A Little Help From My Friends

A weathered saying declares that travel makes you a better writer. If that were true, I’d have won two Pulitzers and made plans for Oslo. Nevertheless, there is maybe a kernel of truth to it. Sayings erode with time, acquiring any bedrock veracity not only through sunshine, but snow, rain, and something you can hear: the wind. On the road, it is not just what you see, touch and smell that builds a writing base, but also what you hear.

The vernacular of a region, a class of people, or a time can provide help. The written word also assists. From Walden, I borrowed Thoreau’s metaphor, “stuck like burrs to corduroy.” From The Life and Times of Sir Richard Burton I borrowed, “they guarded their opinions like heirlooms.” Both phrases appear in my novel, Killing Frank McGee. In a book of rural sayings I found, “jumpin’ like a one-legged man at an ass-kicking,” and look forward to using the expression soon. Working on the road, accompanied by fellow road warriors from all corners of the country, I find that interesting sayings abound.

I sat on a curb with Harvey Shankman one evening in the town of Kendallville, Indiana watching a quintessential, small-town July 4th celebration. Harvey is Brooklyn born, endowed with that borough’s infamous sarcasm and caustic wit, a charm not universally appreciated.

He is known for incidents like this: at a plant in Buffalo, the owner approached as he troubleshot a machine and inquired why the job was not yet finished. Harvey replied, “Well, you obviously know more about this machine than I do. I’m going back to my hotel room. Give me a call when you’ve got it fixed.” And he walked out. In Kendallville we sat on the curb sharing stories, and Harvey casually mentioned that he had once “threw up everything but the bones in my left leg.” The line appears in McGee.

Worked with Paul Frigo in Jefferson City, Missouri. Paul is a solid Wisconsinite, sober and intelligent, earnest and hardworking. He is interesting and interested, and lest his mild manner mislead, ask him what he did when a tenant once threatened his wife in his absence. During our conversation he said, “I grew up without a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of.” The initial line, of course, is ubiquitous, but I’d never heard the second part, “or a window to throw it out of.” These lies appear in McGee.

This week in Columbus, Ohio, I’m with Jeff Hunter, of the Tennessee Hunter clan. Jeff is an individual blessed with a talent for motors and drives machinery of all sorts. He is very good at what he does, and a large part of his personality is his knowledge of this. His pronounced Southern drawl contrasts with my sharp New England accent – he is Jeffrey Hunter to me, and Jaiffray Hunner to himself – and we introduce ourselves to the Holiday Inn bartender as Mason and Dixon.

“I been readin’ your travelogues, Don, we gotta do something to create a new one,” Jeff said. “We gotta go out and have us some experiences you can write about in one of them travelogues.” I relate what Shankman and Frigo have provided, and Jeff leans in.

“Raised more hell than a jack in a tin stall,” he drawls, and as I jot it down on a napkin adds, “I bet you never heard that wonnn. Do you know what it means?”

“No.”

“Everyone from where I’m from knows what that means. A jack is a donkey. And everyone from where I’m from knows they cuss and fight and beat up their stalls, so to raise hell like a jack in a tin stall is to make some racket.”

When told I’m editing a time-period novel which could use quaint, rural sayings such as that, Jeff warmed to the task.

“You hear this wonnn? ‘Raised more hell than a goat shittin’ peach seeds’? You ever seen a peach seed, long with a pointy aind?”

In York, Pennsylvania I worked with Dwayne Hanson. We had a somewhat raucous firsts encounter (we probably didn’t need those last four rounds) in the Holiday Inn bar with notorious and erstwhile salesmen Dennis Chojnacki and Mike Hayes. Dwayne was visiting the plant as a sort of corporate strong-arm, investigating the causes of that location’s poor production record. The next day I heard that management was jumping like a one-legged man at an ass-kicking under his critical glare. When I broke for lunch and went outside, I found Dwayne on the steps, smoking a cigarette.

“Hey,” I said, “Word is you’ve got everyone pretty nervous in there.” Dwayne casually exhaled, gave a wry, confident smile and shrugged.

“There’s no reason to be nervous if you’re doing your job,” he said. As I continued toward my car, I replied, “Unless you’re walking point.”

Later, I smiled considering my from-the-blue, Vietnam referenced reply. I actually said that myself. I’ll use it in a travelogue someday. Strange where a writer can get his material, isn’t it?