Son of the Academy

“Who is he? Who is he? Truly he is a Son of the Academy.”

At times he shone magnificently like the Andromeda Galaxy or like the Great Orion Nebulae, twinkling both in the skies above us and in the classrooms--in front of us. I was privileged to be taught by him in the ‘Fifties and ‘Sixties, and appreciated him even more in the ‘Seventies and ‘Eighties.

Swedenborg described a man he had once known on earth, who communicated with him from heaven. This friend could manifest himself by pleasant and enjoyable representatives, such as beautiful colors of every kind, and colored forms, and by infants beautifully decorated and clothed. I immediately was reminded of our mystery teacher. When we run out into the back yard to see the infrequent rainbow glimmering in grey clouds still full of moisture, I think of Mr. Academy. Both Swedenborg’s friend and our teacher acted with a soft and gentle influx, and insinuated themselves into the affections of others with the purpose of making our lives pleasant and delightful.

His twinkling eyes remind me of the Orion Nebulae, the Andromeda Galaxy, the rainbow sparkling in the clouds, and the family campfire. He is easily able to illuminate the darkness and bring light and warmth to whole groups of gathered individuals during their natural and spiritual quests in his classrooms to determine their identity, their purpose, their mission, and their belongingness.

I sit at a small table, drink an green iced-tea latte, take bites from a blueberry scone topped with an occasional small pat of butter from Glenview Farms, and I glance out the window and for a moment - I thought I saw a phantom rainbow in the sky. I close my eyes and feel the warm campfire presence of this mystery man and am warmed by the memories. I turn to the very last page in the New Church Life, and see all that’s left of my imaginary campfire. The embers glow, sparkle, and twinkle up at me. Dismayed, I read in black print under Deaths: Mr. Charles Snowden Cole, at Bryn Athyn, Pennsylvania, May 18, 2008. 93….

He wasn’t just Mr. Charlie Cole. He was Professor Charlie Cole. He was Dean Charlie Cole. I hear a bell ring in the Children’s Reading Room nearby and think, “Charlie just became an angel.” I think of meteor showers from the Orion Constellation, and console myself that, “The Orionides will remind me of Charlie Cole every October 21st….” I remember the Andromeda Galaxy’s misty patch of light took two million years to reach us, but now, like Charlie Cole’s twinkle, its gleam will be with us forever. Okay, Charlie’s earthly body is gone from us. But everything he stood for, corresponded to, and represented lives. His campfire never dies. It just turns to the man we all called charcoal (CharCole), still warm and light and alive, full of all the love he gave us; full of all the love we gave him back….

Genealogical Memories

As the Gilbert & Nora Smith Family Reunion in Tucson comes to a close, I think that perhaps my penchant for writing stories comes from my grandfather. Here's an excerpt from one of his stories:

Memories of childhood center for me in the larger town of Easton. The stable, the family horse and buggy. Father was also a horse-trading parson. The stable, most enchanting of all places. I drew horses on scraps of paper, interminably sketching that subtle line that runs from the ears to the tail, over the parapet of intervening stalls. I remember riding with Father on preaching expeditions to what then seems far distant villages, waving sad good-byes to Mother as she stood, beautiful, like an angel in the lane. It broke me up to leave her for an over-night journey with Father. But it was fun with Father too. I remember how eagerly I contested with him, on the return trip, to see which would be the first to lay eyes upon the Easton standpipe.

I remember watching in summer the terrifying clouds blowing up a “gust,” old Mr. Gelon across the way, standing in his shirt sleeves, with his red beard blowing, welcoming the coming storm as relief from sultry afternoons; the torrential rains which sometimes followed, flooding the gutters on Railroad Avenue, filling the dirt street with rivulets through which the horses splashed; the joyful aftermath of tramping with bare feet in the dammed up rainwater along the side of the road until there were vast areas of soft black mud to “sqush” in and out between the toes; revelling in winter in the deep moist snow that hung thick on peach, poplar, and maple; watching rich Miss Covey, daughter of the livery man, jingle furiously by in her black slay behind high-checked black horses; in the dreamy autumn, lying in the sheltered angle of the front porch, out of the wind, watching the tossing tops of the poplars, their leaves turned up, and catching the broken sound of the voices of people passing, distorted voices in the noisy breeze; just dreaming, and wondering at the mystery of consciousness, and why it was that I was I.

Excerpt from Tornado Alley Fever

Finishing touches on my latest book: Tornado Alley Fever:

Annie brushed tears away from her eyes. Please God, no more trials! Give me my ticket to heaven—life with Luke right here on earth….She picked up the sound of the approaching Army transport. Far down the runway, but coming toward her, the plane’s wheels tantalizingly sailed long over the runway and touch down with a distant double- erk—erk from the protesting wheels on the two main landing gears. She breathes outward slowly, savoring the wheels-down. Annie’s heart squeezes tighter and tighter with every concrete section of runway as the plane taxies up to a stop, its propellers spinning soundlessly.

Ten base hospital attendants follow the two air base’s runway attendants as the privates push the big stairway up to the plane’s left fuselage, and stand at the bottom, waiting for the steward inside to crank the door open. The door opens and the attendants run up the stairs. In less than two minutes, five wounded soldiers are carried off the transport on stretchers—one right after the other, with two attendants carrying each soldier and loading him onto a hospital gurney. Five ambulances leave before anybody else comes down the stairs. Seven soldiers on crutches come next, making their way carefully, and manfully down the long flight of stairs and heading toward an old beat-up brown Army bus. Double that number walk down the stairs unaided, and then nobody appears at the top…

Excerpt from Freedom of Vision

As we're redoubling our efforts in marketing the Freedom of Vision Prison Anthology, here's an excerpt from one of the pieces... Enjoy!

A part of me is gone now too
yet a part of her remains
in a holy mystery that is beyond my comprehension
as if two having become one
can no longer be divided
I sleep alone in our bed of dreams
watching her
barefoot in the backyard
shampooing her long auburn hair in the sunlight
with water from the garden hose
Two hawks fly circular patterns
over green fields near the coast
I cannot remember when I did not love her

—From Bereaved, by Gordon R. Grilz

Dick Shelton Interview on Jim Lehrer's NewsHour

Dick Shelton's Crossing the Yard is written so well and so convincingly. In addition, it is highly condemnatory about the failure of the American Prison System, so that it caught the attention of the Jim Lehrer News Hour. They came out; filmed a prison classroom session at the Rincon Unit of the Arizona Department of Corrections at Tucson, Arizona—where I used to teach prior to retirement, and then came to the University of Arizona’s New Poetry Center to interview Dick Shelton. I was right there for the ninety minute film session.

Here's the video from Jim Lehrer's NewsHour:

Prisoners Find a Voice Through Poetry


Here's a link to the transcript of the interview as well:
Poetry Program Gives Prisoners Unexpected Voice

Excerpt from Tornado Alley Fever

Tornado Alley Fever, the third installment in my series, is working its way toward completion. Here's a scene from a whitewater trip that our main character is on...


Nothing in Sixth Weather Squadron prepared me for this pell-mell rush down a wild river. Nothing in Army Combat Diving prepared me for the tornadic torrents of water. Swimming a half-mile in the surf off Coronado Island in California did nothing to prepare me for the Middle Fork.

Outwardly, Chris could not tell a thing. I am glad he could not hear my heart pounding or my lungs straining to capture more fresh air.

“You’ve logged in another five miles!” Chris yells. “Get ready for the last biggee on Day One: Pistol Creek Rapids. Ben calls it Russian Roulette—you don’t know which chamber is going to get you.”

Sufficiently forewarned, I began running the famous Pistol Creek Rapids with heightened awareness and a quick prayer. It doesn’t matter.

“Stay away from the inside!”

We accelerate into a lower S curve, Chris’ warning dissipating in the swirling waters. I jump into the oar to guard against striking a house boulder on my near left. I head straight into the three huge rocks looming in midstream on the right, but remain in the middle of the S curve. I crank the oar blade madly to the right for forty feet and then madly to the left, so I can ultimately sail parallel to the homicidal granite obstructions. I steer for the outside—as if I want to kill myself on those huge raft-killers—but at the last minute, the main current catches me and sharply sweeps me laterally left. Feeling like I might pass out, on a parallel course, I shoot past the Pistol Creek rocks going by my near right shoulder.

Swedenborg Links

As I am working on a collection of essays, many of which are influenced by Emanuel Swedenborg and his teachings, I thought it prudent to give you, my readers, some insight into his teachings. Here are some valuable links:

Emanuel Swedenborg on Wikipedia:
Biography of Emanuel Swedenborg

The New Church: General Church of the New Jerusalem:
A new Christianity based on the Old and New Testaments and the Writings of Emanuel Swedenborg.

The Swedenborgian Church of North America:
A community of faith, based on the Bible, as illuminated by the spiritual teachings of Emanuel Swedenborg.

The Swedenborg Project:
A non-profit Christian organization, dedicated to effectively spreading the good news of Jesus Christ’s First and Second Comings to every corner of the world.

List of Writings of Emanuel Swedenborg:
A thorough listing and links to Swedenborg's writings.

Excerpt: First Class at Marysville Woman's Prison

At London Correctional Institution it was easier to market my career development and job placement services for male ex-offenders along with the classes I taught. At ORW (Ohio Reformatory for Women), it was a different story: good jobs for female ex-offenders are harder to come by, especially if you are trying to cross-train them from prostitution, say, into available jobs of cleaning, clerking, cooking, or waitressing. For one thing, it’s a drastic pay cut. My class of twenty at Marysville had mixed backgrounds….Teaching female inmates was even more dangerous for a male teacher. The inmates could set the teacher up through more hidden manipulations. Where a male inmate would take pride in tricking a teacher on his own, the female inmates had no shame in their game: they would more readily gang up on a teacher with lies, or trick him with their softer persuasions.

We were warned of many things: Prison teachers are put into a trick bag from jump street, or the beginning, as convicts would say: we are given students—over ninety percent of whom have drug and alcohol addictions, but we are not given this information. We are given students with a multitude of emotional and learning handicaps, but we are not encouraged to look into this, in order to modify our individualized educational programs for each student. We are given students who failed to learn in the public schools and whom the public schools failed to teach, but we are not given the details, so we might know where to begin.

(Editor’s Note in retrospect: Given a whole new headstart and a chance to become educated, many of these female inmates could have cross-trained into respectable and well-paying jobs.)

Celebration of Time

Up on Mount Lemmon, near Tucson, in the visitors' center there is a 300-pound cross-section slab of a Douglas Fir, some six feet in diameter. It still makes a statement. “Sir, I exist!” Each ring says, “I’m alive!” Solid yellow, full of substance and history, the slab has personality, gusto and permanence flowing from it. This tree was 700 years old when it was cut down. We can tell that by counting all the growth rings. The ring for 1492 is highlighted-a big date for us in the so-called civilized world; it was just a tiny blip in the immense history of that tree. Some rings are thick, others are so thin that only an expert can count them. Good years, bad years. The growth rings show a total of 700 trees within that one tree: 700 rings, 700 years, 700 dimensions of time.
We are like a tree with growth rings. Our brain records every sensory experience, every thought or stimulation of the imagination. Our growth rings are in our memory. When certain electrodes are attached to our skull, vivid memories, emotions, even smells, of our childhood are immediately called to mind. Imagine that each ring in our memory fills up with fifty-two more chapters of sensations. Multiply those 52 chapters—one year—by how many years old you are. That's how many rings of you there are. You might have twenty good rings and only one bad ring. Or maybe it's ten good and ten bad rings. Still, it's half good! We cannot get stuck in one ring, live in the past, and suspend our growth. We cannot get stuck in a behavior that keeps us from creating a new ring of growth, flowing forward down Time's river.

NewsHour Interview with Dick Shelton

The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer interviewed Dick Shelton concerning his book "Crossing the Yard" and his prison workshop.

The producer, Terry Rubin and his crew went into Rincon Unit of ASPC-Tucson with Dick Shelton, and Dick told me it went extremely well. Then they came to the Poetry Center, where they interviewed Dick at length. Terry Rubin had talked to Ken on the phone twice prior. So I thought he would be the man I should approach.

I took the opportunity, went down to the Poetry Center, stood for an hour and a half fifteen feet away from The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer Productions, as Terry Rubin, the producer put his crew through each step of Jeff Brown's interview with Dick Shelton and one man handling the lights and camera and the other man the sound system recording.

Jeff knew an art teacher at the Univ. of Az. who came to watch—who knew him back in San Francisco, so after Jeff and Dick and Terry talked, and Dick signed two books to give to Jim Lehrer, who was not there, I introduced myself to Terry Rubin, gave him a signed FREEDOM OF VISION book for Jim Lehrer—with my letter folded in half inside the front cover, and the backgrounder folder inside the back cover. Jeff and the art teacher walked out together, giving me the opportunity to walk out with Terry.

I verbally dedicated the book to the inspiration that Dick and Ken were to a national audience of FOV, as well as the inspiration for prison writing groups here in Arizona. I then went to my briefcase, got out a second copy of FOV, signed it for Terry Rubin, saying THANK YOU for coming here and for giving the public a chance to see another side of prisoners. I walked him all the way out to his car, and told him about Gordon Grilz, and Ben Gastellum, and others who rehabilitated themselves and shared their growth and their vision via their writing. Terry was very pleasant and was happy to get a book for himself as well, and I talked enough so that he had images and details from me to go along with the two books. He peeked inside to get a sense of both the letter, and the backgrounder. I was glad I took the chance.

The Value of Prison Education

Freedom of Vision’s roots lay within prison education—teachers such as Richard Shelton, contributors Lollie Butler and Shaun T. Girffin, and myself, co-editor/co-author of Freedom of Vison. We believe that everyone has the ability to express themselves, and everyone has a story to tell or experience to dig out of their hearts and souls. We also believe that the vast majority of inmates can be rehabilitated, and that the road to lasting rehabilitation lies through reconnecting these inmates to their innermost selves through writing. With that comes a renewed sense of self, responsibility, respect for others and accountability — the base of sound choices and decisions in life.
Once a teacher proves he is a man of his word and demonstrates his mission to help the men find the real intellectual, emotional, and spiritual keys to freedom and safety behind bars which lead to a life of freedom and hope outside prison walls or he wins their loyalty and trust. However, he has to prove it every day. He has to pass all their little and big tests. Inmates will push as far as they can on every issue they can. But from their classroom successes, maybe the first such successes in their lives, real self-esteem grows. What a challenge!
Once a teacher understands the secrets behind prison walls and prison masks, he or she is hooked. He knows he is doing something most people won’t do or can’t do. He realizes that one person can make a difference in an inmate’s life.

Excerpt from Tornado Fever

Here is an excerpt from the upcoming new book, Tornado Fever (third in the series):


Velvet Fall Rapids comes up fast, and I knew many rafters had misjudged its strength by its seemingly harmless appearance. I kept in the middle of the channel, and head for the clear chute between obstructions, the current steeper and faster than the surrounding water. Down river and around a bend, I watch the boil line—where upwelling water misleads, some of the surface current going upriver, and the below surface current going downriver. Five miles past Velvet Creek Rapids, I steer past a boulder fan from an incoming Horn Creek on the left side—the sloping fan-shaped mass of boulders deposited by the tributary stream where it enters the middle fork, constricting the river and causing rapids. Six miles further down I think I’m back in Heavy Artillery, Army, at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. I encounter Artillery Rapids, go past Rapid River Pack Bridge, then watch for rapids from Mortar Creek, followed by rapids from incoming Cannon Creek.

Five miles further, I hit the famous Pistol Creek Rapids. We accelerated coming into a lower S curve, as I guard against striking a house boulder on my near left. Now I’m heading straight into the three huge rocks looming in midstream on the right, but in the middle of the S curve. I cranked the oar blade madly to the right for forty feet and then madly to the left, so as to sail parallel to the granite obstructions. I have to steer for the outside—as if I want to kill myself on those huge rocks--but at the last minute the main current catches me as I suspected and sharply sweeps me laterally left. On a parallel course, I shoot past the Pistol Creek rocks going by on my near right shoulder.

Transformation from book to screenplay, Part II

Here is the second part of the process of transforming Mustang Fever into a screenplay for my LIT 289 class at Pima Community College:

We may need some backstory, or more about the situation. In Mustang, Where is Chance coming from? What motivates him? We find him in Nevada with a broken heart, recovering from having loved and lost a Polynesian princess when he was on duty in American Samoa and other exotic islands, providing upper atmosphere weather for nuclear testing in the Pacific; too late came his redemption—he overcame his upbringing and the fears of marrying a woman of a different race, a different color, a different culture, a different language, a different religion, but it was too late, and Moana was lost to him. Cheyenne, the Southern Paiute Indian girl he meets while providing weather support for missile warhead testing at the nearby Nevada Test Site, suffered from her own heartbreak years earlier. Both are wounded, fiercely independent, and uninterested in being hurt again.

Turning Points: every film has at least two Turning Points--one at the end of Act One, leading to Act Two, and a Second Turning Point at the end of Act Two, leading to Act Three. These keep the action moving, they help the story change direction; new events unfold; new decisions are made. Due to the two Turning Points, the story achieves momentum, and retains focus.

They move the action in a new direction; they raise the central question again; it’s a moment of decision or commitment for the main character; it raises the stakes, pushes the story into the next act; takes us into a new arena, gives us a different focus
In Witness, the first turning point is a strong action: McFee tries to kill Book, and Book realized the Sheriff is crooked as well.
With Mustang, the first turning point could be where two cowboys try to get Cheyenne killed for trying to help the wild mustangs, and Chance is riding with her. Now Chance has civilian enemies as well as a military enemy; the stakes are higher.

The second turning point does all that the first turning point does; in addition, it speeds up the action and momentum and urgency.
The second turning point often has two beats: the first is a dark moment (the case seems unsolvable), followed by a new stimulus. In Mustang, it could be when Chance has to face a court martial and possible imprisonment for seemingly illegal actions. He has to take new actions.

Spirit of the Mustang - The Extra Mile

This is a really beautiful video!

Transformation from book to screenplay, Part I

In my Pima Community College's LIT 289 class we are in the process of transforming Mustang Fever into a screenplay. Here's how it goes:

Begin with AN IMAGE.
Visualization brings strong sense of place, mood, texture, sometimes the theme.
Create a metaphor for the film, telling us something about the theme.

Find the CATALYST.
After the initial images begins the story; we need to be introduced to any important characters, and information about the situation. In Mustang Fever, the intial images are dawn and we see seven wild mustangs appear out of the darkness watching Chance as he ties pilot balloons to creosote bushes, and then we see a nearby nuclear explosion out of the early dawn darkness at the Nevada Nuclear Test Site north of Las Vegas.

To start the story: the Catalyst. It begins the action of the story. In Mustang Fever, it could be Sgt. Ochs with a pick-up truck trying to drive the wild mustangs away or maybe trying to get them to run over Chance and warn him or even kill him.

This leads to THE CENTRAL QUESTION. Every story is a mystery. It asks a question in the set-up that will be answered at the climax.
In Witness, the central question is, Will John Book get the murderer? In Jaws, the central question is, Will Martin catch that killer shark? In Mustang Fever, it could be, Why does somebody want to kill Chance? And, “How do the mustangs fit into the story—what will happen to them? Will they be killed as a result of radioactive poisoning?

The Spirit of the Wild Mustang

No single fish, fowl, or animal captures the spirit of
America’s Golden West more completely, more dramatically,
and more romantically than the wild mustang—magnified
incrementally and exponentially even more so because the
mustangs traditionally live and travel in family units, bands and
small herds.
The movie or documentary photographer who captures a
herd of wild mustangs running free up and down mountain
plateaus and across the high desert of the Great Basin transmits
so much more than images to the viewer. Emotions pour through
the lens and into our hearts. We know what freedom looks like
and feels like.
We feel the joy of watching mustangs do what they do
best—run with power and with stamina, and run free, run
natural, run in harmony with each other, run in harmony with the
earth, run in harmony with the wind and the sky.
Mustangs are America’s natural athletes. They live wild in a
hostile environment. That which does not kill them makes them
stronger. They are independent and self-sufficient. They can
sense another animal coming up a ridge out of sight a quarter of
a mile away.

Veteran's Day Tribute

I extend my admiration and gratitude to those who daily demonstrate strength, character, and purpose; who symbolize dedication and obedience, upon which foundation rests the integrity of the military spirit.

• To all your fellow Air Force warriors, Army soldiers, Navy sailors, Marines, and Coast Guard servicemen, who love our country and who stand guard and fight every day to preserve our independence, our beloved union of fifty states, against all aggressors.
• To my two sons, currently on active duty in the Army National Guard and Reserves, of whom and for whom no father could be prouder or more grateful, who have a passion to defend and protect their fatherland. They volunteer for the most dangerous and challenging missions, model the seven Army elite values (loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage), and quietly live the Soldier's Warrier Creed as officers and honor graduates of two Arizona universities:

I am an American soldier. I am a warrior and member of a team. I serve the people of the United States and the Army values. I will always place the Union first. I will never accept defeat. I will never quit. I will never leave a fallen comrade. I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough... I stand ready to deploy, engage and destry the enemies of the United States of America in close combat. I am a guardian of freedom and the American way of life. I am an American soldier.

Mustang Fever available!!!

After much anticipation, Mustang Fever: Run Free With Wild Mustangs is available!! It is a page-turning adventure full of surprising twists and turns, fraught with peril and high-stakes rescues, blessed with budding romance and filled with personal revelation. Mustang Fever paints a stunning portrait of the American West and the last bastion of its wildness—the mustang. Originally slated for a Spring 2007 release through Koboca Publishing, it has now been released through Aisling Press. It is available for purchase through Aisling Press or Amazon.com. Enjoy!

My first copies of Freedom of Vision sent from Amazon.com

Remember the song, “Oh, Happy Day!” Here’s a picture of what the song looks like to me.

· The arrival of--The Prison Anthology: Freedom of Vision:
Just One Look--Is All It Took.

I experienced rebirth one magical spring morning, as I picked up the baton from my first teacher and friend of my youth, Henry David Thoreau, and ran the lifelong wilderness trails he urged me to run: He promised me If I advance confidently in the direction of my dreams and endeavor to live the life which I have imagined, I will meet with a success unexpected in common hours….And if I have built castles in the air, my work need not be lost; that is where they should be.
Now put the foundations under them.
With the spring birth of our Prison Anthology, Freedom of Vision, and your help, we will take each copy, brick by brick, and fashion foundations for the castles built out of the dreams of all the Voices From Behind Prison Walls.

My daily going forth to teach in prison on a small scale mirrors a deployment on a training mission in a foreign country. In a twenty year career similar to the military, I address a platoon-sized contingent of my natural enemy, and during the process of education, I train them to become my spiritual friends. I clothe myself in vigilance--a form of body armor, I learn another language, I employ incident management techniques to keep the battlefield environment safe. How inspiring and gratifying for me to go forth from and return home to Beautiful Wife Betsy, whose angel radiance warms our home, nurtures our children, and lightens my days in so many ways.
The beams of love from her eyes, soul, and heart— traveling at the speed of light--are the windows of the landing tower beacon to send me on my way and to bring me home every day.

We're all doing time here.

There are fifty ways to leave your self-imposed prison. "Get a new key, Lee. Make a new plan, Stan." We're all doing time. We are strangers in a strange land. We are spirits caught in the web and bars of our own bodies. Gravity keeps our feet in place on our planet, despite our desire to soar like eagles above. Only in dreams and in meditations can we strike a blow for freedom and escape. We visit places and see people in dreams and meditations unlimited by space and time. Our Western society is trapped in materialism and mind control from the media. We need to be stars behind bars, and stop loading our bodies down with pounds of fat gravity gravy. Throw out those ingested bags of sand and lift ourselves skyward with new thoughts, new heroes and heroines. Make our own media and broadcast our own freedom news. There is a new day dawning. Greet it with light feet. Up, up, and away.