Man Martin
Tell me about where you live and why you love it so much.
I live in a tree-shaded neighborhood in suburban Atlanta, not far from my children and grandchildren, which is the nicest thing I could wish. Looking out the window from my home office I can see the charcoal gray cube of a State Farm building rising behind the hardwoods, which distresses me, but I also see the hardwoods themselves, which offer a counterbalancing soothing effect, and just now the leaves are changing yellow, and gold, and coral red, so that’s even better.
I also have birdfeeders and a birdbath outside my window
where I can watch cardinals, finches, woodpeckers, and thrashers, and in the
warmer months, hummingbirds. I have four chickens in a pen in the backyard, who
provide eggs but more importantly a sense of personal wellbeing. The same goes
for the little garden where just now we have broccoli, cabbage, and collards. Where were you living when you were 7 years old? Are they fond
memories?
Fort Pierce, Florida, and yes. As a child I had a host of learning disabilities, severe enough that my first-grade teacher wanted me tested for intellectual impairment.
Is there a book that changed the way you look at life?
Hmmm. And again, hmmm. The question is not my favorite book or one that I’ve read the most often, but one that changed how I look at life. The answer to that question would have to be The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays by Camus.
I’ve read it multiple times, and as far as I can make out, his thesis is that the meaning of life, such as it is, is Work. This is not as grim as it may sound, but Camus himself seems to throw up his hands and shrug his shoulders that this is the best he can come up with. For many years I would have agreed with him, but have concluded that although Work is a very good guess, Love is the real meaning of life. This may seem so obvious as to be not worth stating, but it took me years of cogitation to get there, and I probably wouldn’t have if Camus hadn’t set me on the path of wondering.
Do you have a favorite children’s book and what about it makes it
so?
When I was seven years old, in the Fort Pierce public library (see answer to Question 2) I pulled a slim volume from the shelves called, The Wuggly Ump, by Edward Gorey,
in which the title monster eats three children
who for some reason seem to be from the Edwardian era. On the last page, the Ump grins a pointy toothed grin and a cutaway shows the three kids floating in its belly. The final rhyme is, “Sing tir-aloo, sing tir-alump/ From deep inside the Wuggly Ump.”
What a great book.
In one memorable episode, Dick runs.
“‘Look, look,’ Jane said. ‘See Dick run.’” The only topic less entertaining
than a boy running, is a girl seeing him run. I believe many of the neuroses
of my generation could be traced to those very books.I dutifully returned The Wuggly Ump when it was due rather than checking it out again, from a sense of that someone else should have a chance to discover it. On repeated visits to the library, however, I never found it again. No doubt some officious parent had it removed on grounds of unwholesomeness. If you’re a person who believes children shouldn’t be exposed to anything that might possibly be troubling or upsetting, and they’re better off with a diet of the classics, I recommend you take another look at Alice in Wonderland, Grimm’s Fairytales, Hans Christian Anderson, or better yet, the Bible, and then get back to me.
How do you feel about “Independent Bookstores” and their role in
your success?
Independent booksellers, particularly Frank Reiss of A Cappella Books, Atlanta,
and Doug and Charles Robinson of Eagle Eye Books in Decatur
have always taken a personal interest in helping me launch my books, publicizing and hosting readings and book signings, and I am indebted to them. But deeper than that, there is a value to the independent bookstore in shaping the sort of society we want to have. When we think of a community, the sort of community celebrated in the old Sesame Street Song, “Who are the People in Your Neighborhood,” the local bookstore is as integral as the barber, the baker, and the house of worship. It’s one of the ingredients that transform a collection of intersecting streets and storefronts into a hometown. When you walk in the store you are greeted, if not by the owner, by someone who cares about books, not some indifferent retailer who would be as happy working at Banana Republic or Jiffy Lube. Current bestsellers will be on display, of course, but also a carefully curated selection of titles suggested by the staff. And if you ask for a recommendation, you will get a real recommendation, from someone who has listened to what you like, rather than a cyber-generated algorithm, a la Netflix; “You like movies with strong female leads and the documentary, ‘Autopsy,’ so we think you’d enjoy ‘Zombie Strippers from Outer Space.’”
Over the past decades, many a lovely bookstore has had to shut its
doors, and the ones that have survived have done so precisely because of their
commitment to building as well as serving the community, and most of all, the
deep-seated love of reading.
Christmas is upon us. What better gift for someone you love and
your neighborhood than a good book from your local bookseller?
What are the funniest or most embarrassing stories your family tells about you?
Oh, dear. They are so many and so terrible. I would have to say it
was the time I cooked a pig in a plywood box. The magnitude of the fiasco was
too great to accomplish unaided, but required the combined stupidity of me and
my wife. Suffice to say, a firetruck was involved.
How did you meet your beloved ? How did your first date go?
As a college sophomore in John Blair’s History of English Drama
class at Georgia College, I sat across from the prettiest girl I’d ever seen.
Not just pretty, but take-a-surreptitious-peek-to-confirm-if-she-could-possibly-be-as-pretty-as-I-think-she-is
pretty. Alas, she had an engagement ring on her finger, so I made up my mind
she could never be for me. As the semester wore on, I learned her name was
Nancy, and not only was she astonishingly beautiful but witty and smart.
Then my buddy Charles Waldrip gave a presentation on Tis Pity
She’s a Whore (actual title) He asked me beforehand to interrupt, imitating
of a bit from the Johnny Carson show. I was to say everything you needed to
know about the play was in the handout, and he would reply, “Oh, no, Petrarch
breath,” and go on with his talk. When Charles began his presentation, I went
into my spiel on cue, and Nancy seized The Riverside Shakespeare, which
is eight inches thick and hardbound, and slammed it on my head saying, “Shut
up!” 
Later, Tammy, a mutual friend, told me Nancy had broken it off
with her fiancé. I knew such a gem wouldn’t be on the market for long, and said
I was going to ask her out. Tammy stole from the room at once, going, as I
suspected, to inform Nancy of my intentions. When Nancy arrived, I wasted no
time.
“Speaking of movies,” I said, loudly enough to be heard by the
entire room – no one had been speaking of movies – “how would you like to go
see Fast Break with Gabe Kaplan with me?”
Twenty-two pairs of eyes turned in Nancy’s direction. Would she
say yes? Would she say no? Would she dare to break my heart or would my fond
hopes be realized?
We have been married forty years this July.
You mentioned your "buddy" Charles Waldrip, tell me about him.
Charles Waldrip, or “Drip” as we called him, was one of my buddies in The Roges and Vagabondes theater group. (The teacher of the afore mentioned History of English Drama class was our director.) I have too many dear friends to list here, for fear of omitting any, but I will share briefly how Drip and I became friends.
During my first ever play at Georgia College – Gooper in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof –
Drip and another performer, Andy Irwin (who has since become an internationally acclaimed storyteller and whistler) invited me to participate in a practical joke on the music department. In the music building were two sets of identical lockers, both numbered, if I recall correctly, 1-16. We simply broke into the music building and switched the lockers. This involved a certain amount of heavy lifting, hence the need for an extra conspirator.The next morning, chaos and fury ensued when students discovered
the combinations on “their” lockers no longer worked, or the locks appeared to
have been replaced altogether. The situation was soon sorted out with no harm
done, the perfect practical joke.
Collectively known as “The Phantom Janitor,” Drip, Andy, and I had several escapades of this sort, about which, perhaps, the less said the better.
Is there a song, person or group that you listen to when you are
feeling a bit down?
I like music no one else seems to enjoy, but I apologize for this
fact to no one. I likes what I likes, and what I likes is tuneful, easy to
sing, melodies and lyrics that have a clever topspin. I especially like female
vocalists. Nancy chides me for listening to the same songs over and over, but I
can’t help it. I’ll listen to Imelda May sing “Inside Out” twenty times in a
row, just to catch the line, “I love your wits/ and all your wobbly bits,” or
to hear Toby Keith sing, “Ain’t no high
maintenance woman gonna fall for no maintenance man.”
How are you different now than you were in your 20’s?
I would like to say I am wiser. I am probably not. I would like to
say I am kinder, more generous, more patient, more loving. I am probably not. I
would like to say I am thinner, have more (or as much) hair, had bigger biceps.
I do not. My political views have moved to the left. But is that really me, or
has the rest of the world shifted while I stood in place?
I like okra now. I didn’t used to. I like buttermilk with cornbread.
I didn’t used to. I have had daughters, who in turn have married, and have had
children of their own. I cannot even begin to express the sea change that has
had on my perspective of the world, the future, myself.
So, yeah. That sums it up. Okra, buttermilk, kids, grandkids.
IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME
When would you go?
Where would you go?
Who would you want to meet?
And most importantly, why do you think you chose this time?
My immediate answer is I’d like to witness the battle between at
T-Rex and a triceratops which took place in Hell Creek, Montana 67 million
years ago. That would have been totally boss! Like something out of a Ray
Harryhausen movie.
But no, let’s be mature and grown-up about this.
The basic possibilities are to be present at an historic event,
meet a bygone luminary, or return to a halcyon period of one’s own youth.
The problem with historic events is, they’re bound to disappoint. Oh,
sure, it’d be great at first. “Looky, they’re signing the Declaration of
Independence,” but the thrill would wear thin. “Why’s it taking so long?”
you’d think, “Whose idea was it for everyone to sign one at a time? Do
they really all have to sign? Hancock’s turn was over so quickly, I
missed it. And Ben Franklin keeps falling asleep, and who’d have guessed John
Adams had such terrible body odor?” Etcetera.
And then enduring the snoots who picked better historical events
than you did. “Oh, you saw the Declaration of Independence, did you?” Sniff.
“Muffy and I saw that last year. This year we went to the Magna
Carta. So much more foundational, you know.”
So if historical events are out, I’d like to meet Mark Twain. But suppose I arrived on a day he was constipated and only wanted to talk about laxatives?
And what if
he were exactly as I imagined, would that be any better? Say he was forever spouting
things like, “Heaven
for the climate, Hell for the company.” At that point, I might as well watch a
Hal Holbrook on YouTube.No,
visiting Twain would not be enough. I’d want to get to know him. Better still,
I’d want him to know me. I love Twain, but it’s an unrequited love. I want
him to reciprocate. I want him to slap his knee and say, “Boy howdy, Man Martin,
you are one fine writer!” But how likely is it, really, that Twain would say
“boy howdy.” What if he didn’t like me or – worse still – ignored me, if he considered
me not even worth noticing? The thought
is too terrible to contemplate. No, meeting Twain’s not worth the risk.
That leaves the option of returning to some sweet memory of my misspent youth. Fortunately, I know just the spot. 1414 Drake Avenue, Ocala, Florida, 1964
Two
live oaks hung with Spanish moss droop down like the arms of a loving giant.
The morning is still, the grass slightly damp. Ocala is rural in those days,
and from somewhere I hear a rooster crow, its voice sweetened by distance.But would I really want to turn the clock back to 1964?
Of Ocala’s two theaters, one allowed blacks only in the balcony,
the other not at all. Gays in the community feared not just harassment, but
outright arrest. In Southeast Asia, teenagers killed and were killed in a war
that accomplished precisely zero, as far as I can tell. And America had yet to
live through the assassinations of Martin Luther King and John and Robert
Kennedy. I was unaware of all this at the time, of course, but would it be fair
to make everyone else go through all that again, just so I could relive a
pleasant memory?
So here’s what I want. It is 1964, but only within a tightly circumscribed section of Drake Avenue, reaching no farther than Raleigh Street to the east and Essex Lane to the west. I have Gumby and Pokey for company
Click the link to sign up for your daily cartoon from Man Overboard https://visitor.r20.
Comments