Author: Author John G Dyer

Born in Chickamauga, Georgia, John Dyer moved to Asia in 1956, when his father took an engineering assignment with a power utility. He attended grades 1-12 at an international school, touring with his family through 29 countries before settling in the Midwest. A computer scientist turned author of fiction, he is a founder of an IBM-affiliated software company, and an early innovator in electronic commerce. He brings a lifelong interest in science and engineering to everything he writes.

Undecided — John Dyer Writes

I’m wearing a mouth guard again, after grinding my teeth with sufficient force to break a molar, on account of I don’t like my new job.

I’m not talking about the writing. That’s an activity. This is about promoting myself as an author. That’s a job. The mission, if I choose to pursue it, is selling thirty thousand books a year, minimum. If I was a younger man, trying to make a living as a novelist, that would be one thing.

But I’m retired, and disinclined to seek approval. My motivation to advertise is nothing more than a nagging sense the work itself, not the author, might deserve attention. I assure you; this is not a case of superficial humility. I’m sincere.

In the grand scheme of things, there are few endeavors that really matter. Producing entertainment is not on the list. That’s one vote against shouting my name from the rooftops.

Works of fiction flow out of an author’s perspective. Stories have the power to elevate the spirit, educate, inform, inspire, and provoke thought. My books might offer some of these qualities. One vote in favor.

Publishing is a tough game. I don’t want to go back to work. If struck by illness, I won’t say, “I’m glad I spent my last days trying to sell books.” Is that three votes against? I think it is.

I write optimistic stories about places you’ll never go, people you’ll never meet, things you’ll never see. That these stories are constructive in nature is almost accidental, a reflection of what I believe, and my observations of the many ways in which individuals go about creating successful lives.

Does that make the material different enough to stand out? I don’t know. I’ve been chatting with a publicist, to whom I said, “Someone will have to convince me (the work) is remarkable”. Upon reflection, I realize that’s too much to expect. Besides, there’s no objective way to determine if my books deserve an audience, other than the option of allowing the marketplace to decide.

Oh, yeah. That’s the conundrum I’m fussing about, right now.

If you’re curious, click here. If you’re looking for a punchline, I don’t have one, else I’d already know what to do. One thing I do know is that worrying isn’t good for me. I have a sore jaw to tell me that.

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Camera Familia #21 — John Dyer Writes

Manila, Philippines. Circa 1958. I remember very little about my enlistment in the Philippine Cub Scouts, but there’s no refuting photographic evidence — I was in it. There was a guidebook, tasks to accomplish, skills to acquire. We must have gone on outings. I appear to have made acquaintances. I don’t recall any unpleasant moments.

The goal of the organization was to build virtue, self-reliance, good citizenship. As far as I know, it worked.

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Camera Familia #20 — John Dyer Writes

Botocan, Philippines. Circa 1957. The life we imagine for ourselves is not necessarily the best life for everyone, but ideas will spread, and people will make choices. Filipinos valued their culture, but postwar Western nations had a lot to offer.

Population was expanding. Cities were growing. Modernization outward was essential, if for no other reason than to increase crop yields. In the provinces, traditional ways would eventually be displaced.

Thankfully, we were there in time to witness that which came before. In the photo, a man smiles at the camera, apparently serene, living in the moment. At arm’s length, a water buffalo, a cart, a harvest. I suspect he knew, as all of us should, that the most important things in life are usually right there, at arm’s length.

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Camera Familia #19 — John Dyer Writes

Manila, Philippines. Circa 1957. Hard times make people grow up faster, a quality that can often be seen in photographs. My siblings were born in 1941, at the beginning of World War II. Some of their peers were toddlers at the Santo Tomas prison camp during the Japanese occupation.

A few, like my brother, arrived in Manila half-grown, rough and tough. Mike used to hang around the Manila Yacht Club waiting for members to get off work. He crewed sailboats, raced dinghies, explored the caves at Corregidor, and put some adventure under his belt.

My shift started during the prime rib buffet. Mike left for college. Our parents played golf. Mom was in art class. My cousins were hunting, fishing, racing jalopies around the back roads without drivers licenses, but they were half a planet away. There was nobody to show me how to do those things.

I’m not complaining. I had a great life growing up. My wife says she’s jealous. Mind you, she was riding motorcycles at the age of eleven. I could easily be jealous of that.

In the photo on the left, my brother Mike dancing with our stepsister Carolyn. On the right, their friends, also sixteen years old, looking way more grown up than I did at that age. 

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Camera Familia #18 — John Dyer Writes

Manila, Philippines. Forbes Park, 1956. Around the time of this photo, I asked Dad why we rarely saw my classmates at the Manila Polo Club. He replied, “Not everyone can be a member.” I was too young to process the long explanation but there was, for instance, a ceiling on enrollment. One needed a sponsor. You had to be voted in. It was expensive. Some folks lived on the beach, or had swimming pools, or spent all their time at the golf club. Being able to walk through the front door at MPC didn’t necessarily make us special.

So, this is what that looked like.

The club had (has) a twenty-five meter swimming pool, tennis courts, badminton courts, a duck-pin bowling alley, riding stables, party houses, a ballroom. Even at the tender age of six, I could see our life had experienced an upgrade.

My mother, and stepsister Carolyn, waxing glamorous on the low board. We weren’t in Flintstone, Georgia anymore.

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Camera Familia #17 — John Dyer Writes

Manila, Philippines. 1956. Lucina de Llacuna was poised, dignified, and rich with virtue. Also kind, steady, cheerful but not jolly, a bit on the stoic side as witnessed by the photo. According to my brother Mike, Lucina was plenty shrewd enough to handle our mother, which might explain how they got along. No disrespect intended to Mom, but consistency was not her strong suit.

Lucina was from Laguna de Bay, which I always assumed bore some relationship to her surname. It did not. Taxonomy — Llacuna, a town near Barcelona, Spain. I didn’t look into it until starting this essay.

We never knew her age. Malays have a tendency to wax ageless. The information was not volunteered. Dad thought it would be impolite to ask. We’re thinking close to Dad’s age, forty-one at the time.

My parents may or may not have known what became of Lucina’s husband. If they did, it was never mentioned. I was six. Lucina was my amah. My instructions were to show respect, do what she told me, and stay out of the way. At no point in our relationship did she tell me the story of her life, and I can’t say I was curious about it. I knew my Uncle Bill for fifty years, and never asked him any questions either.

Occasionally, in the presence of my parents, Lucina might say in Tagalog something along the lines of, “I know what time you came in last night” — without using the word ‘hala’ (shame on you), because they knew what it meant. I wasn’t afraid she’d tell on me, but her approval mattered. I would ask forgiveness, and make promises I couldn’t keep. It was a ritual, an affirmation of her authority, and a great deal more. I’m sure it brought her joy.

Lucina stayed with our family for the duration — eighteen years. Dad established a pension account in a Manila bank. Last I checked, it was still paying out. That would have made her one-hundred-nine at the time. It’s not impossible, and besides, there are boundaries to honor. If she was still living, good for her. If not, it’s none of my business who’s cashing the checks. 

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Camera Familia #16 — John Dyer Writes

Manila, Philippines. 1956. Our first chauffeur did more than drive the car. Leno Lenore was guide, interpreter, teacher, guardian, mechanic, emissary, courier and caregiver. He was a very nice man. Life would not have been the same without him.

Around 1960, my parents sponsored a stint in technical school, after which Leno took a job at Meralco’s meter repair department. I understood the proposition. I was happy for him, but it was a sorrowful loss.

Twenty years ago, his daughter tracked me down and I called him. He told me about retiring from Meralco with a pension, and how grateful he was for Dad’s patronage. It was a wonderful conversation. He’d experienced a successful, rewarding life.

If I’d any sense, I would have asked more questions. The chauffeur always knows the family secrets.

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Camera Familia #15 — John Dyer Writes

Manila, Philippines. September, 1957. This is the same dinner party as seen in #14, following the group photo, after which I was turned loose on the guests. I wasn’t wise to everything going on, but I wasn’t deaf, either. If someone said, “Have you met so-and-so’s querida?”, I would soon receive instructions not to repeat the conversation, otherwise I absolutely would.

Guaranteed, I’d ask what a ‘querida’ was. Then I’d ask what a ‘mistress’ was. It was quite the education.

Long before I knew what CIA stood for, I knew who some of the officers were. We’d see them on the golf course, and Dad would sometimes remind me not to let on that I knew.

I’m pretty sure everyone knew.

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Camera Familia #14 — John Dyer Writes

Manila, Philippines. September, 1957. Everyone in this photo had an extraordinary story to tell. I wouldn’t hear any of those stories until I was older. If they’d worn costumes I would have asked questions, but nobody ever did that at dinner parties.

In 1918, at the age of eighteen, Ty Norton (not present) boarded a ship in San Francisco to take a farm job at a Philippine pineapple plantation. We knew a man who flew with the Flying Tigers in Burma. A few of my parents’ friends were in Manila when the Japanese invaded. A man assigned the postwar task of destroying U.S. military equipment instead diverted jeeps and trucks into the black market. Years later, he was described as something of a gangster, but he didn’t look or act the part. Who would have guessed?

Not me. I was a little kid. Intrepid adventurers. Captains of industry. Deal-makers. Diplomats. Soldiers. Spies. Entrepreneurs. Rascals. Romeos. Workers. Parents. Church-goers. Sophisticates. Philosophers. Artists. Athletes.

It was a variety show, the likes of which I will never see again.

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Camera Familia #13 — John Dyer Writes

Manila, Philippines. 1956. Everyone in this photo has an interesting story to tell. Most, but not all, were foreign nationals and of these, not all from the United States. Many of the parents were in-country on temporary assignments. Others had resided in the Philippines for decades. A few of the families were Philippine citizens, firmly established but not necessarily Filipino.

There were said to be fifty-thousand Americans living in and around Manila when I was there. Military kids typically attended school on base. There were other private schools, including Catholic institutions, teaching classes in English. Mail-order home-school academies were an option. We were not the only world-traveling first graders in town.

At the American School campus near downtown Manila. The chemistry teacher was German. The music teacher was Russian. I was awkward and shy. Pretty much everyone else was swash-buckling.

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