I put off a new blog post following my attendance at Readercon because I was waiting for a review of my co-edited anthology Is Anybody Out There? (with Nick Gevers, from Daw Books) to be posted on Tor.com. But, alas, the review was delayed for various reasons according to the reviewer, and by the time it was posted, I had a flight booked on Southwest Airlines for Southern California. My mother, now 87 years old, had her left knee replaced 18 years ago and it decided to dislocate on the Friday morning that I arrived in Boston for Readercon. She's now in a hospital rehab and we learn this morning whether or not the knee will need to be replaced yet again. [Update: it won't, at least for now.] So I arrived in SoCal to keep her company and to see what assistance I could provide (like contacting her friends, checking her mail, paying bills, banking, watering plants, etc.).
And here I sit in a Starbucks, with a two-buck cup of coffee, taking advantage of the free wifi.
I realize that this blog has always been dedicated to the art of editing, and publishing, and authors and their books, but please indulge me for now.
I've been staying in my mother's house these past few days, a house that we purchased in Anaheim when I was 15 years old. It's a long walk -- but as a kid you don't mind -- from Disneyland where I used to hang out on Saturday nights when there was always a band, lots of dancing -- and girls. As I unpacked my suitcase to hang my shirts up in the closet, I noticed on a shelf all the family photograph albums. A couple evenings later I decided to look through one of those albums and found the photograph included here. [Note: I just realized I have no way to scan and upload this pic at this time, so even though I'm writing this blog now -- it's just after 8:00 a.m. Friday morning -- I won't be able to post it until after I arrive home; if not Saturday evening, then Sunday. Sigh....]
Yes, 'tis I in this photograph. I'm guessing I'm around 3 years old. Unfortunately the photo isn't dated; in fact, none of the photos I found are dated, which is truly sad. The photo was taken at the first house my parents owned, in McKeesport, Pennsylvania, in an area of the city called "Tenth Ward." Sounds ominous, doesn't it. A bricked alleyway can be seen on the other side of the fence on which I cling. And the building that you see on the other side of the alleyway is a bakery. My mother has told me this story so many times that it is now one of my memories, as if I remember the dialogue and events myself, in my own mind. I'm sure all of you have such "implanted memories" from your parents, or grandparents, possibly even friends.
The story goes that my grandfather came by the house one afternoon (more in a bit about my grandparents), and when I saw him I started swearing -- most famously, repeating the words "son of a bitch." My grandfather became outraged and accused my mother (his daughter) and father (it was a weekday, and my father was at work) of teaching me such words. She insisted that neither she nor Al (my father, obviously) spoke these words in front of the children (I had a sister who was 5 years older). Her worst transgression was saying the word "hell" on occasion. Well, my mother's insistence barely appeased my grandfather. As the story goes, a few days later, my mother and grandfather were with me in the backyard, when to their surprise they heard -- emanating from one of the open bakery windows -- a voice shouting: "You son of a bitch, if you don't do it this way I'm gonna...." And of course, you guessed it, as soon as they heard that shout, I started repeating the words "son of a bitch, son of a bitch" over and over again.
So my grandfather walked over to the bakery, asked to speak to the workers. He told them to shout some obscenities by the open window, and then watch the reaction from the little boy across the alley!
At least everyone learned the true source of the naughty words!
