Alice and Charles Lundgren were awesome.

March 9, 2024

Not much to report.  I marched downtown to First Congregational to attend Alice Lundgren’s funeral.  She and her husband, Charles, were often friendly to me.  Once, I saw Charles at the airport and he drew near with a broad smile, a handshake and howdy. He was wearing a back brace over his clothing. He was an old man. He died a few years back.

His wife Alice periodically thrust a $100 check into my hand at church.  She represented Mayflower Circle, a women’s church group.  They liked donating to Family Promise, a program to help unhoused families get on their feet. Alice was always as friendly as a puppy and I will miss her. That’s why I walked to her memorial service today. Also, P. had the car for an appointment for a pedicure.

My walk took me east on Burlington, past the YMCA, where many darted in and out.  Probably basketball tournament time, I thought.  Children shrieked in the cage-like playground. One child huddled atop of what looked like a giant tortoise.  I guessed some parents work Saturdays, so.  As I hurried east on fourth avenue across the streets I hoped a left-turning car wouldn’t cut my life short. Er … cut my long life shorter.  None did.  I crossed fourth avenue and continued to the church, oddly dark, considering a funeral was scheduled in a few minutes. At 11 a.m.

Nobody nearby.  I used my fob to unlock the church door.  Dark inside.  I walked to the far end of the narthex and sat on the sofa where I once saw a fellow named Little Crow sit.  With my phone I googled Alice Lundgren.  Learned her service is May 11.  Walked home, glad for the exercise. Almost two miles.

I won’t go on long about my disappointment that our Billings Public Library declined my recently published memoir, “How I Improved the United States Marine Corps. Stork’s Story.”

The librarian examined it and found that it meandered too much. I reacted several ways: A. I’m proud she read my book. (I’m used to paying someone $25/hour to read it.) and B. I’m sorry it meanders too much. It’s going to take me awhile to adjust to honest criticism. and C. I’m proud it was deemed worthy of her heartfelt criticism. I say, let the chips fall where they may. Books can be like our lovely children; beautiful to some, hideous to others. My tears still fall, said the Chambers Brothers, in their famous album, “Time Has Come Today.”

In general. I throughly believe the players on the streets of New York, the buskers who dance, juggle, sing, strum or somersault, hone their skills on the rough and tumble of casual audiences who are apt to shout “boooo” or “huzzah,” with equal ease. That’s how they become superb craftspersons. I will be proud to dig into my wallet for a $20 for them. In fact I was.

I feel the same is true of modern writers. Find a venue, I say, such as a blog or a Facebook post, to develop your craft, your art.

A friend paints his truth on canvas, sometimes on velvet. He hones his skills on the easel and coffee house wall. Or the local communal bookstore. We have such a store, and I’m proud of it. Called “This House of Books,” it employs a woman named Julie, who is encouraging to writers and painters. Make no mistake. Writers and painters can probably work without it, but they benefit from encouragement. What goes around comes around. That’s an old Cheyenne saying. At least, that’s where I heard it. Lame Deer. Montana.

But I digress.