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Is Harper Lee Pleased with Mockingbird’s Parent? By Sandy Semerad

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When I heard the news, I couldn’t believe it. It’s been more than half a century since To Kill A Mockingbird came out.

I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to reading “the parent book,” of Mockingbird, even though this book, called Go Set a Watchman, is not new. Harper Lee wrote it in 1950, before she wrote the masterpiece that earned her a Pulitzer Prize, according to reports.

Mockingbird continues to be a bestseller. The movie adaptation won Academy Awards in 1962. Gregory Peck won for best actor. Lee gave Peck her father’s pocket watch, a friend in Monroeville, Alabama told me.

Lee’s old/new book examines racial unrest in the South and the relationship between an adult Scout and her father.

It has been reported, Lee put Watchman aside to write Mockingbird, after an editor suggested she rewrite the manuscript from the viewpoint of Scout as a girl. Lee followed the editor’s advice and produced Mockingbird.

She thought the draft of Watchman had been lost until her friend and lawyer Tonja Carter found it. The draft had been attached to the original typed manuscript of Mockingbird. Carter didn’t know what she’d found at first.

Tonja Carter is a charming woman, despite what some reporters have written. I had the pleasure of meeting Carter during one of my business trips to Monroeville, Alabama, where both books are set.

Through my day job with a national publishing company, I’ve traveled quite a bit and worked with the Monroeville-Monroe County Chamber of Commerce on community profile projects. I always enjoy returning to this lovely, literary town, population about 7,000. Sandy Smith, the Chamber’s executive and I have been friends for almost 20 years.

But in all my years of traveling and working there, I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Harper Lee. Locals call her “Miss Nelle,” and they respect her need for privacy. She now lives in an assisted living home in Monroeville.

Thankfully, I’ve had the privilege of meeting her older sister Alice Finch Lee. She practiced law until she was almost 100. She has since passed, but she lived to be 103. She never married, nor has “Miss Nelle.”

Alice Finch Lee was “Atticus in a skirt,” the Rev. Thomas Butts said. He was referring to Mockingbird’s hero Atticus Finch. Rev. Butts has been a close friend of both Alice Finch and Harper Lee. “Miss Nelle” dedicated Mockingbird to Alice and their father, Amasa Lee.

The father defended two black men who were hanged in 1919 for murdering a white shopkeeper in Monroeville.

In 1934, when “Miss Nelle” was only eight, a black man (Walter Lett) was tried in Monroeville for allegedly raping a white woman. Lett was sentenced to death until a group of progressive white citizens had his ruling reduced to life.
The character Tom Robinson in Mockingbird is thought to be patterned after Lett.

Through the years, I’ve heard a few people say they think Truman Capote wrote Mockingbird. These accusations are false, which I discovered after reading Capote’s letters at the Monroe County Courthouse. In one of those letters, Capote writes about Lee authoring the book and compliments her skill as a writer.

It is widely known that Lee helped Capote interview and type notes for In Cold Blood. She and Capote were childhood friends in the 1930s. Capote spent his summers with his cousins in a house next to where Lee grew up. (The character Dill in Mockingbird is Capote, it is believed).

Both houses have since been torn down, but there’s a plaque, marking where Capote stayed. Lee would not allow a plaque on the property where she once lived.

The homes were located about two blocks from the old courthouse, which is now a museum. (The courthouse is in the center of town square).

Many of my Monroeville acquaintances have generously shared their stories of Harper Lee with me. One of those friends is Rev. Butts. He hung out with “Miss Nelle” when she used to venture to New York.

While in the city, she preferred to take the bus, rather than a taxi, he said, and despite her success, she and her sister didn’t own a television or air conditioning until their elderly years when a caretaker required those comforts.

Butts said “Miss Nelle” is shy, but not a recluse. Every couple of weeks he picks her up and takes her where she wants to go. I’ve been tempted to ask him to introduce her to me, but decided it would be wrong to ask him to betray her request for privacy.

One day, while in Monroeville, I took Rev. Butts to lunch. He wanted to go to a restaurant in Repton, Alabama, near where he grew up. Repton is on the outskirts of Monroeville.

He asked me to drive.

When we arrived in Repton, he told me to “slow down.”

Then he proceeded to tell me about the time he and “Miss Nelle” were on an excursion. He was driving and failed to observe the speed limit.

A patrolman pulled them over.

Lee said, “Put on your collar.”

Rev. Butts did as she instructed, he said.

And he didn’t get a ticket.

Harper Lee is almost blind now, and deaf and bound to a wheelchair, he said. Her short-term memory isn’t good, but she remembers him. They have much in common in their battle against racial prejudice. Butts had the misfortune of having a cross burned in his yard.

His recounts of that time, helped me imagine a burning cross, which I included in my latest novel, A Message in the Roses.

Butts said Lee once asked him, “You ever wonder why I never wrote anything else?”

“Maybe you didn’t want to compete with yourself,” he offered.

“Bullshit,” she told him. “I wouldn’t go through the pressure and publicity I went through for any amount of money. I have said what I wanted to say and will never say it again.”

Makes me wonder what she thinks about the rediscovery of Go Set a Watchman. It has been called “brilliant” enough to print two million copies.

After the news about Watchman came out, there has been controversy, as to whether Lee actually made certain statements and approved of the book’s publication.

In a separate dispute, a lawsuit was filed, a year or so ago, on Lee’s behalf, against the son-in-law of her former agent, who is said to have assumed the agenting responsibilities for Lee. The suit stated he attempted to steal the copyright to Mockingbird.

Another suit was filed on Lee’s behalf against the old courthouse museum in Monroeville over merchandise sold in the museum’s gift shop.

But the question remains: Is she pleased with the release of Watchman?

I hope so. It’s been a long time in coming.

In the meantime, I hope to locate my copy of To Kill a Mockingbird and reread it before Watchman comes out.

If you’d like to know more about my writing and novels, visit my website: http://www.sandysemerad.com and my publishers site:

http://www.bookswelove.net/authors/sandy-semerad/

My latest novel, A Message in the Roses, is free today and If you’d like to read A Message in the Roses, it’s a great price here: http://www.amazon.com/Message-Roses-Sandy-Semerad-ebook/dp/B00LROV17O/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1405896778&sr=8-3&keywords=sandy+semerad

Remembering Elvis on his Birthday By Sandy Semerad

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Every time I hear Elvis’ music or watch one of his movies, I remember the first time I saw him. He was my first crush. Maybe that’s why my romantic heroes have features similar to the King of Rock and Roll.

I can still hear myself swoon. It was a hot, summer night near Sarasota, Florida.

I had not reached puberty yet, but I realized I was close to it when the lean, mean “Memphis flash” walked out on a rickety stage, attacked the microphone, hiked up one side of his mouth and shimmied down into a split. He looked handsome and pure one minute, animalistic and sexy the next, while singing in the voice of an angel.

I didn’t know it then, but he personified American rock and roll. How could I know? I was a kid, attending a day camp. Mother drove me and my sister and members of my swim team to see our heartthrob. His songs had inspired us while performing our water ballets.
We were certain Elvis loved women. He told us so in song. He was always wanting to love us and wanting us to forgive him. How could we NOT love him back?

That night, so many moons ago, Elvis surveyed the crowd with an amused look. Our screams made him laugh.

But when the music began, he was transformed into another dimension. He was a wild man, a tiger out of control, stalking his prey with song.

He was the American dream, a sharecropper and truck driver’s son who found fame and fortune. He represented the future, the integrated South. He seemed both black and white.

That night, the microphone and a string from his guitar gave way to his wild gyrating performance. I screamed myself hoarse and my knees felt week. Yet, I’m pleased to say I didn’t faint as others in the crowd did.

It was a night I will never forget, and I feel fortunate I was able to see him then and a number of times after that, even though I later realized he was in trouble.

When he died, I came to the conclusion he was a bundle of contradictions, sort of like the American South.

He spoke out against drugs but he died from a heart attack brought about by drug abuse.

He loved Jesus and his mother. Yet, he cheated on the women in his life.

He was a law and order man who broke the law when it suited him.

He was a tragic figure who has been idolized the world over in spite of the public’s knowledge of his real life.

He was a millionaire many times over but the Southern abject poverty from which he sprang was always present. He was America’s first Southern rock hero. Yet he disliked hard-rock music.

He gave the world and its people a part of the South we will never forget, and since today, January 8, is his birthday, I couldn’t resist sharing my memories of him.

www.sandysemerad.com

http://bookswelove.net/authors/sandy-semerad/

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Buy link: http://www.amazon.com/Message-Roses-Sandy-Semerad-ebook/dp/B00LROV17O/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1405896778&sr=8-3&keywords=sandy+semerad

An Early Christmas Gift Almost Killed Me, by Sandy Semerad #christmasgifts

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    “We’re going to Ecuador and Peru,” daughter Rene announced.
     I was overwhelmed when she told me. The timing was bad. The company I’d been working for was bought out by a larger company. I had to convince them to rehire me.
     Before we left on our trip, I was rehired, but scarcely had the time to get the shots and meds required when one visits two third world countries. At least my passport was up-to-date.
     My traveling companions included: Rene, her daughter Cody (my eleven-year-old granddaughter), Rene’s bestie Dia and Dia’s daughter Michelle.
     Rene rattled off our itinerary. We’d be going to the Galapagos and Machu Picchu, but no easy way to get there, she said.
     Three days after we left Florida, we arrived in Santa Cruz, Ecuador. All five of us slept in the same room, and it wasn’t long before the toilet clogged.
     None of us saw the tiny sign in Spanish telling us not to put paper in the commode. We were supposed to throw it in the trash instead. Rene speaks Spanish, but the sign was almost invisible to the naked eye.
     Rene and Dia discovered the blocked toilet after they’d taken their Ambien. Their doctors had prescribed the Ambien in case they had difficulty sleeping on our trip. I don’t require a sleep aid and was peacefully dreaming when Rene poked me. “You’ll have to pee in the shower, Mama. The toilet is stopped up. We’ve tried to plunge it, but it’s still clogged.”
     As her Ambien took effect, Rene began to act silly. I’d seen scary reports about Ambien. Some people have had terrible reactions after taking it. They do crazy things, like driving a car while asleep.
     Rene started playing with the ringtones on her cellphone. “Isn’t that beautiful?”
     “No, it’s loud and annoying,” I said.
     “It is not. It’s beautiful and colorful.”
     “Let’s go to sleep and try to solve our problems,” Dia repeated three times.
     Rene, who never overeats, became ravenous. She stuffed her mouth with every snack she could find.
     I watched with trepidation. What if she’s still hungry after she eats the Pringles, crackers and candy? And what if she walks out into the night looking for more food?
     “You need to lie down,” I told her.
     “I’ll sleep like a baby soon,” she said, between chews.
     “I’m going to take a video of you,” I said.
     “I’m told I’m very funny.”
     After what seemed like an eternity, she did go to sleep, but sleep evaded me then, and with the toilet clogged, I began searching for another one.
      I looked everywhere, even in the hotel’s basement, which had been roped off. I was clearly trespassing when I slipped under the barrier.
     I turned the knob on the first door I saw.
     It was unlocked.
     I eased the door open.
    A toilet sat in the back of a small room, no bigger than a closet. I tried to lock the door for privacy before squatting on the pot, but I was unable to secure it. I had an image of getting busted with my pants down.
    Unlike the upcoming adventures of our trip, I escaped unharmed. If I’d been able to see into the future, I would have stayed in Santa Cruz despite the clogged toilet. All in all, Santa Cruz was a lovely town with exotic birds, sea lions, giant turtles, good restaurants and shops.
     Since I had no warning of the tribulations to come, I boarded the boat to Isla Isabella with a smile. At first we enjoyed exploring the lava rocks on Isabella. We saw exotic birds, penguins, iguanas and white tail sharks.
     As we watched the sharks swimming in a canal, the guide cautioned, “Don’t wake them.”
     For Dia, a photographer, this was paradise, until she lost her balance and fell. The lava rocks sliced her shin to the bone. Our guide dressed her leg wound to stop the profuse bleeding, but it was not a permanent fix.
     We’d all planned to go snorkeling after the rock tour, but Dia opted out. A wise decision, I thought.
     After seeing the sharks in the canal, we didn’t want to entice them with fresh blood.
     Cody announced she was jumping in regardless. Nothing would deter her from the snorkeling experience.
     I plunged into the frigid Pacific with her.
     The guide told us not to worry about the sharks. “They usually prefer the warm canal.”
     I prayed he was right.
     As we swam through the ocean, Cody and I found ourselves caught in a fierce current. We thrashed our arms and kicked our flippers, trying to swim out. One of the guys in our group kicked me in the face in his battle to free himself.
     The guide yelled, “Stay away from the stingray.”
     As soon as Cody and I were able to rise above the ocean’s surface, she said, “I’m tired.” I was exhausted. So we swam back to the boat.
     Once on dry land, Dia’s leg looked red and infected. She needed medical attention pronto. A doctor at the hospital stitched up her wound and prescribed antibiotics. No charge. (Healthcare in Ecuador is free.)
     The next day, we went hiking up Sierra Negra,elevation 4,890 feet. Sierra Negra is a large and active volcano.
     I wish I’d worn hiking boots, not sandals. (I must have been thinking of that Bible verse: “For forty years I led you through the wilderness, yet your clothes and sandals did not wear out.”)
     In the beginning of our hike, we walked through the rain forest, where it never stops drizzling.
     “I can do this,” I told myself. I exercise daily with Jane Fonda’s Prime Time workout. I’ve walked all over Chicago and San Francisco with daughter Andrea. (Andrea probably would have enjoyed this hike, I thought. She’d walked all over Panama last summer.)
     Hours into the climb, I began to question my sanity as the terrain became higher and hotter. The rocks cut my feet. I started walking like an aging Galapagos penguin.
    “This is worse than giving birth,” I complained.
     We were given no time to rest and sightsee. Only thirty minutes for lunch.
     When I sat to catch my breath, the guide yelled, “Up, up. Don’t stop.”
     “How long have you been a guide here?” I asked him.
    “Fifteen years. I do this every day.”
     “Have you ever had anyone to quit or faint or die?”
     “No,” he said.
     “This is tough,” one of the hikers said. “I’m sure he’s had someone to quit, turn around and go back. I think it’s wrong of him to rush us along like this.”
     After hours and hours of trudging nonstop, we finally saw the volcano’s rim in the distance. “How much longer,” I asked the guide.
     “Twenty minutes,” he replied.
      It looked like a vertical climb to the rim–much too dangerous. No bars, no restrains. Easy to fall in and die.
     My feet were burning. My whole body ached. My head was swirling from the heat and volcanic gases. Not much bottled water left.
     Dia and Michelle had already started back down, but not Rene and Cody. They were determined to hike to the rim.
     I bid them farewell, then looked for a trail marker to lead me out. I kept searching, but couldn’t find a sign. On a rocky terrain, it’s difficult to detect a path.
     I got horribly lost.
     I stepped on a sticker bush. My feet and legs stung like fire.
     I spotted a spider and thought it may have bitten me.
     I couldn’t see anyone from where I stood, no guide, no hikers, no Rene, no Cody. I hoisted myself up on a giant rock to get a better view.
     I spied specks in the distance. I thought I might be hallucinating.
    Then I saw blonde and red hair.
     I yelled as loud as my dry lungs were capable of, but Rene and Cody didn’t respond.  
     I ran toward them. My adrenalin and desperation had imbued me with renewed strength.
     Rene finally turned in my direction. “What happened to you, Mama?”
     “Don’t ask. I think I need a hip replacement.”
     “Stretch and you’ll be fine.”
     No sympathy.
     Every muscle and joint in my body cried out in pain. I don’t know how I endured the hike back.
     A couple of days later, I felt better and could walk without aching, but in Cusco, Peru, Rene suffered. She threw up several times. The coca tea and leaves–natural remedies used to treat altitude sickness–didn’t work for her. Someone brought out an oxygen tank. She inhaled the oxygen, but it provided only temporary relief. BC Powder—an old Southern remedy for aches and pains–was the only thing that helped, she said.

     I’d been given a prescription for the high altitude, but the pills made me pee excessively, and I stopped taking them. (I’ve read it’s better to take it easy for a couple of days and avoid anything strenuous in order to adjust to high elevations, but when you’re seeing two third world countries in sixteen days with an action-packed schedule, resting and relaxing are impossible).

My nose bled, but it wasn’t severe enough to keep me from enjoying the spectacular vistas of Machu Picchu–the “sacred landscape” of the Inca. It sits on top of a mountain, encircled by the Urubamba River.

     Machu Picchu is in the southern hemisphere, 13.164 degrees south of the equator, 50 miles northwest of Cusco and about 7,970 feet above mean sea level. It’s one of the most important archaeological sites in South America.
     After visiting Machu Picchu, we took a long train ride. A taxi driver picked us up from the train and drove us back to our hotel in Cusco.
     After a night and day there, we began the long journey back home. We had an eleven-hour layover in Ecuador, but Rene didn’t mind. She was happy to be rid of her altitude sickness.
      “I could have died on that hike to Sierra Negra,” I told her.
     “My hands were so swollen,” she said. They looked like a giant’s.” She showed me the IPhone pictures of her hands and the volcano’s rim. “Isn’t that amazing?”
     “You and Cody could have fallen in,” I said. “There were no restrains.”
     “But we survived,” she said.
    “This early Christmas gift almost killed me,” I said. “I feel lucky to be alive. I’m going kiss the ground when I get back home.”
Now that I’m here, there’s no place on earth I’d rather be than at home celebrating the Christmas season. Here’s wishing you the happiest of  holidays, and if you’re traveling, be safe.

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     After working as a newspaper reporter, broadcaster and columnist for many years, Sandy Semerad decided to try her hand at writing novels. Her first novel, Mardi Gravestone has been republished as SEX, LOVE AND MURDER. She wrote her second mystery HURRICANE HOUSE after a hurricane ripped through her community. Her third book, romantic thriller A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES, is loosely based on a murder trial she covered as a newspaper reporter in Atlanta. All books have received five star reviews. Semerad is originally from a small town in Alabama, but now lives in Santa Rosa Beach, Florida with husband Larry, their spoiled Shih Tzu P-Nut and wayward cat Miss Kitty. She has two daughters and a granddaughter.