About The Author
I was was born a boomer in ‘46 and raised in a small town in California’s central valley. Mama’s people
My daddy’s people hailed from Blaine, Kansas. They were all Irish Catholic Democrats. In the Higgins family, “all” is the affirmation to keep in mind. My brothers and I grew up thinking “IrishCatholicDemocrat” was one word.
I was the oldest of five, surrounded by cousins in a whirling blur of boys. We were Knights or Spartans or Vikings back then, playing out historic tales in the barn we called our castle.
I never went to college. I went to San Francisco State instead. If you were there during the summer of love, you’d understand what I just said. Much of my time was invested in coffee shops, stopping a war, the Avalon Ballroom and girls in long dresses with flowers in their hair. It was all mixed in with some lectures and homework to keep me on the up and up.
If I could get in only one get-in-about regarding my school years, it would be to tell you that I was a national, state and western states public speaking champion, and a student body president to boot. A campus jock in the sport of speech would be a fair description.
I must admit that in my younger days, I was a bit like Ferdinand the Bull—just there to smell the flowers. It was during those fragrant times I met my wife Elise Gauthier, a pretty Canuck from Connecticut. She fancied hip-hugger jeans, itty-bitty little skirts, blue velvet and me. We’re still married—she’s a building contractor now, and dresses in Big Ben overalls. Things change don’t they?
In the years that followed, I earned my living in advertising, writing and producing radio and TV commercials. You might say I’ve always written fiction, some of it award winning. When I finally tried serious writing, Orion Pictures said my first screenplay was excellent. Yet in their very next breath, without so much as a little swallow, their brain trust concluded that the cost of turning it into a movie would break the bank. A cast of thousands was required. I’m told computers have changed all that, but this is now, that was then and I am one who doesn’t take rejection well. After the meeting, I went home, had words with the cat and broke my Bic pen. The cat forgave me. Elise didn’t. Evidently, you can’t wash ink out of upholstery.
With the balm of time, my urge to write returned. It prompted me to call Rick Hawkins, an Emmy Award winning Hollywood writer and producer. He was a neighbor of mine in Noe Valley, a little village above Mission Street in the hills of San Francisco. I told Rick my idea for a story about the Plattsburgh Boys. He liked it. The only advice he gave me was, “This is Hollywood; there’s got to be a girl in it.” There is.
I’m telling you these things because folks who claim to know, tell me that people want to hear a little something about who’s talking to them. My wife would say that talking with me is like talking to a wall. I prefer to think you’re listening to a rug.
I find that people are a lot like rugs. Dye doesn’t always run deep and patterns are learned behavior. What makes a rug worthy are knots. They are the ties that bind. The more knots it has, the better the rug. I think of myself as a knotty man who’s been spread out across the living room floor to keep my wife’s feet warm. My grandson Little Bear and I like it down on the floor in front of my sixty-inch Sony TV. Don’t say it…I know. You’ve got a bigger one. Someone always has. That never changes, does it?
Tom Higgins
