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On Mary Vettel

Mary Vettel passed away yesterday afternoon. None of you knew her. If you own any of my books, you'll find her on the “Acknowledgments” page of each. You'll find my last two novels dedicated to her as she dealt with pancreatic cancer.

From my perspective, she didn't battle cancer; she humored it. Of course, there was a fight, but she never mentioned it. Along with the chemo, she spoke of tests and procedures I'd never heard of, but she never complained, never a woe is me.

Mary Vettel was my best friend over the last 17 years. We never met in person. Never even talked over the phone. She lived in Hampton Bays, New York—I never even checked a map. Seems strange now, but I guess we just settled in as modern-day pen pals. Email seemed like our form of communication.

We met through a site called QueryTracker, devoted to assisting writers in their pursuit of a literary agent. I was finishing up my second novel, No Happier State, at the time, and Mary asked several times to read it before I took her seriously. She grudgingly agreed to let me read her novel Death at the Drive-In (Amazon: https://a.co/d/4hbesSG – buy it, it's terrific!). Since then, she read everything I've written, offering constructive criticism and suggestions, as did I with everything she sent me. We kept each other busy.

We talked about everything. We helped each other with life. It wasn't till a couple of weeks ago that we told each other how we really felt. Sometimes you don't have the luxury of time to tell someone how much you love them. I'm glad we were able to do that.

On the two Pauls

 [I awoke a while back with the need to finally write something down concerning two friends who passed away four days apart back in late March. I wrote a version of the following that day but never bothered to post it anywhere.]

                                                        Not sure who to attribute these photos to.                                                                                                             Speak up if they are yours.

I'm gonna say I met rock 'n' roll photographer Paul Lundgren in late 2015 at a Bryant-Lake Bowl party hosted by Sharon Samels. He proved to be a good guy to sit/stand with at shows—if you didn't mind him dashing away in mid-conversation to catch that perfect shot. He'd return and one of us would invariably say “what a great fu¢king band!”

I don't believe “Front Row Paul” Engebretsen—rock 'n' roll enthusiast extraordinaire—and I were ever formally introduced. Just repeatedly crossing paths at so many shows and so many opportunities to have FRP turn to find me in the second row and one of us commenting “what a great fu¢king band!”

And so, I was happy to call both Pauls my friends, as could most everyone attending music events in the Twin Cities over the last fifty years. Early 2022 brought an email from David Aquilina—whom Paul Lundgren had introduced me to at a show—inviting Paul and I to join him for some Twins baseball that summer. He even had a name for us: The Gentlemen of Leisure. And matching jerseys. Huh?

By 2024, Robert Wilkinson and FRP had joined the crew, and even I was enjoying a bit of celebrity. “Who's the other guy?” people wanted to know. They'd point at me in public and say: “Aren't you that other guy with those guys at the Twins games?” Yeah, that's me.

By this February, David put out a call to pay up for this year's games, ending the text with a comment about our first game not being until May to allow time for Paul Lundgren to recover from his brain surgery. I knew nothing about it, though I did know FRP hadn't been feeling well all year. We all paid our money looking forward to another season of baseball.

Paul's surgery seemed to go well but FRP gave us the devastating news about pancreatic cancer in late February. By late March, I stood with a packed crowd at the Schooner dreading news of the coma Paul Lundgren would not awaken from, and four days later, Front Row Paul was gone too.

Sure, there will be a bench commemorating Mr. Lundgren on a Lake Harriet path and FRP Fest at Palmer's was a rousing success with a fund to carry Mr. Engebretson's passion into the future but, for me, nothing will replace seeing them at a show.

Yesterday, I attended a Minnesota Music Resistance gathering at the Hook & Ladder. This had been FRP's brainchild and both Pauls would've surely been in attendance. I finally saw Christy Costello and her band (I know, what took me so long?) and wanted so bad to track down both Pauls and exchange a hearty “what a great fu¢king band!”

On AI

I've mentioned Tim O'Brien a time or two in this blog.

I first met Tim O'Brien at the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop in 1982. I served him many a meal, per my “working scholarship”, as he was a bigshot always sitting at my table. I went to him with questions which he graciously answered. We met again at a Grand Forks, ND conference a few years later, had some laughs and more questions. I even usurped the title of his book IF I DIE IN A COMBAT ZONE for my IF I LIE IN A COMBAT ZONE.

Imagine my surprise when Tim O'Brien followed me on Bluesky.

For years I'd dropped his name/handle on ex-twitter whenever a question of favorite writers or influences popped up. Closest I ever got was some guy who worked on a documentary with him.

So imagine my shock when Tim O'Brien “liked” and commented favorably on a blurb I posted about one of my novels. I quickly posted a blurb about IF I LIE IN A COMBAT ZONE—having used his books as research while writing it.

Imagine the thrill seeing 'Tim O'Brien sent you a message'.

Then consider the letdown upon realizing it was all an AI deception.

On a podcast

So I landed in a podcast. Or Teddy & Bara did. My mention runs from about 11:35 to 15:10. He shows a blurb/tweet of mine and gets Bara right (Bear-a, like Sara or Clara), then switches to Barr-a when reading the back-cover blurb. Oh, well... Nice little shout-out to my favorite clowns. Thanks, Jonathan!

https://youtu.be/ZEq2yFgjxGY?t=691

Part VII: My Bread Loaf Experience 1982

 

(This is the final installment of my series on a hitchhiking trip from CA to VT and the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop back in 1982. Chronicled here before I forget it entirely.)

Okay, I began Part VII of this series but soon realized I'd already written it. Back in 2011. My second post for this blog. It covers the conference itself. As far as the hitchhiking goes, aside from the two rides listed in this re-posted piece, the rest of the trip was uneventful. So I give you the final installment as I'd written it eleven years ago. 

Thanks!

Friday, January 21, 2011

On Meeting John Gardner

[Wikipedia: John Champlin Gardner, Jr. (July 21, 1933 – September 14, 1982) was an American novelist, essayist, literary critic and university professor. He is perhaps most noted for his novel GRENDEL, a retelling of the Beowulf myth from the monster's point of view.]

It was the spring of 1982 when I received a phone call from the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop asking if I'd accept a scholarship to attend their conference that fall. The call itself was a shock and came just in time for me to escape a nasty roommate situation. They asked, would I be arriving by car, bus or plane?

"On foot," I replied. "I guess I'll be hitchhiking..." I lived in San Jose, CA. The conference is held in Middlebury, VT. I was in no hurry. I had little money, no place to live and plenty of time. It took two months. (If you hang around this blog long enough, I'll likely tell the hitchhiking story.)

Twenty-five young writers received "working scholarships" that year. The "working" was waiting tables, something I'd never done before. They asked for a volunteer to take the children's table in the corner; they said the few children that had been dragged by parents to the conference always sat at that table. This seemed about my speed. The first night the table was empty and I happily ran food and bussed tables. That night a rather drunken John Gardner was one of the opening night speakers. He addressed the crowd with a succinct: "If you're not writing politically, you're not writing shit!" and stomped out of the hall.

The next day's conversation obviously centered around Gardner's "speech." That night I was in the kitchen, helping out where I could, preparing for the dinner meal, when a fellow waitperson rushed into the kitchen. "Carolyn Forché and her people are at your table!" she screamed. I protested that it said "children only" right on the table. "Tim O'Brien's at your table!" another voice called out. That can't be, I demanded as the kitchen door opened and someone cried: "John Gardner and his entourage are at your table!"

The children's table had become the big shots table (along with jokes about it still being the children's table) but that was the least of my problems: John Gardner was my "reader" for the event and had left a note in my box—along with the stories I had submitted—to meet in a few days and discuss my work.

Arriving early for our meeting, I found a University of Minnesota wrestler named George seated on the very couch I was to meet Mr. Gardner at. "I have a meeting with John Gardner," George said. When Gardner arrived he apologized for the mix-up and asked George to return in twenty minutes. Twenty minutes, I thought. I hitchhike across country for an hour-long meeting with this guy and all the bastard gives me is twenty minutes. He took the stories from me—he'd made no notes on them—and proceeded to give me detailed critiques on each of the three. From memory.

He pointed to one story and said: "I bet you'd get some laughs if you read this one in front of a group." I explained that I had read it the night before at the scholarship winners reading and, yes, it got some laughs. "Sorry I missed it," he said, looking sufficiently contrite. He looked at his watch and I could see that my twenty minutes were up.

But there was no George in sight and, to keep things rolling, I said the first thing that came to mind: "So, what about the 'you're not writing shit' speech?"

"What's been the hot topic all week?" he asked.

"Your speech," I admitted.

"Exactly," he said, and still no George. After a pause, Gardner asked: "Where you from?" I said San Jose, then mentioned the two-month hitchhike. This seemed to impress him more than my writing. "How old are you?" he asked. I said twenty-five. "That's a good time to be published," he said and pointed to one of my stories: "Lop off the last line of this one and I'll publish it in my magazine, MSS." About then George arrived.

I got a ride to Wisconsin from a fellow waiter and a lift from Minneapolis to Wyoming for a friend's wedding. I was back in San Jose by September 15, when the paper ran the story about John Gardner and his motorcycle crashing over a cliff the day before.

Part VI: New York City, Stamford and Boston

 

(Part VI of my series on a hitchhiking trip from CA to VT and the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop back in 1982. Chronicled here before I forget it entirely.)

New York City was a blur of late nights and waking to 90 degree/90% humidity afternoons. I slept on Kevin's couch. He went by Kevin Calhoun at the time and had a band called The Neighborhood. I went to several of their practices during my week-long stay.

The Neighborhood had a gig the last night I was to be in town, so I was given a task of handing out free tickets for the show. As I recall, the band got $1 for every freebie used. I handed out hundreds as I walked the streets. For my efforts, I got free drink tickets.

One night while Kevin worked, I decided to splurge and take in a show at the Peppermint Lounge. The Undertones, I think, or maybe Split Enz. Easy to mix up 40 years later but, either way, it was sold out and I stopped into a bar next door. There was hardly anyone in the place, just a lovely, young woman and a drunk guy harassing her. She beseeched me to pretend to be her boyfriend. We kept the charade up till morning. 😱

Tim Carr, A&R guy and so much more, got us into Danceteria for free one night-to-morning. That was wild—and very hazy by now. I'd last seen Tim when he was caddymaster and gave me good loops back in 1975.

A good crowd showed up for The Neighborhood's gig. My effort with the freebies was appreciated. The band was great. I played roadie after the show, loading their gear onto a flatbed truck—no sides, just flat. I spent a terrifying ride back to their practice space trying to keep their gear—and myself—from sliding off while a crazed saxophone player drove like a maniac through whatever neighborhood we were in.

Next stop: a train station to meet a friend of my brother's, Jerry Parker. The drinking started at the station, continued on a train, and I remember waking up on the floor of a Stamford, CT motel. From there we drove to Boston to meet up with Jerry's boss and attend some sort of festival on the street. It turned out to be a contest between Jerry and his boss on who could spend the most money—and who could drink the most. I woke up the next morning on the boss's floor.

Jerry dropped me on a highway destined for Vermont, Boston at my back and NYC already a fuzzy memory. Ahead was a “working scholarship” at Bread Loaf—waiting tables—and finding out what John Gardner thought of my work. Gardner, eminent teacher and author of Grendel, had received three of my stories and we would have an hour-long meeting during the conference.

I waited on a highway that no one seemed to travel. We of the wait staff were required to be there a day early, checking in at 4pm. I began to fear I'd be late. Finally, a car pulled over. A traveling salesman, just beginning his vacation. His son had attended Middlebury College, where Bread Loaf was held. He had fond memories of fishing the streams in the mountains south of Middlebury with his boy. I had the unsuspecting man just where I wanted him.

If I got him waxing nostalgic about the boy and the fishing, I could get him to detour through the mountains and maybe I'd get to the college on time. I had him point out the location of their favorite spot on my map. What kinda fish ya catch? How old was your boy? Gee, that musta been great!

He fell for it. We took a nice ride through the mountains. He pointed out this stream and that cabin. “Heck,” he said finally. “We're not far from Middlebury now. I wouldn't mind taking another look at the campus.”

He knew exactly where I needed to go and dropped my there at 4 o'clock sharp. A fellow waitperson came down off the porch to help with my pack. “Nice of your dad to drive you here,” he said. “Where you from?”

“San Jose,” I said. “Not my dad. Just some stranger.”