Houston, We Have a Problem! by Bill Redman

Houston, We Have a Problem!

By Bill Redman

 Growing up during the so called “space race,” I have always had a fascination with rocket ships. I had seen all the old movies and TV shows. Up until I was 11 years old, “Forbidden Planet” was by far my favorite movie. Until I saw “2001: A Space Odyssey.” I didn’t really understand it but DAMN! I had to get into space, and quick.

 We were living in Houston, which at the time was ground zero for space travel. I had been on a couple of field trips to NASA’s Johnson Space Center, where during a visit to the gift center, I had purchased a Styrofoam rocket that, get this, REALLY FLEW! You have to remember that jet engines were in their infancy at that time, and most planes flew with propellers. This rocket had a propeller on its nose that was connected to a rubber band so that when you wound up the propeller and let it go, it took off. Not always were you wanted it to, but it flew none the less. That thing could fly as high as the pine trees in my yard. EUREKA! I got to thinking that if this 12-inch toy could reach 200 feet (I was 11 at the time so the height may be a little exaggerated) just think how high a full scale model could go. If I could build one of these in my backyard, the stars were the limit. How hard could it be? It wasn’t exactly rocket science.

 First things first. Inventory of my tools: broken hammer (check); dull saw (check); jammed pliers (check). It was the typical toolbox of most boys growing up during those years. Next I had had to round up the materials needed: lumber, nails and bicycle parts. I would go to every construction site around and pick up bent nails, which I would spend hours straightening with a hammer against the sidewalk ‘til I smashed my fingers to a pulp. I picked up all the scrap wood and anything else I could salvage and either balanced it precariously on my bike or went back and put it in my wagon. (On a side note, I find it a shame that 11-year-olds no longer have a need for a wagon. Today they spend all day at their PCs, watching DVDs while listening to their MP3s. Back then, I was happy to get two hours in front of the RCA … in my BVDs). When it came to bicycle parts, every self-respecting boy would have a miscellaneous assortment (or as my mom called it, a pile of junk) of leftover parts from bicycles, though most were well past their prime.

 It wasn’t until years later that I realized that most, if not all, of my inventions required these materials - wood, nails and bicycle parts. And it took even more years to come to the conclusion that these same inventions were responsible for most of the scars that I have today.

 All I had to do was come up with a plan to make this puppy fly. I can’t say I came up with the idea on how to make this work all on my own. It was Divine Intervention. I had cut open my rocket ship to see how it worked. Propeller on the top, attached to a rubber band in the middle that was attached at the bottom. Viola! No rocket science involved.

 Next it was on to finding the perfect rocket body. I was in luck. A new subdivision had been completed in my neighborhood and they had just taken down the billboards at the entrance. Low and behold, there were two giant red plywood arrows that at one time had guided prospective home buyers to the area. They were about 4 feet wide and 14 feet long. PERFECT! When they were stood on end, I was halfway to the moon.

 Now to select my flight crew. First, they would have to be strong enough to help me get these arrows to my backyard. Secondly, they had to be able to keep a secret and not to go running to their moms if something went wrong (which seemed to happen on a regular basis around me). Thirdly, and most importantly, access to their dad’s workshops.

 That left slim pickings. My next door neighbor, Harry, was the first up for consideration. His dad had the best shop, but Harry would go crying to his mom if he stubbed his toe. My other neighbor, David, could keep a secret but was new to the neighborhood and did not yet have street creds. Dean, from down the street, had a minor mental defect but was strong as an ox. Also there were the Johnson brothers from the next block over. Allen and Jeffery. Not the sharpest crayons, but they were always there and ready to get into any trouble available.

  And then there was my little brother. He hung around my neck like an albatross. He was three years younger than me and followed me everywhere. Our mother was one of the few mothers that were working a job outside the home in those days. She left our younger sister with a neighbor and for some God unknown reason, trusted me and my brother to take care of ourselves while she was at work.

 I assembled the troops and let them in on the plan. Right off the bat, Harry informed me that his dad had an “Honest to God” real propeller that came from a biplane. Harry was in. Chief engineer. David said that he had always wanted to be an astronaut. Ok, I had my copilot. Dean just grunted. I knew who was toting the arrows. Then Allen and Jeffery said that their new “uncle” worked at a junk yard. They were on parts acquisitions.

That left my brother. If I wanted to keep him from telling mom, I would have to include him. I decided to make him Flight Control Officer. He cried until I told him that he would get to do the countdown. Unfortunately, he started practicing right away. I had always known that numbers weren’t his strong suit but I hadn’t realized the implications of my decision until then.  And to compound my mistake, my brother had recently found an old megaphone that our older sister had used in junior high school. For the next two days, throughout the whole neighborhood, all you could hear was an 8-year-old screaming at the top of his lungs “TEN, NINE, ELEVEN, FOUR, EIGHT, TWO, ONE, BLASTOFF!” or some other nonsensical sequence of numbers that always ended in a blood curdling “BLASTOFF!

 After regaining a semblance of hearing in my right ear, I felt that I had everyone in place and we were all set.  I went with Allen and Jeffery to their new “uncle’s” place of employment. In those days, divorced moms always introduced their new boyfriends to their kids as their long lost “uncle” who needed a place to stay for the night. Allen once confided that he was the luckiest guy around. He had at least twenty uncles. I have to admit I was a little jealous. I only had one uncle and he lived in Minnesota. That aside, we went to work collecting anything useful. Filling our wagons, with various pieces of hardware that now seem to have ranged from to the ridiculous to the sublime, we headed home.

"I could hear his mother say, as she looked towards me, 'No good will come of this'. Oddly enough, I have heard those very same words repeated throughout my life. Mainly from my wife to whoever is within earshot at the time I am trying to achieve greatness."

Time for the fuselage.

We lugged the wooden arrows from atop the large earthen berms where the work crews had discarded them and laid them on our wagons. Attaching Dean to ropes tied to the wagons, we started our arduous journey towards my backyard. Besides Dean’s occasional grunting, the trip was pretty much uneventful. As we turned into my driveway, Harry’s mom happened to be outside. Harry quickly ran toward his mother claiming innocence. Of course, he stubbed his toe on the way and burst into tears. I could hear his mother say, as she looked towards me, “No good will come of this”. Oddly enough, I have heard those very same words repeated throughout my life. Mainly from my wife to whoever is within earshot at the time I am trying to achieve greatness.

We then set upon attaching the two arrows together using the wood at hand. Trying to cut plywood with a hand saw that was missing half its teeth was a challenge. Most of our wood cuts looked like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Not a straight line to be found. We sawed and hammered away like there was no tomorrow. I had arbitrarily set the launch date as 3 p.m. Friday.  Three days from now. I figured that would give enough time to build the rocket, reach the atmosphere (wasn’t real sure what that was) and land back in the yard before my mom got home from work.  My copilot, David, kept requesting that we add an “Escape Hatch”.  I started having my doubts about him. We finished for the day and covered everything up with an old tarp.

 When my mother came home from work, she looked out the back window and asked what was out there. My little brother was about to tell her what it was when I asked him to practice his countdown. As he started running around the house yelling out random numbers and screaming “BLASTOFF”, my mother smiled with her usual bemused look and went back to cooking dinner. Thank goodness we didn’t have to abort the mission … yet.

 The second day of construction on the rocket was pretty much the same. A lot of fingers getting smashed by hammers and plenty of splinters to go around. Harry nervously brought over his dad’s prized propeller. He said he wasn’t really sure about this. What if it got broke? I allayed his fears with the promise that when the newspaper reporters took pictures of us and our space ship after our flight, that he would be famous. His dad would see the picture of his son and his propeller in the paper and would be so proud. He was in.

 It was time to stand up the rocket. When the six of us tried to lift the rocket into an upright position, we ran into our first snag. Who knew that plywood and 2x4’s would be that heavy? We were only able to get it to a 45 degree angle. I had the guys rest it on top of an old ladder. I’m not sure which creaked more, the ladder or the rocket. We could at least install the propeller. I used some baling wire to attach it to a bicycle wheel that was wired to a sprocket that was wired to the nose. It was more than little askew, but it looked magnificent. We all stood back and admired our workmanship. We were almost there. All we had left was getting the damn thing upright and finishing our propulsion system. This was another good thing about keeping old bicycles. We had enough inner tubes to make the world’s largest rubber band. Getting the rocket pointing towards the stars was another matter that would require some thought.

After discussing this dilemma with my flight crew, we figured it would take about another ten kids to get it upright. Where to get ten kids from our neighborhood that weren’t banned for life by their moms from ever coming within 100 yards from my house since the “Great Cowboy and Indian Bottle Rocket War of ‘68”? What would attract that many kids? Dead vermin? Nope, haven’t seen any lately. Broken bones? Nope, my mother had promised to skin me alive if I didn’t go six months without breaking something.

 I got it! Comic books! We could have a comic book sale. We could spread the word around this afternoon and by tomorrow morning kids would be lined up down the block. Now for the hard part. Convincing the guys to part with some of their most prized possessions. After having to stop a near riot and a mass desertion of the troops, I used the newspaper bit. We will be “World Famous”, I told them. We could walk into any comic book store and they would give us any one we wanted. Hell, they’ll probably even make a comic book about us and our space exploits. That seemed to work.

 We finished for the day and the guys jumped on their bikes and went out to spread the word of the comic book sale. As I was getting ready to drape the tarp over the rocket, David asked me again about the escape hatch. I assured him I would do that right away and that he should hurry up and get the news out. I was really starting to question my choice of copilot. I quickly went to work on the escape hatch and covered the rocket up just as my mom got home. She looked out the back window again but before she could ask me anything, I hollered to my brother, “Countdown”! Off he went. My mother had that quizzical look on her face that would remain there for years because of me and my brother.

 Day Three at Launch Control.

I was right. By 9 a.m. there were a least twenty kids lined up to go through our comics. I had strategically set up the table in the backyard next to the tarp covered rocket. We lead them to the table and as they were looking through the comic books, I nonchalantly pulled off the tarp.

 Every one of their jaws dropped. They quickly forgot the comic books and gathered around the rocket. They were in awe! Questions were flying so fast I could hardly answer them all. Does it really fly? How far up will it go? How fast will it fly? How big is the parachute? Huh, come again? How big is the what? Parachute? Oops. Missed that one. I left the rest of the questions to my flight crew while I dashed into the house in search of a parachute. What to use? Bed sheets! That was it! And lots of them. I stripped down my brother’s and my bed and my two sister’s beds for good measure. I quickly knotted the corners together, tucked them under my arm and went back outside.

 The kids were still asking questions and looking over the rocket when I returned. I interrupted the Q & A session by announcing that we still had a few positions available on our flight crew and was anybody interested. Man, they rushed me like a hobo on a hotdog. I told them there would be a test to see if they were right for the job. A test of strength. You never saw so many boys flexing their muscles. Most of their biceps looked like what my dad called a “pea in a silk stocking”. I was going for quantity not quality. I tied a rope around the nose of the rocket and threw the other end over a tree branch. I had the hopefuls grab ahold of the rope and pull. It took a little time and a lot of staining but by God we got it to stand. Not steadily, but upright just the same. It was breathtaking.

 We all stood around it in silence, taking it all in. Then it started to fall over. Without saying word, we all ran towards it as one and held it up. I had our chief engineer add some boards to stabilize it. We went about adding a platform in the middle for the pilot (me) to stand on. We then connected the fifty bicycle inner tubes to the sprocket on top and to the huge I-hook we had attached to the bottom.

 The plan was simple. Me and David would insert short 2x4s’ into the inner tubes and wind it up. When I felt we had had reached optimum revolutions to achieve takeoff, we would let the boards go and the propeller would do the rest. I had tied the newly added parachute to a rope and when needed, would throw it out the small observation window next to my head. Who needed to know anything about rocket science? This would be a breeze.

It was almost 3p.m. Zero hour. I climbed in first and then David entered. I saw him look nervously at the escape hatch next to him. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that all I did was nail an old gate latch to the inside of the rocket and paint “Escape Hatch” over it. After all, he wouldn’t need it. We began to wind up the inner tubes. It was easy at first, but then when the tubes started doubling and tripling up, we were really having to strain. Allen had borrowed one of his “uncles” old brownie cameras to document this momentous occasion. He said later that he wished he had actually taken a picture. He was too awestruck at the sight that he forgot he was holding a camera. He and several of the other members of the flight crew said that under the strain of the tightened tubes, the rocket actually bowed outward at least two feet in the middle.

This was it. I hollered down to my brother, “COUNTDOWN”! From the megaphone rang out, “TEN, NINE, (at that moment, time seemed to stand still) EIGHT, SEVEN, (the rocket started shaking violently) SIX, FIVE, (my copilot was screaming like a little girl. “OH MY GOD! The escape hatch won’t open”!) FOUR, THREE (my God, my brother was going to do it!) SEVEN, (Damn) SIX, TWO, ONE”!

 Then it happened. Maybe I should have looked up the first rule of rocket science: Righty tighty, lefty loosy. It had appeared that we had been winding the inner tubes counterclockwise, causing the big I-bolt at the bottom on the rocket to back itself out. Now fifty inner tubes stretched beyond imagination were hurdling up the middle of the rocket at twice the speed of light.

"Maybe I should have looked up the first rule of rocket science: Righty tighty, lefty loosy."

 My father had once mentioned a “Whirling Dervish.” When I asked him what it was he said “Son, most men live their whole lives and never see one. I pray you are one of those.” Well, here I was at the tender age of eleven, face to face with a “Whirling Dervish.” I have looked deep into its eyes and can tell you that it is pure evil.

 Now add to that the 2x4s we used for winding it up were mixed in with the tubes. There were now twice as many propellers inside the rocket as outside of it. This gave a whole new meaning to being “knocked kneed.” I was knocked kneed, knocked shin bone, knocked elbowed and knocked everything else including senseless. My copilot was still frantically trying to escape when the rocket started to fall forward. I tried feebly to shove the parachute out the window. It was to no avail.

 The rocket and its hapless crew hit the ground with a thud. Twenty-five kids ran to their bikes and took off. Most of my flight crew included. Harry was screaming about his dad’s propeller. It was none the worse for wear. Wish I could say the same about me. I had lumps on top of lumps and had black lash marks over the majority of my body. David crawled out and was swearing under his breath something about an escape hatch on his way home.

 That evening, I was sitting on the couch nursing my various injuries and trying to unknot my older sister’s bed sheets before she killed me, when my mother came home from work. She gave me the usual quizzical look and went into the kitchen. She looked out the window and saw the rocket lying on its side. “What is that?” she asked.

 “It’s a submarine, mom. It’s a submarine”. At least you didn’t need to know about rocket science to build one of those.

Copyright 2012 Bill Redman. Reprinted with permission

Writer Lewis Nordan Dies

Lewis Nordan
From "Humor, Heartbreak and Hope"

It’s been more than 20 years now that I was first introduced to Lewis “Buddy” Nordan, a writer and teacher. No, I didn’t meet him personally, but through his novel The Sharpshooter Blues, a gift from a friend. I was instantly hooked, eagerly devouring his books and short stories about the residents of Arrow Catcher, Miss. and elsewhere – tales told with that potent Southern concoction of humor and brutality.

His best-known work was Wolf Whistle, based on the murder of Emmett Till in 1955. It concerns a black teenager, who, like Till, is murdered by Southern whites for allegedly making a suggestive remark – a wolf whistle – to a local white woman. In Wolf Whistle, Nordan employs a unique writing technique, narrating the tale through  multiple points of view, including the point of view of the dead youth himself and even a couple of crows!

According to the New York Times obituary, Nordan “did not begin writing until he was in his mid-30s and did not publish his first book until he was in his mid-40s, was the author of four novels, three volumes of short stories and a memoir.”

A teacher of writing with more than two decades at the University of Pittsburgh, the Mississippi-born Nordan was still able to produce critically-acclaimed works of art and developed a cult following, of which I was a proud member. Among the awards he received for his writing were the Southern Book Critics Circle Award for Fiction, the American Library Association Notable Book Citation, the Mississippi Institute of Arts and Letters Award for Fiction, and the American Library Association Notable Book Citation.

In a 2002 article appearing in the Pitt Chronicle, the newspaper of the University of Pittsburg, Nordan told reporter Patricia Lomando White that every time he sat down to write, he’d offer up a brief prayer to the gods: “Make me a great writer.”

 “I guess I could pray, ‘Make me a good writer,’ be a little more humble, but I say, ‘Make me a great writer,’ not a published writer, not a famous writer,” he said. “That’s what I’m working toward.”

And a great writer he was.

Three Poems by Matthew Germenis

"Ruby, My Dear"*

by Matthew Germenis

My mistress's eyes are nothing

like Monk and Trane -

erratically living in Carnegie Hall.

They are elderly canaries,

plainly set apart by a plain nose

underneath a plain dome;

front lips disappearing on a horizon

of unpolished chrome.

Rusty bolts in the corners of her mouth

squeak, rattle, even clang a little

when she speaks in scratches

through glass teeth jagged brittle

cracked minutely and bent as matches

used for fires and light of the past -

now just archaic symbols

of the music of voices,

the jazz of eyes,

that never seem to last.

A City Kind of Pain (How to Feel Blue)*

by Matthew Germenis

I smelled the ocean where there was none,

lifted dew beads from Jew beards

& was axed to pieces by an Ethiopian sax player

stranded on the corner of an abandoned amusement park.

They tried to tell me of their pain in cracked-glass English

& how it was the same as mine,

Taller than boy soldiers from their homeland,

Superman of Supermen, midnight in strength.

No, I’m not from Sierra Leone &

the dirt wars, stick wars of Bed-Stuy

are nothing like the sun of a civil war.

& the chicken-heads w/ swollen veins

on 19th century stoops,

are deformed Palestinian women,

& the shopkeeper on Prophets Street

caught in the diameter of the bomb.

These are just chicken-heads on the stoop,

veins dripping, dripping.

Gentrification is coming! The boy soldiers are coming!

I smelled the ocean again,

saw the white gulls perch on top of a pier

As “Acknowledgment” was played.

They taught me how to feel blue,

but it was too late.

I already knew. They already knew.

& so we cried together,

not knowing why.

Heartbreak*

by Matthew Germenis

The ideal way for me to deal with it is to clam up and become an oyster in the bottom of the ocean and make pearls for the rest of my life and give them to no one because they belong only to me, I made them with my salt and sand, and I alone will see them glisten in the saliva sunlight of memory, you cannot have it, I refuse to give it to you, did you make it? Did you spend eternity on the ocean floor with the darkness of day? Did you have any other God besides the under-belly of sharks? Did you bathe with the monks in the reefs? No. This pearl is mine alone, and the only way for you to have it is to shuck me.

Reprinted with permission.

About Matthew Germenis: An English major at the University of Southern Mississippi, Matthew Germenis was born and bred in Queens, New York. He enjoys the works of Malamud, Baldwin, Scorsese, Bergman, Kubrick, Paul Simon, Dylan, Mozart and Miles.

Follow Matthew at http://germenis.tumblr.com/

 *Copyright 2011 Matthew Germenis

Copyright 2012 Donald G. Redman

A 'Miraculous' Little Book

I’ve recently stumbled across one of the sweetest little children's books I’ve ever read. “The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane,” by Kate DiCamillo. It’s a terrific story about a stingy, smug china rabbit whose cold heart is about to be warmed by the likes of a fisherman and his wife, a hobo and his dog and a young boy and his dying sister.

“Edward Tulane” is simply beautiful…tender…

Outstanding illustrations by Bagram Ibatoulline.

Coming July 5th: "Dismembered"

“She had beautiful legs. I wanted to keep those legs.”

One by one, investigators found the women’s bodies. Each one carefully posed. Each one brutally mutilated. An arm here. A leg there. ... The killer was cutting his victims to pieces…

“At that point, I pretty much went for the head.”

For ten years in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, the killings went on. Women of slight stature were hunted down, bludgeoned and strangled. And what the killer did with their bodies in the privacy of his car, his home, his kitchen, and his shower—was beyond anything police could imagine.

“I was pure evil.”

When investigators finally caught mild-mannered, Star Trek fan Sean Vincent Gillis, he couldn’t wait to tell his story. In the presence of shocked veteran detectives, Sean told them every detail of his killings, everything he did with the bodies.... And he smiled the whole time…

Susan D. Mustafa

Dismembered, the chilling true story of Baton Rouge serial killer Sean Vincent Gillis, will be in bookstores July 5. Gillis confessed to killing and mutilating eight women in the Baton Rouge area and is currently serving three life sentences at Angola. Written by Susan D. Mustafa and Sue Israel, authors of Blood Bath , which is the true story of serial killer Derrick Todd Lee story, this book is so disturbing that its publisher (Kensington Books) placed a warning label for readers on the back cover.

A book signing with Susan D. Mustafa and Sue Israel will be held July 30 at 6:00 p.m. at Barnes & Noble at Citiplace in Baton Rouge. The authors will present their thoughts on this killer, along with detectives who worked the case.

Read The Redman Writing Project interview with Susan here.
Purchase Dismembered online here.

Remembering the King of Greenwich Village

Maxwell Bodenheim: A flash of brilliance

Today is the birthday of Maxwell “Bogie” Bodenheim (May 26, 1892 – February 6, 1954), a poet and novelist who was known as the King of Greenwich Village Bohemians. Relatively obscure today, he was widely known internationally during the Jazz Age of the 1920s for his erotic poetry and prose and scandalous womanizing. But by the 1940s he was a homeless wino who wrote hasty poems and sold them for drinks. He was shot dead in 1954 by a mentally disturbed man involved in a sordid tryst with Bodenheim’s wife, whom he also killed. (More on Bodenheim follows.)

We’re marking the occasion of the birth of Bodenheim here with two of his poems:

Songs to a Woman
By Maxwell Bodenheim

                         I
You are like startled song-wings against my heart
Which flutters like a harp-string wounded
By too much quivering music.
You cover me with a blue dream-robe
Whose silk ripples out like imaged water ....
And when, for a moment, you leave,
I am a black sky awaiting its moon.

                       II
If I could be moon-light scattered out
Over the blowing dark-blue hair
Of kneeling, flowing crystal breezes
Breathing a litany of pale odors,
If I could be moonlight scattered out
Over the whispers meeting in your heart,
The marriage of our souls would be
No more complete than now.

                      III
Like a delicately absent-minded guest,
Your smile sometimes lingers after
Your lips are solemn.
And once I saw a tear in your eye
Playing hide-and-go-seek with some leaping, dimpled memory.
These things, to me, are like scattered perfume
Wavering down upon my heart.

                     IV
The struggle of a smile craving birth
Invades her little weeping faun’s face,
And even makes her tear-drops leap ....
She smiles as only grief can smile:
A smile like ashes caught within
A tiny whirlwind of light;
When the light goes, the ashes drape her face
Till even her lips seen grey.

                   V
Wave your veils to pallid gavottes,
Blow them on with dimly-spiced laughs,
And catch them breathlessly against your breast!
You have prayed too long in you sinking temple --
Night has come, with her fumbling release,
Her moment in which you may play with sad thoughts.
So, wave your veils to pallid gavottes,
Blow them on with dimly-spiced laughs
And catch them breathlessly against your breast.

“Songs to a Woman” by Maxwell Bodenheim, 1919. Public domain.

The Rear-Porches of an Apartment-Building
By Maxwell Bodenheim

A sky that has never known sun, moon or stars,
A sky that is like a dead, kind face,
Would have the color of your eyes,
O servant-girl, singing of pear-trees in the sun,
And scraping the yellow fruit you once picked
When your lavender-white eyes were alive. . . .
On the porch above you are two women,
Whose faces have the color of brown earth that has never felt rain.
The still wet basins of ponds that have been drained
Are their eyes.
They knit gray rosettes and nibble cakes. . . .
And on the top-porch are three children
Gravely kissing each others' foreheads
And an ample nurse with a huge red fan. . . .
The passing of the afternoon to them
Is but the lengthening of blue-black shadows on brick walls.

“The Rear-Porches of an Apartment-Building,” by Maxwell Bodenheim, 1917. Public domain.



Poet Maxwell Bodenheim and his wife, Ruth Fagan, having breakfast of tomato juice and sandwiches in their apartment on New York's Bleecker Street, awaiting eviction.

World-Telegram photo, 1952.

Born Maxwell Bodenheimer in Hermanville, Mississippi, near Vicksburg, the family moved to Chicago in 1900, when he was eight years old. Bodenheim had no formal education and was booted out of school by the age of 16. He enlisted in the Army in 1910, but was soon jailed and dishonorably discharged for insubordination after reportedly hitting an officer with the butt of his rifle because the officer ridiculed Bodenheim as a Jew.

Bodenheim met writer Ben Hecht in 1912 in Chicago and they maintained a love/hate relationship to the end. Together they founded The Chicago Literary Times. The Chicago literary group also included Carl Sandburg, Sherwood Anderson, and Edgar Lee Masters, among others. Bodenheim was dispatched to Greenwich Village as the magazine’s eastern correspondent, which, according to writer Jeff Kisseloff, set into motion Bodenheim’s long trail of “empty bottles and broken hearts.”

Ben Hect offers a glimpse into Bodenheim’s mania in Hect’s memoir, Letters from Bohemia . Here he describes a dinner party during which Bodenheim became irritable that he was not the center of attention. Writes Hect:

“Having emptied his tenth wineglass, he proceeded to eat it. He bit chunks of his fragile goblet, chewed and swallowed the bits of glass as if they were the finest of desserts... ‘Good God,’ someone said, ‘You're a poet, not a circus freak.’ ‘Every poet is both,’ Bodenheim answered aloofly... He continued to talk of poetry, and to recite some of his own latest work, holding the diners fascinated by the stream of blood and words from his mouth.”

Bodenheim wrote several novels: Georgia May, Replenishing Jessica, Naked on Roller Skates, the most well-known. They were, in the words of Ben Hect, “hack work with flashes of tenderness, wit, and truth in them, and some verbal fireworks in every chapter.”

In 1926, Bodenheim was hauled into court on obscenity for his novel Replenishing Jessica, whose heroine found "the simple feat of keeping her legs crossed…a structural impossibility." The case was dismissed, but the notoriety bolstered Bodenheim’s reputation and made his novel a bestseller.

A couple of years later he again achieved notoriety, this time as the Great Lover, when a series of spurned lovers attempted suicide after being rejected by Bodenheim.

By the early 1930s, Bodenheim quit writing novels altogether and became largely known as a character – the king of Greenwich Village bohemians. Soon the book royalties started drying up and by the start of the Second World War, he was homeless and a raging alcoholic.

Writes Hect: “The Greenwich Village Bodenheim had no allure for me. I preferred to remember the Chicago version. One rainy day I ran into Bogie on Broadway. His face was gaunt, most of his teeth were gone. But there were some things unchanged about him. He was wearing the same army overcoat, carrying the same worn and bulging brief case; and his eyelids still fluttered disdainfully when he spoke.”

Time magazine in 1952 described Bodenheim’s itinerate life at that time: “He flapped disconsolately around the Village resting up periodically in the Bellevue alcoholic ward, sleeping in gutters, hallways and subways.” It was during that period he took up a third wife, Ruth Fagan, a former teacher with a history of mental illness. They were inseparable as they tramped around the Village from one flop house to another and oftentimes Fagan would pick up men for a place to sleep. One such “friendship” with a mentally unstable dishwasher, Harold “Charlie” Weinberg, went terribly wrong.

After a night of heavy drinking with Weinberg, the Bodenheims accepted an invitation to go to Weinberg's room. What happened after that is uncertain. Weinberg may have tried to rape Ruth and Bodenheim may have intervened. Or Weinberg and Ruth may have agreed to have sex and Bodenheim, who had been asleep, may have woken up and objected. Either way, the result was that Weinberg shot and killed Bodenheim and then stabbed Ruth to death.

In the end, Bodenheim had written a total of ten books of verse and thirteen novels, as well as a partly ghost-written memoir called My Life and Loves in Greenwich Village. Once the envy of the literary world, the king of Greenwich Village, the Great Lover, today Bodenheim is rarely read and his work has nearly faded from memory.

Emily Hahn, author of an "informal history of bohemianism in America," attempted to sum up his life: "Bodenheim's novels were not immortal. It is for his life and death he is remembered. These were lurid in exactly the fashion Philistines felt they had a right to expect of Bohemians."

Recommended reading:
“MAD MAX: Death of a Bohemian King” by Alan Bisbort

Village Rogue: The poetic life of Maxwell Bodenheim

Passage about Maxwell Bodenheim by Ben Hecht, from Hecht's memoir, Letters from Bohemia (Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co, 1964)

Naked on Roller Skates: A Tribute to Maxwell Bodenheim

Time magazine’s account of his murder:

Brains, Books and Boudreaux – A techno geek’s venture into children's literature



Stephanie Purser
Photograph by Chad Purser



 Author spices up Cajun lore with 'How Hot Sauce Came to Lousianne.'



Stephanie Purser is an elementary education teacher in Slidell, Louisiana with a passion for teaching, literature and technology and she has successfully combined all three with a new e-book, How Hot Sauce Came to Lousianne.

The story is a pourqoui tale, a fictional yarn explaining how something came about. In this case, Stephanie has created a very colorful Cajun whose over-the-top temper leads to the creation of a Louisiana staple.



“This initial book idea came at a time when I least expected it,” Stephanie explains. “I was actually participating at a teacher’s technology training. We were asked to brainstorm a word bank of Louisiana terms, and then use those words to create an e-book using new educational software. I had actually just finished a reading/writing study on pourquoi tales with my fourth graders, and decided to give my story that same pourquoi twist.



“It wasn’t until September of 2005—after evacuating due to Hurricane Katrina—that I began the process of transforming this rough, short story into a children’s book. The world’s spotlight was on our little part of Louisiana. Many became intrigued about our southern traditions and way of life. With all the culture and state information I had injected into my book, I felt that it was the right time to move forward.”

While still hoping to attract a publisher, Stephanie has not let the story sit idle. She published it as an e-book and continues using it today in the classroom as a teaching device.

Synopsis:

“I’m gonna fric-a-see a salesman, me!

Wit’ cayenne, tasso, and gra-vy!”

-Mista Boudreaux

Mista Boudreaux (BOO-dro) was a giant of a man, who stood well over seven feet tall. But as big-sized as he was, he was known for being twice as mean! And if there was one thing that really cooked his goose, it was when some poor ol’ body mispronounced his name.
In this fictional Cajun tale, three traveling salesmen make that very mistake. How Hot Sauce Came to Lousianne (buy it here) depicts several comical encounters between this ill-tempered crawfish farmer and each of the three traveling salesmen. Stirred together and peppered with Cajun lingo, these chance-meetings lead to the creation of “Lousianne Hot Sauce,” which turns out to be Boudreaux’s temper, all bottled up and “swishing ‘round on the inside.”
This 6-page porquoi twist written in Cajun vernacular makes How Hot Sauce Came to Lousianne a unique addition to any library. The intended read-aloud audience for this book is readers ages 5-10, although this clever story will be enjoyed by all ages.
Although the goal of the story is to entertain, it is often utilized by educators teaching units on the Southeast. Throughout the book, there are references to the state flower, bird, crustacean, etc. Furthermore, the story's setting and Cajun lingo paint a beautiful portrait of the bayou region of Louisiana.

The Redman Writing Project (RWP) recently caught up with Stephanie for an interview.

RWP: Tell us how you came to write How Hot Sauce Came to Lousianne.

Stephanie Purser – Creative writing has been a hobby of mine, and with my experience as an elementary educator, I’ve developed a true appreciation for children’s literature. How Hot Sauce Came to Lousianne started out as a short story written entirely in Cajun dialect, making it a fun read-aloud for adults to share with little ones, but difficult for children to read independently. After several challenging revisions, I think I’ve created a child-friendly story suitable for readers of all ages, while maintaining the Cajun narration experience.

RWP: You chose to publish How Hot Sauce Came to Lousianne as an e-book. Why did you decide to go that route?

Stephanie Purser – I actually had begun the publishing process with a popular children’s book publisher. We had gone through the revision process together, and I made the final changes that were requested. As we were about to take the last step and begin the publication process however, things fell through, as they often do. I decided that I would publish online to get my work “out there” and see if this book would be unique and interesting enough to draw a reading audience. Also, with the obvious increase in the use of mobile reading devices, I believe that more authors will consider publishing their works in this easily accessible format.

RWP: While on that subject, what impact do you think e-readers will have on the future of book publishing?

Stephanie Purser – I have already begun using iBooks and Kindle books, as have other teachers within my school and district. The availability and affordability of the devices and books has actually made it more cost effective for schools to use digital books. These books are often less expensive, able to be loaded on several devices, and their “pages” don’t rip or wear out. These advantages, combined with the portability of large amounts of reading material, make digital books a viable option for 21st century reading.

RWP: Had you written anything previous to How Hot Sauce Came to Lousianne?

Stephanie Purser – I had actually published Louisiana Educational Assessment Program (LEAP) standardized test practice material and I’m writing a how-to book about teaching with technology, but this is my first literary work.

RWP: I understand you are working on another book. Please tell us about it.

Stephanie Purser – Well, without giving too much away, I’ll say that the spice salesman who you met in How Hot Sauce Came to Lousianne attempts to take his new product on the road, when he ends up stranded among an eerie group of settlers in a remote part of the swamp. Don’t worry, though. It looks like the spice salesman may stir up this community and make something bitter into something tasty in the end—and profitable, too!

RWP: Let’s go back to when you were a kid, a teenager, did you write when you were younger? Did you enter any writing or poetry contests in school? What did you do to foster the writing bug?

Stephanie Purser – I actually wrote my first poem as a fourth grader. My teacher submitted it to the Baton Rouge The Advocate daily newspaper, where it was published. This was probably the jump-start to my aspirations of one day becoming a published author. In high school, I continued writing poetry and short stories while serving on the school newspaper’s staff.

RWP: What are your interests? How do you incorporate your interests into your writing or how have they influenced your writing?

Stephanie Purser – I am a teacher by occupation, but also by choice. I am passionate about finding “out-of-the-box” ways to present information and engage my students. I love to read just about anything, I’m goal-driven in all that I do, and I enjoy working with and learning about the latest technology.
I think I closely relate to the spice salesman in my book. He is an original thinker who comes up with an out-of-the-box solution to that mean Mista Boudreaux’s temper. And his sense of accomplishment at the end of the story reminds me of that competitive side of myself—that victorious feeling of accomplishing a goal.

RWP: List five of your favorite authors:

Stephanie Purser: I’m going to go with children’s book authors:
1. Rick Riordan
2. Lemony Snicket
3. Robert San Souci
4. Max Lucado
5. C.S. Lewis

RWP: List ten books you’ve read that you’ll never forget:

Stephanie Purser:
1. Diary of Anne Frank
2. Gone With the Wind
3. I Know this Much is True
4. The Five People You Meet in Heaven
5. To Kill a Mockingbird
6. A Child Called It
7. Where the Heart Is
8. Tara Road
9. Redeeming Love
10. The Bible

RWP: What are you reading right now?

Stephanie Purser – I am actually just beginning a juvenile fiction series that is very popular, called The Sisters Grimm, by Michael Buckley. These books are a twist of mystery and fairytale. I try to weave juvenile literature into my reading time so that I can keep abreast of the latest, most popular works available. This is advantageous to me as an elementary teacher and a children’s author, as well.

RWP: Where can people find your work and where can they follow you?

Stephanie Purser – My book can be found at www.amazon.com (here) and at http://www.bn.com/ (here). I plan to begin an author website in the near future, which will have activities for children, and lesson plan units for teachers to use along with my book.


More About The Author: Stephanie Purser currently teaches a class of fourth graders at Bonne Ecole Elementary School, and also leads the St. Tammany Parish School Board’s writing curriculum – “Write...from the Beginning” – and INTECH, an instructional technology course offered to teachers. A veteran educator with more than a decade of experience in Louisiana, Stephanie’s professional work and dedication to her field have been widely heralded across the state. She’s been named St. Tammany Parish Teacher of the Year; Louisiana Association of Computer Using Educators (LACUE) Educator of the Year; and PTA Educator of Distinction.

She resides in Slidell, Louisiana with her husband Chad Purser and their two children.

About The Photographer: Chad Purser is an aerospace engineer, but his passion is photography. He created the cover art for How Hot Sauce Came to Lousianne from an old boathouse he captured in his lens years ago. His photography has appeared on two other book covers, a CD album, and on a popular ABC sitcom. More of his images can be found at http://www.chadpurser.com/.

Copyright 2011 Donald G. Redman. All rights reserved. Photo copyright 2011 Chad Purser. Reprinted here with permission.