K.O. Morgan Freelance Writer

A woman I went to college with works at a PR firm that promotes organic foods. She’s a successful cheerleader for the benefits of healthy eating and the importance of keeping chemicals out of our food source.

“Going green,” in fact, has become today’s catch phrase for living healthier and stemming the tide of global warming. Today, organic foods and other green products can be found at all the major supermarkets and household stores, and whole industries have sprung up under the banner of greener living. Even at Wal-mart, one can find organic foods among the mainstream items, although the chain is not always consistent on what it sells. One week, one can find organic fruits and vegetables, cookies, sugar and more; the next week, an organic food choice might be missing. Wal-mart, after all, buys in bulk, so if there’s not a profit to be made there’s no point in selling it. Still, the food giant is probably keenly aware that going green is good for business these days, as consumers demand more environmentally-friendly choices.

Those choices go beyond food: we are encouraged to buy fluorescent bulbs that use less electricity by lasting longer, purchase slow-flow shower nozzles and toilets that use less water, invest in solar energy instead of electric or gas, buy cars that get better gas mileage or are electric, use cloth shopping bags instead of plastic or paper, and do whatever is possible to lessen our need and use of fossil fuels that are contribute to global warming.

I applaud these healthier choices – in fact, our family eats organic whenever possible, we recycle on a regular basis, turn off lights when leaving the room, pick up after our dog, and try to do what we can to lessen our carbon footprint. On the other hand, we depend on our computers for our livelihood, and each member of our family has one. We also drive a car that gets pretty good mileage but is dependent on gas to run.

The truth is, it can be damn expensive to go green — and that’s what my PR friend and environmental groups don’t get. If being environmentally friendly was more affordable and prices more competitive,  most people would be more receptive to living green.

Take organic farming, for instance: Environmentalists and organic advocates point out that only three percent of farm land is organic, which leaves a 97 percent  opportunity on our hands. Many state that if more consumers bought organic and green foods, then prices would come down. But you can’t tell people to eat organic if it’s out of their budget — particularly in this economy. And you can’t wait until there’s more acreage and then say the price will come down: it has to happen the other way around.

You also can’t force large farm conglomerates to farm organically when it costs more and is therefore less profitable. And you can’t tell small organic farmers to charge less for their organic crops when they have to compete with the big guys just to stay alive. 

What you can do is make it more enticing to grow organic foods by offering low interest government loans and huge tax breaks to those who grow organically. This would make organic farming more attractive to large and small farmers alike, and make food prices more competitive. This in turn would make organic foods more enticing to today’s frugal consumer.

Some organic food advocates point out that Americans spend a smaller percentage of their income on food than most countries, thereby justifying the price of organic and locally grown foods. They state that a value shift is needed on the part of the consumer to make buying fresher, more nutritious and organic foods a priority over the purchase of available cheaper foods.

It’s a viable concept, but that’s not the real world most people live in. It also puts the blame on the consumer. True, the costs of conventional foods are externalized; that is, we pay more for them in the long run due to the wastes associated with mainstream farming, which many consumers aren’t aware of when they buy cheaper, non organic products. But most Americans aren’t considering the long term effects of their buying actions — especially not in today’s poor economy when many are making less, or barely hanging on to their jobs. When the choice is between an organic food that costs twice as much as non organic, guess which gets bought? Sometimes, for many, it comes down to getting more food for their bucks, at a time when many folks are struggling just to put food on the table. 

In addition, if green products, such as green lawn mowers and electric or hybrid cars, were cheaper, more people would buy these products. If going solar was more affordable, then perhaps more people would transform their homes. And if “green” light bulbs were the same price as regular ones, more people would stock up on those too.

It’s nice in theory to talk about how much better it is to buy healthier foods and goods, but talk is cheap and green products are not. If those advocating green living want to get everyone on board, they need to make it financially worthwhile for all concerned. Tax breaks and low interest loans for organic farmers and green companies are one way. Low prices to spur consumption is another.

Otherwise, green living will remain out of reach for many. That’s the reality over the ideal.

When I was an Air Force Brat, my father told us that we were all part of the “mission.” And that mission was to keep the world safe. It gave purpose to our constant moving; it gave meaning to our lives.

It was the Cold War and the time of the Berlin Wall, a symbol that we found terrifying and horrific and hard to comprehend. I was only seven when my father first told me about the wall, but I quickly grasped what it meant for those imprisoned by it, and how it made our “jobs” as ambassadors of freedom that much more poignant.

I remember the day he told me. It was 1964 and a rare warm day in England. We sat outside of our house on the grass, and he carefully explained how oppressive some governments could be. The idea of children telling on their parents, or that people could be caged within a city or a country left me feeling claustrophobic and fearful. It also gave urgency to my father’s position as a U.S. soldier, and our part as his supportive family.

This was a time when many English people welcomed Americans, a friendship spawned by a mutual respect and admiration born in World War II. Our three tours in England were before the gas crunch of 1974, so Americans still drove huge cars that took up both sides of the narrow, winding English roads.  Sometimes my dad stopped for a pint on the way home. He left us in car, since only dogs and not children were allowed inside the pubs. He’d bring us out bags of potato chips, called “crisps,” that had little packets of salt inside the bag that you sprinkled on yourself. Often, an English man or two would stop and admire our large American car while we waited for our father. “Ask your dad how much would he take for the automobile!” they’d say.

We lived in a lot of houses during the 20 years my father served, but my mother always managed to turn each place into our home. When we lived in England, we always lived “on the economy” instead of on base. My father said that there was no point in living in a foreign country if we weren’t going to experience what it was like to live among the people.

Whenever we were stateside, there was a feeling of “us and them,” them being civilians. We couldn’t imagine being stuck in one town all of our lives like them, and they didn’t understand our nomadic lifestyle. But for us, some of the sweetest words we’d hear from our father was, “Kids, we’re moving again!”

The only time we felt an emptiness about our lives as military dependents was the year my father went to South Korea. We spent that year in upstate New York around my mother’s relatives. We made friends, but we were biding our time. No one around us was in any way connected to the Air Force, and none could relate to our lifestyle or the empty feeling of waiting for our father to come home.

When my dad retired in 1973, our family grieved for the way of life we were forced to leave behind. Years later, someone made the remark to me that only losers join the military; that it was a job for those who have nothing else going on. It was a statement made in ignorance of an adventurous way of living that only a fellow brat could understand.

These are tough times we live in; that’s obvious. But some of the organizations and agencies that are crying “poor me” have only themselves to blame.

Take for example, colleges and universities who are tightening their belts while raising tuition: there are more kids than ever on their way to college these days, thanks to the baby boom of the boomers, yet the price of a college degree is astronomical. Higher education isn’t wanting for a shortage of students; colleges and universities can have their pick. So how come the out-of-reach-for-many tuition costs? If space is a problem, then a lower price tage might reap more students — which could mean more money in the pot for expansion.

The arts and entertainment world is also complaining about how attendance to their events has gone down. Well, hello? When the cost of a movie ticket is $10 a pop, and popcorn, candy and drinks are ridiculously priced and ridiculously sized, it can cost some families $50 or more just to see a flick! It makes more sense in these tough economic times to rent a movie for a fraction of the cost. And when the price for a concert ticket is in the double and triple digits for aging rockers who once professed love, peace and non-materialism, who wants to go and see a bunch of old fogies prancing around in tights left over from their younger days?

Another area hard hit are animal shelters who have seen an increase in pets turned over due to people losing their homes. They’re crying about having to euthanize many of these poor animals when the simple solution would be to come down on the adoption fees. For example, down in south Florida where I moved from, the current rate to adopt a shelter dog or cat is around $50-$70 dollars. That’s doable, considering you get a rabies and distemper vaccination, check-up and sterilization for that price — services that would cost you three times that amount at the vet. But when we recently adopted our beagle from the SPCA in Newport News, Virginia, it cost us $150! Worse yet, our dog was already spaded and the fee didn’t even include a rabies shot! Seeing as rabies is an epidemic here in Virginia — and nationwide — you’d think the SPCA would want to combat that problem. And while I understand that many shelters are barely breaking even, it also makes sense to me that if the adoption fee was lower, you’d get more people taking these unwanted animals home!

Yes, times are tough for almost everyone. But some cries of poverty are a little hard to swallow. Personally, I think that some organizations and institutions don’t want to give up the goods, even if it means making less money or losing business. That’s what you call thinking in the short-term.

Can anybody be a writer? Is it a talent you are born with or one that’s learned?

These are age-old questions that can apply to just about any artistic field. And the answer to both is … yes and no.

The truth is, some folks are born with writing talent — it’s in their charts, as they say in astrology. I was born with writing talent, but it was nurtured along the way. I’ve also met folks who had never considered being a writer, and then burst forth with a more productive amount of work than those born with the so-called talent.

Writing as an innate talent is writing in its rawest form. But if that writing isn’t shaped, refined and grown along the way, it remains just that: raw but not necessarily good. Writing as a learned occupation, on the other hand, is sometimes a little more difficult to achieve. It takes dedication (as does those with a born talent), a fine ear to the sound of words, and a willingness to devote the time and sometimes the frustration needed to get the word down on the page.

For example, when I got to college I thought I was a pretty damn hot writer. Hadn’t I been told that in elementary school, and then again in junior high and in high school? Didn’t I have a creative writing teacher, Glenn Heyward, who asked me in my senior year if I had ever considered being a writer? And didn’t this question set me down the path of realization that I was a writer in my very soul?

Then along came Penelope Carroll, my first semester English Composition I teacher at Columbia College in Columbia, Missouri. She didn’t think I was so hot and proved it by marking up every piece I wrote with her little red pen. I hated Penelope and that smug look she’d get when she handed me back my composition book with a big fat red F on it. I hated her red penned remarks on every page. I swore that I’d show her who had talent. But, while Glenn Heyward is the teacher who inspired my writing talents, Penelope Carroll whipped them into shape. Today, I credit her with making me get serious about my writing and realizing that I had so very much to learn about writing.

What if didn’t have a natural born talent? Could I still be a good writer? I liken it to playing the guitar: I didn’t have natural talent — at least not on the level of some musicians I know — but I had an ear. What I didn’t have was dedication. I learned the basics but I never progressed. I could have been a pretty decent guitar player, I believe, but I wasn’t willing or able to put in the time. Writing works the same way: talent makes it easier, but the business of writing is not easy. It takes an understanding of how grammatical rules apply, but it also takes the ability to hear words as music and how those words play against each other.

It also takes a deep belief that it is what you are meant to do. I had a guidance counselor in college who advised me to double major in English and Business. I wasn’t interested in a Business degree, although I’m sure it could have helped me with the business side of being a writer. But writing (and art) was all I ever cared about, and I immersed myself in every writing class I could take.

Today, 28 years later, I am still learning. That’s the thing about artistic talent … there’s always something new to learn. And the most important thing I’ve learned along the way — more than honing my talent — is that ideas are more important than skill. While it’s true that most editors won’t look twice at a manuscript, article or other writing that’s filled with grammatical mistakes, they will take a chance on an idea that’s salable, even if the writing is just so-so.

Case in point: J.K. Rowling. Many literature scholars and other academia agree that she’s not the most literary tool in the shed. But she had an idea that lit the fire of people’s imaginations. And that idea has brought her fame and fortune.

One problem that many writers, secretaries and others chained to their desks encounter is something that used to be called “secretary spread”; that is, so much time is spent in a chair as opposed to physical work, that one’s bum begins to widen or “spread.”

Of course, no one should neglect a daily workout or eating a healthy diet, but there are some “exercises” you can do when at your desk that may help to keep those muscles toned. Here they are:

1. Keep a set of barbells under the side of your desk, and every once in a while take them out and do several reps of different flexes. Make sure these weights are only about 2-6 lbs. You could get injured or injure anyone walking by with any barbell that is larger or heavier.

2. Pinch your cheeks — no not the ones on your face. We’re talking squeezing your gluteus maximus, i.e. your butt muscles. Several sets of these can keep the ol’ bum tight. But try not to move too much when doing it or you could have your co-workers worried or wondering what’s going on over at your desk.

3. Take your shoes off (unless of course your feet tend to sweat and could cause co-workers to faint at the smell). Lift your toes ten times, then lift the front parts of your feet as if keeping time to a tune within your head. It’s a great way to tone the calves.

4. Cross your feet at the ankles, press them together and notice how your thigh muscles tighten. Do sets of eight, tightening the muscles, then relaxing. If you’re ambitious, tighten your butt again and ignore the strange looks from fellow employees.

None of these exercises will make you fit, but they can help you to use time spent sitting as a chance to tone. Just ignore the laughs from co-workers or the puzzled look from the boss.

I’m one of those people with a million ideas, and no follow through on getting them done. Some things get finished, of course, like the reunions I’ve planned for the former Air Force brats I knew in England, and the many freelance assignments I’ve worked on over the years.

But when it comes to my own writing and my long list of potential projects, I seem to freeze before completing them. I’m great when someone hands me a project, but terrible about working on my own.

Take the book I “started” twenty years ago. It’s a biographical novel based on my life as an American teenager in England in the 1970s. I can’t seem to get beyond the first chapter before it winds up in a virtual wadded ball in my trash. First, I had a hard time finding the voice: should it be written in first person or in third? I finally settled on first, even though the “experts” warn that first person is the most difficult voice to write in. I realize, after going back and forth on the matter, that first person is what I write best in, and actually what I enjoy reading most.

The next stumbling block has been the flow. Do I begin when we first arrived in England? Or do I come in at the beginning of my sophomore year? Do I mention every character (the names changed, of course)? Or do I combine them in to a lesser amount of characters?

A writer who was once in a writers’ group I belonged to many years ago — and whose manuscript I am currently reading — once gave me the best advice I have ever received. He cautioned against including every detail when writing true events; it’s boring to the reader, he said. Likewise, he advised against including every person who existed in a true-life event; that could be too confusing to the reader.

This is the writer I was in search of a few months ago, Ted Rist, and his manuscript is inspirational and riveting. He has harnessed the art of developing three-dimensional characters, as well as the ability to keep the reader turning the page.

There are other projects I want to work on also: poetry, cookbooks, children’s books, and a book on the business of marriage. I have every confidence in my writing abilities. It’s making my writing a priority that seems to be the problem.

Bagel the Beagle

We never planned on being dog people. But that’s what’s happened since this beagle-mix showed up a month ago. We’ve posted fliers and ads in the paper and even turned her over to the SPCA,  but no one’s claimed her, even though we have a feeling she may have lived nearby.

Sydney has named her Bagel and the name fits. She’s been to the vet and we’ve had her chipped, so legally, she is now our responsibility, but we are sympathetic to any family out there who may be anguishing over her disappearance.

We’re at a loss as to why the previous owners never searched the shelters, although she may have been on the run for some time. The other day, Frank almost had a heart attack when a woman called about a missing beagle-mix, but it turns out hers was also part blue-tick hound, and that’s not Bagel. Ironic about Frank, since he was the least interested in owning a dog, but I’ve caught him goo-gooing to Bagel several times. “I’m just compassionate,” he’s protested, but then admitted the other day that he’s getting attached.

This morning, I took Bagel for a walk and she pulled hard down this one street, as she has on previous jaunts, but this time she refused to budge several times, almost coming out of her collar. There were two cats that she spotted, and maybe that was the attraction … unless it was also that she recognized the cats. We’ve noticed how good she has been with our two kitties — a great relief — and we are betting that she was raised around cats.

Of course, there’s also the possibility that she was abandoned. There are 13 military bases around us who are always on the move. There’s also a lot of people who are being foreclosed on in this economy, and maybe Bagel is a victim of someone losing their home.  Many years ago, I taught Humane Education at an animal shelter in Florida, and I know personally how often pets are simply abandoned.

We hope Bagel is here to stay. She’s sweet and loving, well behaved and trained. She’s turned this cat family into one that includes a dog, and it’s really nice having her around.

That little Beagle who showed up at our home two weeks ago is now sleeping peacefully in our upstairs bathroom. We’re a little overwhelmed but she’s the sweetest dog, so we feel we have to at least give her a chance.

On Friday the 13th, we received a call from the SPCA, letting us know that her owner had never come to claim her. Our daughter, Sydney, was so excited on the ride there, but had somewhat of a meltdown last night. Reality sunk in on just how much is involved in owning a dog, and how unsettled it has made life for our cats. My husband, Frank, explained to her that we had to give the Beagle at least two weeks in our home before throwing in the towel. He also told her that we may be her new family or we may just a vessel to one.

Perhaps most remarkable is how much Frank likes her — he’s not a dog person, you understand. In fact, none of us is — we’re cat people. Now we just need to think of a name. Sydney likes the name, “Bagel.” A friend says that once we name the dog, she’s truly ours!

This photo is of a practice evacuation drill on the SS United States in 1959. My mother, sister, brother and I were on our way to England to visit relatives and friends. You can see my mother to the left, with dark hair, and my sister in front of her. My brother and I are behind her, hidden by the other passengers around us.

Evacuation drill aboard the S.S. United States, 1959

All on board are in good spirits, it seems, but a true evacuation would be traumatic. This April will mark ninety-seven years since the Titanic ran aground and sank, but I’m thinking about another ship that sank six years later, in 1918, where all passengers aboard perished in the sea.

The Princess Sophia was a steamer ship that ran tourists and workers back and forth between British Columbia and Alaska. On October 23, 1918, it had 75 crew members and 268 passengers on board, including families of those serving in World War I, miners, and sternwheelers, as well as fifty women and children. The steamer was three hours behind schedule when it departed Skagway, Alaska on its way to several ports along the Alaskan coast and British Columbia. As in the case of the Titanic six years earlier, the Sophia ran into bad weather. Only instead of an iceberg delivering the fatal blow, it was the Vanderbilt Reef in the Lynn Canal.

Upon running aground on the rock, a distress call was immediately sent, but wireless was weak in those days. The furthest the call reached was Juneau, where rescue boats went into action. Unfortunately, it was a race against time, made more perilous by an incoming storm and high tide. In addition, damage to the hull caused the Sophia to quickly take on water. It was decided by the Captain and those on the rescue boats that it would be safer to wait until daylight when the weather was supposed to improve, before attempting any kind of rescue.

Unfortunately, the weather grew increasingly worse, and the Sophia sent out an SOS that it was sinking. By the time the rescue boats were able to get close, the steamer was no where in sight.

No one witnessed the actual sinking of the Princess Sophia, so details of its last moments are only conjecture. Although many on board wore lifejackets, there appears that there was no time for an organized evacuation. Curiously, 100 people were still in their cabins below deck. Many may have died when the boiler exploded, while others may have perished from choking on oil fuel, or while waiting in the cold waters.

Months later, bodies of passengers continued to wash ashore, both north and south of Vanderbilt Reef. Many were covered in oil, making identification more difficult. Although today a lawsuit would seem to be a slam dunk, legal action against Canadian Pacific Railway, the company that ran the steamship, was unsuccessful.

Many aboard seemed aware of their fate, however, as evidenced by several letters to loved ones found on some of the bodies. Perhaps this is because of two previous catastrophes along the same route in 1904 and 1910, in which many on board drowned.

Looking at the old photo from 1959, I am well aware of what can happen at any place and any time. None of us is special. God takes when conditions are right.

Yesterday morning, we heard loud and frantic barking from the neighbor’s dogs, and when we looked out the slider on our backyard deck, we saw a Beagle running two and fro.

I stepped out and called to the dog, who immediately bounded toward me. She was friendly, but not in a knock you down kind of way; she merely stood on her hind legs with her front paws on my hips.

We’re not dog people, understand, although my daughter wants a dog badly, but I could tell right away that this dog was a good one, and I felt a weird kind of connection. I reached for her collar and was dismayed to find that the tag ring was bent open and her I.D. tags were missing. Not wanting her to flee into traffic — or get eaten by the vicious pit bulls next door — I did what I had been trained to do when I taught Humane Education in South Florida, and called Hampton’s Animal Control.

While waiting for the officer to arrive, I told the Beagle to get down, which she immediately did. I told her to sit, and she obliged. She seemed to be the perfect dog for anyone who wants one but doesn’t have the knowledge to train it.

When the officer arrived, I asked him to check if she’d been chipped. “I’ll do it,” he said, “but most of the older dogs aren’t chipped.” That seemed odd since twenty years ago, when I worked at Palm Beach County Animal Care and Control, chipping was touted as the wave of the future. “Oh, it’s been around for about twenty years,” the officer conceded. “But it’s only been in the last few years that the technology has actually been used.”

That was disheartening, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It was one more piece of evidence that the Hampton Roads area isn’t progressive when it comes to animal control. We’ve already experienced Hampton’s inability to enforce dangerous dog laws, and the city’s lack of any laws that govern how many pets a pet owner can own, or whether or not it’s cruel to keep dogs out in sub freezing weather. Ironic really, when you consider that Hampton Roads is home to People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, aka PETA.

I asked the officer where he’d be taking the Beagle, and he told me the Peninsula SPCA in Newport News. Even though Hampton is a large city, it doesn’t have its own animal shelter, and all animals rounded up here are taken to Newport News.

True to his prediction, the Beagle wasn’t chipped; I forgot to ask him to see if she had a tattoo on her leg, and he didn’t bother to check. He did tell me that the SPCA euthanizes its unwanted animals, but he wasn’t sure how much time the animals were given. My last memory of the dog is her soulful look at my daughter and me, as the officer closed her compartment door and then drove off.

Since then, I’ve been haunted by doubts on whether or not we did the right thing. Logically, I know that the owner could be frantically looking for the Beagle at all the local shelters, and that it can be dangerous for dogs who are left to roam free. I also know that there was no way we could keep the dog temporarily, as we have two house cats, one of whom is handicapped. I have no idea if this dog is cat-friendly, but I have a feeling for some reason that she would make the perfect dog for our family.

On the other hand, the SPCA here has a policy against giving out information about its animals over the phone. The  only way we can find out about this Beagle’s fate is to make a daily drive up to Newport News. While I understand that the owner must be given the chance to reclaim his or her pet, it would seem to me that if you have someone interested in adopting, you would provide that person with as much information as possible to make the adoption a reality.

After all, isn’t that the goal of the SPCA and all animal shelters: to find homes for unwanted pets?

In the meantime, we’ve posted signs around the neighborhood letting some potential owner out there know where their Beagle may be found. I also spotted an ad for a lost Beagle in Sunday’s paper, and called the number and left a message on where they may be able to find her.

Hopefully, the Beagle will be reunited with her owner, and not face the fate of so many unwanted pets. But it’s a race against time: the SPCA gives each animal only 5-10 days to be found or find a new home.