My Relationship with Music

My love for music began when I was about 10 years old in the 1970s. My sister and I would record our favorite songs from Casey Kasem's Top 100 songs of the year countdown. Sometimes we'd catch them on the weekly Top 40. We had one of those old cassette recorders with a corded microphone attached, which we'd carefully position a few inches away from my mom's stereo console speakers. We only had a split second to recognize the song before we hit play and record simultaneously. Soon, our generic blank cassettes (TDKs if we could afford them) would be filled from side to side.

If we couldn't catch them on the radio (or didn't want to wait), we'd make a trip to Murphy's Department Store or Bramer Electric to pick up the latest hits on 45 rpm vinyl records. They'd always be locked behind a glass case. I remember hearing Abba's "Knowing Me, Knowing You" about a million times on our boom box during a 25-mile walk-a-thon, so I had to have a record of it when I got home.

It would be my mom in my teenage years that further influenced my love of music. She'd play everything from Lou Rawls to Patsy Cline to Donna Summer to the Tavares. If it wasn't on album, she'd have the 8-track.

Cassette tapes would be the media of choice for me for well over a decade after that. In college, I would pop in purchased cassette singles of my favorite hits from Madonna, Whitney Houston, George Michael, and more. My taste ranged from nearly every '70s hit to some of the '80s and '90s tunes. I loved disco music, of course.

But something changed in the mid to late 1990s. It began with the explosion of bands and songs in the late '80s. Suddenly, there was so much music out there that you couldn't keep up. I began to distance myself because, well, a lot of it was crap. When rap and hip-hop hit, that really tanked my love of music. It festered into the mainstream like a virus, and unlike disco, it has never stopped. Don't get me started on rap songs that begin with samples from hits from my era. It's nothing more than stealing.

I guess age also had lot of to do with my change in taste. I still like all my old songs, but I listen to them far less often. I do not have music playing in my car anymore, mostly because I despise commercials and my cassettes were eventually replaced with CDs.

There's also an emotional quality about listening to music from my past. When I have some wine and play my favorite songs, I am on the highest high. I LOVE them. I remember all the lyrics. And if I am out at a bar dancing, I will literally dance the night away. I do notice that the dance floor usually fills when I ask the DJ to play a hit that we all loved back in the day.

At home, I can get on an hours-long roll with a Youtube playlist that includes the Bee Gees, Diana Ross, Jody Watley, The Stylistics, The Carpenters, and more. Back when music was good.

There are several post-2000 tunes that I like. Keith Urban's "The Fighter," DNCE's "Cake by the Ocean," Katy Perry's "Chained to the Rhythm," and now Dua Lipa is hitting me hard with "Illusion" and "Training Season." Somehow I catch these songs through endless video scrolls on my phone. And yes, I like Sabrina Carpenter's "Espresso" and "Manchild." I may be old, but I'm not dead yet.

Still, music is not a mainstay in my life as much as it used to be. I have a boom box in my living room nook that plays classical throughout the day on a volume level so low you'd have to have your ears up to the speakers to hear it. It serves as soothing background fill. Also, in a world full of too many voices and too much chaos, silence is golden.

I think my reluctance to listen to music often also has a lot to do with how my creative mind reacts to too much stimulus. I definitely seek out the best music to fit my videos and documentaries, and I consider it to be the most important component. But music can be like a drug. It conjures up a lot of emotions (which is what it's supposed to do). But after over 60 years of life, the roller coaster of highs and lows can be a bit overwhelming. To me, like wine, it has to be enjoyed in moderation.

My Big Monstera Plant

Years ago, about 25 give or take, I drove to a nursery in Maryland to purchase a Monstera deliciosa, also known as the Swiss Cheese Plant because of the fenestrations (openings) in the leaves. I believe the location was Bell Nursery. I can still remember how hard it was to find at the time, even though I had one as a teenager.

When I was about 14 years old and living in Western New York, I used to travel on my bicycle to a place called Muchow's Nursery. That is where I purchased my first Monstera. Oh, it was SO beautiful. It was lush and full with symmetrical leaves, and the stem was mounted onto a large bark wood stake. I discovered it in a group plant section of the store that felt like a jungle oasis. I don't remember how I got it home, but it would be my first big plant purchase.

Well, this is when I learned about the importance of acclimation. I decided to place the plant on our balcony porch, which received some sun but nothing too harsh (so I thought) during the day. By evening all the leaves on the plant were scorched, and it would die soon after. I was devastated.

Fast forward over two decades later and that is when I purchased my current Monstera, and boy does it have a long history. For years I had it either indoors under moderate light, or outside hanging under a tree to protect it from direct sun. It didn't really grow that much, and the leaves were probably about 10"-12" long max.

The size the plant remained for many years. This is circa 1999-2000.

At one time, a bird built a nest and raised babies in the pot. I could view them through my bedroom window.

Baby birds nesting in the pot in 2005.

Then one day I decided to separate the plant, which had grown a bit straggly, into two pots. And that's when it triggered something miraculous. One of the two cuttings started putting out giant leaves. And by giant, I mean up to 30" in length! And this was even under moderate indoor lighting. The other half maintained leaves about the size of the original plant, and I would call it the sister plant.

I would affectionately call the big one "Monster" from then on. I wondered what had manifested for the plant to grow such showy leaves. In my mind I attributed it to the bird poop that may have entered into the soil during the early years. Who knows. But then I had a problem on my hands.

Monster would soon grow too large for the space it was in, and I'd have to saw off the top stem with two or three leaves and re-root it. I did this several times over 20 years to keep it balanced and not too unwieldy. Then I finally gave in and repotted it in a giant pot and placed it in the middle of the window. This forced me to ditch a chair and move my TV to the other side of the room.

And then...boom! It flowered the following year.

It is very rare for a Monstera to flower indoors, as they are more apt to do so in an outdoor humid environment. But I guess it found all the right parameters indoors to give it a go. It put out two large flowers the first year, and two smaller ones the next. I was amazed. The white spathes were about 10" long. The fruit would take a year to ripen after pollination.

Unfortunately, over the last year I've noticed that the plant has become more than sluggish. New leaves are small and it seems to have stopped growing altogether. A few of the older large leaves gradually turned yellow and I removed them. I had saved the plant from a thrip infestation two years ago, and I think the stress of that and the flowering usurped much of its energy. 

So this week I made the difficult decision to restart the top again, and divide the long stem into several cuttings. I also kept the remaining mother stump in the large pot. With such a large root system already established, it stands a good chance of creating new shoots in the original pot.

Let's hope and pray that, with six possible ways for Monster to regrow itself, I will enjoy the next phase of my treasured plant for many years to come.

Researching for your Novel

Accuracy is incredibly important when writing a story that involves actual locations and settings. Historical facts are as well. This I would discover to a great degree while typing out my first full-length novel, which is why it took three years to complete.

By far the book that required me to do the most research was In Search of Good Times. In this story, a man by the name of Joseph Manley loses his job and makes a road trip across the country hoping to find the 1970s sitcom families from Good Times and All in the Family. After a drunken night, he wakes up and somehow believes that these are real people.

Teton Mountains Joe would have seen whiling traveling through Wyoming.

He begins his journey in Idaho—his home state—and continues to Chicago and New York (Astoria, Queens). Along the way he stops in Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York. So first and foremost I needed to map out the actual highways and backroads he would traverse. I did this using Google Maps and Google Street View. I wanted to make sure my descriptions of topography and landmarks were accurate. I also wanted him to take lesser-known roadways to add more character to the story. One doesn't tend to come across abandoned houses along major interstates. When he reaches large cities like Chicago and New York, I was insistent that street names and cross streets be accurate. This took a lot of time, but it was well worth it in conveying a sense that this story really could have happened.

While meeting people along the way, he learns about different lifestyles and cultures. He stays the night with an older gentleman who tells him a WWII story. My previous knowledge of WWII—all the countries that were involved and specific battles—was about as in-depth as my apprehension of brain surgery. Much of my historical knowledge faded after high school. So I took it upon myself to research a real regiment he could have been a part of, as well as the specific battles and countries involved.

In Ohio, Joe meets and stays a few days with an Amish family. This probably required the most research for the book. I watched numerous documentaries on Amish culture specific to Ohio, and read detailed articles on customs. Rumspringa, for example, is a period for Amish youth, typically starting around age 16, where they experience more freedom and can explore the outside world before deciding whether to commit to adult baptism and join the church.

I actually began my novel with extensive research on the notorious Cabrini-Green projects in Chicago where the Good Times sitcom was set. I somehow got lost in a maze of Google Street Views one night where buildings would mysteriously appear and disappear as I moved my cursor throughout the roads. It was at the time, circa 2009, when The Reds (the red-brick buildings you see on the opening of Good Times) were being demolished and replaced with gentrified housing. And since my story was set in 2008-2009, I made sure that that fact presented itself when Joe arrived in the city.

Also, I wanted the book cover to have images of the Good Times building and the Bunker's home in Astoria. So working with actual photos and a 3D program I had purchased, I proceeded to match these structures as best as I could. Here, I kept the duplex where the Bunker home is seen on TV as the solid brown, single-family home it was portrayed.

And finally, even the simplest of details may require research. Back in Idaho in the second chapter, Joe is awakened from his drunken stupor when a Blue jay taps on his window. Well, what if Idaho didn't have Blue jays? I'd certainly be called out on it by residents who read my book, and so I had to check. And yes, luckily, though smaller in numbers compared to other states, Idaho does have Blue jays flying about.

Order In Search of Good Times in paperback, eBook, or audiobook.

“Death Toll” by Victor Rook (Written in 2010)

I hope you won’t think this is sick, but I have something to admit. I like tragedies. I like to see them unfold on TV. The bigger, the better. If there’s an earthquake, it better be an 8.0 and not an inconsequential 3.5. If 23 people are missing and only two are dead, I want to see that number rise. If a tsunami is possible, I want it probable. If the news says there’s a tornado watch, I want it to change to a tornado warning—meaning a tornado has been spotted and is already wreaking havoc. Tragic “Breaking News” excites me.

I’ve thought about this several times and was almost uncertain whether to write about it. Then it came to me why. Large-scale human tragedies bring people together. Everything else seems to stop. All the trivial entertainment news about the Lindsay Lohans and Kate Gosselins of the world gets put on the back burner. Political rhetoric subsides. The focus shifts to 24/7 news coverage of the latest tragedy at hand.

I think about how drastically the media changed immediately after 9/11. For almost a month there seemed to be a self-imposed ban on airing crap TV. There were no cheating scandals on Entertainment Tonight. Nobody cared who the latest castoff was on Survivor. TV wasn’t hemmoraging with heaps of gossip, but rather focused on covering this momentous U.S. tragedy. It would have been seen as shameful and disrespectful to cover anything else. People came together. People told their stories. People shared their misery. In a way, it was comforting.

Small day-to-day tragedies top the evening news every night. News really is an entrée of tragedies with a small side-dish dessert at the end: a man grows a monstrous pumpkin, a child overcomes a disability, somebody raises money for somebody else. You have to wait until the end to get to the good stuff.

But large catastrophes are different. When Katrina hit, I was focused on the news just about every waking moment. I was angered at the lack of response from the government, but overjoyed at the rage they received from stranded victims and onlookers. Even the media began scolding FEMA and the Bush administration for taking too long. CNN’s Anderson Cooper was outraged, and it genuinely showed. The tragedy revealed how flawed the system was, and how corrupt organizations could be. Yet people came together. People were human.

As I write this, a recent West Virginian mine disaster has killed twenty-five miners. Four are still missing. I am rooting for them to be pulled out alive. The nation is gripped by it even though a similar tragedy happened nearby just a few years ago. All the major networks are broadcasting live from the scene. They are getting to the bottom of it. People will be fired, more safety precautions will be taken in the future, and lawsuits will follow. Yet, if only two miners had lost their lives this week, how much coverage would the story receive? Would it get the amount of scrutiny it requires to force about future preventive measures?

I watch and listen to people who have suffered from twisters, fires, floods, and mudslides. Houses have been flattened and whole communities are in wreckage. A plane flies overhead to show the world the destruction. Survivors sift through debris to find that one special picture, a wedding ring, and so on. People gather together at community centers to receive food and clothing.

And then, miraculously, long-lasting friendships are born out of the healing. People who barely gave their neighbors a second look are now helping them put the pieces back together again. Suddenly, the focus has shifted back to people and not material things. A proud mayor stands in front of the TV cameras and proclaims, “We will rebuild.”

There can drawbacks to intense media coverage, though. Well after the donations stop pouring in, the media has a hard time moving on. They begin to overanalyze every nuance of the situation. Polls pop up on the hour telling viewers how they should feel. The media starts to loop around the blood bath it has created like a dog chasing its tail. They don’t know when to stop. It was a ratings coup.

Eventually, things return to normal, and the vapid stories we are used to seep back in. Occasionally, you will get an update on the most recent tragedy while they wait for the next one to unfold.

People will sometimes say that we like to see the misery in others because it makes us feel better about our own lives. I think that’s a load of crap. I feel good about my life, even if it is a little dysfunctional. I think that we just like to see people experience a range of emotions. That’s why we go to the movies. An emotional life connotes a life worth living. Tragedies bring about many emotions, both good and bad. And emotions are what make us human.

Using Amazon's Virtual Voices for Audiobooks

Virtual voices have come a long way with Amazon's new selection of realistic narrators that employ AI technology to interpret tone and inflections. I have previously used ACX with human narrators for two of my other books: The Ghosts of Culpeper Antiques and In Search of Good Times, which cost me a total of $1300 to produce. Amazon's new Audiobooks with Virtual Voice has a big advantage: it's free to use.

So I gave it a try for my first book—a memoir of sorts—Musings of a Dysfunctional Life, and I couldn't be happier. Take a listen to one of the short "musings" below:

Once you have an eBook version of your book and have been selected as a beta user of Virtual Voice, you are able to select from a wide variety of voices, both male and female, and several nationalities. You can even use different voices for different chapters, if you want. 

There are a few kinks, as you might expect:

1. Sometimes it will read a word incorrectly. Here's an example of "leads" oddly interpreted as "leds" when I want it to sound like "leeds." To change the pronunciation, you highlight the word or phrase and type in how you want the narrator to say it.

2. If there isn't enough emphasis in a sentence, you can sometimes force it with an exclamation mark at the end. In the highlighted sentence below, I replaced the period after roof with a ! in the edit box to make the whole sentence have a bit more pizzazz.

Unfortunately, the technology doesn't emphasize italicized words, yet, so you have to play around with that. I have also had luck replacing a period with (...) or a colon (:) to switch up the inflection of the last words within a sentence. It seems to predict how to say something before it gets there. You can also add commas in the edit box if it rushes through a phrase.

3. In the same example above, you can see that I added a pause between the chapter number and the title. You can select a short, medium, or long pause with the editing tools on the right. Just place your cursor where you want to have more of a pause, and you can add one. The default is Short. Though it does pause automatically between paragraphs, sometimes you might want a bit more if the narration seems rushed.

4. You can also change the voice speed of highlighted portions with the editing tools, but 25% faster and 25% slower are a bit too much either way. I hope they add a 10% option as well. For my book, I kept the pace at the default speed.

Once you complete the fine tuning of your audiobook, you can publish it to Amazon and it will also appear on Audible. Check out my entire audiobook for Musings here.

The Incredible Serendipity of my Namesake Grandfather

When I was a young lad in 1972, age 9, my parents divorced and my mom took my sister and me from Middleport, NY, to another small town five miles away called Medina, NY. There was a sweet old lady I'd visit who lived across the street from us. Her name was Mrs. Kreppeneck. She had to be in her late 60s, from what I remember. Often times I would join her on her porch. We would talk and talk, and I'd play on her steps and swing on her porch swing until the sun came down and I had to retreat home some thirty steps away. She lived at 209 Prospect Ave. and we lived at 204, and later, 212 Prospect Ave.

Mrs. (Gertrude) Kreppeneck's old house. Photo taken 2001.

Sometimes she'd let me inside. I can remember the calm and cozy surroundings. There were several round tables covered with patterned table clothes and doilies, and on top of those doilies were pictures of her family members. The place had the distinctive smell of a grandmother's house. I think I remember her telling me that her husband had died, and it made me feel sad, as sad as anyone my age could understand. I wasn't sure if anyone else lived with her. But I do remember feeling slightly weird that she may have felt it odd for someone's kid to hang out with her. Or maybe it was just me feeling that way. Didn't I have a better place to be? I had several neighbor friends, but when we weren't playing or they weren't around, there was always Mrs. Kreppeneck to talk to.

How close she lived from our two homes on Prospect Ave. 209 is the red marker.

Forward now over half a century later, and I discover through a 1937 online newspaper article that my grandfather, Victor C. Rook, with whom I am named after and have never met because he died before I was born, once lived in that very same house back in the 1930s. He was married to his first wife, Virginia Sayers, and my dad and aunt were age 2 and 1, respectively, that year.

All I've known of my namesake was that he died of a heart attack in 1961--two years before I came into this world--at the young age of 52. At that time he lived in the house adjacent to my father's home back in Middleport, NY. He had divorced Virginia (who later became my grandmother, Virginia Snow) and married a woman by the name of Josephine in 1946.

But apparently, there was a great deal more to Victor C. Rook, which I am now discovering. He was an avid hunter, businessman, and community leader. He co-owned a men's clothing store called Montgomery & Rook Clothiers in the 1930s in Medina. He was a man-about-town, so they say: Vice President and then President of the Medina Junior Chamber of Commerce, Member of the Orleans Rod and Gun Club, Medina Conservation Club, Medina Masonic Order, Advertising Committee, Dance Committee, and apparently, a show-dog exhibitor. Upon further newspaper searches, I learned that he was also part of a convoy of vehicles that delivered two tons of relief supplies to Wilkes-Barre, PA, during the 1936 floods.

I'm not certain if my grandfather lived in other locations in Medina, or if my father may have been too young to remember that he once lived in Mrs. Kreppeneck's house for part of his childhood. When he picked me up for weekend parental visits, he never mentioned anything of the sort. I have since learned that Mrs. Kreppeneck passed away at age 77 on July 13, 1985.

The most incredible part of this story is that I was drawn to visit Mrs. Kreppeneck, and in doing so, I spent time inside the former home of my grandfather. Perhaps it was my grandfather finding a way to protect and console his lonely grandchild, one he was never able to hold and meet in real life. I was once told by a psychic that there was a man watching over me, and so I've always thought it must be him (since we share the same name).

Here are some article snippets from The Medina Tribune with mentions and pictures of my grandfather. Special thanks to Lee-Whedon Memorial Library in Medina, NY, for providing me with image scans.

Apparently he ended up winning that year with his Irish setter, Allegany Red.

Business profiles, 1937.

Sales ad for Montgomery & Rook and Gould's.

New window display with hunting gear.

Wilkes-Barre, PA, relief effort in 1936.

Victor heads Jaycees, 1938.

Mrs. Kreppeneck's obituary, 1985.

With Love: My Many Passages Through Canada

As I write this, Canada, Mexico, and China are being threatened with tariffs--for no real good reason--by the Trump administration. Canada and Mexico, in particular, are targeted for border crossings that may bring fentanyl into the U.S. But according to statistics, only about .2% of fentanyl seizures are through Canada. This is certainly not enough to disrupt a century-old trade agreement and alienate our closest ally. Also, why blame another country for the people within the U.S. who use this drug? That's where the focus should be.

But let's take politics out of this.

From 1981 to 1985, I drove through Canada many times on my way back and forth between Western New York and East Lansing, Michigan, where I studied Mechanical Engineering at Michigan State University. The drive was approximately 360 miles one way, and I made that trip 26 times over those years. When added up, nearly 7,000 of those miles were within the Ontario Province.

Having grown up just 35 miles from Niagara Falls, I was already familiar with the southeastern portion of Ontario. My family traveled to the falls several times (the Canadian side is better), as well as an amusement park along Lake Erie called Crystal Beach Park. Crystal Beach was in operation from 1888 to 1989. That's a very long time. There were reports that in 1974, a few carts from the Comet wooden rollercoaster broke free and dumped several riders into the lake. Still, it was one of my favorite parks to travel to.

What has always been most noticeable to me about Ontario is how well they maintain their roads and highway systems. The main roads are smooth and lack the many potholes that wreak havoc on cars in the northern states. You can visibly see and feel the difference the moment you cross through the border gates.

I was also impressed with the kindness of the Canadian people that you so often hear about. The only two times I was pulled over at the border was coming back into the United States by U.S. crossing guards. One was so rude that he made me completely unload and reload my car, which was full of everything one would expect to furnish a dorm room: carpet, clothes, bedding, stereo system, etc. You'd think a U.S. citizen with U.S. plates would be more welcomed.

What I also remember on those very long stretches of highway was listening to cassette tapes and enjoying the scenery. My mind is a little foggy about what part I was in, but I remember listening to Whitney Houston along a curvy corridor. And I'd always stop at the McDonald's on the Canadian side just before crossing over the Ambassador Bridge into Detroit. Sometimes I'd alter the trip and cross at the more northern Port Huron entrance.

I always think of Canada as the Petri dish for good ideas. From roads to affordable healthcare, they manage to come together and find promising solutions to the most essential human needs. We should be looking to them for inspiration, but, as always, the United States is where good ideas come to die. There's always large swaths of the electorate opposed to common sense approaches. If you see it working elsewhere, then maybe that should tell you something. I won't accept the occasional long waits at hospitals in Canada as a truthful excuse for not changing our ways, as in any system there can be wait times for elective procedures. And anyone from Canada will tell you they'd much rather have their taxes go to these basic needs. Most prosperous nations wonder why we have not caught on yet.

After college and in the early '90s, a friend and I made a trip through Canada around Lake Ontario. I remember staying one night at a quaint location with lots of pine trees before reentering the states near Lake Placid, New York. I also made a day trip with some college friends to Middle Island, the southern most land point of Canada. Surprisingly, I've never spent time in Toronto. It's on my list of places to return to. Canada is a vast country with much to explore.

Lastly, on one of my college trips around 1983-84, my 1977 Subaru died on a desolate part of the highway near London, Ontario. The radiator blew. I walked to a Victorian Inn that seemed to appear out of nowhere like a mirage. I told them what had happened and they kindly let me use a phone to call my father. I think they even offered me a place to stay, knowing of my unfortunate predicament. What does a broke college student do stranded in another country with a dead car? 

Instead, I walked back to my car and slept in it until my father arrived to tow me some 150 miles back home. He scared the shit out of me when he knocked on my window. The day after, I took this picture of what I wanted to do to that rust bucket.

I sincerely hope that, once Trump and his minions are removed from office, the United States and Canada will return to a more respectful relationship that honors Canadian sovereignty and the dignity of its people. That is when true healing can begin.