I have to tell you right up front. I’m a story teller. After graduation from the Coast Guard Academy in 1957, my twenty-eight years of active duty have given me a lot of fodder. I finally heeded my daughter’s pleas, “Dad, you have got to write those stories down,” and published my memoirs in 1975. Caught up in the writing experience, I moved on to publish a novel in 2019 and I'm continuing to write. It's my new number 1 hobby.
Do you have a favorite author? One whose books have been on your shelf for a long time? One that you’ve re-read several times? One that rekindles your enthusiasm for writing?
A.J. Cronin, considered one of the greatest storytellers of the twentieth century, and an early favorite of mine, has adorned my bookcase since the tenth grade. I was recently moved to relive Cronin’s “The Northern Light.”
I love stories. I love to hear them, read them, tell them, and write them. I enjoy kind words from friends and reviewers who have singled out my storytelling, in both my memoir and my novel, as a highlight of my work. They have moved me to revisit Cronin.
I read him differently now. For inspiration, yes, but I also find myself studying his, plot, structure, language, character development, and story line. In a broad sense, I want to know what it is about A. J. Cronin’s writing that makes me always say, “There’s a book I really enjoyed.” It could have been “Keys of the Kingdom,” “the Citadel,” “The Green Years,” or “Song of Sixpence.” All great books of the Scottish Doctor, and all still on my shelves. “The Green Years” is next for me–a wonderful story of what grandfathers are for.
So, writers—do you have a favorite author you read for inspiration? Maybe a different author for different genres? How has their writing influenced you or helped you improve your craft?
I promise this first blog of my revised website will say nothing about COVID-19.
You’ve read and heard enough about that without my take on it.
I’m unable to enjoy a walk on the Pitt-Bradford Trail much anymore, but when I did, I enjoyed watching the war of the seasons unfold. I’m a few weeks late with this, but here’s my thoughts on the Awakening Spring.
A dark oasis of spiked pines pokes above the sea of maples and poplars on the surrounding hills. The subtle hues of green will soon be ocean swells protecting the valley like a comforter. Stark grey sticks reach skyward, straining to be like their green sisters, to remind us of a harsh winter not long gone. Small openings offer a glimpse of flowering cherry and apple trees; they are teasers for the summer yet to come.
I sit awhile in the gazebo. Fallen trees that did not survive the winter lie beneath the water of a shallow pond like underwater sea serpents. A twiggy branch stretches above the water, a precarious perch for chickadees. A slab of trunk breaks the surface, a sun porch for turtles and frogs.
Daffodils and Dandelions
I cheer for a cluster of daffodils, their yellow stars standing tall, lording it over the dandelions, which have sent but three scouts looking for spring on the soccer field. Hurray for the daffodils! Alas, within a week, I fear the brave daffodils have lost the battle, reduced to furled rusty blobs. A vast horde of bad boy dandelions, now in formation on the east end of the soccer field, stand ready to advance to their brother scouts scattered the length of the field. The wars go on. But they know not what awaits them–the grim reaper, John Deere, who in another week will slay them by the thousands. Ha! Revenge.
Now Available in Paperback and Kindle at Amazon.com
As those who have been following chapter excerpts on my blog know, these memoirs covers my Coast Guard Career from Academy days to retirement. I am proud to share these back of the book blurbs.
“In my experience, the best way to learn something is to find a teacher who blends historical facts with the art of story-telling. Dick Marcott proves he is the master in “The View from the Rigging”. Those of us who paralleled his professional life, can smile often and remember our own experiences as Dick reviews his Coast Guard career. Others are introduced to the extraordinary blend of the professional and personal commitment of both the service member and the family of those who dedicate themselves to public service in the uniform of their country. It’s a story told well and highlighted with very real moments of serious accomplishment at work and at home. We should all be so fortunate to have such stories to tell our grandchildren.”
James M. Loy ADM, U. S. Coast Guard (Retired) Commandant, 1998-2002
“I never cease to be amazed at what I learn from Captain Marcott’s memoirs of a fascinating life I never knew existed. The stories are a tribute to his service that he sells with beautiful detail, humor, and pathos.
Dani Weber, Asst. Prof. of English, SUNY Sullivan
“If you’ve ever been to sea, you’ll enjoy my friend Dick Marcott’s tales of Coast Guard Duty. If you haven’t, this book might count as your first deployment.”
David Poyer, author of TIPPING POINT and ONSLAUGHT
Rotating off a year’s isolated duty, I expected my assignment request would be honored; I asked for shore duty at a district or group office, anywhere on the west coast. I felt a little disappointed when I received orders to the Reserve Training Center, Yorktown, VA. In the first place, Carol and I hoped to see more of the country. Yorktown was thirty miles away from Norfolk, VA. Secondly, I didn’t know what a Reserve Training Center was, nor what type of duty that would mean for me.
So, I didn’t get what I asked for. But, what I got—proved to be a wonderful career-defining assignment that both Carol and I have cherished as our favorite duty station in a twenty-eight year career.
We were familiar with the area only as day tripping tourist when we were stationed in Norfolk. This time we were digging into what was probably going to be a four year assignment. Heading south on US17 we crossed the peninsulas made by the great rivers that raced from the mountains of Virginia toward the Chesapeake Bay: the Potomac, the Rappahannock, and the York. We drove through villages with homey names like White Marsh, and Ordinary.
The landscape morphed into a rural postcard. Flat sandy soil dotted with scrubby clumps of grass stretched from the narrow highway. White farm houses sat sheltered in an oasis of trees protecting families from the hot sun of clear-cut farm land. You could almost see them sitting on the wrap-around porches waiting to offer lemonade or a pint of stout to friends arriving by carriage up the long circular drive. Roadside signs every twenty miles reminded us we were traveling the George Washington Memorial Highway. We knew we were in the south again, but one that somehow seemed more honest and pure than Norfolk.
When we came to a sign that pointed the way to Gum Fork, we knew that the George P. Coleman Memorial Bridge that spanned the York River at the pinch point between Gloucester and Yorktown was right ahead.
We wanted to buy a house. A four year assignment made that reasonable. We had managed to save some money in the last year. I had spent hardly any of my salary on Loran duty in Okinawa, and Carol, who stayed with her parents in Roosevelt, Long Island, worked as a teller at the Meadowbrook National Bank. In addition, within a year, we could expect a big raise as I went over four years service as a lieutenant. Our income would be double what he made since we last managed a household in Norfolk, VA. It was time to buy.
We had contacted a realtor earlier, and he was ready to show us options. Newport News was about 10 miles south of the base. We quickly settled on a three bedroom rancher on a cul-de-sac in a new development at 721 Roslyn Road. Offer made and accepted—our first home cost $15,500. The following day, we were ready to move in, except we had no furniture.
Our realtor recommended a large furniture store on the north end of town. Carol and I had a great shopping day and the salesman an even greater one. We bought furniture for every room in the house in one day from one store. Dinning room table, chairs, china closet, buffet, two complete bedroom sets, desk and bookcase for a den, and a roomful of living room furniture highlighted by a curved sectional, coffee tables, and end tables. We furnished the whole house. We had a ball doing it.
We sat watching the salesman filling out the sales slip with a big smile he couldn’t hide.
I said, “You know, we bought a lot of stuff here today. Are you going to throw in at least a couple of lamps?”
“Rich!” Carol visibly gasped as her eyes darted soundless messages at me.
“What?” My response was a slow, whisper-like sing-song above hunched shoulders.
“I’ll have to check with the manager.” the salesman broke in, as he disappeared with a quizzical look.
“God, Rich! My mother would die if she knew what you just did.” Her face was still red. Her mother was a furniture adjuster in Abraham & Straus, a well known department store on Long Island.
“What do you mean? Everyone does that. It’s standard practice in Bradford.” I continued, “After all, nobody’s going anywhere, the buyer or the seller. Bradford sales clerks know they sell to generations, and they know how to keep customers.” A new suit would always get you a free tie. An expensive one would net you a shirt and a tie.”
The salesman returned. “The manager will be glad to add two living room end-table lamps to your order, sir. No cost, of course, and thank you.” He looked as surprised as Carol. Who raised these people?
The furniture was delivered in a day. We took another two to get it arranged then our attention turned to the back yard. We needed a fence. The back yards were all open to each other, including those on the next street. Carol was already hinting for a dog. We decided on a three rail board fence, nothing fancy, 1 x 6’s between 4 x 4’s. I thought it would be a do-it-yourself project until I attempted to dig the first post hole.
The “sandy soil,” was but inches deep. Beyond that was clay—hard packed, battleship grey, shovel sticking, back breaking clay. I didn’t have the time, nor the energy to do it. We asked the realtor for suggestions for a fence contractor.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, “you can get that done a lot cheaper just hiring a couple day laborers to dig those post holes then nail the rails up yourself, or you can let them do it. Can you be around to supervise?”
“Yea, I guess, but how do I get them?”
“Well just drive down to the lower end of Jefferson Ave, toward the water. You’ll see a bunch of niggers standing around on a street corner, just jiving with each other while “they look’n fo’ work.” His tone was mocking. “But, those who are really serious will have a handkerchief tied to the parking meter and will be standing near by it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. Just pick out a couple of big bucks and ask them if they’ll give you a couple of days digging fence-post holes. They’ll give you an honest day’s work, but you gotta be there to tell ‘em what to do and keep an eye on ‘em.”
That was 1961. It was obvious there was not much progress in racial attitudes from the three-bathroom (Men, Women, and Colored) filling station we encountered three years ago in Norfolk. They were nice guys, worked hard, and I had my fence in two days, including a redwood stain. As someone once said, “The past is never dead—it ain’t even past.”