About the Author

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Mike Kaiser

I was born in Seattle in the wee hours of the Friday following Thanksgiving. My parents were unstable narcissists who should not have had children. They fought, made up and fought again while randomly moving from place to place. Consequently there was not a lot of stability in my life. By the time I graduated from high school I had attended sixteen schools in five states. There were two main by-products of my parents’ instability. First, I became very shy, much more comfortable alone than with others. The second was I came to adore movement, the open road and all that it offered; interesting people, beautiful scenery and truck stop food. As a child my favorite place to sleep was the backseat of a 1952 Mercury, cuddled up in a blanket, looking out the back window at the endless blue/black night while the music of the nearest country music station, intermingled with static, drifted out of the dashboard speaker of the car radio.

School was hard for me both academically and socially. I was an introvert. I had no idea how to make friends. I had a difficult time with math and reading and to this day I am a sight reader. I missed a lot of phonics instruction that is the basis for reading. Still I loved to read. First, Landmark biographies of famous people and world changing events. Later, I would spend afternoons sitting in the basement of the Moorhead (Minnesota) library finding relief from the heat on the cool marble floor. It provided an escape from my social awkwardness and a chance to explore the world through books, especially those about history.

My father, who was in and out of my life, thought Catholic school would, “straighten,” me out. It didn’t. He had been expelled from two private Catholic Schools, finally landing in the North Dakota State Reformatory for Boys. To this day I have no idea where his belief in the power of a Catholic education came from. It was obvious it had not worked for him.

In junior high I accidently found wrestling. I had coaches who looked out for me and teammates that became life-long friends. The sport gave me the ability to set goals and the dedication and tenacity to achieve those goals. I found self-discipline which enabled me to keep going when the road got rocky.

In high school I discovered writing. My journalism teacher’s influence is still with me over fifty years later. His approach with me was a combination of tough love and encouragement. He challenged me to write. He became my idol. Somehow I bumbled into Quill and Scroll, the national journalism honor society. I came to believe that one day I would live the writer’s life in New York City.

Life did not work out that way. My default choice was teaching and coaching wrestling. The last ten years of my career I taught at-risk kids and coached. It was a good job and the years passed quickly.

One thing that never changed was my love for the written word, the sound and texture of a perfectly formed phrase or sentence. My idols and role models became writers who had been wrestlers, Ken Kesey and John Irving.

Jack Kerouac was my very favorite. To this day, every time I pick up a copy of On the Road, I am mesmerized by the be-bop cadence of the narrative and the frenetic energy of the characters. I never grow tired of inhabiting their world in spite of the fact that now it lives more in myth than actual reality.

Once I retired, I had time on my hands. I thought about writing while I sat drinking coffee with my cat on my lap. From time to time I would share my thoughts with friends or post them on Facebook. It felt good to read the kind and encouraging comments about what I wrote. A friend suggested I start a blog so I did.

I have no idea if my writing is good or bad. I know it brings me great joy. I guess I will keep at it until it doesn’t.

One night a professor of mine in grad school said, “There are no neutral encounters among people. They are either positive or negative.” I am lucky. In terms of my writing I have felt so much positive energy and so much encouragement. I need to acknowledge that support.

Appreciation to my readers. Without your kindness, critical reviews and support, there would be no reason to write.

Willard Pierce, my wrestling coach. His lessons were simple, work hard, learn a few things really well, have integrity in all that you do. Finally, you don’t win by yourself. If you think you do, you are selfish and blind.

O.R. Williamson, my high school journalism teacher. He was exacting, sarcastic and ill-tempered. There were times I wanted to walk out of his class. He demanded nothing but the best-everyday. He never tolerated stupidity or a half-hearted effort. His combination of tough love and encouragement made me want to write. In short he was the most amazing teacher a guy could ask for.

Anna Marti, my teacher and friend. She has taught me so many lessons about writing and most importantly about life. The silver Buddha she gave me long ago still hangs around my neck as a symbol of our connection. I find myself quoting her every day and when I write she is always looking over my shoulder.

Kelly Rees, my first real muse. She allowed me to cut my imagination loose. One day, “Kristine and The Snowman with Burnt Umber Penis,” along with “ The Life and Times in Sibley Manor” will actually appear in print, if I live long enough.

Lisa Phillips and Alecia Pollard, my cardio therapists. I will be forever indebted to them. Not only did they show me how to exercise and take care of my health, they also inspired me to write.

Pam Lloyd and Andrew Costello who gave me a place to stay in Inwood so I could pretend to be a New York City writer. Pam once introduced me to her NYC friends as, “This is my friend Mike, the writer.” Me…a writer in New York, pretty heady stuff!

Sharon Webster Kennelly, AKA “Webby.” We were in high school journalism together and have remained close. She was the one with the talent. I always sat near her hoping some of her luster would rub off on me. She has edited much of my writing and is never afraid to tell it like it is. I appreciate her honesty a great deal.

Jules Goodwin, fellow retired teacher and best friend. There are no words to say how much Jules means to me. She goes out of her way to support my writing. She has so many good suggestions for new stories and ways to make me tell them better. She is my critic and my muse.

My kitties, who have always been part of my writing process. They have calmed me, helped focus my thoughts and sometimes they have added a sentence or two by walking across my laptop or laying down on the keyboard.

Barb Kaiser, AKA “The B.” For almost 40 years she has been my long suffering wife, my foil, my life’s partner, my favorite traveling companion, my harshest critic, my greatest supporter. She has been my touchstone in a world of chaos that seems to follow me. She has always been there, from riding the provincial buses on the back roads of Greece to sleeping in a chair in a darkened hospital room holding my hand while I fought for my life. Through it all she has always encouraged me to follow my dreams no matter how insane or far-fetched they were. She stayed when most would have been out the door and down the road. She always told me I could write and that I should. I never believed her, I thought she was too close and could not be objective. I should have known better.