Of Walking and Writing

 

We are supposed to talk about Our Best Day Ever. To be honest, I’m having a hard time coming up with something to say. I’m in the middle of grading final projects, then there’s all the other stuff. You know what I mean.

So I went for a walk, needing a break from the grind. Along the way, I met First Guy. I met him seven years ago, when I first started this route. He was a robust republican in every way back then. He’s five years older than I am. Haven’t seen him for a while. He’s recovering from yet another surgery, after surviving cancer in his prostrate and lungs. He’s riddled with tumors.

His wife, whom he always called the love of his life, is ten years younger than him (and five years younger than me). They met decades ago, when she was the first lady supervisor of his company. She has Alzheimer’s on the level of Gene Hackman, and no longer recognizes First Guy. She also has Parkinson’s and can barely move.  Turns out, the two of them worked for decades for a company that extracted asbestos from buildings. Even his hazard suit and mask had asbestos in it. Only now did he discover – and not through his company – that it was probably the asbestos that did this to him and his wife.

Also on my walk, I met Second Guy, another robust republican in his day. He’s my age, a retired marine who suffered a traumatic brain injury while on duty some time back. He was also exposed to burn pit environs. He was part of a lawsuit for compensation, until abruptly that lawsuit was dropped. Also, his vet office was recently closed, and he no longer has access to mental health offices. He compensates by drinking, and brags about what he gets away with.  There’s a gash on his head that I suspect is only the beginning.

Listening to First and Second Guy talk, it was beyond any judgment toward them. The hard reality is, between the three of them, they probably don’t have five years left. As First Guy said, a hundred years ago, he would have just died. And he added, maybe that was for the better.

 No judgement. But there's something deeper that touches the core fabric of who we are, and the consequences of our votes.

I am reminded of a poem by Carl Sandburg, The Long Shadow of Lincoln: A Litany (from The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg. Copyright © 1970 by Carl Sandburg.): 

 

Be sad, be cool, be kind,

remembering those now dreamdust

hallowed in the ruts and gullies,

solemn bones under the smooth blue sea,

faces warblown in a falling rain.

 

Be a brother, if so can be,

to those beyond battle fatigue

each in his own corner of earth

      or forty fathoms undersea

      beyond all boom of guns,

      beyond any bong of a great bell,

      each with a bosom and number,

      each with a pack of secrets,

each with a personal dream and doorway

and over them now the long endless winds

      with the low healing song of time,

      the hush and sleep murmur of time.

 

 Too much thinking, I decided.  I walked for six miles. Not bad for having a hip replacement not 18 months ago. Daffodils are all abloom, as are the crocus, the violets and dogwood. And the forsythia is burning bright! Robins are up for the early worms. Crows are arguing with each other, as always. A woodpecker is working a bit too hard. It was a good day for a walk.

Rather than grading, I decided to work on this Big Project. I’ve been challenged by my most excellent editor Eileen Robinson of Charlesbridge Move to write a horror story. I’m working on something akin to a splice between monster horror, legend and fantasy, reflecting some of the themes of fantasy, history and identity I explored in my new book -- The Barbary Chronicles -- coming out in Spring 2026. In horror, the question becomes: am I strong enough to survive? In fantasy, the question becomes: am I worthy? Seems quite apropos, don’t you think?

 

May today be your best day ever!

-- Bobbi Miller

Note: The quote "The trouble is, you think you have time" attributed to Buddha, comes from Jack Kornfield's interpretation of Buddhist teachings, from his book "Buddha's Little Instruction Book".

My Best Day (OK, Four Best Days)

 I am blessed to be able to count many best days in my life, but this is a writing blog. Let's narrow it down to the writing related ones.

There was the day I got the phone call telling me that Viking was buying my first book, My Best Friend. I was at my parents'. Dad went out to the liquor store at 10 in the morning and bought a bottle of Moet Chandon, which we consumed right then. (Mom was a teetotaler. Besides, she was at work.)

Six years later, a different editor called to tell me that My Best Friend had won the Ezra Jack Keats Award. My daughter was getting ready for her figure skating lesson. 

"I can't find my tights," she screamed from downstairs. "Where's my GAP sweatshirt?"

"Look in the dryer," I yelled back as my editor babbled something about "award" and "My Best Friend"and "Ezra Jack Keats." I think I said "Well, that's great but I have to get my kid to skating right now. Send me an email." (I was talking on a landline, and didn't have a cell phone.)

I was halfway to the skating rink before the editor's words registered. The Ezra Jack Keat Award? I had been a librarian; I knew what that was. A big picture book award!  

One blessing is that both my parents were alive to share in my publishing success. The best day I ever spent with my mom was my first school visit/book signing in Oxford, Mississippi. The day began with a book discussion with an AP English class at Oxford High School, then a signing at Square Books Jr., just across Courthouse Square from its parent store, Square Books. I knew not to expect a bunch of people at a book signing. It was for my first published book, Yankee Girl. First time authors don't draw crowds. Heck, I didn't even know anybody who lived in Oxford. Or so I thought.

The first person in the door was a high school friend I hadn't seen in over 30 years. She was a local doctor, had seen the ad about my appearance, and wondered if it was me. She was followed by a pair of librarian friends from my first job, two hours away in Corinth, Ms. Then two carloads of teachers from the rural Tennessee junior-senior high school where I had taught for eight years. I was bowled over that my good friends had driven three hours on mostly two lane country roads to be there. All the while, people introduced themselves to Mom, wanting to know more about the events in Yankee Girl. 

I remember the trip home from Oxford as one of those blissful Mississippi April evenings of pink skies and soft breezes. Mom was never one to seek the spotlight, but she glowed with the experience of sharing our family's story with a group of my friends. A Best Day for us both.

The fourth Best Day was when my dad invited me to speak to his Retired FBI Agents group about Yankee Girl. The book is based on my family's moving to Mississippi in the summer of 1964, Freedom Summer. My dad was one of 500 FBI Agents assigned to the "Mississippi Burning" case of three missing civil rights workers. Their bodies had been found in their burned out station wagon, buried in an earthen dam, right before my family arrived. I was ten, and between worrying that the Russians would nuke us, or the Ku Klux Klan would firebomb our house, I never thought I'd live to see eleven.

Dad is on my right with the brass bowl over his head

The FBI has a culture all its own. The agents (all male at the time)were never to speak of their work outside the office. Dad was always getting middle of the night phone calls to come into work. We never knew why, although a couple of times we could hear why; bombs going off within a mile or two of the house. Dad would be sent out of town for weeks and months at a time and we wouldn't know where. If there was an emergency, we were to "call the office" and they would get in touch with him. If Dad was ten minutes late coming home from work, Mom would pace the driveway until she saw his car. We worried he'd be shot or kidnapped or have his car bombed.

Although there were other "Agent Kids" my age, almost all of them went to Catholic school. There was one other "AK" in my school, but we were in different classes, lived in different neighborhoods...and he was a boy. The local kids were either distantly polite ("Southern manners") or out and out ugly, calling me names, telling me to "go back up North where you belong." It was a lonely time.

Back to the Retired Agents meeting. About half the group were from the original 500 agents of 1964. They listened as I read parts of the book that dealt with the fear and loneliness I experienced. When I finished, there was a long, long silence.

Uh-oh, I thought. This was a bad idea.

Then slowly the men started clapping, louder and louder, and the ones who could, stood up. One by one they came over to me, with tears in their eyes.

"I didn't know my kids were scared," they said. "We thought we had kept what we did a secret."

"We didn't know our kids were being bullied.  They never said anything to us."

Of course we didn't. We knew our parents were dealing with life and death stuff. Being called a "damn Yankee" or a "N-word lover" was small potatoes in comparison. 

One man took my hands and said, "My daughter is about your age. I'm going home right now and calling her and apologizing for not being aware of what was going on with her while we were working."

My dad was a quiet man, perfect for an FBI agent. I adored him, but if we spoke three sentences in a week, it was a big deal. He spoke only when necessary. That's just the way he was. That day on the way home from the meeting, for the first and only time in my life, he said, "I'm proud of you."

Another Best Day.

Posted by Mary Ann Rodman