While preparing the book for re-publication, I interviewed attorney Haben Girma, for a profile in the magazine, Diversity and the Bar.  For eight years, I wrote the magazine’s column, “Profiles in Perseverance,” which highlighted the achievements of attorneys with “disabilities.” Girma, the first and only deaf and blind graduate of Harvard Law School, explained that there are a variety of ways to acquire knowledge.  Her method was through touch because she couldn’t see or hear.

This made me realize that because Hi-doh is so much about music and how it can bring meaning to our life, that if I let the reader hear the music, the message would be amplified and add a huge dimension.  So was born the audio book.

Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that Bruce Moran saw my YouTube video and offered to publish the book just before I met Mary and Lisa.

At the same time, I have wondered if this revival was more of a self-centered project, that perhaps it isn’t all that I thought or think it to be. As a consequence, I have tried to improve on the book, adding some short passages and doing a bit of editing here and there, minor enough though that few will likely notice because the characters and plot remain unchanged. I have realized that its message speaks to many of the issues plaguing our troubled world even more today than 20 years ago. It’s probably why Mary and Lisa liked it, because as Bernie buds, we always said we were of “one heart,” in understanding the changes needed to make our world a better place.

Mary was all-in with helping with the audio book.  Lisa soon followed; I had asked her to narrate the section when the main character has a gender change, and she agreed.  Not only did Mary accept the role of several colorful characters but helped recruit other readers.  In all there are 24 readers, many who voiced more than one character, and four of whom did musical performances.  Seven of the readers were youngsters under 12, and there was a performance by the singing group Sirenz from Oxford, Ohio.  I also had discussions with the Ebony Hillbillies of NYC to do a number but it fell through.  Nevertheless, my discussions with their leader, Walker, were very positive and encouraging.

I was a complete beginner when it came to audio and didn’t know what to expect. I had no studio, an unsuitable mic, and no technical knowledge of acoustics in the early stages. I tried to hire some individuals with experience. The high school kid did not seem up to the task and the professional was far too expensive. In the end it was best that I did it myself because of the complexity of incorporating music and sound effects. Even an experienced professional would’ve required many hours of time, notwithstanding the creativity that went into the process. I had the vision and I had to create it.

I watched so many Adobe Audition tutorials, many very good, but I remember best of all, Beatle Jase, a musician turned audio engineer because of his colorful and quirky personality.

I kind of was flailing in the dark at first and made a lot of mistakes. One of the biggest was using an old studio mic that a friend gave me, causing all kinds of noise and feedback.  To make matters worse, the room used for the early recordings caused extreme reverb.  Lisa spent several days recording her narration using that mic and in that room.  Instead of asking her to do it again, which I felt was too much of an imposition, I was determined to find a fix.

I searched everywhere on the Internet and tried my own tricks, including installing DeVerb software, which actually works quite well.  But I don’t think anyone could’ve fixed her recordings.  Fortunately, Mary persuaded her to redo them.

It took a while for me to get the hang of engineering the audio.  At first I was over editing and corrupting the sound quality.  Fortunately, I saved all the original recordings, and eventually fixed or at least improved recordings that had seemed beyond repair.

In the end, with two mic upgrades, use of the DeVerb, and my improved audio skills, I think the sound is good enough for people to enjoy the story and the music.

But it wasn’t just the audio that was the challenge; it was how to present the music.  I had some experience doing this with PowerPoint and Moviemaker, so that was a help.  But there was so much more I to learn and I discovered what I needed in the world of midi music.

I already owned a CD with hundreds of royalty-free midis of traditional, popular, and classical music, and was surprised to find an endless number of midi files online that have been prepared by computer music enthusiasts over the years, all public domain. On top of that there is music software that allows for rearranging the music, adding instruments, parts, changing keys, and tempos–I used Anvil Studio.

While I had been a music reviewer, my actual technical knowledge of music is limited to singing in the grade school choir and a year or so of piano lessons.  I bought a used Yamaha synthesizer and had a lot of fun playing with the different voices and sounds that I sometimes used to effect.  A couple musicians in the UK also donated music: John Hooper, a self-described “rubbish tenor,” who created the midi orchestrations for the Verdi Requiem in the final chapter, and Ryan Paneq, a young New Age musician who created the main theme at the close of the book.

While there is a great deal of music in the story, I added more, a veritable greatest hits of my favorite classical pieces, the result of 50 years of listening. Classical composers you will hear include Beethoven, Bach, Chopin, Liszt, Rossini, Tchaikovsky, Dvorak, Rimsky-Korsakov, Mussorgsky, Grieg, Mahler, Elgar, Debussy, Delius, Stravinsky, Rachmaninoff, Ravel, Gershwin, Butterworth. E.J. Moeren, Albeniz, and Verdi; traditional and popular composers  include Stephen Foster, John Phillip Sousa, Julius Fucik, Sons of the Pioneers, the Negro Spiritual “Beautiful City,” Jerome Kern, and the Victor Young theme for the movie, Shane; modern music includes the groups, Booker T & the MGs, Credence Clearwater Revival, and the Eisley Brothers.  I even did a little composing.

For music lovers, I think it will be fun to see if you can “name that tune.”

Another aspect of the audio production was sound effects.  I owned a CD of sound effects much like the midi disc, but found a much larger supply online.  The best site was freesound.org.  The process of matching sound effects with the setting turned out to be fun, whether it be nature sounds, battle scenes, circus background, or simply the sound of slamming doors or car motors.  The trick was getting the right balance, so that it was loud enough to hear but not so loud as to prevent hearing the dialogue.

Perhaps the best part of the audio book is the readers who voiced the characters.  They far exceeded expectations, as you probably noticed if you have read the earlier blogs.  Everyone did a great job.  All of them are credited in both the print and audio book.  You can be the judge as whose characterizations you like the best and maybe down the road if a large enough number of listeners develops, I can post a poll.  A special mention should be given to the seven readers under the age of 12; their participation was a big bonus. In the beginning I had tried to do some of the kids’ voices myself but when I found readers of the right age, they were so much better and gave a personal touch to their characters.  This is not to discount the efforts of the adult readers.  It was all the readers, who not only brought the story to life but added much to my creation.

The audio book is the realization of something that I had envisioned when I started writing the book years ago.  I used to hear the music in the story and wanted the reader to hear it too.  But the technology wasn’t available for me then, at least not for me to do with very little budget or audio hardware.  This has changed with the advances made by the personal computer.  I hope you will enjoy it.  Now, about all I could wish for, would be to have Hidoh made into a movie.  Who knows?  Maybe someday.  Life is full of surprises.

To listen to some clips from the audio book, go to my website: tomcalarco.com/blog

 

Some days later I visited the library director.  He said that if I could get some reviews of the book, that the library would gladly take the book and circulate it.

I made the rounds to the local publications, dropping off the book. One was operated by a long-time semi-retired arts reviewer, whose reviews I had read for many years in the hometown paper’s arts section. He called me to arrange an interview.  It turned out great.  His publication, a glossy monthly, with limited distribution, featured a picture of me and the book (scroll down the web page to see it).  “A book for the child in the adult,” he called it.

I was off and running and five or six more reviews followed, including a headlined review in the hometown daily’s Sunday arts section.  And one from a daily newspaper in Vermont for whom I had done some music reviews.  One of the staff writers, whom I never met, reviewed it.  His words gave me hope: “Whether you’re a kid or a kid at heart, give this book a try.  It has the personality to which it will attract a wide spectrum of admirers.”

I marched into the library director’s office, triumphantly, or so I thought. As I put the reviews on the director’s desk, who do you think had followed me?  The children’s librarian.  She screamed at me.  I don’t remember exactly what she said, but it doesn’t matter now. The director was speechless as she stormed out.

Finally, the director said he would take the book, two of them, and put them in the local collection, but they would not be circulated.  He refused to go “over the head” of the children’s librarian. And so, to this day, despite having had eight books about the Underground Railroad published, and some of those being circulated at that library, it still refuses to circulate Hi-doh, despite that both the director and children’s librarian have long since retired.

A similar thing happened at the local bookstore, which incidentally was and still is the only bookstore left in my home’s downtown. Little did I realize at the time I dropped off the book, that the owner was the former children’s librarian at the public library and friends with the children’s librarian. When I went to the bookstore, I talked to the woman in charge of the children’s books section. Like the local library, local bookstores like to promote local authors, so I felt confident they would carry it. I left the book there for a few weeks and when I returned, the same thing happened. They would not give a reason why the book was rejected, only that they would not be able to carry it.  I was beyond belief. I had gotten Barnes & Noble and another larger, established bookstore in neighboring Albany to carry it.

Sounds like I’m making this up, doesn’t it? But this was another example of coincidence factoring in my life. And to this day, though that bookstore has sold some of my Underground Railroad books, it refuses to carry the original issue of Hi-doh. I have in fact tried.

Regarding the distributor, New Leaf, they did sell some copies, but certainly less than 50.  What happened to the other 150 or so is still mystery.  About a year or so later, New Leaf told me that somehow they couldn’t find my books. In later years, I found the book being sold online by individual booksellers in foreign countries for outrageous prices – of course, I have never seen a cent of those sales – note that one of these sellers in the link is in Japan.  Yes, truth can be stranger than fiction.

As I was enduring the failure of Hi-doh Hi-dee Ha-Ha, I had become interested in the Underground Railroad. The story of how that happened and led to the publication of what will be my eighth book about the UGRR in October by History Press, is told in my book, The Search for the Underground Railroad in Upstate NY, also published by History Press in 2014.

Probably the most encouraging sign that I received for Hi-doh was during a visit to a fourth-grade class in Albany, at a school which I think has since closed. I had given it to a friend whose son brought it to school and the teacher ended up reading the entire 26-chapter, 190-page book to the class. She read a chapter each day. What a wondrous welcome.  I was taken by surprise. Not only did they seem to know the book inside and out, but they wrote me individual letters about what they enjoyed most and signed a banner of a hot dog that the teacher created – you’ll have to read the book to understand the significance of that.

I never gave up on Hi-doh.  After a couple of years, I submitted it to an established Australian publisher, Allen and Unwin, whose editor wrote me a personal letter saying she enjoyed the book but said that they ordinarily didn’t publish foreign books and were unwilling to take the chance on it.

Fifteen years passed.

I had moved to Florida.  I saw an ad from an ebook publisher. I sent her some chapters and she agreed to publish it.  She obtained a nice review of the book from an author of one of the books that she had published.  But there were no sales.  The main thing that came of it was that when I reviewed the book after so many years, I was surprised by its quality.

When I moved to Ohio four years ago where I currently live, I learned that the original printer of the book, Bookmasters in Ashland (now owned by Baker & Taylor) had expanded and become a distributor.  So, I transported all the books I had left, more than a thousand (Nordel had since turned them over to me) to their warehouse, about 150 miles away.  In addition to monthly storage fees, there were other fees, including payment for their ebook conversion which they did despite that I had sent them a copy of the former ebook publisher’s conversion.

What a mistake.  I had to do all the promotion, and on top of that, I never could coordinate with their sales team. They had the book more than a year and sold a total of six copies, and later I learned that they had the book for several months before they even tried to sell it.  While they did issue some refunds, I lost well over $1,000. Then I had to go to their warehouse, about 150 miles away, to retrieve the books.

Maybe it just wasn’t the right time.  It is said there are times when the stars align and everything happens the way it’s meant to be.  I have tended not to believe in fate, but events in my life seem to indicate otherwise.  In the summer of 2015, I became interested in Bernie Sanders’ campaign for President.  He embodied my core political beliefs, and the more I learned about him, the more enthusiastic I became.  I connected with his supporters on Facebook and began attending campaign meetings with locals and Bernie’s campaign staff.  Before long, I was hosting events.

One thing led to another, and though Bernie had dropped out and endorsed Hillary, a Bernie supporter I had met had rented a flat in Philly during the DNC convention.  Political events and demonstrations had been scheduled throughout the week, including a march in support of Bernie.  In all, five of us shared the flat and became friends.  Coincidentally, about that time, Bruce Moran, the publisher for Total Recall Press, saw the YouTube video that I had prepared as a vehicle for promotion for use by the distributor which they never used and probably never watched.  But it did intrigue Bruce.

The confluence of those events was indeed a fateful one, for two of those Bernie buds who I was with in Philadelphia were to influence my effort to revive Hi-doh. Failure is hard to overcome and continuous failure requires tremendous persistence. Something would not let me quit on this book but I needed a boost of confidence and my Bernie friends, Mary and Lisa, who coincidentally were accomplished artists, gave me it to me.

I had some discussion with Bruce and we both agreed the book needed a new cover. This was to be a new publication and he wanted to put his stamp of it.  He said he could find an illustrator, but if I knew someone he’d be happy to consider their submission. Mary, who quickly read the book, said she wanted to do it. She created a fantastic cover, far beyond my expectations.  Bruce loved it too, and Mary became excited about the publication of the book, having her work on the cover.

Lisa and I had a lot in common.  Coincidentally, we had lived in two places that are settings in the book and shared other passions like the music of Chopin, and an interest in Eastern and New Age ideas.  As time passed, the three of us formed a bond.  Though Lisa was enduring some personal challenges, she found solace in our triangular friendship, and Mary persuaded her to read the original version of the book that I had given them.

It also was during this time that I stumbled upon the idea for the audio book, the real fruition of my revival of Hi-doh.

To listen to some clips from the audio book, go to my website: tomcalarco.com/blog

 

Hi-doh Hi-dee Ha-Ha . . . what? What is that supposed to mean?  What kind of title is that for a book?  How will anyone remember that?  Well, it is afterall, a fantasy.

And yes, I stole it from Cab Calloway, but put a wackier spin on it.

That’s the point.  How else do you make sense of our fleeting existence?  It’s like a cruel joke, to end it all so soon, and on top of that, aging.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.  Hi-doh Hi-dee Ha-Ha is meant to be fun, full of child-like joy, despite the serious undertones.

A friend asked where it came from; all I could say, from somewhere inside.  Not a splash of inspiration like On the Road or A Christmas Carol, but the “fits and starts” of Huck Finn.  It had no predetermined conclusion, as I was searching for it, as I wrote it, just like Charles in the book, and I’m still searching.

It’s filled with references to persons and memories in my life. Last year as I was preparing its revivaI and the audio version that has taken more than a year to complete, I realized that it’s more real for me now, two decades later, and I think for others.

My first love as a writer was fantasy.  I started out writing dark allegories reminiscent of Franz Kafka that evolved into satires of my experiences and people I had met in my life.  I reached out to the writing community and joined a number of writing groups from which I not only learned about writing but which reinforced my desire to be a writer.

For the longest time I considered myself an aspiring writer, even as I got older, I still was an aspiring writer. And even now, I’m still aspiring. It wasn’t until my mid-thirties that I decided to enter a graduate writing program at Iowa State University.  I enjoyed my time at ISU, also taking grad courses in journalism and working on the staff of the Iowa State Daily, where I became acquainted with Giles Fowler, the Daily’s faculty advisor, attending the after hour’s parties at his home, which were a learning experience in itself.  I was busy every minute, working for the Daily, teaching freshman composition or working at the English Department Writing Center as a TA, as well as keeping up with my fiction and poetry writing workshops.

Minimalism was the favored style at the time, a la Raymond Carver.  My penchant for fantasy was given only mild encouragement.  Nevertheless, I learned the fundamentals and was able to have fun in the poetry workshops of Neal Bowers and the fiction workshops of Mike Martone.  I received the most encouragement from Victorian Literature professor, Phil Davies. However, I left ISU with more preparation for the world of journalism than the world of fiction.

So, I became a news reporter and English teacher.  When the latter seemed to sap all my energy for writing, I left full-time teaching and tried to make it as a writer.  I wrote for monthlies, weeklies, tabloids, short-lived pubs, dailies, business journals, whatever, I wrote for it for insupportable pay.

While at Iowa State, I came up with an idea to write a fantasy novel and did an independent study on classic fantasy with Phil Davies.  I wanted to do it for my thesis.  But my advisor, Jane Smiley didn’t think I was ready for it and said that I always could do it after graduation. I wasn’t happy but it was good advice.  Eventually, a decade after graduation from ISU, Hi-doh Hi-dee Ha-Ha was self-published.

For a decade while writing various parts of Hi-doh Hi-dee Ha-Ha, I submitted fiction to publications without success.  Actually, I had been trying to break into fiction publications for ten years before I went to graduate school with little success, writing a bunch of short stories and three unpublished novels.  I remember during that time, a short-lived fiction magazine accepted two of my stories, but by the time they were supposed to be published, the magazine had folded.

Self-publication is not easy, and I had submitted to three major New York publishers. One of them, Philomel Books, then an imprint of Putnam, gave me encouraging comments, writing at first that they were considering it rather than sending the form rejection letter.  I called and an editorial assistant said it was going to be considered by the publication committee. But of course, it was finally rejected.

Officially, the book was not self-published but under the imprint of Nordel Publishing, at the time a publisher of annual police department magazines.  I worked for them, writing feature articles for the magazines.  It was a good job because I highlighted the good things police do.  Sad, that another side to the police has grown increasingly in recent years.

The owner, Norby Fleisig, who learned of my efforts with Hi-doh, offered to publish it and put up the money for its printing. I also received donations from my father and friends. I put an ad in the local newspapers for an illustrator and received several responses. I met with them and decided to hire Erik McKenney. I gave him illustrations from fantasy books that I liked and after a few tries, he created a drawing whose style I thought fit. In all, he created 58 pen and ink drawings; my girlfriend at the time, Peggy Steinbach, an art teacher, did the cover illustration.

In the meantime, I read some books on self-publishing, taking copious notes and lined up a visit to the American Booksellers Association’s annual convention in Chicago.  The completion of 2000+ printed copies was to coincide with its dates, so Erik and I could pick up the books at the Ohio printer on the way to Chicago. It was a star-struck affair.  I met both Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Dr. Ruth. What a convoluted coincidence.  A lot of my life has been like that.

For a decade while writing various parts of Hi-doh Hi-dee Ha-Ha, I submitted fiction to publications without success.  Actually, I had been trying to break into fiction publications for ten years before I went to graduate school with little success, writing a bunch of short stories and three unpublished novels.  I remember during that time, a short-lived fiction magazine accepted two of my stories, but by the time they were supposed to be published, the magazine had folded.

Self-publication is not easy, and it was not something I wanted to do. I had submitted to three major New York publishers. One of them, Philomel Books, then an imprint of Putnam, gave me encouraging comments, writing at first that they were considering it rather than sending the form rejection letter.  I called and an editorial assistant said it was going to be considered by the publication committee. But of course, it was finally rejected.

I had circulated a copy of the manuscript to others, including Kayo Wayner, an accountant I met at the YMCA, who had been a close friend of my high school basketball coach.  He liked the book and suggested I raise some money and self-publish it.  At the time, one of my jobs was as a feature writer for Nordel Publishing, a publisher of annual police department magazines.  It was a good job because I highlighted the good things police do.  I told the owner, Norby Fleisig, of my efforts with Hi-doh and he offered to publish it if I would help with the editing of his late father’s 800-page philosophical treatise.  In the end, we finally decided his father’s manuscript was not worth publishing because no one would want to read something that read like Immanuel Kant.

In addition to Norby’s contribution, I also received donations from Kayo, my father, and other friends. I put an ad in the local newspapers for an illustrator and received several responses. I met with them and decided to hire Erik McKenney. I gave him illustrations from fantasy books that I liked and after a few tries, he created a drawing whose style I thought fit. In all, he created 58 pen and ink drawings; my girlfriend at the time, Peggy Steinbach, an art teacher, did the cover illustration.

In the meantime, I read some books on self-publishing, taking copious notes and lined up a visit to the American Booksellers Association’s annual convention in Chicago.  The completion of 2000+ printed copies was to coincide with its dates, so Erik and I could pick up the books at the Ohio printer on the way to Chicago. It was a star-struck affair.  I met both Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Dr. Ruth. What a convoluted coincidence.  A lot of my life has been like that.

I managed to obtain a distributor, New Leaf, which specializes in New Age titles, and they gave me an order for 200 books.  Erik, however, was unable to obtain a contract with a publisher for work as an illustrator. We headed home buoyed by the mild success.

The publishing industry is a network of connections. The big boys or girls in NYC are for the most part in control.  They get the reviews in the publications, which they in part subsidize with their hefty ads.  And in those days, 22 years ago, before the mushrooming of the Internet, self-publishing was even more difficult.

That doesn’t mean you can’t dream, nor that there are no exceptions to the rule.  But real success for a self-published book is mostly a stroke of luck.  Life is not fair though it seems fate sometimes intervenes.  Who knows why?  That is what makes life so interesting, and at times tragic. The fact is those who self-publish or publish with unknowns like Nordel will be suspect from the start.  People will think it’s an amateur production.  This happened to me at my local library.

I brought the book to reference and they said they would pass it on the children’s librarian.  It was here that I first experienced what has been a common occurrence regarding the book.  Because of its wacky title, childish or child-like depending on your perspective, it was considered a book for young children, Middle School being the highest level.  For example, I had left a copy with a supposed children’s book expert.  I forget his name but he operated a long-running bookshop in Albany, NY.  He took offense at the use of the word, fart, on the first page and stopped reading, commenting on its inappropriateness.

As I said, I had written for numerous publications by that time but never for my hometown newspaper, except for my first actual publication in 1973, a letter to the editor about my high school basketball coach, Walt Przybylo, who had died suddenly of a heart attack and which was turned into a headlined article.  It was that article that Kayo had recalled so many years later and led to our friendship.  Despite ten years of regular publications, including three articles in national publications, I nevertheless had almost no recognition in my hometown.

When I approached the reference desk at the library, I saw the look of rejection on her face. No, she said they could not accept the book. She never said why, only that I should write more books. I couldn’t believe it. Local libraries always supported local authors and accepted their books gratefully.  When I asked her how much she had read, she only said, enough. Probably just the first page with the name, Mustfart, on it.

To listen to some clips from the audio book, go to my website: tomcalarco.com/blog

 

These word hadn’t surfaced from the depths of my memory for decades so why should they slip into my thoughts now? It had been forty-five years since those spoken words had haunted my mind.

My wandering thoughts hesitated. I got up and grabbed the remote for the Bose stereo, slipped in an “Electric Ladyland” CD and drifted back in time, letting Jimi take me there. He brought me to tears, as he always could. Time didn’t seem to matter. Today, tomorrow, yesterday. How long had it been since I had seen him in a dream or felt the power of his love?

“I’ll always touch you.” How could he have known? Like a puppet at the end of a string. “I’ll do anything for you darling, jump through hoops, travel the world.”

“Please lay flowers on my grave, my sweet lady of life.”

I sat there, tears streaming down my face and once again wondered. How could someone I’d never met before have such a hold on me? No one could understand in the silence of the night, miracles that could not be forgotten.

I was bedlam in the Kellar household. Brady and Dave, a couple of hormone driven teenagers chomping at the bit, wild and restless, playing rowdy ball games on the front lawn with my equally crazy sister Kate. In the kitchen, drinking homemade chokecherry wine and reminiscing about post World War 2, mother, father and the boy’s parents, Harry and Ruby.

Giggles, laughter and a cloud of cigarette smoke drifting down the hallway, everyone was on board for the ride except me. I’d just had an argument with my boyfriend Chris, and was mending a broken heart.

The falling leaves outside seemed to mingle with the damp earth of autumn acrid smell of woodsmoke from the chimney. Time was slipping away towards winter. The waves of Mud Lake slapped the shore in the close distance and our rambling country house at the end of a deserted dirt road seemed strategically vulnerable in it’s isolation. Visitors would cheer us up and help us forget the impending natural changes, this silent preparation for the hibernation of winter, but they couldn’t prevent the loss of a relationship that I knew, was on the verge of collapse.

After two years of struggling with my conscience, I’d surrendered to the fact that my boyfriend belonged with his wife and child and I was an unholy interference that never should have been. I escaped to the sunporch on the isolated south side of the house and curled up on the couch with my silver tabby to watch a bit of TV, alone with my thoughts.

I heard the boys thumping in through the front entrance, loud and full of boisterous spirits and seventeen year old hyperactivity, my thirteen year old sister Kate lagging not far behind in worshipful adoration.

The thought crossed my mind. What if, what if we all got together and had a seance? I was Minnie, AKA the white witch, fascinated with all things dead and invisible. I just might be able to persuade the others to go along with it – a gag, a piece of evening entertainment. I put forth the idea. Kate was enthusiastic, the boys less so, being more the jock type than paranormal seekers, but hey, anything for a lark – why not! I turned on the old cassette tape player that was plugged in and ready. My constant companion. I carried it everywhere, recording radio songs, my own piano playing, lyrics and melodies that came to me as I sat at my grandmother’s old upright piano singing “Pennies From Heaven”, my own thoughts, everything.

We gathered in a circle, sitting down on the linoleum floor on pillows, sandwiched in-between the sandstone brick wall and the picture windows lining the length of the sunporch, overlooking the back lawn. I adjusted the bamboo blinds for darkness. Still a bit of dusty sunlight filtered through the wooden slats, but it was quiet here. Beyond, a view of trees and manicured lawn sloping down to horse pasture. I heard strains of “Witchy Woman” drifting from the radio in the dining room where the party was still going on. I lit a candle and a stick of incense, which I positioned in the middle of the circle on the floor. We all joined hands.

Tousled blonde-haired Dave, who always looked like he was half asleep, took position at the head of the circle. Brady, who might have been more comfortable in a change room slipping on hockey gear right about now, retreated to the side, looking vaguely ill at ease.

“I’ll be the medium,” Dave volunteered.

“Sure, you’re a Cancer,” I muttered, “they’re always mediumistic. But let me be the guide. I’m a Scorpio and we dig the world of the dead. Who should we call?”

“How about Jimi Hendrix, the rock star,” Kate suggested, “he’s only been dead two years.”

“ONLY,” I parroted back. I wasn’t keen on the idea. I’d never been a fan and didn’t have any of his records.

“Yeah, he died of a drug overdose”, Brady snickered, “he was always stoned.”

“Well, okay,” I agreed reluctantly. This was rural Ontario – nowhere land, a teenager’s nightmare, total social isolation. Without a car you were nothing. Even if you did have one you had to be home in time to milk the cows. We’d been left in the dust as far as the hippie scene was concerned. It had passed us by, leaving a few scattered headlines in the newspapers about LSD, Vietnam war protests and rock festivals in the U.S.A. but in August 1970, a month before Jimi died, at the age of 27, I’d run away from home, a rebellious and adventurous 17 year old, to experience the Strawberry Fields Rock Festival in Mosport, Ontario.

There, at the height of an LSD trip on purple microdot, I’d briefly caught a glimpse of what it was really all about. Ostracized by the family, I’d had my car keys taken away and was grounded for weeks.

“Okay, we all need to breathe slowly and concentrate on the candle flame. Empty our minds.”

Dave was already breathing heavily with his eyes closed, his head dropped. I glanced at him worriedly. He didn’t seem to be with us.

“Our Father….who art in Heaven….”

The prayer was followed by a series of inhales and exhales and more focusing on the flickering flame. Dave was starting to mutter something that I didn’t quite understand.

“Purple, purple.”

“What? What are you saying Dave?”

“Purple waves… so many purple waves.” Dave’s voice was caught up in a choking sob. “It’s so dark in here.” His voice faltered. We were losing him.

“What the hell!” I was momentarily confused.

“Who are you?” I ordered Dave in a tone of voice that I didn’t recognize as my own.

“Juh,Juh… Dave wet his lips and swallowed hard, pushing the words out, one at a time, “JIMI HENDRIX”.

I was stunned. This whole thing had taken me for a loop. I was struggling to regroup. This wasn’t what I had expected.

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know. Please help me.”

………………………………………………………………………….

“The Marshmallow Box”, based upon a true story, written by Maureen Kellar-Kirby, has been adapted to movie script format and has been entered in the Nicholl Fellowship Contest, Page Awards contest and the Los Angeles Scriptwriting Contest 2018. The book manuscript is presently underway. A song from the proposed music soundtrack for the film “Astral Wife” recorded at Bowtown Music Studios in Calgary, Alberta in 2017, has been entered in the International Songwriting Competition in 2018. Maureen Kellar-Kirby has recently published her first book “Go Back Jack” with Total Recall Publication in January 2018. It is available on Amazon and Kindle. The movie script adaptation of the book successfully reached the Semi-Finals with the Story Pros Scriptwriting Contest.