Mary Louise Eklund

Tag: heroes

  • Why Superman Isn’t My Hero

    Why Superman Isn’t My Hero

    Beside the Massac County Courthouse, Superman Square, Metropolis, Illinois.
    Giant Superman by J. Stephen Conn on Flickr. Image used under Creative Commons 2.0 Attribution Non-Commercial License.

    I’ve never liked goody-goody heroes. I don’t find it interesting to see a perfect person do perfect things saving schmoes like me from the problems and troubles we find ourselves.

    I prefer my heroes to be relatable. I want them to have dents, bangs and scratches from real life. I want them to be tempted to do what’s easy, to go for revenge, or to be self-serving. Sometimes I want a hero to act not necessarily from noble motivation but do what’s expedient. C’mon the rest of us do that would a hero at least be tempted? at least dismiss those thoughts?

    I’m a fan of the reluctant hero. The one that rises to the occasion because there is no one else to do so. The one that doesn’t want to be there and if Superman or Captain America swooped in to take over my hero would gladly let them. Yet since the goody-goodies aren’t there and my hero is, they do the best they can to do the right thing even if they regret it the whole time. The old “why did I get involved” or in Die Hard John McClane’s “come to the west coast…” line.

    I can relate to a hero like that. I can’t relate to a hero that doesn’t have a devil on their shoulder. One that isn’t always doing the right thing. I guess that’s why I loved Batman first. Yep my first word in this life was Batman. Tell me I wasn’t destined for the darker heroes and to read comics. I still like Bruce Wayne but I’ve fallen hard for James “Logan” Howlett aka Wolverine. Heck I like Josey Wales, ” I ain’t got nothin’ better to do.”

    As a writer I know good characters aren’t one dimensional but multidimensional. I strive to make my villains be antagonists not purely evil but the one my lead character is struggling against. I want the reader to sympathize with both characters but their loyalties ultimately fall with my lead character, the hero, the protagonist. Now my lead won’t always do the right thing he’ll have flaws because those are challenges to his growth in the piece as is the confrontation with the antagonist. He has to deal with himself to deal with his opponent and that to me is not only interesting but more realistic. In the end neither my protagonist or antagonist are the same people they were at the beginning. If they were confronted with the same situation again they’d act differently because of the experiences in my story. To me those are good characters, they grow, they change. A story is getting a big change in their lives but if I read another story later down the timeline I can see they are changed from their experiences. That keeps me reading. Goody-goodies don’t change they just go about doing good for good sake.

    Perfection bores me. I won’t read it very long. It’s predictable. It’s something I’ll never be. BUT I’d like to think if I was forced into the right situation despite my wishes to be rescued I’d do the right thing until someone more qualified or better at it came along. Then like John McClane I’d kiss their dalmatian for saving me. I can relate to having to rise to the circumstances, or doing what’s right despite the desire not to do it. I’m just human and that’s what I want my heroes to be at heart- human.

    You are going to get tired of reading this but as always I’d love to chat with you. Tell me what you think and you are welcome to disagree (politely). You can comment here, it’ll show up when I get it. You can reach out to me on Google+, Flickr, or Twitter (@marylouiseklund). You can e-mail me at marylouiseelund @ (with two e’s unlike Twitter) gmail.com or yahoo.com.

    Until next time!

  • My Unkie

    My Unkie

    Herbert Denton Rolen & Mary Louise Bright
    Herbert Denton Rolen & Mary Louise Bright

    I grew up with men that had odd nicknames—Trub, Hoot, Tip, Unkie.  Being a child I never really thought of how those nicknames came to be.  They just where.  I took name to be what you told me it was.  So my grandfather’s baby brother was Unkie.  I never thought it was shorthand for uncle, nor did I think he was really my mom’s uncle. He was and always will be my Unkie.

    Herbert Denton Rolen was the last of my maternal grandfather’s siblings.  He died  two weeks ago at the age of 93.  The whole family feels the loss of that generation.  I can’t say his passing was sad, it was a release for him.  It was sad for us because we won’t have his grin that rumbling chuckle, or those strong gentle eyes watch another generation of kids grow up here with us.  The sadness is selfish, for us.  Still one of the good ones is gone from this life and I’ll miss him.

    However, when I remember him I’ll always smile.  My first image of him is in olive green work clothes – shirt and pants matching, sitting silently in the corner as I entered Granny Rolen’s house.  He’d grin at me not in the condescending ways adults can smile at children but more in the conspiratorial way kids beam at each other when they know they could get into fun the adults might not wholly approve of them doing.  Oh nothing harmful just stuff that could get good clothes dirty or make us late for dinner.

    Granny, really my great grandmother, had grape and scuppernong vines.  She was protective of them.  I now know it was probably because growing such things in the climate of East Tennessee isn’t easy.  As a kid I didn’t know why. But I knew I loved the fruit. If there were some ripe she’d go out with me to pick them.  I wasn’t allowed to pick without her because she wanted to be sure to get just the ripe ones.  One visit I waited for her to come out.  The golden green globes looked so good I couldn’t resist.  I picked one and popped it into my mouth.  OH! It was bitter.  Unkie came grinning from garden.

    “That one wasn’t ripe.  They are bitter until they turn gold.”  He laughed as he watched my face and my hurry to spit the fruit from my mouth.  “That’s why she wants you to wait.”

    I suddenly felt guilty.  “I’m sorry.”  I was also worried I’d just gotten myself in trouble with three generations, Granny, Nanny, and Mom.  I must have looked worried.

    “Don’t worry I won’t tell.”  He grinned and patted me picking some gold ones from higher up where they got full sun.

    He and I were buddies then.  Just like I was his brother’s, my grandfather’s,  little buddy I was Unkie’s too.  That day he became my Unkie because he didn’t tell on me.  He understood what it was like to be a kid.  He took time from working the farm to play with me.  To catch tadpoles with legs, to chase grasshoppers in the field, to swing in the shade while eating ice cream we’d churned with Granny.

    I knew he was in the Merchant Marines that’s why he wasn’t there all the time. You’d never think the man in dirty farm overalls, with the shy smile, and East Tennessee twang in his voice had traveled the world.  He was good ole’ down home folk.  However, he’d been to every continent except Antarctica.  He’d sailed through the dangerous seas of World War II.  He’d been in Vietnam during the fighting and even visited a nephew serving in the US Army there.  He’d seen the world but loved the valley that held his family farm.  He’d come back every summer to cultivate that land, to play with kids that showed up, to fool strangers into thinking he’d never left those East Tennessee hills.

    One story he told was when he was a young man his mother sent him to town to get a new broom.  At the time the transportation available was their old mule.  Herbert was a large fella so his legs hung awkwardly off the mule as he rode to town for the broom.  He got the broom and was riding home holding the broom to the side and plodding away on the hair too small for him mule.  That was when he spotted his sister Sammie Sue with her new beau.  She turned red and ignored her baby but not little brother distracting the beau.  Well, being one who couldn’t resist a good laugh Herbert shouted “Howdy” to his sister waving the broom. He made making sure that not only the beau saw him, but everyone else on the street did too.  As he’d tell the story his smirk would spread, his eyes sparkle,  and he’d end the telling with a good laugh.

    He was one who loved to laugh.  The laugh was a warm and welcoming one rolling up from his belly, erupting as a chuckle, then breaking into a full laugh would roll out making all who heard it join him.  The big man never seemed threatening but always seemed loving, cuddly, and safe.  The kind of protector a child and a country deserved.  The kind of man who was pleased to oblige both.

    The last conversation I had with him was one of equals just like the day I’d eaten the sour grape.  Except this time we talked of warfare, Navy, ships and service.  He as a man who’d retired from it, me as a wife of one doing it.  He’d showed me a picture of his ship.  Then he turned it over and showed me the billets of his service, various ports of call, missions we’d call them in US Navy.  He told of life aboard the ship, port calls, and fear during war.  My son was there to hear it from one who had lived history.  Unkie was tired when we said good-bye but it was a good kind of tired.  I knew because that grin that had welcomed me all my life was still there on his lips.

    Last week I drove to Tennessee to attend his funeral.  We all mourned our loss.  Then over a fellowship dinner graciously given to the family by his church we began to laugh and grin remembering him.  He brought us together as a family with smiles, memories happy times we’d all shared with him.  I am proud to say that good man, Herbert Rolen, was my Unkie.