Karen Spears Zacharias @ Much Ado About Books, pt. 2

Another report from Jacksonville, as Karen's book festival activities begin...

I don't have the foggiest idea what the headlines in Jacksonville's paper were on Friday. I intended to read it, lazily, over a cup of coffee, prior to heading out to speak at a couple of schools. But those plans were interrupted when Mildred, the ever-diligent escort assigned by the Literary Guild, showed up half-an-hour early. She wanted to make sure I arrived at the high school with plenty of time to spare.

Even so, we were 15 minutes late. It seems Mildred only thought she knew where she was going. Although she's lived in Jacksonville since 1949, and was a school principal prior to retirement, Mildred didn't really know where the beach high school was located. I was due at the school at 8:30 a.m. At 8:40, Mildred stomped on the brakes, several feet beyond the crosswalk, at a red light. The crossing guard made her back the car up, out of the walking lane, then directed her to the nearest high school. After a few more herky-jerky turns and stops, Mildred nosed the car into a handicapped space at Fletcher High School.

Some of the students were asleep before the librarian had completed my introduction. I made a mental note to try and read quietly, so as to not disturb the slumbering. I don't get offended by the sleeping. What really chaps my butt is when wide-awake folks purposely ignore me.

That didn't happen at any of the school sessions. The students appeared sincerely interested in the story of Hero Mama. They asked me more questions than my parole officer. Okay. So I'm not really on parole. I probably deserve to be.

"Did writing this book make you anti-war?" one dark-haired boy inquired.

"Do you know anyone who is really pro-war?" I responded.

"What was your mother's reaction?" a girl in the back asked.

"She wanted to put me up for adoption," I answered.

Later, I learned there was a boy whose grandfather died in Vietnam. His father was not quite a year-old at the time. And there were two girls in the class whose Vietnamese mothers had immigrated to the United States following the Fall of Saigon.

Has it really been 30 years since the last whup-whup of the chopper's blades cut through the skies and the hopes of those trying ohsodesperately to escape? Mirta Ojito knows all about that sort of desperation. She chronicled her own family's escape from Cuba in her new book, Finding Mañana. Mañana, she told me, is the name of the boat that delivered her family safely to American shores. The boat was operated by a Vietnam veteran. A man who lost his arm during the war, and who came close to losing his life. Mirta recounts that story in Chapter 9 of her book. She shared it with me as we cruised along the St. John's River. We both wept.

"Let's get all this out of the way tonight," Mirta said. C-SPAN is taping the panel we share on Saturday. There'll be no crying jags on national television.

Later, I introduced Mirta to Pat Conroy, and they swapped stories about Castro. Mirta said she recently heard the NPR Show "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me" and the host had asked the question: "So what item did Castro encourage the people of Cuba to go out and buy?" The answer? A pressure-cooker. Mirta figured the question to be a joke. But she spoke with her father and learned it was no laughing matter.

"For five hours, Castro talked about the advantages of the pressure cooker! Five hours! Can you imagine?" Mirta implored.

I could, actually. Five hours of steaming Castro spittle is nothing compared to the pressure cooker environment the Cuban people have been living in for the past 47 years.

One reporter confessed to Mirta that she thought all the Cuban refugees of 1980 had come over on the same boat.

"You mean she thought somebody had sent a cruise ship to pick everyone up?" I asked.

"I guess so," Mirta replied, with a laugh. "All 125,000 of us."