all, Board meetings are conducted in educationese, a language much like Greek to the uninitiated. Educators tend to forget that acronyms and other technical terms aren't encountered by the average citizen.
We spent an hour or so talking and she left, vowing to learn more about the school district and its workings.
Fast forward a few years and Rosemary had become a regular fixture at Board meetings... besides being an active PTA member. She was devoting many hours each week to district causes, hosting an Open House in her home to help pass the budget, showing up at Q&As around the district to advocate for the schools. She became involved with the State Board of Education, eventually holding the position of Vice President for Legislative Affairs.
I retired in January 2008 on the heels of one of the worst years I'd ever spent in education. Our district was mired in a dispute, spearheaded by a small group of people, over a video that, while showing the various types of families, spent one segment on the families of gay and lesbian parents. The year was ugly with homophobia and resulted in the Board having to decide whether or not to keep the video as part of the curriculum. When the vote was held, Rosemary was the lone voice in favor of continuing to show students that families of gay and lesbian parents were to be valued and given the same dignity as those of other groups.
Now to the last couple of weeks.
I don't know exactly what Rosemary said because I wasn't in the room, or even at the meeting, for that matter. Accounts vary from those who say she made objectionable anti-Semitic remarks about a proposed change in the 2013-2014 school calendar to accommodate a Jewish holiday, to those who say her remarks were taken out of context and that her position on the issue was valid.
Doesn't really matter.
In the wake of the furor, again created by a small group of people, Rosemary apologized.
Still the drumbeat for her resignation grew more strident, kept alive by one local newspaper and its television subsidiary and Facebook.
No one who serves as faithfully as Rosemary has should ever be castigated and publicly humiliated in that manner. An apology wasn't enough. Only her head on a platter would do.
So, about a week after the remark, Rosemary resigned first the state post, then the local one. Both Boards of Education lost a valuable asset.
But the politicians who want the Board to be an arm of municipal government and those who have for years wanted Rosemary out of the way gained what they saw as a victory.
I am sad that we teach our children this lesson: don't ever make a mistake that gives your enemies a chance to pounce and destroy years of your good work and dedication.
Don't forgive, no matter how sincere an apology.
And above all, don't try to offer your time, your effort and your devotion to your community.
No good deeds go unpunished.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Our hearts are broken.
From one end of our beloved Jersey shore to the other, the places we played, frolicked in the surf, strolled the boardwalks and just laid back and enjoyed the serenity of the ocean are gone.
Gone!
We’ve worried for years about the consequences of a huge storm. We’ve ridden down the boulevard on Long Beach Island and noted with dismay the proximity of the homes to both bay and ocean, just mere blocks apart. We’ve oohed and aahed over the summer beach mansions in Ocean City, on Loveladies and Beach Haven and fretted over the fates of those places should “the big one” hit.
I am not a huge fan of our current governor’s policies on just about everything. But I actually felt as if he and I shared a bond on Tuesday, Oct. 30 when I watched him struggling for the right words to describe his emotions as he toured the shoreline by helicopter and looked down on the part of our state that held such warm, wonderful memories. He was nearly in tears and, when we can finally be permitted to see that devastation for ourselves, we will be as well.
Sandy did to the Jersey shore something no other power could. She simultaneously humbled us and taught us a lesson we’ve not heeded for decades.
Not since the so-called “Ash Wednesday Storm” in March of 1962 has our shore experienced such a pounding. I remember it well, since I was in college in Trenton and so many of my friends hailed from shore places… Seaside Heights, Lavalette, Seabright. But in the intervening 50 years, it seems we haven’t heeded the warning of what monster storms can do. We rebuilt, sure, but without the safeguards we should have put in place in such fragile areas. The barrier islands are, after all, simply sand bars… things that shift and move with the tides.
Sandy slammed ashore like a maniacal schoolmarm, her ruler ready to strike recalcitrant pupils into submission. Didn’t I warn you? she seemed to be chanting, as pieces of affluence floated out to sea. Am I not as powerful as you remembered? she remonstrated those of us who disregarded her destructive capabilities.
We can only stand back, hang our heads and grieve. Grieve for the damage to the peaceful refuge our Jersey shore has been for many of us since babyhood. Grieve for the souls who have lost so much, particularly those whose livelihoods and year ‘round homes are irreparably damaged. Grieve for the suffering and the sadness we all are experiencing.
Maybe as we rebuild, and rebuild we will, we will finally heed the warnings. Storms like this are, as someone pronounced recently, the “new normal.” Climate change and the increasingly fragile ecosystem will continue to remind us of that reality.
If Sandy taught us nothing, she should have at least reminded us who is boss and who controls the destiny of this little planet on which we live.
From one end of our beloved Jersey shore to the other, the places we played, frolicked in the surf, strolled the boardwalks and just laid back and enjoyed the serenity of the ocean are gone.
Gone!
We’ve worried for years about the consequences of a huge storm. We’ve ridden down the boulevard on Long Beach Island and noted with dismay the proximity of the homes to both bay and ocean, just mere blocks apart. We’ve oohed and aahed over the summer beach mansions in Ocean City, on Loveladies and Beach Haven and fretted over the fates of those places should “the big one” hit.
I am not a huge fan of our current governor’s policies on just about everything. But I actually felt as if he and I shared a bond on Tuesday, Oct. 30 when I watched him struggling for the right words to describe his emotions as he toured the shoreline by helicopter and looked down on the part of our state that held such warm, wonderful memories. He was nearly in tears and, when we can finally be permitted to see that devastation for ourselves, we will be as well.
Sandy did to the Jersey shore something no other power could. She simultaneously humbled us and taught us a lesson we’ve not heeded for decades.
Not since the so-called “Ash Wednesday Storm” in March of 1962 has our shore experienced such a pounding. I remember it well, since I was in college in Trenton and so many of my friends hailed from shore places… Seaside Heights, Lavalette, Seabright. But in the intervening 50 years, it seems we haven’t heeded the warning of what monster storms can do. We rebuilt, sure, but without the safeguards we should have put in place in such fragile areas. The barrier islands are, after all, simply sand bars… things that shift and move with the tides.
Sandy slammed ashore like a maniacal schoolmarm, her ruler ready to strike recalcitrant pupils into submission. Didn’t I warn you? she seemed to be chanting, as pieces of affluence floated out to sea. Am I not as powerful as you remembered? she remonstrated those of us who disregarded her destructive capabilities.
We can only stand back, hang our heads and grieve. Grieve for the damage to the peaceful refuge our Jersey shore has been for many of us since babyhood. Grieve for the souls who have lost so much, particularly those whose livelihoods and year ‘round homes are irreparably damaged. Grieve for the suffering and the sadness we all are experiencing.
Maybe as we rebuild, and rebuild we will, we will finally heed the warnings. Storms like this are, as someone pronounced recently, the “new normal.” Climate change and the increasingly fragile ecosystem will continue to remind us of that reality.
If Sandy taught us nothing, she should have at least reminded us who is boss and who controls the destiny of this little planet on which we live.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Glimpsing the future?
It was time to get my toenails fixed and pretty again.
Sitting in the chair next to mine, I saw a sweet-looking woman, perhaps in her early eighties. She seemed a bit agitated, but she was calmed by two women, obviously her daughters, who took turns in the little cubicle, chatting with her and reassuring her it wouldn't be much longer.
I learned from their conversation she'd already had her hair done, was undergoing the pedicure and then still had a manicure ahead. Daunting for anyone, let alone an elderly woman. Each process takes at least thirty minutes or more... a long day in the salon. Occasionally, she would remark about some aspect of her experience, usually saying she wanted to go home.
It didn't take much to figure out she was confused... perhaps in some stage of dementia. But after a few minutes, it wasn't she I was watching. I was paying close attention to her daughters. Two women, probably with busy lives, children, households to manage, problems of their own to solve, were taking turns with the loving care of their mother.
I saw my girls in those women. Although I am but 71 and still of reasonably sound mind and body, Father Time keeps on pushing me toward advanced age. And in those years ahead, I have no idea what life will be like. Will I be able to drive myself to the salon for an occasional haircut, manicure or pedicure? I certainly see myself in the car, doing exactly that.
Or will my daughters, both busy, competent women, have to abandon their daily responsibilities to see that I am driven to the salon for those services? Will they need to stand by my chair, touch my hand every now and then to reassure me they are there and then step aside to let the other sibling have a go at keeping me calm?
I didn't enjoy my usually relaxing pedicure that day. I had seen a glimpse of my own possible future as I sat there, close enough to touch the lady in the next chair, unable to avoid hearing the comments she made and the comforting responses from her children.
How I hope I will not be she one day.
Sitting in the chair next to mine, I saw a sweet-looking woman, perhaps in her early eighties. She seemed a bit agitated, but she was calmed by two women, obviously her daughters, who took turns in the little cubicle, chatting with her and reassuring her it wouldn't be much longer.
I learned from their conversation she'd already had her hair done, was undergoing the pedicure and then still had a manicure ahead. Daunting for anyone, let alone an elderly woman. Each process takes at least thirty minutes or more... a long day in the salon. Occasionally, she would remark about some aspect of her experience, usually saying she wanted to go home.
It didn't take much to figure out she was confused... perhaps in some stage of dementia. But after a few minutes, it wasn't she I was watching. I was paying close attention to her daughters. Two women, probably with busy lives, children, households to manage, problems of their own to solve, were taking turns with the loving care of their mother.
I saw my girls in those women. Although I am but 71 and still of reasonably sound mind and body, Father Time keeps on pushing me toward advanced age. And in those years ahead, I have no idea what life will be like. Will I be able to drive myself to the salon for an occasional haircut, manicure or pedicure? I certainly see myself in the car, doing exactly that.
Or will my daughters, both busy, competent women, have to abandon their daily responsibilities to see that I am driven to the salon for those services? Will they need to stand by my chair, touch my hand every now and then to reassure me they are there and then step aside to let the other sibling have a go at keeping me calm?
I didn't enjoy my usually relaxing pedicure that day. I had seen a glimpse of my own possible future as I sat there, close enough to touch the lady in the next chair, unable to avoid hearing the comments she made and the comforting responses from her children.
How I hope I will not be she one day.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
I read another good book yesterday. Couldn't put it down until the very end. Loved the story, hated the story-teller.
Why?
She is a true writer, and with each page I read, I realized again and again I will never be one.
Oh sure, I know the technical aspects of good writing... I'm an editor, for heaven's sake! I know when a comma is misplaced or needed instead of a semi-colon. I know about subjunctive mood and all the other tenses and quirks of our wonderful language.
I just can't tell a story with the rich use of those rules and words I love. I'm like Salieri, who yearned to compose great music but couldn't and who despised Mozart because he could.
After my two novels were published, I tried over and over to write another. I have several files on my computer that are first pages or parts of first chapters of stories I'd love to tell. The words just don't come and the ideas evaporate into nothingness, leaving me wishing I could have figured out how to finish my tales.
So I edit and I blog and I write first lines and first chapters. Perhaps someday, my Muse will open her eyes, stretch her long, made-for-typing fingers and just write... a real book, a real novel, something someone somewhere will want to read.
I can dream, can't I?
Why?
She is a true writer, and with each page I read, I realized again and again I will never be one.
Oh sure, I know the technical aspects of good writing... I'm an editor, for heaven's sake! I know when a comma is misplaced or needed instead of a semi-colon. I know about subjunctive mood and all the other tenses and quirks of our wonderful language.
I just can't tell a story with the rich use of those rules and words I love. I'm like Salieri, who yearned to compose great music but couldn't and who despised Mozart because he could.
After my two novels were published, I tried over and over to write another. I have several files on my computer that are first pages or parts of first chapters of stories I'd love to tell. The words just don't come and the ideas evaporate into nothingness, leaving me wishing I could have figured out how to finish my tales.
So I edit and I blog and I write first lines and first chapters. Perhaps someday, my Muse will open her eyes, stretch her long, made-for-typing fingers and just write... a real book, a real novel, something someone somewhere will want to read.
I can dream, can't I?
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Who Am I?
The calendar diesn't lie, even though my brain refuses to acknowledge the truth.
Ever look in the mirror and say, "who the hell is that?" Every day, my friend, every day.
In my delusional mind, I still have wrinkle-free skin, flat abs and perky, sexy breasts. I can eat anything I like without worrying about losing my size 4 figure. I can party all night and still function flawlessly in the morning. I have nearly limitless energy.
Oh, stop it!!! That real person in the mirror, wrinkled face, thinning hair and baggy eyes, goes along with a thickened waist, afternoon naps and not just shortened parties, but few parties at all.
This is 71. Seventy was bad enough, but tomorrow the calendar flips again and another year marks new surprises for the fictional young me.
But hey, on the upside, and it is a huge upside, my health is still good, I have wonderful friends (though I have lost more than I ever imagined) and a loving family (also missing crucial members like my dear Mom, Dad and step-father), so I ask myself:
What's a few wrinkles and 71 candles?
Ever look in the mirror and say, "who the hell is that?" Every day, my friend, every day.
In my delusional mind, I still have wrinkle-free skin, flat abs and perky, sexy breasts. I can eat anything I like without worrying about losing my size 4 figure. I can party all night and still function flawlessly in the morning. I have nearly limitless energy.
Oh, stop it!!! That real person in the mirror, wrinkled face, thinning hair and baggy eyes, goes along with a thickened waist, afternoon naps and not just shortened parties, but few parties at all.
This is 71. Seventy was bad enough, but tomorrow the calendar flips again and another year marks new surprises for the fictional young me.
But hey, on the upside, and it is a huge upside, my health is still good, I have wonderful friends (though I have lost more than I ever imagined) and a loving family (also missing crucial members like my dear Mom, Dad and step-father), so I ask myself:
What's a few wrinkles and 71 candles?
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Feeling good feels good
The Italian bug, which morphed into a stubborn American bug, has finally passed on, leaving me feeling well at last! My voice still fades or disappears now and then, but all the other nasty symptoms are gone.
So I'm back to what I didn't do for a month. Fun stuff, like housecleaning, floor scrubbing and cooking. Really fun stuff like editing manuscripts, organizing my department at Wings Press (Mainstream, Cozy Mystery, Crime, Thriller, Futuristic, Fantasy and Paranormal) and getting back into the swing of reading some really good writing and some really not-so-good attempts at writing.
Some of the authors needed to have Sister Rose Albert Abbott as their 6th grade teacher. And before her, Sister Mary Raphaela, who taught me in third, fourth and fifth grade (yes, it was a tiny parochial school with limited numbers of nuns, so the class sizes often exceeded 60 - and still we all learned!). These two women were grammar fanatics. And I fell in love with the subject, too.
Sheer bliss -- standing at the blackboard in front of an entire class of bored, restless and totally disinterested kids, diagramming compound sentences that filled the board... and the one next to it. I was fascinated by the structure of sentences, eager to learn what modified what and why. Things like the past perfect tense or the subjunctive mood fed right into my voracious appetite for the rules of good writing. By the time I was in high school, I was writing on a college level and in college, knocking out papers on just about any subject I was studying was a breeze.
So imagine my frustration with today's writers, who can't keep the use of their, they're and there straight. I am appalled at the punctuation, or lack thereof, and the total disregard for tense agreement, number agreement and, oh yes, subjunctive mood. I'm sure my authors dread seeing my name as their editor. One posted on her Facebook page a while back that her edit had been "bru-tal." Only because her editor had thorough, yes, brutal instruction in what constitutes good writing technique, dear author, and you will be better for having gone through my blue-pencil wringer.
Time to wrench myself away from writing about something I love. Time to venture back into the world of the writing of others, where surprises lurk, both good and not-so-good. More to come, probably on the same topic another day.
So I'm back to what I didn't do for a month. Fun stuff, like housecleaning, floor scrubbing and cooking. Really fun stuff like editing manuscripts, organizing my department at Wings Press (Mainstream, Cozy Mystery, Crime, Thriller, Futuristic, Fantasy and Paranormal) and getting back into the swing of reading some really good writing and some really not-so-good attempts at writing.
Some of the authors needed to have Sister Rose Albert Abbott as their 6th grade teacher. And before her, Sister Mary Raphaela, who taught me in third, fourth and fifth grade (yes, it was a tiny parochial school with limited numbers of nuns, so the class sizes often exceeded 60 - and still we all learned!). These two women were grammar fanatics. And I fell in love with the subject, too.
Sheer bliss -- standing at the blackboard in front of an entire class of bored, restless and totally disinterested kids, diagramming compound sentences that filled the board... and the one next to it. I was fascinated by the structure of sentences, eager to learn what modified what and why. Things like the past perfect tense or the subjunctive mood fed right into my voracious appetite for the rules of good writing. By the time I was in high school, I was writing on a college level and in college, knocking out papers on just about any subject I was studying was a breeze.
So imagine my frustration with today's writers, who can't keep the use of their, they're and there straight. I am appalled at the punctuation, or lack thereof, and the total disregard for tense agreement, number agreement and, oh yes, subjunctive mood. I'm sure my authors dread seeing my name as their editor. One posted on her Facebook page a while back that her edit had been "bru-tal." Only because her editor had thorough, yes, brutal instruction in what constitutes good writing technique, dear author, and you will be better for having gone through my blue-pencil wringer.
Time to wrench myself away from writing about something I love. Time to venture back into the world of the writing of others, where surprises lurk, both good and not-so-good. More to come, probably on the same topic another day.
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