F. Ellsworth Lockwood
(Autobiographical Information and testimony about The Power of Writing"
Writing is a way to know oneself. Writing can be a match that ignites the flames of love, or a way to contact, control and understand oneself; it can be a balm soothe one's frayed nerves; it can also be a torch of rebellion. For me has been all of the above at one time or another.
Born in Santa Cruz, California,1944, the first of six children, I was a nobody and a nothing until I discovered the wonderful, almost magical, potency of pen and paper -- and, later, of the computer.
A nobody. I was raised in an extended family with my mother and father, my siblings (six in all), my great grandfather (on Mom's side), Thomas John Aldridge. For extended times we also had as house-guests my grandmother Dorothy and her daughter Joanna. Joanna was my mother's sister who was just my age and who seemed much more like a sister than an aunt.
The earliest memory that I can recall concerning my great grandfather (Grandpa) took place on a dark and cold winter afternoon. We lived in Grandpa's cabin in a redwood forest several miles from town, and my parents had left me under Grandpa's care while they went to town to buy groceries. Grandpa, as usual, was back in his "portable" bedroom, most likely reading Zane Grey novels, those Western stories which he always kept in cardboard carton or two by his bedside.
The sun set early in the winter, by four o'clock it was dark, and the tall trees made the yard appear all the darker, but I had the urge to go the the bathroom. We did have a regular bathroom, with a light fixture and a flush toiled and a tub, but the bathroom was separate from the house. We had to go outdoors to use the toilet, and I was somewhat timid about going out in the dark, so I called Grandpa, whose irritated voice came back, "What do you want? I thought I sent you to bed." He would not accompany me to the bathroom. "Go on out there, there is nothing out there to be afraid of."
When the urgency got bad enough I forced myself to walk up to the door, determined to overcome my fear of the dark in order to relieve myself. My hand was already on the doorknob when I saw the racoon. It was a new creature for me, as I had never seen a racoon, and there it was, staring me back in the face. The animal, standing on hit's hind paws, was taller than I was, and I let out a terrified shriek, which brought Grandpa streaming from his bedroom in alarm. Of course my scream sent the animal fleeing, and Grandpa would never believe that anything had ever been there. "You are afraid of your own shadow!" he declared. And later when my parents came home, I could hear him telling them, "He's afraid of his own shadow." He kept repeating the phrase as if I had committed some horrible, shameful act.
Then there was my dad. My father was a hard working man, a good provider, and was very authoritarian in his "leadership" style, that is, as a father and husband.
Earliest memories are lasting. As it was with my great grandfather, so it was with my own father. My dad was off fighting World War II for most of my first two years, and in my earliest memory of him I was standing at the top of a long stairway up the hillside, which was in turn at the top of a long winding path.
As a youngster I soon learned that there was no percentage in "talking back," though I recall often hearing the remark, "You just don't know when to keep your mouth shut." Well, I tried at least, to suck up my feelings and thoughts at least sufficiently to avoid having the belt applied to my backside.
Nevertheless, I lived in constant fear of overstepping, of incurring my father's wrath. Like all of us kids, I also hoped and prayed for him to have a good day, to be in a good mood; how we all enjoyed him when he was at his best! But his rage was terrible and I became very inward, withdrawn, and silent on controversial matters. In order to survive, I adapted my father's views on everything, especially on politics, economics, views on race, women, sexual orientations and such. As to religion, I do not recall Dad comment religion. His religion was "very personal," he said. As to the rest, I avoided watching the news on televisions, or even reading the newspapers. I just never got interested in them. There was no percentage in my having my own views on anything anyway. My father was my source of news. As one sister put it, one did not need to decide what to believe because Dad's attitude was one of, "I will tell you what to believe."
In defense of Dad, he was too young to have a family. He had run away from and unpleasant home at the age of 13 and begun to fend for himself, and once went for three days without food as there was no money, nothing to eat. "That's a lot different feeling than if you choose to fast," he once told me. "When you know that you might actually starve to death." It is a story in itself how he managed to get by under those circumstances.
Likewise, I am told that my mother was only sixteen years of age when she married, seventeen when I was born. They were just kids, and Dad had no model, as his father had died when Dad was about five years of age.
Be that as it may, when I learned the power of writing I gained the right and the ability to talk back; I found the opportunities explore, to learn, to teach and to provoke my opponents (if not to convince them or convert them). New avenues to me as I began to use writing as a "stethoscope" with which to listen to my own heart, and to learn from myself as I analyzed my own experiences. Writing helped me to develop an enhanced self-understanding; it became, a tool for prying open doors of understanding and, ultimately became a source of recreational activity.
That's where I am at today. Having studied writing first as a school teacher and later as a news reporter, I turned to writing fiction as a way of putting it all together. That's what "The Final Cruise" is about. It is about fun, about understanding human experience, and I hope some day, about community if I have done my job well enough to gain a readership. Wish me luck!