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Ann Vrooman’s Vignette: Harold D. Ellis
The line drawing is a glimpse into the soul of Harold D. Ellis, Past Official Editor and President of NAPA, humorist, mountaineer, camera addict, ex-half-owner of a foundry, and contributing tribesman of AJ. Don’t you believe he’s aborted in favor of the Jack London Fan Club exclusively. He’s too darned old to abort and too “real” to be exclusive. He’s a self-styled lover of freedom.
En route home after a NAPA WEST meet, Harold, my husband Carl, and I decided that a stiff drink was in order. At Harold’s suggestion we stopped at the beautiful Tyler Mall in Riverside. We approached this fine edifice through Chauncy’s Restaurant and Bar where drinks during “Happy Hour” were half price. Harold talked me into trying Jack Daniels Whiskey. Carl had more sense. After a good period of loud talk we decided to eat elsewhere.
Harold said: “Let’s walk through the Mall.” Agreeably we followed, with Carl leading. However, propped in front of the exit into the inner Mall was a wooden settee which Carl bumped into. Right away a sweet, young thing enveloped in an apron shouted: “Hey – you people – you can’t go out that way!” Harold, not to be daunted, inhaled deeply, shoved aside the settee with a superhuman grunt and we sailed out, each hearing the click of the lock behind us.
“We’re free,” Harold said with a satisfied air. “This is a beautiful thing about being sixty-three,” he added. “I don’t listen anymore.” And we smiled because it did feel pretty good. So we walked the length and breadth of the Mall casually and peacefully. It was very quiet, tomb-quiet. Only then did we remember it was Sunday and after six. Hurriedly we headed toward the exit doors to the parking lot. Not only were we bolted in, but as we tried the doors, red lights flashed. Bells started to ring. We weren’t really “free” at all. The alternatives weren’t many.
It was Carl who hammered on Chauncy’s door but nobody came. At least not for what seemed ten minutes. Finally we made it inside and, amid strange looks in our direction, we lowered our chins and tucked in our tails until we were outside once – again before the police or fire department arrived. We forgot our hunger. We even forgot the NAPA WEST meet. And all I have to say to Harold Ellis is: “Jack London – maybe; Jack Daniels – No.”
Roses
by Jennifer Hoover
Roses trying to grow in the sun’s warmth,
Only getting chilled by the night’s cold.
Who will win?
Unfortunately the cold’s scars are hard and deep.
The sun’s warmth
Can only begin to heal.
All is lost to the night’s cold.
Crystaled flowers, withering alone;
Isn’t it a shame
Young flowers
Haven’t learned to face the cold.
Thumbing Nowhere
by Randy Holding
With my thumb outstretched
I want to get away –
Nowhere.
How far to go, I don’t know;
I’ve never been there,
But once there I’ll know
I’ll have found
My Self.
On Being Stung by a Bee…
by Kristin Webb
I put my hand down on the grass
And I thought a pin had pricked my finger
But it was,
in fact,
A bee’s stinger.
I removed the stinger quickly
And I could see the bee lay on the grass
Dying
Of course
As a bee must die
When it has ejected its stinger.
A bee’s stinger:
A tiny bee’s
last voice
before death
When it has been frightened by a human
Who felt threatened by a bee;
A human frightened by a bee!
Ironic.
The amount of pain a human suffers
While the bee must sacrifice his life.
Appointment in the Pacific
by Thor Willat
This is a most unlikely place to be on Christmas Day – out here in the blue Pacific, aboard the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Yorktown. We are now about 1,000 miles southwest of Hawaii, at our destination, waiting…
I have just finished Christmas dinner with the ship’s officers, TV technicians, news anchormen and correspondents, as well as a NASA task force. The year is 1967 and we are all here to take part in the Apollo 8 recovery. Apollo 8 has been orbiting the moon – a first for man, and is now on its way home. No moon landing this time… that remains for Apollo 11.
The weather is warm and humid as I stand on the flight deck looking at the moon and clear crisp star constellations. I think of other Christmases with my wife, mentally projecting myself home, only to be pulled back to reality by a report on the loudspeaker; the Apollo crew is sleeping now and all is well. I decide to call it a day myself.
One day before recovery – anticipation is mounting. The activity increases aboard our floating city. Helicopters are making final practice runs as the Yorktown is being polished and readied for the returning heroes. This is a day of last minute preparations and constant reports to the anxious world. One more night to wait…
Dec. 27 – recovery morning – this is it! We are all up at 2 a.m. – three hours ahead of “splashdown.” Out on deck, in the dim red light to aid night vision, we are setting up and checking equipment. My job is to film this historic event in motion pictures for NASA.
Hundreds of sailors are now pouring out on deck, some as honor guard, others just to watch. Recovery planes and helicopters are busy circling the target area. Suddenly… someone yells and points to a distant faint streak of light in the sky – and for a few seconds we catch a rare glimpse of fiery “reentry” into earth’s atmosphere – but then it quickly disappears, and now, with no sight of the capsule, or word, during “radio blackout,” we wait anxiously.
About 4:40 a.m., in the pre-dawn darkness, all conversation stops. Directly above us – right out of science-fiction – an incredible moment that most of us will never forget… three beautiful parachutes blossom, with the capsule suspended… glowing softly in the light of a flare on top. Slowly and silently drifting down, the capsule appears as if it will land right on deck. Almost immediately the ship begins to pick up speed and we all breathe a little easier. Speech begins to return as we watch this miracle of man and science, but the chill down our spines will remain for some time. Hundreds of cheers go up as Apollo touches water two and one half miles away… then follows that welcome “ALL OK” from Borman, Lovell, and Anders.
The rest of this glorious event you all saw on your TV sets at home, via satellite… a small miracle in itself. Almost like being there – but not quite!
A Write Direction
by Harold D. Ellis
Every now and then someone mentions books about writing and there is the question: what books?
It seems to me that anyone sufficiently interested in books about writing to ask would be able to consult his local library where many books on the subject are usually to be found, or if interested in writing for money would pick up a current copy of The Writer or Writer’s Digest at a news stand. In each of these magazines he will find advertisements for all sorts of books about writing: How to write short stories that sell, How to write verse that sells, How to write articles that sell, etc., etc.
If one is interested in writing as a means of self-expression, as an amateur gardener may grow roses for his own pleasure and not for sale, he would probably avoid any book that has “that sells” in the title.
Over the years I suppose I have read at least a hundred books about writing (with little effect, as you can see) but one book, read at least thirty years ago has stuck in my mind. Every so often I would think of it, and occasionally see references to it in other books and magazines. A year or so ago I ran across a copy in a used book store, brought it home and re-read it, and found it as good and interesting as I remembered it to be.
It is On The Art of Writing by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch. It was published in May, 1916 and has had many printings since then.
Some one has said that good writing is conversation in print, and while this book is not conversation, it is close to it as it is a series of lectures delivered at the University of Cambridge in 1913 and 1914.
Anyone even casually interested in writing as a means of effective communication between people will, I think, find this book a challenge to his intelligence and his imagination.
Western Printalong
March 25, 1973
Once again the Southern California devotees of amateur journalism met on the shore of the western sea to enjoy some of the mystique and traditions of ajay. What was said and done appears hither and yon in this journal.
An enthusiastic amalgam of amateur journalists said let’s have the 1973 NAPA Convention in Southern California! The membership and convention are hereby notified that we would heartily welcome the ‘74 official gathering if the coming convention wants us. We’re ready! Is the association ready for us? This may be considered an official invitation to all members. – Gale Sheldon, NAPA WEST Chief
The NAPA WEST Slate
For NAPA President – Jake Warner
Vice President – Glenn Engebretsen
Official Editor – Ralph Babcock
Executive Judges – Ann Vrooman, Bob Williams, Bill Boys
Convention City 1974 – San Diego
For today’s meeting, called by NAPA West editor Gale Sheldon, hosts Glenn and Sally Engebretsen have graciously offered their home and printshop, and are encouraging us to set memorable lines from Glenn’s numerous type cases, mostly sans-serif, of course. Later, these lines will be printed for NAPA West, at Glenn’s Village Press, on the Heidelberg, a marvelous piece of machinery that has adjustable impression with the turn of a handle – no need to change the packing. It flips through a stack of paper at up to 5,000 impressions per hour, with a windmill-type feed that can print the whole bundle requirement while I am just kinking up my side-handle C&P Pilot. – Thor Willat
What a Brilliant Party!
Gale Sheldon, out new editor was resplendent in a passionate purple shirt over buttercup yellow sox. Glenn E. took second in his eye-matching blue ensemble. (Stood on his head after the 3rd glass?) Dave Oden, looking like Bill Boys, only somewhat prettier – wore a Johnny Carson suit. Ed Fielding was a tiger in yellow stripes. Thor Willat was conservative but oh that devilish grin: John Zenz honestly looked like a writer but my Carl was the American Beauty in wine accessories matching his taste buds. Who cares about the ladies? – Your Hollywood Reporter, Annie V.
Set by John Zenz, using the Seek and Ye Shall find system.
A Casualty of Our Time
A Story by David Oden
One night in May, four years ago, I fought a vague feeling of distress for which I found no reason. I tried to dismiss it as overwork, but I continued to toss and turn. My thoughts were fragmented as if something were tugging at my brain. About two thirty a.m. I gave up, got a glass of milk, and turned on the late, late show. It was one of the worst films ever made. I hate to say that. I was co-author of the screenplay.
My friend, Scott Wylie, and I shared the credit. You’ve probably seen his name in the credits of a stream of swashbuckling epics made in the fifties. After we were fired during a budget cut, I forsook movies to write the Great American Novel, but after the bottom dropped out and studios were going under, Scott kept trying.
We’d pursued different things, and I watched the old formula movie, feeling a little guilty and sad because life hadn’t been too kind to Myrna and Scott. Perhaps the time of our destruction is hidden in what we choose to take from life.
After I’d sold my first novel, I took them to dinner to celebrate. Beautiful Myrna, except she wasn’t so beautiful any longer. It was Myrna’s last dinner out. I knew she didn’t have clothes for the old places we used to go, so I took them to a place out in Anaheim that served good food and didn’t care how you dressed.
Scott left the table for a minute, and I asked her, “How are you feeling?”
“Why, fine,” she smiled. “Never better.”
Her smile was tired like I’d never seen before. Her eyes had been blue with flecks of gold, but now they were faded; and there was pain behind the pupils.
“Have you had a check-up lately?”
Her slender fingers toyed with the coffee cup. “There’s no need.”
“I know what’s the matter.” Scott and I had been friends for years, but there were things I could say to Myrna I couldn’t mention to him. “You go to the doctor. Have him bill me. Do it for me.”
She bowed her head. “I can’t let you do that.”
“I owe you. Scott needn’t know.”
I made her promise. Four weeks later she died of cancer. If they’d found it sooner… If she’d had the money for a doctor….
I remember thinking what a coincidence that I should be unable to sleep and turn on an old movie we’d written. I wondered if Scott were watching it. Scott and Myrna had been close as only childless couples can be. They were lovers; they were friends; and friends last longer than lovers. I watched the old movie that May night and remembered the funeral, and I wondered what Scott was doing now. I had thought of him the last few days and had wanted to call, but I’d been too busy.
Scott was lost after the funeral. He made it through, but he was close to collapse.
“Move in with me. We both need the company,” I suggested.
“No, I have to stay home.” His voice was soft and thin with grief that was never to leave. “I’m going to make it. I have to.”
“Maybe you need a change. Rest awhile.”
He came closer to anger than he’d ever been. “You don’t understand, do you? I have to go on.”
“I’m sorry. I only meant…” But how do you tell someone what you really mean?
He slumped in the chair and covered his eyes with his hands. “God, if only I’d been good enough. If only I’d sold enough. She’d be alive.”
“Don’t blame yourself.”
“If I’d just had a regular job. She could’ve had a doctor.”
“She loved you for what you are.”
“Get the hell away from me.” He left and I didn’t see him again for four years.
I called him, but he was always working and didn’t talk very long. I thought he was avoiding me, and I was a little hurt. But I began seeing his stories occasionally in some of the little magazines. Then I ran into his agent, and he said Scott was working on a novel, a big one. He wrote industrial films and whatever he could get to live on. He’d managed to keep the house he’d bought for Myrna, and he stayed in and wrote twelve to sixteen hours a day.
One night I answered the doorbell, and there was Scott with his manuscript. We had a drink and tried to talk, but he had only one thing on his mind.
“Nobody wants it,” he said. “It’s not commercial, they say. This kind isn’t selling now.” He was thinner than ever as if he were burning away from the inside. His voice was still soft and strained, and his gray eyes were hard with desperation. He lit a cigarette from the old one. His fingers were yellow with nicotine.
I offered to send it to my publisher, and he thanked me gratefully. He left the manuscript, and I read all eight hundred pages of it. It had no wanton sex, no murders, no incest, and no scandal. It was the greatest book I’d ever read. On the eight hundred pages, Myrna, Scott, pain, love, and hope were all extracted from eternity and held on paper. Behind them were universal man and the meaning of life.
My publisher returned it. Too risky. I returned it to Scott, and tried to tell him I was sorry.
All these things and more I remembered as I sipped my glass of milk and watched the movie that Scott and I had written. I remembered his book and envied him for it. At three a.m., I flicked off the TV and finally fell to troubled sleep.
The next morning, there was a small item in the Los Angeles Times. Sometime between the hours of one and four a.m., Scott Wylie placed a revolver to his head and blew out his brains.
More
March 25, 1973
It was certainly a busy day – besides inviting Convention ‘74, endorsing a slate, celebrating Appreciate the Mailer Day, we also made it a Farewell Party for Ann and Carl Vrooman. They are moving far up the coast to Mendocino, an artists town, beginning to be called “The Carmel of the North.” Somehow we failed to realize that they would soon be gone and the mood of the party was happy and gay. The shock will hit us a bit later when we realize that the Vrooman Hospitality Center is no longer in our area, that there will be no more stops in San Berdoo for a snack and the latest news on NAPA personalities, and that many of our future get-togethers will be sans Vrooman. Somehow we’ll learn that Southern California NAPA will never be the same. But we wish them well and assure them that wherever they are the friendly thoughts of we of the South will be with them. – Glenn Engebretsen
Being a NAPA hostess is fun and this time it was even more so. The pre-Easter menu of homemade Norwegian bread sandwiches, hot cross buns and Easter eggs was augmented by Ann’s addition of a heaping platter of her famous spiceful meatballs and a supply of activated punch. Also enjoyable were yummy cookies baked by Sara Sheldon. Lucy Fielding, Ann Oden, Pat Zenz and I enjoyed conversing with Harold Ellis, Carl Vrooman and Glenn Jr. while the writers and printers were “publishing.” – Sally Engebretsen
Today was declared “Appreciate the Mailer Day” and we recalled the names of those generous members who in our time have given us such noble and dedicated service. It seemed to us that the mailers are the unsung heroes of amateur journalism, and we hereby give our sincerest and profound thanks to all who have served as NAPA mailers.
After saluting in spirit all previous mailers, six of us who were type-flinging down at the Village Press paused a moment to step up to the phone to thank Mary Brunori in far-away Maryland for her most appreciated efforts in the laborious task of collating, packaging and mailing all our missives month after month. Gale Sheldon, John Zenz, Dave Oden, Ed Fielding, Ann Vrooman and Glenn Engebretsen let Mary know that her work does not go unnoticed. Mary conversed graciously with each of us and made our ATM Day a really memorable coast-to-coast affair. – Glenn Engebretsen
Today is one of those that made Southern California famous. The ocean breezes bathe Playa del Rey, and the Southern California group creates havoc in Glenn Engebretsen’s Gothic haven. – Ed X. Fielding, for Dave Oden.
Our Silent Majority
President Bill Boys has published two fascinating annual reports showing the amount of activity carried on in 1971 and 1972 by the amateur journalists of NAPA. Though 1972 gave us the cheering news that activity had increased a bit, over half the membership remained silent. This majority has been blasted occasionally, but it is the opinion of this writer that these members are valuable to us as dues payers, as enlargers of our readership range, and as good and true friends of our brand of amateur journalism in outposts all across the nation. Somehow it cheers me to know that our journals get into places such as Vashon, Washington; Midland, Texas; Hill City, South Dakota; Muskegon, Michigan; Mableton, Georgia and many other interesting towns.
It occurs to some of us on this publishing treadmill that those who have been silently reading and evaluating our activists’ output may have fresher and better thoughts on what amateur journalism could be. As we head into our second century we should strive to improve our image (if we have any) in the realm of creative hobbies.
NAPA WEST would like to hear from the silent ones, and use their impressions and thoughts in planning future issues and projects. Please drop us a line telling us a bit about your interest in amateur journalism, what you like or dislike about it. Your feelings and attitudes are important!
Glenn Engebretsen, Playa del Rey. Ca. 90291
Heartbreak for Grandma
by O. Pauline Walters
Grandma’s eyes searched the yard. She stood on the porch and looked all around. The yard was empty. There on the walk beside the gate was one roller-skate, strap missing. She guessed she had better move it before someone tripped over it and fell on the sidewalk.
Grandma didn’t notice that she was crying, but a tear dropped on the skate as she picked it up, caressing it as she slowly walked back toward the house. Her eyes wandered to the lilac bush. There in its cool shade lay Len’s little cars, parked amongst its roots, with roads to fit each one. She quickly turned her head, her eyes fixed on the mulberry tree. There he had climbed to its utmost heights, and called down to her, “Look, Grandma! Look! I can see all the world from here.” She always warned him to be careful, but she always let him climb – climbing was good for boys.
And there was grandpa’s lawn-mower. Len had dragged it out and left it in the sand-box where he had tried to cover it with sand. Oh, Len! You were happy here playing just as your little heart desired.
People often remarked, “Grandma, you’re spoiling him!” But she knew she wasn’t; she just let him be a boy and do little boy things.
Wonder where he is today? Is he lonely and missing grandma? Tears rolled down her wrinkled face as she remembered. His mother and daddy were divorced yesterday, and his mother came and took him away.
Strange that a divorce meant that he couldn’t stay with grandma any longer. Grandma had been the only mother he had known since the day his mother went to work three years ago, just six months after he was born.
Les didn’t want Nell to go to work, but she was “just too bored staying home.” Grandma didn’t know what happened. She only knew that three years later they were divorced, and Len was gone, heaven only knew where.
She wondered how she could live with Len gone. How could she breathe this fresh air that he loved so much? Where is he now? She longed for the portals of heaven to open and draw her close within its doors. Her life seemed over, and there would be no heartache there. There, Len would never have to leave her; the children would be singing, laughing and happy.
Grandma turned to walk inside, nursing the greatest heartache she had ever known. With tears raining from her tired old eyes, she uttered these words, “In heaven there will be no divorces.”
Just the Right Words
by Mary Kay Culkin
Where are they?
They have escaped
from the reaches of my mind.
They travel like nomads –
fast, alone.
How long I searched
for those precious words.
They couldn’t be found.
They were hidden
in the grains of emotion.
But, only by talking
to the sea and driftwood
did I find those words.
Words to let myself out.
So after painful examination
of my mind
and self reassurance
I found the words.
Moat
by Linda Hall
Time entered my castle
And minutes began
To slip away –
Precious moments that
Had been forgotten
Along some pathway
Of misunderstanding.
It crept upon me
Choking my grasp,
Stopping yet for an interlude
When I question
My kingdom
And wait for the moment when
I understand.
The Young Poets
These four pages for NAPA WEST are published to encourage young writers in their beginning efforts. The five poems were written by high school students at Patrick Henry High School in San Diego. Printed by Gale Sheldon, El Cajon, California 92020.
Gale Sheldon’s Sketch: Ann Vrooman
Versatile, volatile, vigorous, even vibrating are all descriptive of Southern California’s Ann Vrooman. An able writer and editor of distinction (National Amateur, Vol. 94) Ann provides much of the zip and the zest at local amateur gatherings and print-ins. Constantly questioning the world around her, outspokenly frank on the state of amateur affairs from apprentice seamen to retired admirals, sophisticated yet naive, enthusiastic about everything she tries her hand at, she livens up any gathering with her wit and energy.
You can be sure she’ll never be at a loss for words, and her interest in everything is refreshing. She is sensitive to the feelings of others, yet she often bubbles over with bursts of frankness. Her critical response to amateur attempts at writing and printing are always tempered with sincere appreciation for the effort expended and compliments for the meritorious aspects of the completed work.
Dark glasses are a constant trademark, noticeable because she sometimes wears them indoors as well as out. Oh, she forgot to take them off? Well, maybe. I wonder if there isn’t some psychological need for them, to play the role of “somebody” in society? Or as a cover for an insecurity behind the bold extrovertish exterior? Oh, but sure, it’s just for eyes that are super sensitive to light. Or maybe just to hide the wrinkles!
Currently, we understand, Ann and her husband Carl are planning to retire in a home which they have just built along the coast of northern California. As usual, the task was undertaken with gusto and a sense of adventure and excitement. We wish her well in her new surroundings, but she will be missed at the memorable local gatherings of the amateur clan. Here anyone with a slight case of despondency or loneliness could find an instant cure by joining the animated conversation of the group where the vivacious blonde? was holding forth – the one with the Hollywood shades and the open mouth.
Where Credit is Due:
Personality pieces on Harold Ellis and Ann Vrooman printed by Ed Fielding; “Appointment in the Pacific” and “Heartbreak for Grandma” printed by Thor Willat; “A Write Direction,” “Western Printalong,” and items on March 25 meeting printed by Glenn Engebretsen. Pencil sketches of Harold and Ann, Dave Oden’s story, and cover done by Gale Sheldon.
Amateur Journalism:
“It holds my absorbed attention for all the hours I care to spend on it, an avocation to prize.”
– Frederick Folger Thomas
Published by Southern California Members
of the
National Amateur Press Association