Posts filed under ‘BIO’
THE TEARS OF NEWARK
At times, I don’t know if my thoughts are just of an old man out of rhythm with the times or valid observations. You, my friends, must be the judge.
Over the years I’ve noticed a trend, the intent of which is either for the betterment of mankind or yet another means of making money. I’m talking about the discovery of new diseases, not life threatening ailments, to be sure. But ailments for which products have been developed, afflictions such as dry eye and restless leg syndrome. The syndrome from which I draw a great deal of humor is ‘dry eye’.
For this malady, a host of artificial tear products are on the market, and if these products do not work there are heavy duty products such as Restasis, a heavily advertized remedy. Every time I see their ads I think of my late dad. I’ll tell you why.
When I was a kid my dad had a cure for dry eye. If he were alive I could see him opening up a ‘dry eye clinic’. His remedy was really cheap. All he would do was say, “You want something to cry about? I’ll give you something to cry about.”
It worked every time.
While I was a kid living in Newark during the 50’s and 60’s there was little need for artificial tears. There was always plenty of the real thing to go around. In fact, we had a surplus of tears. We could have exported tears. Compared to today’s problems, we were pretty well off.
Then there is ‘dry mouth’ cured by hydration, something we used to call drinking.
GONE TOO SOON
My consistent readers,
My sister died last year.
Today is her birthday.
For Judy
We spend our time
Do what we do
And then depart.
UPDATE
My consistent readers,
For those who follow my blog, you know that this was the year from hell for me.
I just thought I’d share this thought.
I stared at death,
And did not blink.
UPDATE, HURRICANE SANDY
Hurricane Sandy has come and gone,
But its scars and memories still linger on.
We survived the storm with only a short power loss on Monday and internet and cable on Tuesday.
The winds howled and we had quite a bit of rain, but our community fared well with only some minor flooding and loss of power.
What I found interesting was our animals’ reaction to this historic event. We have two cats and a lab mix, Millie. As the storm intensified one of our cats, Sammy, who is slightly insane, climbed onto my lap and watched the trees sway with the wind. I could see fear in her eyes. Millie also watched the storm from her favorite chair and her eyes showed concern. My wife thinks I read too much in the animals’ behavior, but I’m a stay at home writer and spend a great deal of time with them. Perhaps I imagine more than is real, but that’s my job.
Our property is surrounded by mature trees, and I realize now that as long as they don’t fall on the house, they protect us from the wind.
What I have a hard time imagining is the destruction caused by this storm. So many coastal communities devastated. As I watch the coverage of the aftermath, I wonder how and where you begin to recover.
My heart goes out to the small seaside community of Union Beach, west of Sandy Hook, New Jersey. My sister, Judy, and her husband had a small house there. It is a blue-collar community. This isn’t a resort community of summer homes but a town where people settled to raise their families or spend their retirement years. My sister died three weeks ago at the age of 62. Yesterday I found out that their house was destroyed. How much sorrow can people endure? Take that sorrow and multiply if by thousands, tens of thousands. I cannot wrap my mind around the extent of the loss experienced by the coastal communities that have suffered through this storm. Even might New York City bowed to the storm’s might and its flood and fires.
I was raised in Newark and spent vacations ‘down the shore’. I remember the anticipation of leaving the confines of the city and going to Seaside Heights for a week or a few days, the thrill of the first taste of salt air. I would stare at the vastness of the ocean and its limitless freedom. Seaside Heights was all but destroyed. The boardwalk and piers with their amusements, gone. I have my memories but it may be generations until such memories can again be made.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEPHEN KING
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
STEPHEN KING
This is actually a belated birthday greeting. King’s birthday was two days ago. He is the same age as me.
I was amused to learn that when his wife, Tabitha, went into labor with their first child, Stephen was at a drive-in watching ‘The Corpse Grinders’.
I think I can top that.
When my wife, Joni, was extremely pregnant, I took her to see the remake of ‘The Fly’. In this version Gena Davis dreams that she gives birth to a huge maggot.
That night Joni went into labor, and the next morning gave birth to our daughter, Annie.
No need for pest strips.
MEMOIR
It’s been some time since I wrote this piece.
I came across a contest for ‘late bloomers’ asking for an article to be published in an anthology.
As most of you writers well know, you submit and never hear from the publisher, even after repeated queries about the status of your piece.
I now share this unpublished work with you, my consistent readers.
NEVER TOO LATE
By
Walt Trizna
I have been a late-bloomer all my life. The following article will prove that to be true. If you also fall into this category, or have yet to bloom, read my story and know there is always hope as long as you persevere.
Spending thirty-four years as a scientist, I never felt totally comfortable. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy the work; I did. I found it difficult to share the enthusiasm of those working around me. However, I do feel a great sense of accomplishment for what those years produced. Now that segment of my early life is over.
I was a late-bloomer in marriage. At the age of thirty-six, when I married, most of my contemporaries were well into their first or perhaps second marriage. Now twenty-eight years later I find the wait was worth it for I found the perfect woman to share my life.
The primary focus of this article, however, is my current career as a writer. Looking back, I had the stirrings early in my life to follow that dream. But my environment and need for security won out and the yearning diminished but never died.
My first attempt at writing was in high school. A poem of mine was published in an anthology of high school writers and I knew I was on the road to becoming the next Robert Frost, whose poetry I adored. I continued writing poetry for approximately twenty-five years while in college, in the military and pursing my career in science. The result of my efforts was more than twenty-five poems published in anthologies and newspapers. During this phase of my writing addiction I made one dollar, a token of gratitude from a woman who enjoyed one of my poems. I am not known as a big spender, but even I would have a struggle living on four cents a year.
Toward the end of my twenty-five year poetry endeavor, I married and had two daughters. Actually, I continue writing poetry to this day. Each of my daughters gets a poem on her birthday recapping that year in their life. That tradition began when they were two and will continue until my writing career comes to a close.
Now as I approach my sixty-fourth year, I am a fulltime writer. Eleven years ago I began to write short stories of horror and science fiction. In this career I think of myself more as a bud than a bloom. I shall only bloom with the nourishment of the public.
I have published over twenty horror and science fiction short stories. When I write science fiction I try to use as much science fact as I can in order to make the story chilling with an air of possibility. I have also written three novels, one was published by Mélange Books when I was in my early sixties, one is now seeking a home and one still needs to grow some.
I have made little money, but at this stage of my career, that is of little importance. What warms my heart is when people read my words and find momentary escape from this confusion we call life.
Do I enjoy writing? That is a question I constantly ponder. I have a vivid imagination, ideas race through my mind. When it comes to sitting down before a blank tablet with pencil in hand, the enjoyment I experienced with imagery is tinged with a hint of anxiety in the effort of putting those images into words. Only when the piece is finished can I relax and savor a sense of accomplishment.
Now comes the effort to try and get the story published. Once again euphoria slams against the brick wall of reality. There are times when recognition comes quickly, but more often it takes years for a publisher to find value in my words. I have stories that have yet to see the light of publication, but I keep trying.
Have I reached to stage to refer to myself as a late-bloomer? I feel more like a ripening bud that will hopefully bloom before it shrinks and dies.
REPRISE OF ST. PATRICK’S DAY
I thought I’d revisit this memoir entry.
MEMOIR
As a kid growing up in Newark, the only significant occurrence associated with that holiday was the local parade.
Here is my remembrance.
DOWNNECK ST. PATRICK’S DAY PARADE
The section of Newark, New Jersey I called home was referred to as the ‘Downneck Section’, why, no one could ever explain. And on the Sunday afternoon, on or before St. Patrick’s Day, the residents of my street were treated to what had to have been the shortest St. Patrick’s Day parade in the country.
Our local Catholic Church sponsored the parade. I could see the church’s steeple from my parlor window. It was that close. The parade had to be held on Sunday for between my house and the church stood Balentine Brewery. Weekdays were filled with the rumble of trucks quenching the thirst of a parched city. Sunday was a day of rest for the trucks, making the parade possible.
Magically, sometime before the parade, a green line appeared down the center of our street, the first harbinger of a gala event. I never witnessed this lines creation, but every year it materialized. Around one-thirty the residents began to gather on the sidewalk. We all walked out our front doors with anxious anticipation. The brewery and Catholic school took up one side of the street, multiple family houses stood opposite. Of course, there were always the annoying boys riding their bikes down the center of the blocked-off street before the parade began. I was proud to add to their number.
I assumed the parade began at the church. I never did discover where it finished.
There was always a band, not a school band, but one made up of adult men most of whom had almost mastered the instruments they were assigned. Before the band came a few ruddy-faced Irish men, decked out in their top hats, waving to the minuscule crowd. At the front of this procession were the parish priests. The parade took thirty seconds to pass. The procession turned the corner on to Ferry Street and marched on, melting into the Downneck neighborhood.
BOOKBUZZR INTERVIEW
I was asked by Bookbuzzr some questions about my career as a writer. Here is the post.
UPDATED BIO
My consistent readers,
I recently wrote a detailed bio for one of my publishers.
I thought I would share it with you.
Walt
WALT TRIZNA
BIO
I now live in West Chester, Pennsylvania, but I was born and raised in Newark, New Jersey – a tough town. My mother was an avid reader and I picked up the habit. Sitting on the back porch with book in hand was better than venturing into the city and being beat-up. I learned this the hard way.
I obtained my bachelors degree in biochemistry from Oklahoma State University in 1969, and five days later reported for pilot training in Alabama. I always wanted to learn to fly, and did, but I hit a brick wall when it came to jets and washed out. At one point my instructor said, “Trizna, your landings scare me.” If he only knew how much they scared me. I then went to something where the landings weren’t important, just the accuracy. After a great deal of training, I became the crew commander of a Titan II ICBM. While stationed in Wichita, I earned a masters degree in biology from Wichita State University.
After my four-year military career was completed, I went into research. Renal physiology was the area in which I worked. I was employed by three medical schools and at the last, UCLA School of Medicine; I met my wife, Joni. With grants drying up, I found a job in industry and would work for a company for 22 years that would eventually become GlaxoSmithKline.
After a layoff at the age of 61, I decided to become a full-time writer. I had written science fiction and horror while still working, and now I could concentrate on my passion. When writing science fiction, I enjoy adding a healthy dose of science fact to give the story a hint of believability.
Joni and I have two daughters. Annie works at an independent book store and Lynn is a farmer. We love them both and encourage them to explore life wherever it may lead.
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