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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Amazing Stories, August 1942, with
"Meet the Authors: LeRoy Yerxa"
Leroy Yerxa.
"SO—you want the story of my life?" The Editor left me clawing the air for my breath. I dragged out a photo before he could change his mind.
The most amazing thing, in my mind, is the fact that I was ever born at all. It was 1915—with a good-sized war going on at the time. Old Town, Maine, produced tons of wood pulp, woolen goods and canoes. I suspect my entrance was some small attempt to insure the future of the pulp industry.
There was a big New England kitchen which dominated the remainder of the house in both size and importance. A flour-elbowed grandmother manufactured tons of baked beans, johnny cake, biscuits and donuts. They all had a lot to do with my present one-hundred-ninety pounds of scale-punisher.
Grandfather, a bean-pole of a man who forever dripped tobacco juice and good spirits, taught me to love pine woods, fishing, and stories. Gramps had millions of words ready for immediate release. All about the moose who stuck his nose in the air and walked down Main Street during open season, and the pickerel that didn't get away.
By the time Dad had grown a large stomach and the best disposition a man was ever blessed with, I had been dragged in and out of every public school in New England and New York State. To make up for the loss of "book-larnin," I read each and every public library dry.
In Detroit, with five other children by that time delivered by the long-shanked bird with an oversized bill (I do mean bill), I started my career in Cooley High School. Having traversed the rivers of Tom Swift, Horatio Alger, and Tarzan, I developed a terrific superiority complex and dived headlong into the still waters of the school paper. I still insist that four-page, eight-column spread was a fine affair. It took me away from mathematics, history and any number of teachers who shuddered whenever they met me in the halls. The school let down its hair and laughed aloud—the day I left.
In a tiny, but no less interesting Michigan town, I acquired, in proper sequence—a typewriter, a lovely farmerette wife—and three offspring. The portable wouldn't feed five of us—and I faced the terrible shock of going to work with my dainty hands. About that time a good friend warned me that if I ever amounted to a thing—it would be through writing or talking my way into places where the greenback is known to exist. Since then I've talked my way out of vastly more good positions than one man ever should. That leaves writing as the last stand.
To get local color I went thrice to the west coast by drive-a-way—spent summers in national parks—and thumbed myself into most of the pleasure spots of the country. I tried to work for the Rocky Mountain News—and every radio news spot in Denver. Along came a swell boss (they do exist) and asked me to write letters for him that would please the irritated customer. (Same boss is still wondering how he ever made so horrible an error.) I'm wondering how long it will be before he corrects it.
My first check for writing was a huge affair in actual and mental possibilities The sum, however, (three bucks), didn't buy much bacon. For three days my slippers and pipe were ready when I reached home. My wife addressed me befittingly as "Yes, Me Lord." After that—the spell broke and I was out on a limb with the typewriter again. I stayed there—with occasional sales of all caliber—for some time.
As long as the writin' machine will work and my index fingers hold out—I'll go on trying convince some editor that I'm the flaxen-haired youth of his editorial dreams. Perhaps, in a mild fit of dementia I'll produce a few good yarns.
There is nothing more amazing about me than the facts that—I'd walk many a mile for a fishing rod—am very fond of guys like Rap who say little but say it helpfully—and that I have a terrific wanderlust which is held partially in check by three tots who keep my paychecks nibbled down to short figures.
But—don't get me wrong. I'm nuts about writing. —LeRoy Yerxa.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.