"'Earl' - The Historical Novel"

I am currently listening (on CD, as I exercise on the treadmill) to “The Smoke At Dawn” by Jeff Shaara, a 546-page (or 16-disc) historical novel concerning the events surrounding a pivotal Civil War encounter close to Chattanooga, Tennessee.  I have reservations about the historical novel.   Although meticulously researched, the included impressions and suppositions are entirely manufactured, giving us 546 pages (or 16 discs) of educated conjecture.

Today, I imagine what a similar undertaking focused on my life might look like.  (Note:  For this exercise to succeed – and there is a chance it might not – you have to pretend that today’s writer is not me, but is instead, someone who knows me inside and out, and feels no hesitation about putting thoughts in my head and motivations to my behavior.

And now, “Earl” – The Historical Novel.”  Today’s Excerpt:  “Earl Eats Breakfast And Reads the Paper.”  Factually, that is the sum total of my activity.  I ate breakfast and I read the paper – that’s all there was to it.  It is the writer’s research-driven imagination that fills in the specifics.

“Earl’s Santa Monica Bungalow – Living Room – Seven A.M.”

Earl descends gingerly to the bottom of the stairs, mindful of the gnawing callus marring the bottom of his left foot.  Earl looks absently down at his sports socks.  He notices they are from two different pairs.

Earl wonders if he should go back upstairs and change them.  He decides not to bother.  He will wear the other two mismatched socks tomorrow.  Which will immediately even things out. 

Earl smiles secretly to himself.  He has made his first decision of the day, and he is content with his determination.

Earl moves to the living room couch, to kiss wife – who as is usual, has arisen before him – and to retrieve the newspaper, which he will read while he eats his breakfast.  He collects the entire paper excepting the “Calendar” Section, which contains the daily crossword puzzle, whose completion is a favored pastime of his beloved, and whose furrowed intensity reveals that she is still working on it.  Earl will peruse the “Calendar” Section when she is done with it, hopefully before he has completed breakfast.  Though he knows better than to hurry her along.

Earl heads into the kitchen.  He sets the newspaper down on the table.  Almost trancelike, as the procedure is habitual, he goes about gathering the necessary accoutrements.

Obtaining a bowl and a cereal spoon and placing them on the table, Earl goes to the refrigerator for the almond milk and the blueberries. 

Earl notices two containers of blueberries.  He strains mightily to remember which container was purchased first, so he can polish them off before initiating the fresher batch.  He snatches the larger of the two containers, his confidence belying the uncertainty of his selection.

Earl opens the pantry, extracting the box of gluten free flax cereal that has become the centerpiece of his breakfast.  He has sampled the gluten free Chex cereals– the Rice Chex and the Corn Chex – as well as the gluten free Puffed Rice – but has settled on the sturdy flax kernels, relishing their resiliency in milk.

On top of this flax-and-blueberries concoction, Earl sprinkles a handful of roasted almonds – not a specifically-counted but an experientially eyeballed amount, though it varies day-to-day by no more than a single almond.  He pours in a never-varying inundation of almond milk, sits down to at the table, and he considers the newspaper, his mind abuzz with trepidation and concern.

Earl’s decisions concerning which newspaper stories to avoid are no trivial calculation, as they can affect his temperamental demeanor for the rest of the day.  Earl’s delicate sensibilities must be protected at all costs.  A strategic misstep can trigger a debilitating funk.

Earl’s decisions concerning which newspaper stories to avoid are no trivial calculation, as they can affect his temperamental demeanor for the rest of the day.  Earl’s delicate sensibilities must be protected at all costs.  A strategic misstep can trigger a debilitating funk.

The Dodgers won the night before, so it is emotionally safe to peruse the game’s coverage. 

An unguarded glance at the death announcement of a notable football player reveals that the deceased was exactly Earl’s age. 

That one is going to be costly.

Earl’s eye is caught by an editorial about Donald Trump, a man whose self-aggrandizement, Earl believes, reflects an egregious insufficiency of maternal hugging.  What comes to Earl’s mind is director Cecil B. DeMille, who made biblical epics decrying sexual licentiousness, while offering graphic scenes of the precise licentiousness of which he claimed to disapprove.  A reminder of the media’s claiming that Donald Trump is unworthy to talk about, while expending unlimited airtime and newspaper ink talking about him. 

Earl looks up at the clock.  “Better get a move on”, he thinks.  It is almost time for the treadmill, and that credulity-challenging historical novel he cannot wait to get back to.

Seeing the time, Earl steps up his eating and newspaper reading, wondering, “What blog post I shall write today?”

In the back of his mind, an idea is beginning to take shape.

Okay, so I got everything right.  But I have a distinct advantage.  I’m me.  And even then, I am not sure I was totally correct.

Jeff Shaara? 

I have no idea how he does it.