Books by Eric Douglas

Thriller fiction and Non-fiction

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A life well-lived

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I’m thinking of an old friend and his family today. Denny Dawson is laying his mother to rest.

One of my favorite memories of Phyllis was seeing her cooking breakfast for everyone onboard the sternwheeler Hobby III at one of the sternwheel regattas. There were pans of biscuits, sausage, sausage gravy, bacon and whatever else was around. In the middle of it all was Phyllis with a smile on her face. She fed everyone around. It really didn’t matter who you were or what you were doing. She expected you to eat. The last time I saw Phyllis was about a year and a half ago. I had dropped in to see Denny for a few minutes. Phyllis convinced me to eat some beans and cornbread while I was there.

I’ve always wanted to live my life well. In my mind, that doesn’t mean money or excitement or big contributions to society. I will not be the person who cures cancer. It means being loved, and being remembered for your contributions, especially the little, everyday contributions. It means believing in something, and respecting those who disagree with you.

Yesterday I spent the better part of the day listening to two veterans describe their lives. Both men happened to be about my age. They talked about careers of service and spending time in war zones with the simplicity of someone who has been there. It’s not that either man wanted to go to war. It was simply that both men believed that is where they could best serve their country, their fellow soldiers, and most importantly their families and friends.

Often we get wrapped up in the minutiae of our lives and forget to live them. And I mean really live them. Unfortunately, sometimes it takes the passing of a loved one to remind us. I know this is a difficult time for the Dawson family right now. I will keep them in my prayers. But I also find some inspiration in these moments. It becomes a wake-up call to remember to live. Remember to live for others and use the talents given to me by God and not to squander them.

I’m headed to the visitation to pay my respects to Denny and maybe share a smile with him. I doubt he feels like laughing right now but I’ll bet there will be some smiles there, too. That’s what life is about, and how to honor, a life well-lived.

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Helping others and learning lessons

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Last Friday, my girls and I sat on the couch watching a massive thunderstorm march across the television screen and the country, wreaking havoc and turning lives upside down. There was no Dorothy or Wizard of Oz in those thunderstorms. Just fear and pain. Fortunately, we were spared anything but some lightning and rain. Still, we watched.

As the stories of survival and loss have aired on the local television news this week, paired with stories of people pulling together to help out, my daughters watched that, too. And everyday they’ve said they wanted to help out. Of course, “things” got in the way, or we ran out of time. Finally, last night (in the rain), we ran to the store to get some things to donate. It’s all simple stuff. Mostly cleaning supplies, gloves and some paper plates (again, one of the girls came up with that one, but it made sense to me). Nothing exciting or flashy. I hope it helps.
It just so happened that yesterday a friend sent me an email about parenting that included a story on raising empathetic kids. You can read the story here. My kids’ interest in helping others became an object lesson for me. At times, I get frustrated because I feel that as a people we have lost that feeling of empathy—on a day-to-day basis, anyway. We blister others for their political beliefs, distrust religions and can be generally hateful to each other. But when things get tough, we do remember to pull together. Empathy comes out and we want to help each other. I wish all of us would remember that feeling on a daily basis and pull together—not just at the bad times, but during the good ones as well.
I know a lot of others are pitching in. The employees at my fiancée’s company (about 40 people) donated $1500 out of their own pockets, for example.
My thanks to the staff at WCHS/WVAH TV and the Union Mission for organizing the donation drive and many thanks to the staff from the newsroom who came out at 7:15 am this morning to let us drop off the supplies on the way to school. It meant a lot to the girls to see where their donations were going.
I’ve learned from this experience, too. I know if it hadn’t been for their insistence, I probably would have put it off and put it off and never gotten around to donating anything myself. Instead of trying to raise empathetic children, I need to remember to take a breath from my own schedule and remember others.

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Blog 101

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When I was at Marshall, classes with the number 101 after them meant “introductory”. I will assume that’s fairly universal. So, is this an introduction? Not really.

This happens to be the 101st blog I have posted to “Adventure with a Purpose.”

I explained early on that I believe life is supposed to be about more than just marking time. As I scan back through the previous 100 posts, I see some common themes: travel, exploration, discovery, talking about issues, examining the things that are important to me and experiencing new things. I think I’ve kept to my theme pretty well, if I do say so myself.

About three months ago, I refocused this blog away from international toward local when I moved back to West Virginia. I think of it now as a chance to rediscover my roots and allow my creativity to flow in a new direction.

A couple weeks ago, I wrote about seeing live music. Yesterday, I was listening to the song “Twin Rocks, Oregon” by Shaun Mullins. This lyric struck me:

I said “I don’t reckon i’ll be makin it big, you know it’s hard to get rich off a tout of coffee house gigs”
and he said “yeah, but ain’t it a blessin to do what you wanna do…”

While my music ability is extremely limited, I identify with people who perform music in the small clubs and coffee houses. They are doing what they love and they keep hammering away at it. They might dream of fortune and fame, but they know it isn’t going to come from playing for 20 people sipping coffee. They are playing for themselves, honing their skills and working at their craft, hoping that one day they will make it. If they don’t, at least they can say they tried and had some fun along the way.

I think of myself as a story teller. Some of them are fiction, some of them are true. In some other cases, the lines get a little blurry. Several years ago, someone asked me why I haven’t written much about West Virginia. I didn’t have a good answer for that question. Maybe it was too close, and maybe it was too far away. I get the feeling that’s about to change. Every day new idea pops into my head…so many in fact that my fiancée has taken to rolling her eyes when a conversation starts with “I have this idea for a new project…” and the dry erase board I use to track projects is getting pretty full.

Eye-rolling aside, this is when I’m happy. When ideas are flowing and I’m excited about creating. In the last couple months, I have finished up a new novel (and am currently shopping it around), two new kids stories and am working on a new diving short story. I’ve also started a documentary project interviewing veterans about their experiences. I have “lots of ideas” for that project. And I do have this new kernel of an idea bouncing around inside my brain about a fiction project set in West Virginia (finally!).

So, maybe this is my “101” course. I’ll definitely be proud to identify with the “creative-types” who are out there every day, working on their craft. And, of course, day dreaming about what it means to make it.  

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Talking to Veterans

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I’m not a veteran. I never served in the military. Frankly, I was never interested in it.

 

That said, I’ve always been impressed by people who served. In just about every military person I’ve ever met, I’ve seen a strong sense of duty and honor. I’ve also seen a feeling of camaraderie and belonging that you don’t find elsewhere. 

A few months ago, I heard about the Veterans History Project (part of the Library of Congress).  It’s an initiative is to collect oral histories from American war veterans and archive them in the Library of Congress. After contacting the library, I found out that anyone can collect these interviews. You don’t have to be associated with a specific university. It’s simply an effort to record memories. Researchers will use them and families will be able to access them after the veteran has gone or the memories have faded.
With that in mind I began a new project to collect as many of these oral histories as I can. I interviewed three veterans this week; one each from WWII, Korea and Vietnam.  I plan to interview many more in the coming weeks and months. Copies of the interviews will go to the veterans, to the Library of Congress and to an archive here in West Virginia. I plan to edit the interviews together into a documentary/book project as well that will be called (at least for the moment) Voices of War.
Fred P. Morris, 93, Elkview
Spending just a few minutes in the presence of most of these men (I hope to interview women as well) reveals how poignant the memories can be. Fred Morris, a 93-year-old WWII veteran who served in North Africa and in Italy afterward, still remembers little things, people and places, from those days. His memories of other things in life are fading, but he remembered talking to a superior when things were tough and getting more food air-dropped in for him and his men while they were in Africa fighting against Rommel. He said things were “miserable” there.
Another of the veterans from this week, Robert Moore, recalled from his two tours in Vietnam one of the hardest parts of his job as a helicopter crew chief. He would have to fly R and R missions. Rescue and Recovery. He said the flight crews would all become good friends, partying and hanging out when they were off-duty. But then the call would come in and they would have to go pick up the bodies of friends who were shot down and either recover the helicopter or destroy it in place. This particular memory, more than 40 years old, still brought a sharp intake a breath and a pause as Bob recomposed himself.
I expect to learn a lot from this project. Quite probably, a lot of it will be things I’ll never put into words or be able to express. I have no doubts, though, it will be my honor and my little bit of service.
If you want to find out a bit more about the project, there is a page on my website. As the project develops, I will post excerpts from the interviews.
There are some costs associated with this project: to duplicate CDs, print forms and submit them to the archives. If you want to donate, there are two options online on the above webpage. Or contact me directly.

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Old Bridge in Elkview

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Lately, I’ve spent more of my time writing than I have working as a photographer. I enjoy both, it’s just seemed like writing has taken precedence. I’ve been working hard on the next novel, a new children’s story and some other things as well. And most of the time, when I pull my camera out, I prefer to photograph people. I enjoy the expressions, the emotions and the connections a photograph makes.

But occasionally, an inanimate object catches my eye. There is an old bridge in Elkview, crossing the Elk River, that I find fascinating. I’m not sure of the history of the bridge or even its name. I would guess it was constructed in the 40s, but I’ll have to dig around some more and see. There was a heavily-rusted plaque on one end, up high on the steel structure, but I couldn’t read it. It has a wooden deck and would barely be wide enough for one car if it were open to the public. Today, it is officially closed, but it still carries the occasional pedestrian.
Some morning when I’m motivated, I want to go see that bridge when the fog is rising off the river. I’m sure it looks mysterious and imposing. As I walked across it this morning, it still felt solid; no sway or bounce. At the same time, it is showing the signs of decay and neglect of a bridge that has been metaphorically put out to pasture. It stands silent and lonely beside its replacement, carrying cars, trucks and buses speeding by with barely a glance from the passengers. I’m sure most people never even notice the old thing anymore. That is the fun part about coming home, I guess. I see the old things again as new to me.
I did manage to photograph one person…
I am both rediscovering my past, and the past of my home, and excited about the future. I’m always amazed at how re-energizing it is to go “be creative”. I need to remember to drag my camera out more often and capture the mundane directly in front of me. And who knows, I might just stumble across something that will show up in my next book or short story.
Just because a bridge is closed, doesn’t mean it can’t open the imagination, I guess.

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Live music

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I’ve always been a sucker for live music.

I admire the nerve it takes to get up on a stage and lay it out there. This isn’t American Idol. It’s paying your dues in a club, honing your skills and building up your calluses. It takes a lot of nerve to get on stage in a bar after midnight and sing or play an instrument. Half the people aren’t paying any attention to you at all. The rest are ignoring you. And everyone has been drinking. But still you do it. And you love it.
Jean Hanna Davis and Stan Bumgardner at the Boulevard Tavern.
I went to an open mic night last night. Jean Hanna Davis was in town and planned to drop by and sing a few songs. She always blows me away when she sings, so I went to hang out, catch up and see what was going on.
There were several people ahead of her on the list of people who had signed up for their chance to wow the crowds so we got a chance to hang out and talk before she finally took the stage. We listened to the musicians who came in and out. Some were good. Others, fair. A couple of the players were exceptional. But they all had fun. And they were all living their dream. One or two, including Jean, had “presence.” It isn’t enough to be technically proficient. You have to believe in yourself enough to step onto the stage, grab the microphone and take control of the crowd.
Jean definitely believes in herself. She hated to be out so late, and thought about leaving, but then she said, “But I really wanna play!” So, we stayed. The crowd that stayed around was rewarded with a great set, too. Several people came up to her afterward and wanted to know who she was and where else they could hear her perform. I know she loves that recognition, she is human, but she also plays because she loves it. And that shows through.
Without trying to be too philosophical, it takes presence to do anything you believe in. It obviously takes skill and practice to perform. But it also takes passion, dedication and patience.  It takes guts to stand up in front of a crowd and perform, to write, to paint, to dance.
There is a song lyric by Anna Lyric that always struck me.
“2 AM and I’m still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it’s no longer inside of me,
Threatening the life it belongs to
And I feel like I’m naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you’ll use them, however you want to”
The next time you get a chance to catch some live music, or anyone performing their talent, do it. And think about what it takes to stand up in front of a crowd, metaphorically naked. Then reward the ones who do it with your applause.
If you want to hear Jean, “Like” her fanpage on Facebook. She has some music recording and videos on there.

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