On the Loss of a Great Man

The NFL, the University of South Florida, and the entire Tampa community lost a great man this weekend with the passing of Lee Roy Selmon. Having been the first draft pick of the first year, he was the original Buc. And being the only player in the NFL Hall of Fame who spent more than one year as a Buc, he is arguably the BEST Buccaneer. Ever.


Two memories of Mr. Selmon stand out in my mind. My family’s business, which I headed in the 90s and early 2000s, was nominated for “Most Family Friendly Business.” We didn’t win, but as they say, it’s an honor to be nominated. Lee Roy Selmon spoke at the event. He began by saying that if anyone was late because of traffic on the Crosstown, please don’t blame him. He referred to the expressway that was named in his honor.

But what impressed me most was the way he spoke of family – his own and families in general. It wasn’t the words he said that were memorable, it was the light in his eyes and the emotion in the timbre of his voice when he spoke of his mother and his brothers, his wife and his children that made me know this man believed in the sanctity of family. I had no doubt his family was first in his life.

One Saturday afternoon, I was in Buccaneer Heaven picking out a new shirt to wear to the next day’s game. It was early in the season, and the store was crowded. We’d won the SuperBowl the year before. We were optimistic. The energy in the store was electric and fun. Suddenly the cheerful noise ceased, little by little, replaced by whispers. “Lee Roy.”

Through the front door came our Hall of Famer, pushing a handcart loaded with cases of his Barbecue sauce. Here was a man who made his own deliveries to each little mom-and-pop location that sold his sauce. Like when Moses approached the Red Sea, the crowd parted to let him through. If this was Buccaneer Heaven, then surely Jesus had just walked into the room.

The crowd of shoppers stood in silent awe as he shook hands with the manager, picked up his paperwork and emptied his cart. A few brave souls said hello to him as he passed back out the front door. He nodded and smiled, and went on about his quiet business. But we all knew we had just been in the presence of greatness.

Football is just a game. Certainly other things in life are far more important. Like Family. This weekend we lost a man who loved both. And we deeply feel that loss.

Who's Yours?

We were listening to Siriusly Sinatra this weekend when the announcer said Sinatra was the “greatest singer of the Twentieth Century.” Now, I truly love ol’ blue eyes. That’s why I was listening to the station in the first place. But the greatest singer? Of the entire century? Which led me to wonder, if not Frank, then who?

One could make a case for these:

Elvis – remember the term was “greatest singer,” not “greatest voice.” If you don’t think Elvis can sing, I direct you to “Love Me Tender.” Case closed.

Luciano Pavarotti – Lives the person who can listen to “Nessun Dorma” without a shiver running down the spine? Or perhaps tears in the eyes? Absolute beauty.

Ray Charles – Just the other day, I happened upon his version of “Georgia on My Mind.” Memo to everyone else in the singing industry: Don’t record this song. Mr. Charles owns it.

Tony Bennett – This one I’ve had the great joy of seeing in person. “Fly Me to the Moon” was a life-changing experience. His voice was warm brandy. Unbelievable.

Renee Fleming – It’s not just having a great voice. It’s also knowing how to control it, how to wrench every ounce of emotion out of the music. Plus, she’s so elegant!

Barbra Streisand – the lovely lady for whom the term “superstar” was coined. Stunningly beautiful voice. And a great comic actress as well. I recently saw her on Oprah. She sang the theme from “The Way We Were.” Still beautiful.

Ella Fitzgerald – I tried to come up with the quintessential Ella song to talk about, but there are so many. “Someone to Watch over Me,” “The Man I Love,” “’Round Midnight.” They’re all good. It just seems so effortless when she sings it, whether she’s doing a slow and soulful version or a quick jumpin’ scat version of the same song. Pure Ella.

Billie Holiday – And of course, Billie Holiday. I wish the recordings we have of her were better. There are some that sound great, but many of them are showing their age. Still her unmistakable smoky voice is astounding.

Linda Ronstadt – I’m adding this one just for me. This attraction began for me with the Stone Ponys. “Different Drum” was always a favorite. But her later stuff with Nelson Riddle showcases the purity of her voice. And for personal reasons, her version of “A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes” brings tears to my eyes no matter how many times I hear it.

Now Frank. The Chairman of the Board. Francis Albert Sinatra. It’s not just that he has a great voice, it’s the WAY he sings. He can make you feel like he’s singing right to you. And that at any moment, he’s going to walk off the stage and sweep you off your feet. The mournful sound of “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning” makes me cry every time I hear it. The playfulness of “Lady Is a Tramp” makes me fall in love with him. I get too hungry for dinner at eight, Frank. Pick me!

So that’s ten choices. Without meaning to I picked five men and five women. And now I realize I’ve left off Mel Torme. They don’t call him the Velvet Fog for nothin’. How many great singers were there in the Twentieth Century?

Who’s your choice?

*

In the Interest of Truth

Okay, so I'm not a blonde. And I sold the T-Bird.

Does it really matter?

I've often said that the longest-lasting relationship in my life is that with Rhonda, my hairdresser. I could sit in her chair and say, "Do whatever you want," and know that I would be happy with the result. That's how well we know each other.

But when we moved to North Carolina, Rhonda the Hair Stylist is one of the things I left behind. Now what do I do?

Well, I'm certainly not going to let strangers color my hair. So I'm reverting back to the dark auburn I was born with. We shall see how much gray has arrived. Maybe none. Maybe just enough to be interesting. That's my hope anyway.

Then there's the car. I had the T-Bird for seven years, and I loved it. Love, love, LOVED it. But it started to get a little wonky. There were various problems that took several WEEKS to figure out. So I decided I'd be more comfortable in something new. And there's the fact that while exceedingly beautiful, the T-Bird is not Very Practical.

More than once Jeanette and I had to call for back-up when we were out shopping. And when Steven used to fly in from Maryland to go with me to Disney, I had to tell him he could bring only a gym bag. And that he'd have to hold on his lap. With the top down.

So it was time for a change. I got a really cute SUV crossover that I also love. Even if there are ten thousand others just like it within a one-mile radius. Mine's the one with the pink Georgia Girl sticker on the side window.

But the real question is Do I have to change the title of the Blog?

I think not. In my heart, I will always be blonde, always be driving fast somewhere in the red T-Bird with the top down.

Any questions?

A Florida Girl Deals with Snow

We’ve lived in North Carolina just over two months. During that time, any number of people have told me, “Oh, we hardly ever have snow. And NEVER before Christmas.” Of course I was disappointed. I lived in Florida for nearly all of my life. Snow is not in my realm of experience.

I’m not one of those people who’ve “never seen snow.” I spent a December in Maine once and a chunk of January in Maryland. But I didn’t live there. I was only visiting. Snow was a wistful novelty.

But now that I’ve moved out of the eternal Vacation land, I wanted SNOW!
I was not disappointed.

We went to the mall to finish up our Christmas shopping. We were headed outside to cross the parking lot to the Big Box Book Store. As we turned to the door, we saw it – little dots of white falling from the sky, pushed nearly sideways by the wind.

I squealed with joy.

Of course, the first thing I did when we got outside was lift my head and open my mouth. Even I know that snow isn’t snow until you catch it on your tongue.

Here’s something I didn’t know: Snow is wet. When it lands on your head, it melts. Then your hair is wet. And cold. Didn’t matter. I kept playing in it anyway. But the cozy interior of the book store was warm and welcoming.

We stayed in there for about twenty minutes, finished our chores, and when we left – IT WAS STILL SNOWING!!! Even the locals were laughing and taking phone pictures of each other.

All your life you hear that no two snowflakes are exactly alike. I want to know who started that rumor. I was led to believe that snowflakes look like this:




They don’t. They look more like this:



Minus the fruity syrup.

Nevertheless, it continued to snow for the rest of the day. As we wended our way home in our sleigh – I mean, car – I discovered another incredible new phenomenon. EVERYTHING looks stunning with a light dusting of snow on it. Like a – forgive me – Winter Wonderland. Our poor Florida patio table didn't know what happened to it.




I had thought the colors of autumn leaves were the most beautiful things I’d ever seen. Snow may have them beat just for its elegant simplicity.

But in a few months, there will be spring blossoms.....

"I'm Mad As Hell..."

I have Google alerts set up to bring me information about all of my pseudonyms. You never know when some website will review one of your books. It’s nice to hear about it.

But yesterday, my good friend Google returned to me a link to a website that I found disturbing.

In 2007, I published five e-books under the name Delia Carnell. Three of them were with Loose-Id and two with Cerridwen Press. When I followed the Google link, I came to a website that offered all three of my Loose-Id titles for download. Free.

I don’t know when I’ve ever been so angry.

During the seven years that my mother and I lived together, we routinely swapped books back and forth. I have no problem with that scenario. I wouldn’t expect two people living in the same household to purchase two separate copies of a book. In addition, it’s good for the book industry and writers alike for families to read together, to enjoy books, to talk about what they’ve read.

I have serious objections, however, to some unknown entity putting my work up on a website for the whole world to access. I wrote that book. I struggled with each sentence, each word choice, each plot twist to make it my very best. I did the research, the promotion, the advertising copy. I own the rights to those works.

And just like the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker, I want to be paid for my work. I should be paid for my work.

What this website is doing is theft. It is piracy. It is AGAINST THE LAW.

It’s time for the publishing industry to take a stand just like the music industry did against illegal downloads and file-swapping. And I’m sure they will. I don’t expect this particular website to last very long. In addition to my three little works, yesterday they also made available four books by Nicholas Sparks. No doubt he and his publisher have much bigger lawyers than I could ever muster.

Poking around a bit on the website (whose name I will not reveal; they don’t deserve the publicity), I found the place to state my objections to my work being offered on their site. I followed the instructions, filled in the form, stated my case. I received this in response:

“Thank you. Abuse report was submited.”

They don’t even have a flippin ‘ spellchecker?

It doesn’t matter. The fact remains that the illegal download of ANY copyrighted material is wrong. It is theft. Don’t do it. And if you see it, please report it.

Thank you.

The Big Sleep for Mr. Parker

Yesterday, the world lost the mystery writer Robert B. Parker. He died at age 77 at his desk. I hope he was writing, and I hope he was so engrossed in his story that he didn’t even realize what was happening to him. I can’t think of a better way for a writer to go.

Mr. Parker was probably best known for his Spenser novels. But in saluting his life, we must note that he held a Ph. D. in literature from Boston University. His dissertation was a study of classic mystery writers Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and Ross Macdonald. What better foundation for a craftsman of this particular genre?

I’ve read a fairly large stack of Mr. Parker’s novels, but last night I was moved to hunt down his very first. It’s The Godwulf Manuscript, published in 1973, and it’s the first Spenser novel. Here’s a line from an early scene in the book:

“She was wearing something in purple suede that was too short for a skirt and too long for a belt.”

Ah, they don’t write ‘em like that anymore.

Rest easy, Mr. Parker. Thanks for the many years of entertainment you gave the world. Thanks for your attention to the details of your craft. And thanks for showing the rest of us how it’s done.

Lessons from American Idol

You know you’ve watched too much American Idol when you can unerringly predict a contestant’s performance based on his or her pre-audition interview. If the young lady cares for her aging grandmother and has a sweet face, she’ll sing like an angel. If she’s dressed as a character from Star Trek and says her friends think she’s better than any previous contestants on Idol, she’ll screech like a stray cat in the alley. Or slightly less in tune than the stray cats.

It shouldn’t surprise me to see such a similarity between American Idol hopefuls and unpublished writers, but there it is. The more a person talks about how great his manuscript is, the more I know it’s going to suck. Please don’t tell me that your mother, sister-in-law, daughter’s English teacher, etc. couldn’t put it down. Don’t tell me how much they loved it. Especially don’t add the phrase, “and they don’t usually like this type of book.”

Your fate is sealed. I know it’s going to be a stinker.

I’m at a point now where I can spend one evening with a classroom of fledgling writers and determine which one’s homework I’m going to look forward to reading and which one I’m going to dread.

Talent does not need a sales pitch. If you’ve made it to the audition room in front of Randy, Simon and Kara, then shut up and sing. Similarly, if you’re invited to submit your manuscript – publisher, class homework, friendly critique group, whatever – shut up and hand it over.

I’ll repeat here some words of wisdom I picked up long ago from an author I knew casually (and whose name I’ve forgotten): “The only person whose opinion you should listen to is someone who is in a position to write you a check.”

It’s great if your grandmother loves your short story. But she’s your grandmother. She’s supposed to love every little thing you do. This is, you’ll remember, the woman who recorded your first deposit in the Big Potty. You want to wrap that up and send it to an editor? Didn’t think so.

So let’s take a lesson from our Idol viewing: Shut up and sing. The public will ultimately decide whether to keep you or vote you off.