Bill Holm, R.I.P.

So sad to hear the news yesterday of Bill Holm's passing. He was a true gift to the literature scene, both worldwide and in Minnesota. He was one of those writers who makes you proud to be a Minnesotan so you can claim him as one of your own.

I'd seen him speak only a couple of times, and have been in the same room with him a few more times, and he always made me smile just by his appearance. Icy blue eyes, big build, Santa Claus beard. How could you look at this man--who seemed to step from the page of a Grimm fairy tale--and not smile? Every time he spoke and read, he did so with eloquence and beauty.

I had secretly hoped to one day take advantage of the writing trips to Iceland that he offered every year. I barely knew the man, know nothing of Iceland, but the desire to simply write in his presence was strong. I'm sad that I never got to do that.

My sympathy to his family and friends, those who did know him and were lucky enough to be his friend.

Tom Boonen

Oh, Tom. Lovely, lovely Tom. He’s been my favorite cyclist for a couple of years now, just because he’s so dang cute! Yes, I guess I’m a typical woman who determines her favorite sports stars based on their looks. If I were solely in charge of my fantasy football team, I’d assemble an all-star “handsome” team. Ronde Barber would be No. 1. Anyway…

I waited outside the QuickStep bus at the start of Stage 3 in San Jose. There were only a few of us there, nowhere near the numbers outside the Astana bus. People were jammed outside the Astana bus about six or seven deep.

I positioned myself directly outside the door, on the side in which is opens, so I would have a clear view of Tom when he came out. A few times the door opened, and I could see him sitting in the bus. Then, finally, he emerged! He came out to give Bob Roll an interview. And I was right there! I could have reached out and touched Tom. I snapped a ton of pictures. After he was done with the interview, one woman went up to him and had a friend take a picture. Then she kissed him on the cheek. David was nowhere to be found, but I had to meet Tom anyway, even if there wasn’t to be photographic evidence.

I shook his hand and said, “Good luck.” He said “thanks” and displayed a warm smile. I asked, “Can I give you a kiss?” So I kissed him on the cheek. Oooooh! David actually did see it, but didn’t have time to get off a shot. Oh well. He got me in a shot with Tom, while Tom was giving an interview with another guy. Hopefully someday I’ll be able to have a nice posed shot with Mr. Boonen.

Tour of California

Now back from California, where I watched portions of a pro cycling tour live for the first time. I must say, I’m hooked! I watched three stages of the Tour of California. We went to Santa Rosa, Santa Cruz, San Jose and Modesto.

There’s something so exciting about waiting for the cyclists to come by, the anticipation. You first see a couple of course marshal cars come speeding through about 20 minutes before the cyclists arrive. Then come the CHP cars and the tour motorcycles. Then more police escorts on motorcycles. Finally, off in the distance, you see a cyclist. He’s coming fast. Get the camera ready. After he flies by, a couple of more pass through. Then, the wide sea of the peloton, the main group of cyclists. Within a couple of minutes, everyone has passed by. It’s over.

The Tour of California includes the biggest names in pro cycling. Levi Leipheimer. George Hincapie. Tom Boonen. Floyd Landis. Mark Cavendish. And, this year, Lance Armstrong. I’ve been calling the ToC the “poor man’s Tour de France.” If you can’t make it to France, it’s easier to make it to California and see these guys race.

I’ve been watching the Tour de France for a couple of years, and now having witnessed the ToC, I think I’m finally understanding the sport of pro cycling. Like other pro sports, pro cycling has teams, coaches, rosters and managers. Even though individual cyclists win stages and entire races, everyone on the team works together to either try to get their guy to the top or to try to block other teams from gaining an advantage. It’s incredibly strategic, and that’s why I still don’t quite “get” it all.

Each stage was greeted by massive crowds, despite the cold, rainy and windy weather (more on that later). I read that last year, the ToC drew 1.6 million spectators, the largest number of spectators for any pro sport in the U.S. Yet, in my opinion, pro cycling gets the shaft from the media. Even in the California papers, each day’s story was buried deep in the sports section and was only a few inches long. Sometimes the stage results appeared on the agate page, but sometimes they did not. Heaven forbid I try to find any results in a Minnesota paper. Why hasn’t cycling received the recognition it deserves? Why do we still hail our football and baseball players, but ignore our cyclists?

Next up

Eep! I see a few noteworthy deadlines are approaching. On my list:

Submission to Blueroad
Breadloaf application
Opium's 500-word memoir contest

Memoir manuscript class

I'll be attending a memoir manuscript class at The Loft with Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew starting Feb. 24. I worked hard over break to complete another draft of the manuscript, so it's at the stage where I'm looking for helpful feedback before I do any more writing/revision. The timing is good. The class meets once a month, and my manuscript is the first on deck. Best of all, my friend, Lisa, is also in the class. She lives in Faribault, so we can carpool!

The story behind the story

I love what they do over at the Brevity blog. Well, I love everything that Brevity does. But specifically, every so often they invite a writer to explain “the story behind a story” that has appeared in Brevity.

I thought I would attempt an explanation for “Dad Digs Uncle Davey’s Grave,” the story that received an honorable mention in the Writer’s Digest 2008 competition and will appear in the Spring 2009 issue of The Truth About the Fact.

My dad was a gravedigger in small-town Minnesota. He approached his job matter-of-factly. He’d come home after digging and empty the pockets of his dark blue uniform. Spare change, matches, and cigarettes piled on top of the refrigerator. He’d shower, change into slacks and a t-shirt, or, if he was going out for coffee with the guys, a short-sleeved polo or dress shirt.

Dad was a lighthearted, talkative guy who liked to laugh. He didn’t dwell on his job even though we lived in a small town, which meant he buried neighbors, kids of acquaintances, and distant relatives on a regular basis. He buried the old (heart attacks, cancer) and the young (car accidents, suicide). He had a job to do, and he did it. He didn’t speak of his work, at least to me. Perhaps he and mom shared quiet moments, moments where they contemplated mortality and the mystery of the world. I saw none of it.

But “Dad Digs Uncle Davey’s Grave” illustrates a time when Dad couldn’t bear the weight for one more second. It shows a moment of vulnerability, sadness, grief. A moment that I did not witness, but a moment that I call memoir anyway.

My brother, Andy, was with Dad the day my father dug his own brother’s grave. Uncle Davey was just 44, unexpectedly felled by a massive heart attack (like my own dad’s father, and like three brothers that would follow). Davey was buried at Corpus Christi cemetery, across from the church Dad and his siblings attended while growing up. Dad regularly dug at Corpus Christi, so he saw it as his duty to dig there again, even though this time he was burying a brother.

My sister, Renee, first told me the story. She said that Andy once told her that he had to finish burying Uncle Davey because our dad, wracked with sobs, couldn’t do it himself. I was writing my memoir when she told me, and I wanted to include the story in my book somehow. The next time I talked to Andy, I asked him about the story.

“It wasn’t while closing the grave. It was when we were digging it,” he said.

He told me more. Andy and Dad dug the grave together. They finished and put the shovels in the back of the truck. Dad got into the driver’s seat and choked back a sob. They drove just a mile down the road, to a little country store run, an old-fashioned store still hanging on in 1983. The old guard gathered there, guys Dad grew up with, and they all had some beers. After a while, grief overwhelmed Dad. He turned to 15-year-old Andy and said, “You’re going to have to drive home.”

I started the story with, “If I were Andy, I would have been at Corpus Christi cemetery the day Dad dug his brother Davey’s grave.” That “were” and “would” tone is present throughout the short piece (just 1,000 words). I was not there. I did not witness Dad’s grief. I do not claim to have been there. That is not the truth. Perhaps James Frey or Margaret Seltzer or Herman Rosenblatt would “tweak” the events for sake of drama, story. I think the story is just fine without me there. I imagine being there. I imagine seeing what Andy saw, based upon what he told me.

I wish I had been there. To see Dad’s shell cracked, if only for a brief moment. But I was not, so the best I have is my imagination.