Once a month, we stop practicing and invite you to show off your best work.
Are you interested in being published (in print)? Would you like to get better at the writing craft by working with an editor? Do you enjoy a little friendly competition? And are you a fan of The Write Practice?
Then this writing contest might be for you.
Photo by Keoni Cabral
Show Off Your Best Work
Here’s how this writing competition works.
You will submit a longer piece, between 500 and 1250 words, based around this month’s theme: America is…. You can submit as many pieces as you want. After one week, on Monday, July 9, 2012 at 11:59 pm EST, submissions will close, and we will choose a winner.
Here’s the exciting part. If your piece is chosen, I will work with you on making it the best it can be. We’ll work on making your images shine, your prose sparkle, your dialogue sing, and your grammar… not suck.
Then, at the end of the month, we’ll publish it on the Write Practice where hundreds of people will get to read you at your very best. For example, read last month’s winner, Kristi Boyce's The Ride.
It gets better though.
We’re going to do this every month for the next year, and in December 2012, we plan to collect all twelve of these pieces and publish them in a book. Real paper, real cover, real ink. So if your piece is chosen, you will be able to consider yourself a published author.
Ready to start?
SHOW OFF: RULES
The Theme: What is America?
Write a story that reveals a particular side of America. You can show a positive or negative side of America, but it must be a story.
Guidelines
- It should be a finished work. A complete story.
- Non-fictional and fictional pieces are both accepted.
- We will accept pieces between 500‑1250 words. We will read every word, so please, nothing over 1250 words.
- You can post your completed piece in the comments of this post. You can post as many times as you want!
- Please, nothing too graphic or explicitly sexual.
- The deadline is Monday, July 9 at 11:59 pm EST to post your piece. That’s a week, but start today!
And, of course, if you submit your work, you agree to give us first publishing rights (meaning that after we publish it, the rights revert back to you).
Best of luck to you!
Joe Bunting is an author and the leader of The Write Practice community. He is also the author of the new book Crowdsourcing Paris, a real life adventure story set in France. It was a #1 New Release on Amazon. Follow him on Instagram (@jhbunting).
Want best-seller coaching? Book Joe here.
Hello!
I am not from your country. I am from a fast developing country, India. Can I join?
A very topical story is said to give a universal flavor. Besides I am trained in English literature and language studies, so have a little idea about America.
Do let me know by 7th July
Doesn’t matter where you’re from. Feel free to participate! I’m sure Joe would say the same 😉
I would! 🙂
Personally, I’d love to see America from a different perspective–whether you’ve got a background in American lit or just what you’ve heard about it. I say go for it! I look forward to reading your story.
Of course! Please join us.
Time to get to work!
The boat sends shivers of ripples
along the surface of the calm waters. Everyone on board is quiet and reflective
as we pass through the tropical lagoon. It’s hard to imagine this beautiful
place being the scene of such violent devastation. But he doesn’t have to
imagine. It’s as real to him today as it was seventy years ago.
The deep creases in his weathered
and whiskered face tell only a hint of the old man’s story. Perhaps, many of
his stories have never been told; stories too unbearable to share, yet too
painful to forget. He has done his best to move forward; marrying his high
school sweetheart, and going to work every day to provide a safe home for his
growing family.
Everyone rises to their feet in
honor of this old man as he disembarks the boat setting his weary feet on the
hallowed ground of the USS Arizona Memorial. One of the last living survivors
of the Pearl Harbor attack that occurred December 7, 1941, he represents what
is best about America. He helps us remember the Day of Infamy.
The crowd respectfully follows this
American hero on to the platform suspended over the sunken ship that entombs
nine hundred of his fallen brothers. Flowers fall into the dark water of the harbor,
floating on the blue surface stained with black tears bubbling from the watery
grave.
But even in the somberness of this
memorial scene, I am delightfully surprised to discover this ship graveyard has
become a living reef for the beautiful schools of fish that swim here. Nature
has turned that which was dead into a living sanctuary of creation.
I am grateful for these heroes,
both dead and alive, for the sacrifice they made for their country; for their
courage to face the enemy and for their perseverance to rebuild and redeem the
tragedy and devastation of war.
Yes, I am grateful. As I return
home from my memorial experience, to reengage my everyday life of job and
family, I reflect on this elder hero with deep appreciation. Because of him, I
have the opportunity to pursue my personal happiness in a free and prosperous
nation.
As I travel the well-paved highways
of our country to celebrate our independence with other members of my family, I
am grateful. Many American heroes made this possible with their sweat, their
blood, their very lives.
As I gather with family and friends,
enjoying the bounty of burgers and barbeque, I am satisfied far beyond my
expanding waistline. Cold bottles and red cups filled with ice cold relief are
raised in honor of the men and women throughout our country’s history who made
each and every feast possible.
My heart explodes with every “oo”
and “ah” as we sit under spacious skies illuminated with spectacular displays
of color and sound. I delight in seeing the fireworks reflected in the eyes of
my children and grandchildren as we gather together under the booming ballet of
light. I am grateful.
This is America; generation to
generation, inheriting the blessing of freedom and passing it on to the
next.
This is a beautiful, Tom. You’ve captured the scene so well. It actually made me think of the movie Saving Private Ryan.
Very nice, Tom. It brought back my own memories of watching the fireworks on Waikiki on the way home from an extended trip abroad.
As she walks into her classroom for the first time, her mind
is filled with visions of what is possible. Of the books that will be read and the essays that will be
written. Of the discussions that
will be had and the debates that will take place. She is filled with excitement and nervousness and purpose as
she considers what she will do as a teacher in this room.
Day after day, week after week, month after month, she works. She comes early and stays late. She pushes and challenges and tries as
hard as she can to maintain her high expectations. She plans and implements and assesses and evaluates and then
plans and implements and assesses all over again.
The winter cold sets in and she is getting weary. But there are glimmers of hope that
keep her pushing forward. An
insightful explanation of a symbol.
A connection from one work of literature to another. A sense of empathy for a character that
is different than the student. The
correct use of a semicolon, finally.
They are reading and writing and laughing and arguing and doing all
those things she always wanted to do with students. They are learning.
But spring approaches, and testing season with it, and she
is tired of fighting. Fighting
reluctant students who have been failed by the system. Fighting for resources when there are
so few to go around. Fighting an
administration that cannot seem to decide which rules are arbitrary and which
ones are to be enforced. Fighting
for the right to teach things that are real instead of things that fit in a
bubble on an answer document. Fighting
the distractions that come from hunger and exhaustion and broken air
conditioners in 95-degree weather.
Fighting the prejudices of the community that says that these students cannot do it. That these students are incapable.
That these students are
worthless.
She is tired, but she will keep fighting. She will speak for them, because she
has the right to. She will send articles about them to the local newspaper,
because she has the right to. She will assemble for them, because she has the
right to. She will petition the
government for them, because she has the right to. She will pray for them, because she has the right to.
And she is so grateful for those rights.
This brave, fierce woman will go to battle for the ignored,
the marginalized, the oppressed, and the maligned because they have the right
to an education. They have the
right to deep, meaningful learning that cannot be measured by a standardized
test. They have the right to fall
in love with Shakespeare and go to war with Hemingway and sail the Mississippi with
Twain and throw Dickens across the room when he describes the ivy crawling up
the walls for yet another five paragraphs. They have the right to be defined by their character, and
not by the color of their skin or their zip code.
Spring shifts into summer, and she packs up her things and
flips the light switch for the last time this year. She will use the coming weeks to relax and refresh, but also
to prepare, to train for the fight that she knows she will face again next year. And the year after that. And the year after that.
Frederick Douglass said, “Once you learn to read, you will
be forever free,” and America is the land of the free, the home of the brave,
the place where anyone can make their dreams come true. And this fourth of July, the teacher
will sit on her front porch, watch the fireworks, and dream of the day when all
the children in America – rich and poor, black and white, Hispanic and Asian, male
and female – will be truly free.
Great job Rachel. I really enjoyed reading your story. Great perspective on what makes up America and how we just keep trying and working to make it better. Aidan
Thanks, Aidan!
This is great, Rachel! Very real.
Katie
love, love, love this. As a student, as a teacher–because don’t we cycle in and out of that through life. I love that you tied classical literature quotes into it. Love it!
Home. In our minds it’s what we call it anyway. What we’ve
taught our daughter who was born miles away in a pea green hospital ward stuck
in the 50s; an American by birth right and passport.
On the rare occasion that we meet other Americans who don’t
live there either, we all talk about it like it’s an aunt or uncle we miss but
are also maybe a bit annoyed with, the difficult relative who took care of you
during the summers, so you love and appreciate them. The relative no one but
you can criticize.
Accents give it away. ‘Oh, yea I could tell that when you
said hello’. It was said in the clipped northern way. ‘Well, yeah. I’m from
Texas.’ I drawled it, letting it hang a bit in the air, the ‘from’ drawn out
and the Texas, swallowed at the end the way we do to a lot of our words. I did
it mostly for show. And ‘cause I didn’t want to let her down, to disappoint her
snap judgment of me.
I’m a Texan, it’s
true. But I haven’t lived there in 15 years. Can you still hear my accent?
Living in a circle of mixed nuts, some Kiwis, some Aussies,
a handful of Canadians and a whole shit load of Brits, the American gets
subsumed. Kind of sucked into the umbrella of ‘anglophone’. So when you meet
that rare bird, a fellow American living over here in Europe, your country, your
past, all your conditioning come back on you. ‘Oh, yea I could tell…’, what a
thing to say. Only a fellow American can build those barriers, distinctions
between other Americans. Over here, we’re just the Americans. When I looked at
her, with her big, white teeth, long hair and static botulism features, I felt the
acute sting of inadequacy. I’ve never been that kind of American girl. Never
was rich enough, confident enough, connected enough to be her with a planned
out life, someone to push me and guide me through the right choices of schools,
clothes, cars, dates, careers, husbands.
That put me right back in America, the east Texas girl with
the heavy accent, climbing up from the backwoods to try a different life on.
‘Where is Leigh Ann again, baby? Did you say she was livin’ in Finland or
someplace?’ Mamma repeated questions like these after going to family reunions.
They couldn’t understand why on earth I would leave. And because I did, they
didn’t mind necessarily, but it was just somewhere too far away to remember, to
bother to listen to. They’d shake their heads and murmur, ‘can’t say I’m
surprised’ as they spit sweet tobacco juice into white Dixie cups and clicked
spotted dominoes together on the square table. ‘she always was an odd one, that
girl’, ‘must be from her daddy’s side’, ‘he was a tough one to figure’, ‘always
a bit too above herself’, they’d say.
It wasn’t like I was running away from anything, more that I
was being pulled. There wasn’t a bigger world outside of mine when I was a kid.
Catching crawdaddies as they popped their little lobster heads out of the muddy
ditch, being tied to a tree with an ant bed at the bottom by the big boys on
the street, a form of sadistic flirting I see now, riding our bikes up and down
the red dirt roads, popping zigzag up and down the big culverts alongside until
our legs damn near fell off and were covered in a slick of orangey-red setting
fire to my blonde leg hairs that I begged to be able to shave. Filthy and
tired, like a kid in summer ought to be. Begging to have the air conditioning
turned on before the end of June, but having to lay there, naked and sweaty in twisted
rosebud sheets, the fan whirring and mosquitos whining in my ear. There wasn’t
any more than this in my childhood mind.
When I read stories of other places, they’d paint pictures
of big, fat roses and ivy and green, green grass or mango trees and koalas,
kangaroos, Big Ben and foggy, sooty streets with beggar children, freezing cold
and damp from the gray light of a cloudy sky, but all I could picture was here.
This bright, white hot sun high up in the sky, cranked up like an oven, turning
the blacktopped streets misty, hot oil glowing iridescent where daddy’s car had
sat too long. It was the pine trees and azaleas and baked red earth that I saw.
The light wisps of clouds gathering pieces from all over the sky and building
into dark gray bouffants, the pressure hurting momma’s front teeth, before it
all cracked open and beat down, turning the packed red dirt all orange and
thick.
This was all there was. Red, white and blue flags on
porches, the pledge of allegiance every morning at school, small, sweaty hand
with jagged fingernails pressed firmly on my heart, reciting the pledge like a
prayer.
I left a lot of it behind but kept the best parts. I shined
and polished them, argued against stereotypes with non-Americans, stood up for
my country and its citizens when a plummy-accented Brit called us colonists,
joked about our pioneer spirit and obesity and love of tumbling, energy burning
clothes dryers and tried to represent the best of my country. One asshole once
said, ‘You know you’re the representative of your entire country living over
there so you’d better take that seriously.’ Screw you’, I say. Why don’t you
represent it by being a bit nicer and kinder and trying harder to make it
better while you actually live there.
She shrugged, rearranging her long honeyed hair, bangles
clattering, ‘Do you ever get back? I’m sure you’d see a lot of changes.’ I’m
sure I would. And I wouldn’t. I keep my America in my heart, crying at the
national anthem, sending in my voting card from overseas, making Thanksgiving
dinner on the Saturday after all your Black Friday’s purchases are piled up high
in the garage. ‘We don’t get back very often but our parents come here to visit.’,
was my answer. ‘Welcome to Europe. I hope you enjoy your time here. If you need
anything let me know…’, the basic things I’m expected to say are said. And I
casually move on, ‘nice to meet you’, to the next clutch of ladies nibbling on
cheese toasts and olives, glasses of white and red and pink in hand. The
American.
Gorgeous description of America when you compared the nation to a relative. Wonderful writing.
Thank you Marla. I appreciate it. Aidan
I really enjoyed this. Honest and alive… Great!
Thanks zo-zo, thanks for commenting. It was fun to write.
aidan
I Think About…
Each time I pass by the flower stand at Walmart I think about the
Dominican Republic (DR). I’ve taken three mission trips down to the DR.
A flower bouquet will take me back to the flatbed truck used to carry us
up into the hills around El Cercado. Pastor Morales would lead our team
to the neediest families in the area where we would deliver our gifts of
rice and beans. As we would make the bumpy ride up the mountain, my
eyes were drawn to all the little houses lining the side of the dirt
road. I would watch the women sweep at the dirt outside their front
door. Sometimes, the door to their home would be open and I would try to
catch a quick glimpse of the story inside the house. I would see a
small kitchen table and sitting in the center of the table, a vase, full
of colorful fresh cut flowers.
The other night my 8 year old son complained again of having to take a shower.
“Again, Mom?! I just took one the other night. Why do I have to take another one?”
As he sulked off down the hallway to the shower, I think about the DR
workers who would help us each year with our construction and painting
projects. I think about Ramon and how he didn’t just wash his hands in
the water bucket we used to clean all of our tools at the end of the
long, hot day out in the sun. Instead, he seized an opportunity. He
washed every speck of paint off of his hands. He scooped the water onto
his face. He scrubbed it through his hair.
I also think about the family I saw by the creek on our drive to one of the local orphanages, little naked pairs of legs and brown bottoms stepping off the grassy
bank and into the water.
Sometimes, my son tells me there is nothing for him to do. He is tired of playing the most recent Wii game he picked up from Walmart last month.
I think about the little boy running down the dirt road outside his house in San Juan. He’s tugging a pull toy made out of an empty plastic oil container, four water bottle tops, and a piece of string. I think about a another group of little
boys who ran by our team on our short walk to church. They were laughing
and conversing with one another as they banged sticks on pieces of
Styrofoam.
And, just this morning, I noticed the roll of toilet paper hanging on the dispenser in my upstairs bathroom was running low. As I reached into my closet to retrieve another roll from the 24 roll package I picked up from Walmart the other day, I think about my always prepared mission team member, Sophie. The last time I was in the DR, she kindly gave me a pair of her latex gloves from her bag. I had
mistakenly dropped toilet paper in the toilet and would have to retrieve
it from the bowl before I could flush. You can’t actually put toilet
paper in the toilets in the DR. The septic system isn’t designed to
handle it.
I think about the DR all the time.
And, when I do, I think about America.
Powerful writing and such strong images. This is so good.
Thanks, Marla 🙂
Oh Eileen, the contrast is so startling and powerful isn’t it! So often at night as I lay my head on my soft pillow and snuggle under comfortable sheets I thank God for his kindness to me. And I pray for the mothers struggling to feed their children, the people without freedom, and those with no education. All this beautiful freedom and luxury can’t be simply for our own enjoyment. Can it? Great writing and powerful reminder!
I agree, Beck. We can so easily forget how blessed we are and take things for granted.
This is great, Eileen! One thing I thought about playing with (but didn’t) is that Central and South Americans consider themselves “Americans” too. In English, there’s not a word for United States-ian but in Spanish there is. Don’t tell someone from the DR they’re not an American unless you want to upset them. I love the contrast you’ve got here because it’s so real to me! Right down to the not throwing TP in the toilet.
Katie
What a great point, Katie. Yes, the no TP in the toilet really through me the first time I went down there.
It threw me at first too! Coming back, we all put huge wads of tp in the airport toilet just because we could. Then when I went to Nicaragua where you CAN put tp in the toilet, I felt so naughty!
Katie
haha! That’s great! Every time I get home from the DR, I open my mouth in the shower…just because I CAN!
My alarm clock broke last night. So, I woke myself up at 4 A.M., two and a half hours early. I just lied down in my warm, musty Bronx apartment, trying to fall back asleep. My hair was slightly wet from sweat, but I couldn’t uncover myself from my covers. I just lied down in my bed failing to go back asleep in my sweaty state until 515 A.M. When I finally woke up again it was 718 A.M. I slowly, drowsily sat up on my bed, the covers still sat on me, while I stared at my watch which dictated 719 A.M. I literally jumped out of my bed, pulling my cover with me (who needs a snuggie?). I took a well needed shower, got dressed, made breakfast and just in time to watch the last ten minutes of the news.
At the end of the news, they broadcasted the weather. It looks like a heatwave strikes NY today as we are expecting there to be record breaking heat today and tomorrow, better get those air conditioners working folks. Great! Record-breaking heat and I get to wear a heavy Louis Vuitton suit. I threw on my thin, white lined suit and left my apartment with a small satchel and a thermos full of iced coffee and boy did I need it. I walked half a block to my outdoors garage, where my car was parked and my head was nearly drenched in sweat by the time I got there. I went to my spot and opened my black 2011 Camry. As I sat down, I threw my satchel into the passengers seat and felt the immediate heat and humidity from my car and immediately turned on the car’s air conditioning, which of course took five minutes to offer any sort of relief from the scorching sun.
I drove out of my garage and straight into FDR Drive traffic. It started all the way back in the Bronx and I was already late; this was definitely not a good sign. I turned on my radio, trying to get a traffic alert. I finally found one on an AM station. Traffic on the FDR is all the way back to the Bronx and continues in bumper to bumper traffic until 60th street. It was caused by a huge three car collision, which happened very shortly before now. My advice? Steer clear of it. “To late for that now,” I said to myself aggravated. I had thirty-five minutes to get to work and it will probably take an hour longer than that. It was going to be a long day. It took an hour to get past nauseating traffic.
I was finally going at a fast pace, when I felt I ran over something with my tire and heard a small pop. I immediately got off the highway and went to a nearby gas and service station. I got out of my car and checked my tired; there was barely any air left in it by the time I got to the gas station. A short, heavy set and hairy man came up to me wearing a grey jumpsuit, with a name tag “Harvey” on the top left side. He was your cliché middle-aged Brooklyn man. “What’s da matter with her?” Of course by her he meant the car.
“Flat tire. Do you guys sell knew ones? I need to get to work quickly.” I hoped if I added work he’d get it done faster. “I’m already one and a half hours late,” I added.
“Well,” he said. “We can definitely fix it, but we have a lot of cars we have to fix before yous. So, I say one to two hours max and it’ll be like new.”
I didn’t have much of a choice at that point, so I gave it to them and took a cab to work. It took about another twenty minutes. I work for a law firm in the Metlife building on the Lower East side; by the time I got in the elevator and upstairs I was two hours late and my boss already had a meeting recently about needing to put in extra effort because of necessary layoffs.
I got out of the elevator and walked on the marble floor to the door to get into my floor. I swiped my card and went to my office. I sat down on my chair by my computer and phone, putting my suit behind it. I saw a blinking red light on my phone, meaning I had a message. I clicked the message button and it began to play. Hello Jeff, this is Bill. Can you please come to my office as soon as you get in. Thank you. I walked around the corner of the floor into his office. It was definitely bigger and nicer than mine. He had marble flooring, a glass desk, a personal secretary and a heck of a view. Right now he was sitting at his desk, or more like lying on his desk, putting his expensive leather shoes on it while squishing a stress ball.
“Welcome Jeff. Please, take a seat.” He sounded somewhat down or sad and I braced myself for what I expected to come next. “As you know we have been having layoffs lately and as a result I am being forced to fire nearly a quarter of our current staff. Many have risen to the occasion and have done exceptionally, but unfortunately your work has not been up to par lately and your being two hours late today was the last straw. I’m gonna have to let you go Jeff. I’m truly am very sorry.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was completely crushed. My work was all I had in my life. “But sir the traffic and my car-“ I started to breakdown when he interrupted. “I know there was major traffic and all, but your lateness is the least of it. I will be sure to write you a glowing recommendation. You’ll be able to find more work Jeff; I promise.”
I left the room, nearly in tears. They wanted to flow out, but I kept them in. I took my bag and suit and left; I’d have to come back for the rest of my stuff another time. I had been working at that firm for twelve years and now I was gone, but I’d saved up plenty of money and knew financially I’d be fine. On my way home my fate had changed. I walked the extremely humid streets of Manhattan, when I bumped into a tourist eating a cupcake. The cupcake ended up going straight into my face. Of course the tourist remarked “watch where your going” and then whispered “idiot” as I was walking away, even though it was entirely his fault.
I licked the cream off my face and it soothed me. The soft texture of the cream mixed with its creamy, vanilla flavor brightened up my day. I tore the wrapper off my face and saw the name of the bakery “Georgia’s Cupcakes” and within the next three hours I bought the place and had no more money in my savings. It was a rough year, but I ended up making my money back with interest.
Today I smile to myself. I went from fired from a prestigious law firm to owner of a bakery in less than four hours. Only in America.
Great ending.
Thank You for that comment.
Your pace is fast and a bit manic – I like it!!!! 🙂
America
is Mỹ in Vietnamese, my mother tongue – the beautiful country. But it’s the cold I remember the
first time I came, a skinny immigrant just out of an Indonesian hell-hole of a
refugee camp.
We
landed in Alaska, the great land. Ninety-three boat people, not one of us with
enough body fat to withstand the freezing winds of paradise. September and there was snow on the sides of the runway already. “Tuyết, tuyết,” we whispered up and down the plane, jostling each other to catch a glimpse of
the magical substance through the 747’s tiny windows. “Dragon breath,” the children said to each
other, big-eyed at their breaths vaporized in the frigid air. They blew away
happily, breathing out dragon strength into the shivery intimidated lines we adults
formed in front of the immigration officers. “Mỹ, Mỹ, we’re in America, America,” they chanted.
We
were in America, where we were no longer the children of dragons. To the large
fair haired blue shirted men from immigration who had to process us we were just
human flotsam from the last war. They processed
us like a catch of salmon – pulling out the papers from the bags hung around
each of our necks, scrutinizing our parts from feet to head to nose to eyes to
ears, then when we passed scrutiny, stamping their big red seals on our papers
before sorting us into separate groups, each to our own holding pens.
“Why’ve
they separated me from my family?” Thiếm
Ngoc, Aunty Jade, asked, timidly dragging at my elbow.
I
was their only English speaker. It
didn’t matter if I was bone tired and dead cold. I would have to go and sort it
out for her.
In America, Aunty Jade and her
spinster sister, seventy three and seventy five years old, same last names,
were one family unit. Her three grown
sons and their families, bearing her dead husband’s last name, were a different
family. Aunty Jade and her sister were
going to Orange County. Her sons and
their families o the Gulf, where there were jobs with a shrimp boat
operator. “It’s
on their papers,” a blue-shirt told me. “Nothing we can do about it.” “It’s better in California,” I
comforted the old ladies. “I’m going there too,” I said. “I’ll give you a hand.”
It
was warmer in California. In California,
Aunty Jade, her sister and I built a second family. When I met and married my
wife, we built a third – my wife, me, a son.
#
California
is kum san in Cantonese, my wife’s
ancestral language – gold mountains that her people came from China to mine
more than a hundred years ago.
The
gold had run out by the time the old ladies and I arrived at the end of the
seventies. But there was welfare for the
old ladies and plenty of jobs for a skilled engineer willing to downgrade to a
draftsman, as I was. The ladies moved
into an apartment paid for by a government housing assistance program. They let
me have their second bedroom – a room below market rate for me, extra
unreported and untaxed income for them. I worked, the old ladies cooked. We ate
cheap on delicacies no one else seemed to want – roasted belly pork, head
cheeses of pork cheeks and pig ears, stews from beef briskets and ox tails,
porridge cooked with fish heads and boiled lungs and meat stuffed intestines. Weighing myself every Friday at the weighing
machine in the bank where I deposited my paycheck, I saw I was putting flesh on
again.
Last
I measured two weeks ago my waist was a 34, up from a 28 then; six inches in
thirty years. At last count, we had at least six zeroes on our net worth, up
from nothing. At last count, we were
down from three to two in the family. But that’s a different story.
#
America
is still the beautiful country, even Alaska with its freezing winds; where the
refugees of the world’s troubles come to live their own Horatio Alger
myth. I saw that hope in the clenched
faces of the shivering under-dressed Mexican cleaners at Anchorage Airport
where I landed on Sunday. I was the
embodiment of that hope realized – flying business class back from a trip to
sell salmon in Japan; striding through the brown-faced and black-haired blue
shirts without a tremor, my blue US passport held out like a shield; with the
ultimate trophy, a wife who’d flown up from California with a Lexus SUV rental,
waiting.
We
drove inland and North, along a vast mud swamp of an inlet, through a snow
storm of blowing cotton-wood flowers, between blackened and twisted spruce and
ice-cream capped mountains; enveloped in an immensity I couldn’t grasp. It was cold, colder than I expected for
mid-summer. Maybe that’s what numbed me. Maybe…
Arriving
at Denali Lodge, we were met by a little Kazakh receptionist. She spoke a
lisping hesitant English full of promise.
She was a summer student on an exchange, she told us. There had been so
much competition to come, and she’d been one of the successful ones. They’d all, all of them back home, so much
wanted to see America.
“And
will you stay?” my wife asked.
It
was a question impossible to answer. The girl’s lips curved, a Madonna smile,
enigmatic like my son’s had been. An icicle insinuated itself through
the layers of silk, cashmere and gottex I’d bundled myself in.
“I can see why he
loved this place,” I told my wife later, as we rode the bus through arctic
tundra into the Kantishna Wilderness.
We haven’t talked
about him for months. We couldn’t. Even if we carried it daily in our hearts, we
couldn’t keep bringing up our grief could we?
These mountains
going up to infinity, the white braided streams running like the plaits he
liked to play with on Aunty Jade’s head, the silence, the air so cold his body
could be numbed into unfeeling… it was his type of space. He’d fallen in love
with the movie ‘A River Runs Through It’; a movie my wife and I could never
watch to the end, we found it so slow. He’d watched it repeatedly though, our
high-functioning autistic genius of a son. And then, obsessed by the images,
travelled the West and the North, in search of its essence.
Montana and
Wyoming were wrong, he told us, no matter that’s where the movie was filmed.
They didn’t reflect the reality of the film.
It was here he found it, his paradise. Here in the foothills of Mount
McKinley, Denali in the local
Athabaskan tongue – The High
One.
Here, the guides
asked us to leave the bus to walk a tundra trail. The High One was on my left, I was told. But
I couldn’t see it this clouded over summer’s day. ‘It’s best viewed in the fall when the sky is
clear and blue like ice,’ my son had written. ‘Then I can stay out all night to
see it.’
Braving the trail
with my wife, one of my hands tucked into the pocket of her jacket, I tried to
imagine those never ending Alaskan nights; my son sitting out in one of them
all night until his body was numbed into unfeeling by the cold. How someone
with an autistic spectrum disorder might like it, we might have worried when we
read his letter. But we didn’t, because he was high functioning after all. A
genius, the people who knew about such things told us.
“I wonder,” my
wife asked, handing me a little stalk of blue forget-me-nots she’d just stolen
from the side of the path, “If these would be what he saw last?”
The tiny flowers
are the colour of midnight, with yellow hearts no bigger than grains of
sand. How the sky and stars would have
seemed to him, the background to the mountain where the Athabascan gods lived.
An infinity he’d become part of.
My wife and I stop at a view point and look
down at the river running through the valley.
It is his river. It
runs through me, the river that was my son. He was an immensity of hidden
feeling, an outward stillness like a glacier; underneath a torrent of creakings
and groaning we could not see. And still he’s there, scrapping away at the
inessentials of our being, exposing the bare rocks underneath.
Alaska is Unangan for the Great Country.
There is a silence in Alaska so immense you can hear it. Somewhere in that
silence is my son’s silence.
America
is not my first love. But sometimes second is better and last can be best.
Where my son breathed his last … that is where my heart will rest.
Hi Joe… there’s something wrong with the formatting. But I’m travelling and won’t have another chance to post this before the deadline. I hope it will be alright.
America is Mỹ
in Vietnamese, my mother tongue – the beautiful country. But it’s the cold I remember the first time I came.
We
landed in Alaska, the great land. Ninety-three boat people ready to be blown
away by the freezing winds of paradise. September and there was snow on the sides
of the runway already.
“Tuyết, tuyết,” we whispered, jostling each other to catch a glimpse of
the magical substance through the 747’s windows.
“Dragon breath,” the children said big-eyed at their breath vaporizing
in the frigid air. They blew away happily, breathing dragon strength into the
shivery intimidated lines we adults formed in front of the immigration
officers.
But,
to the large fair haired blue shirted men from immigration who had to process
us we were just human flotsam from the last war. They dealt with us like a catch of salmon – pulling
out the papers from the bags hung around each of our necks, scrutinizing our
parts from feet to head to nose to eyes to ears, stamping their big red seals on our papers
before sorting us into separate holding pens.
“Why
am I not with my family?” Thiếm Ngoc,
Aunty Jade, asked me, the only English speaker in the group.
In
America, I found out, seventy year old Aunty Jade and her seventy three year
old sister with the same last names would be together. They were going to
California. Her three grown sons and their families, bearing her dead husband’s
last name, were going elsewhere.
“Nothing
we can do about it,” a blue-shirt told me.
“It’s
better in California,” I said to the old ladies. “I’m going there too. I’ll
give you a hand.”
It
was warmer in California. In California,
Aunty Jade, her sister and I built a second family. When I met and married my
wife, we built a third – my wife, me, a son.
#
California
is kum san in Cantonese, my wife’s
ancestral language – gold mountains that her people came from China to mine
more than a hundred years ago.
The
gold had run out by the time the old ladies and I arrived. But there was
welfare for the old ladies and plenty of jobs for a skilled engineer willing to
downgrade to a draftsman, as I was. The ladies
moved into a government apartment. They let me have their second bedroom – a
room below market rate for me, extra unreported and untaxed income for them. I
worked, the old ladies cooked. We ate cheap on delicacies no one else seemed to
want – head cheeses of pork cheeks and pig ears, stews from ox tails, porridge
cooked with fish heads and offal. Weighing myself every Friday at the weighing
machine in the bank where I deposited my paycheck, I saw I was putting flesh on
again.
Last
I measured two weeks ago my waist was a 34, up from a 28 then; six inches in
thirty years. At last count, we had at least six zeroes on our net worth, up
from nothing. At last count, we were
down from three to two in the family.
#
America
is still a country where refugees from the world’s troubles can come to live
their own Horatio Alger myth. I saw that
hope in the clenched faces of the shivering under-dressed Mexican cleaners at
Anchorage Airport where I landed on Sunday.
I was the embodiment of that hope realized – flying business class back
from a business trip to Japan; striding through the brown-faced and black-haired
blue shirts a blue US passport in hand; the ultimate trophy, a wife who’d flown
up from California, waiting in a rented Lexus SUV rental.
We
drove inland alongside a vast mud inlet, through a storm of fluffy cotton-wood
flowers, between twisted black spruce and ice-cream capped mountains; enveloped
in an immensity I couldn’t grasp. It was
cold, colder than I expected for mid-summer. Maybe that’s what numbed me.
Maybe…
Arriving
at Denali Lodge, we were met by a little Kazakh receptionist. She spoke a
lisping hesitant English full of promise.
She was a summer student on exchange, she told us. There had been a
competition to come. So many had so much wanted to see America, she was very
lucky to be selected, she said.
“And
will you stay?” my wife asked.
It
was an impossible question to answer. The girl’s lips curved, a Madonna smile,
enigmatic like my son’s had been. An icicle insinuated itself through
the layers of fleece and gottex I’d bundled myself in.
“I can see why he loved this place,” I
told my wife later, as we rode the bus through arctic tundra into the Kantishna
Wilderness.
We hadn’t talked about him for
months. Even if we carried it daily in
our hearts, we couldn’t keep bringing up our grief could we?
The mountains going up to infinity, the
white braided streams running like the plaits he liked to play with on Aunty
Jade’s head, the silence… it was his type of space. He’d fallen in love with
the trout fishing movie ‘A River Runs Through It’, our high-functioning
autistic genius of a son. He watched it repeatedly, and then obsessed by the
images, travelled the West and the North, in search of its essence.
Montana and Wyoming were wrong, he told
us, no matter that was actually where the movie was filmed. It was here he
found it, in the foothills of Mount McKinley, Denali in the local Athabascan tongue – The High One.
Here… the guides asked us to leave the
bus to walk a tundra trail. The High One
was on my left, I was told. But I couldn’t see it this clouded over summer’s
day. ‘It’s best viewed in the fall when
the sky is clear and blue like ice,’ my son had written. ‘Then I can stay out
all night to see it.’
Braving the trail with my wife, I tried
to imagine those never ending Alaskan nights; my son sitting out in one of them
all night until his body was numbed into unfeeling by the cold. How someone
with an autistic spectrum disorder might like it, we might have worried when we
read his letter. But we didn’t, because he was high functioning. A genius, the
people who knew about such things told us. We forgot, he didn’t have any common
sense.
“I wonder If these would be what he saw
last?” my wife asked, handing me a little stalk of blue forget-me-nots she’d
just stolen from the side of the path.
The tiny flowers were the colour of
midnight, with yellow hearts no bigger than grains of sand. How the sky and stars would have seemed to
him, the background to the mountain where the Athabascan gods lived. An
infinity he’d become part of.
I tried again, it’s still not working. So sorry. Please use this version. It’s within the 1250 words. The other one was too long.
That’s okay. We’ll make it work 🙂
This is absolutely stunning!
Very descriptive and haunting piece. Excellent!
What a beautiful piece of writing. Thanks!
Thank you Marianne. It’s benefitted from my reading your comments. Are you going to do more guest posts? I didn’t see a piece from you this time round.
I’m so sorry I just saw this as I was looking back at the winning entries. I’m not getting email notifications from Discus anymore for some reason. I’ll try to fix that. Thanks for the nice compliment about my post. I will be doing more here soon if Joe lets me, but I didn’t try out for the guest blogger thing because I have so much trouble writing nonfiction. It’s a bear.
Poetic and striking… What a beautiful piece.
Thanks Zo-Xo. Do so enjoy being part of this community and reading everyone’s contributions. This month’s topic has been especially poignant for me. It’s my first trip back to the West Coast in 7 years. Glad you liked it.
Amazing piece, Oddznns. I will always think of “dragon breath” now when I see it 🙂 .
Thank you Steph.
I love the movie A River Runs Through It! Great imagery! Beautiful story of new beginnings despite the heartbreak that accompanied it.
An American Moment
An American Moment (Fiction)
I hadn’t wanted to come today. I had an aversion to both heat and crowds and
hadn’t the slightest desire to spend my day outside in hot, humid 95-degree
weather, shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of strangers, all arms and elbows, jostling
for position to get the best view. The
parade was the kick-off to the 4th of July activities and avid parade-goers
lined the parade route early, many of them hauling lawn chairs, blankets and
coolers for blocks, all to stake out a prime section of ground nearest the street
before it was claimed by anyone else. We
were no different. My sister Elizabeth
was the head parade organizer in our family.
Today, as on every 4th, she was up at the crack of dawn,
already dressed and packing before the rest of us even staggered down for
breakfast. “You’ve got exactly one hour,” she informed us, “to eat something
and be dressed and ready to head out.” Elizabeth was intent on getting there
well ahead of everyone else, planning her strategy days in advance, so that not
only would ours be one of the first groups to set up camp, but she had carefully
studied the parade route for the best spot, not too near the beginning or the
end, but right in the middle.
Forty-five minutes later, I walked out the front door,
dressed in a pair of white capris and a blue tank top, a double-dose of
antiperspirant under each arm. I’d
stepped out of the shower fifteen minutes ago and I was already sweating. Elizabeth walked by and plopped a red, white
and blue striped sun visor on my head. “You
have to look the part, Janie. Come on, get in the spirit.” Where did she get her energy, I wondered? Liz seemed
undaunted by the heat, despite the fact she’d been running back and forth from
the house to the Jeep, packing the back end with snacks, lawn chairs and
blankets. She’d packed a cooler of ice with
plenty of bottled water, lemonade and soda.
“No beer,” she said, “not until later,” when my brother Chase had complained
that the 12-pack of Bud Light he’d purchased the night before was still in the refrigerator. “Remember the year we took a cooler full of
beer?” she asked him. “You had a few too many and we had to yank you back after
you tried to join the high school marching band, playing a fake trombone. No, no beer at the parade.”
All thanks to Elizabeth, we’d snagged a prime spot. I sat down in a lawn chair and popped the top
on a can of ice-cold Diet Coke. We’d
only been here for twenty minutes and already, space was filling up fast. Wave after wave of people came; some dressed
appropriately for the heat, some showing more skin than was probably socially
acceptable. I looked around, glancing
over at the group who’d spread their blanket right next to ours. There was a younger couple, maybe in their
mid-30’s, along with an older man and woman, presumably the grandparents, sitting
next to a double-stroller with the top flipped down to keep out the sun. Inside
were stashed two adorable twin girls, each wearing a red cotton sundress and a
white hat with red and blue polka dots tied underneath their little double chins,
their cheeks already rosy pink from the heat and humidity.
“Boom. Boom!” we heard, as the traditional two cannon shots
were fired to signal the start of the 4th of July parade. For the next hour, we watched as the parade
entries passed by one by one, cowboys and cowgirls on horseback, clowns riding
bikes and unicycles, performing amazing stunts and tricks on the street. Bright red fire trucks drove slowly by and
the police car turned on its siren every now and again, much to the delight of
the kids standing in awe at the curb. There
were patriotic floats, decked out in all manner of red, white and blue. The hospital auxiliary had one, as did both
banks and several local businesses, and the Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts, some
riding the float and waving to the crowd, others were walking beside it,
handing out candy to kids with outstretched hands. Sweaty people cheered and
clapped, caught up in the pageantry, not caring how uncomfortable it was, or how
sunburned they were going to be when they went to bed tonight.
The last entry was the color guard, with uniformed members carrying
the flag of their branch of the military.
On the far right walked a fourteen-year old boy whom the newspaper had
reported had recently lost his father in combat in Iraq, holding high the
American flag, his eyes straight ahead, focused only on the task at hand. There was a smattering of respectful
applause. Several past Veterans in uniform
walked along behind as the Middle School band played The Star Spangled Banner
to mark the end of the parade. The crowd
hushed; some sang along, some simply stood quietly, hands resting over their
hearts, as the flags passed by. A lump
formed in my throat, and I wiped away a tear as the anthem ended just as the
procession of colors passed in front of me.
It was miserably hot, but as I stood on the lush green
grass, sipping on my cold Coke and wishing I was somewhere cool, thousands of
miles away, an American soldier in uniform, wearing heavy protective gear and
holding his rifle, stood guard outside a camp in the middle of the Afghan
desert, with nothing but dust, rocks and open sky as far as the eye could
see. There was no parade, no fanfare to
celebrate America’s Independence Day.
For him, it was just another day spent doing his job, the job of defending
and protecting the freedom that allowed me to stand here, sweating in the heat,
enjoying a parade I hadn’t really wanted to come to in the first place.
I was proud to be an American. I never lost sight of how grateful I was to
be a citizen of a country whose very history was about sacrifice and perseverance
against insurmountable odds. But amid
all the pageantry and celebration, it felt good to be reminded what a precious privilege
it was.
The parade over, I turned to fold up my lawn chair, adjusting
my sister’s silly 4th of July visor over my damp hair. I glanced over to the group on my right and I
noticed the older gentleman, the grandfather, standing quietly, alone at the
edge of their blanket, watching as the flags disappeared down the street. His right hand still rested on his chest,
even though the music had stopped. I
couldn’t help but wonder what or who was he thinking about? What was he feeling? He turned towards me then, finally dropping his
hand, and bent over to pick up the blanket.
As he stood up, our eyes met and we both smiled. Two strangers, two Americans, each
appreciating what we’d just watched in our own way. “Enjoy the day, miss,” he said, “and be careful,
it’s going to be a scorcher.”
Not sure what happened to the formatting here…..I hope it’s not too difficult to read this way. It appears it’s all here though. Thanks! Just B 🙂
This is beautiful. Spare and full of emotion. I love how so much happens to one bystander in such a short time.
This is so beautiful. I almost never cry and this made me tear up quite a bit 🙂
LAST TRY USE THIS… SO SORRY
America is Mỹ
in Vietnamese, my mother tongue – the beautiful country. But it’s the cold I remember the first time I came.
We
landed in Alaska, the great land. Ninety-three boat people ready to be blown
away by the freezing winds of paradise. September and there was snow on the sides
of the runway already.
“Tuyết, tuyết,” we whispered, jostling each other to catch a glimpse of
the magical substance through the 747’s windows.
“Dragon breath,” the children said big-eyed at their breath vaporizing
in the frigid air. They blew away happily, breathing dragon strength into the
shivery intimidated lines we adults formed in front of the immigration
officers.
But,
to the large fair haired blue shirted men from immigration who had to process
us we were just human flotsam from the last war. They dealt with us like a catch of salmon – pulling
out the papers from the bags hung around each of our necks, scrutinizing our parts
from feet to head to nose to eyes to ears, stamping their big red seals on our papers
before sorting us into separate holding pens.
“Where’s
my family?” Thiếm Ngoc, Aunty Jade,
asked me, the only English speaker in the group. That’s when I found out that
In America, seventy year old Aunty Jade and her seventy three year old sister
with the same last names were family and going to California together. Her
three grown sons, bearing her dead husband’s last name, were going elsewhere.
“Nothing
we can do about it,” a blue-shirt told me.
“It’s
better in California,” I said to the crying old ladies. “I’m going there too. I’ll
give you a hand.”
It
was warmer in California. In California,
Aunty Jade, her sister and I built a second family. When I met and married my
wife, we built a third – the two old ladies, my wife, me, a son.
#
California
is kum san in Cantonese, my wife’s
ancestral language – gold mountains her people came from China to mine a century
ago.
The
gold had run out by the time the old ladies and I arrived. But there was
welfare for the old ladies and plenty of jobs for a skilled engineer willing to
downgrade to a draftsman, as I was. The ladies
moved into a government apartment and rented me their second bedroom – a room
below market rate for me, extra unreported and untaxed income for them. I
worked, the old ladies cooked. We ate cheap on delicacies no one else seemed to
want – head cheeses of pig ears, stews from ox tails, porridge cooked with fish
heads and offal. Weighing myself every Friday at the free machine in the bank
where I deposited my paycheck, I saw I was putting flesh on again.
Last
I measured two weeks ago my waist was a 34, up from a 28 then; six inches in
thirty years. At last count, we had at least six zeroes on our net worth, up
from nothing. At last count, we were
down from five to four in the family.
#
America
is still a country where refugees can come to turn the Horatio Alger myth to
reality. I saw that hope in the clenched
faces of the shivering under-dressed Mexican cleaners at Anchorage Airport
where I landed last Sunday. I was the
embodiment of that hope realized – flying business class back from a business trip
to Japan; striding through the brown-faced and black-haired blue shirts a blue
US passport in hand; the ultimate trophy, a wife who’d flown up from California,
waiting in a rented Lexus SUV.
I
felt the cold as we drove inland alongside a vast mud inlet, through a storm of
fluffy cotton-wood flowers, between twisted black spruce and ice-cream capped
mountains. It was an immensity I couldn’t grasp. Maybe that’s what numbed me.
Maybe…
Arriving
at Denali Lodge, we were met by a little Kazakh receptionist. She spoke a
lisping hesitant English, but that didn’t stopper her enthusiasm. She was a
summer student on exchange, she told us. There had been a competition to come. So
many had so much wanted to see America, she was very lucky to be selected, she
said.
“And
will you stay?” my wife asked.
It
was an impossible question to answer. The girl’s lips curved into a Madonna
smile, enigmatic like my son’s. An
icicle insinuated itself through the layers of fleece and gottex I’d bundled
myself in.
“I can see why he loved this place,” I
told my wife later, as we rode the bus through arctic tundra into the Kantishna
Wilderness.
We hadn’t talked about him for
months. Even if we carried it daily in
our hearts, we couldn’t keep bringing up our grief could we?
The mountains going up to infinity, the
white braided streams running like the plaits he liked to play with on Aunty
Jade’s head, the silence… it was his type of space. He’d fallen in love with
the trout fishing movie ‘A River Runs Through It’, our high-functioning
autistic genius of a son. He’d watched it repeatedly. Then, obsessed by the
images, he’d travelled the West and the North in search of its essence. It was here he found it, in the foothills of
Mount McKinley, Denali in the local
Athabascan tongue – The High
One.
Here… the guides asked us to leave the
bus to walk a tundra trail. The High One
was on my left. But I couldn’t see it on this clouded-over midsummer’s
day. ‘It’s best viewed in the fall when
the sky is clear and blue like ice,’ my son had written. ‘Then, its so
beautiful I stay out all night to look at it.’
Braving the trail with my wife, I tried
to imagine those never ending Alaskan nights; my son sitting out in one of them
all night until his body was numbed into unfeeling by the cold. How someone
with an autistic spectrum disorder might like it, we might have worried when we
read his letter. But we didn’t, because he was high functioning. A genius, the
people who knew about such things told us. Someon who didn’t have any common
sense, we ought to have remembered.
“I wonder If these would be something he
saw?” my wife asked, handing me a little stalk of blue forget-me-nots she’d
just stolen from the side of the path.
The tiny flowers were the colour of
midnight with yellow hearts no bigger than grains of sand. How the sky and stars might have seemed to
him, backdrop to the mountain where the Athabascan gods lived. An infinity he’d
become part of.
My wife and I stop at a view point and look
down at the river running through the valley.
I think about the river that was my son.
He was an immensity of hidden feeling, an outward stillness like a glacier;
underneath a creaking and groaning we could not hear.
There’s a silence in Alaska so immense you can hear it. Somewhere in that
silence lies my son.
America
is not my first love. But sometimes second is better and last can be best.
Where my son breathed his last … that is where my heart will rest.
Show Off Your Best Work Contest
May 12, 1936
Dear Mrs. Roosevelt,
If the apple trees
had blossomed this year, I wouldn’t be writing to you today. But that did not happen, and it’s not likely
to again in my lifetime. I will miss the
sight of it, those pink flowers wiggling free from their buds, first on top of
the hill where the red hawks play, then on the ridge near the spring, and
finally on the trees outside my kitchen window.
They looked like a great congregation to me, rising one pew at a time,
just waiting for the invitation so they could get right with God.
My name is Tibbedeau Frances Walker Monroe. Everyone I know calls me Doe. When I got married I tried to switch to
Frances, so I wouldn’t be saddled with a name like Doe Monroe, but some of
folks around here, in the fine state of Arkansas, thought I was putting on
airs.
I spend my days working with my husband. You would like Garland. He is strong and true and takes care of his
own.
Last spring we were spraying against the coddling moth,
Garland driving the mules and me in the wagon, standing on tiptoes, guiding the
hose to the tops of the apple trees.
Garland can’t spray anymore; his nose bleeds something awful. He still does the mixing, adding arsenic at
the very end. On a Thursday we worked
the north orchard until dark.
I was black as a coal miner, covered up with that dope, and
tired as I think I’ve ever been.
When I got to the kitchen, I washed up. I could still taste the spray, like gunmetal
and dandelion root. My fingers were
trembling, and then my legs and arms. A
bright light sang from the open window, and then just as quick it looked like
midnight. I woke up on the floor and I
couldn’t see good for a while.
Doc Boyer looked me over the next day. I thought he might tell me I was going to
die, but instead he took my hand and said, “Mrs. Monroe, you are suffering from
nothing more than the natural process of becoming a mother.”
Can you imagine? There
I was, on the dark side of forty, and for the first time in my life I was going
to have a baby. Garland didn’t believe
me for a while. And then he did believe
me. He said, “Well, I’ll be darned.” I can’t explain it, but it didn’t sound like
swearing when he said it.
We’d just been scraping by.
The flood of ’31 hit us hard. We
lost the chickens and most of our cows.
We had neighbors, an old couple named the Harvells, die crossing Crowley
Creek, trying to make it to Sunday service.
And then the drought came.
The ground cracked, our new apple trees turned to sticks in the miserly
ground. Corn stalks rattled in the
field, the cows we had left lived on bitter weed, so their milk was no
good.
What a world to bring a baby into.
But Garland stood strong.
I’m not a little woman, Mrs. Roosevelt, but he treated me as kindly as
if I were a small child and couldn’t do for myself. When my labor started he fetched my mama, and
then he went round telling the neighbors all up and down the ridge.
For three days I struggled. I never hurt that much in my life, but I kept
thinking there’s a baby at the end of this, and that got me through.
We named her Lavonna Kay.
She did not take one breath. We buried her the next morning and I could
not leave the grave. Garland stayed with
me, leaning up against an oak whose branches twitched in the hot breeze.
I will never have another child. Doc Boyer told me so with a grim face,
looking like a banker who has to tell you he’s taking back your house.
Garland stowed away the cradle and the little clothes I’d
made. In a month I was back in the
fields. The apples from our older trees
were coming on with a fury. We started
picking on a Wednesday in July, and by Sunday the packing shed was full. “We’re about to be in high cotton, Sugar,”
Garland said, and I felt the same way you do when you see the first Easter
flower pop through the cold earth.
The wind rattling the windows woke me that night. Outside, lightning danced across the
hills. Garland was already pulling on
his overalls when the quiet came. “Oh Lawd,” he said, and pulled me into the
hallway. The storm roared and the walls
seemed to breathe, moving in and out, in and out.
I thought we would die.
But we did not die.
We lit a lantern and walked to the porch. The shed lay in splinters. Apples bobbed in the murky puddles. In the morning we saw the trees. It looked
like a giant had reached down and pulled them from the earth like you do
carrots in the fall.
Garland shook his head. “It don’t make sense,” he said, over
and over again. I led him back inside.
He sat at the kitchen table while I made coffee. His eyes looked like burnt holes in a
blanket, and his hands shook when I handed him the cup.
A great grief washed over him. He’s been low sick ever since. He stays in his bed most of the day. I take him food and he says, “Just pull the
door to and leave me be.”
But I can’t leave him be.
I read the papers when I can and I know the good work Mr.
Roosevelt has done stopping the mighty dust storms. It looks like he’s piecing a quilt together
using trees like thread, and those trees are holding in the dirt, and the crops
are coming back.
Across the way, over in Carroll County, the Riley boys are
working the Civilian Conservation Corp jobs that your husband created. They travel the country, sending money home
every month, which is a godsend to their kin.
When you help my neighbors, when you stop the dust from
flying, it all eventually helps me. I
love that about America, how we are kind of a quilt that fits together, and how
one good thing helps another good thing happen.
I didn’t mention earlier that I do a little painting now and
then. When I was a girl I took lessons from a man who studied in Paris,
France. For a time, when there was money,
I sold a few paintings around here. They
are mostly landscapes of the apple orchards around here. I’m not good enough to
be in a museum, but I did hope that I might send you a few of my best pieces,
and maybe you knew someone who could tell you if they would be worth anything,
if it’s not too much trouble.
If I can sell some, I can keep the collectors away a little
longer. I am a desperate woman, Mrs.
Roosevelt, and I hope I haven’t asked too much.
I know in my heart that if it was me taken to my bed, Garland would do
whatever he could to pull me back up with the living. Please tell the President how much I admire
him and that I remember him always in my nightly prayers.
Very truly yours,
Tibbedeau Frances Walker Monroe
Excellent, simply excellent. 🙂
Thank you Just B! How nice of you.
I almost cried. This is the most beautiful thing I’ve read in a long time 🙂
Oh Maddison, thank you so much. Thing got pretty tough here in Arkansas when the apples started to fail. We don’t have the climate for mass production, but for a while it worked. There used to be festivals and Apple Queens, and the growers won prizes as far away as France. (I’ve done a little research.) Thanks again for your kind comment.
HI Marla
I really like how this piece describes the historical events through a personal perspective. The depression years and the Roosevelt programs are made heartbreakingly real. May I ask if Frances Monroe Walker was a “real” painter?
Oddznns, Thank you so much. Yes she was. Her story is incredible and I stumbled across it in the library here in a small book published years ago by a tiny press in Arkansas. She did paint, and I found one of her pieces almost by accident on a day trip I took. Her work was primitive but had that sweet quality. I hadn’t done anything with the story except write the first few paragraphs when I saw this prompt, so I stayed up and finished. What I submitted is rough but I might be able to turn it into something someday. Arkansas did what a lot of the other country was doing at the time, by not understanding what their region could support agriculturally. They saw apples as the great new crop and for several years they thrived and won awards in Europe. But the climate is not right and the coddling moth took a while to emerge. The trees were more a burden than a godsend, in the end. Doe was a stout, smart woman who was trained to teach, but she married instead. After losing her baby she became a kids colthing designer for an upscale shop near where I live. And she continued to produce her paintings, which were landscapes and houses that she thought were important to the history of the area. Sadly, her husband did not recover from his hard times and they divorced, which was scandalous at that time, in this area at least.
Oddznns, Of course I changed names & took a little creative liberty.
thanx for this primer … I do think this is the most beautiful story
Very, very, nice. You took me there!
Thank you Eileen.
So very beautiful Marla. Thank you for sharing. Keep up your wonderful work!
Thank you so much Lynna. I do have a soft spot for Doe Monroe.
This is my favorite story. How do you do that free flowing narrative?! Well done. I practice and practice so one day I can piece it together like that. Perfection. Aidan
Thank you Aidan. I struggle with other aspects of writing fiction; however, the narrative comes a little easier. I don’t know why. If I can get in a character’s head I can usually write quickly. Of course there are plenty of flaws I have to fix later, but the first bit is easy. I think your writing is very fluid and moves along brilliantly.
I really enjoyed the feel of this piece, simple and earthy. The all American, every man quality comes out really well without being forced. The emotion drew me in even though it was a context I can’t personally relate to. Nice job!
Thank you Beck. You’re so sweet!
Marla, this is BEAUTIFUL! Your descriptions are so vivid, and there is so much movement and beauty in this piece. Really, really loved this. So sad to read how she and her husband got divorced …
Thanks so much zo-zo. You’re very kind. I was a little heartbroken when I found out she was divorced. You want them to be okay.
Beautiful. Pitch perfect voice. And moving.
Thank you so much Kathy. You made my day!
Marla, this is a very moving piece.
Thank you so much Bob.
The brown-eyed girl took a long, deep breath. She stared intently at the photo frame in her hands. She reflected back on the beautiful life that she’d lived in Australia, the friends she’d made and the goals that she’d accomplished. Those were all the things that she was about to leave behind.
A recent graduate of Journalism, Elizabeth was an ambitious 21-year-old. She’d always loved writing, it was rare to see her without a pen in her hand. It was her passion to tell stories that inspired people, make them think and look beyond black and white. That strong, burning passion she had for telling stories was about to lead her all the way to America.
She’d been offered an internship at a newspaper in California. Elizabeth was ecstatic at the thought of moving away from her family home and beginning her career. But her excitement was coupled with fear, the girl had heard so many horrible things about America.
She’d read the stories and seen the news; the crime rate was enough to put anyone off. She’d also been told that American people were arrogant and never to be trusted. She’d become accustomed to life in Australia, the people and the stability. But as fearful as she was about the change, Elizabeth knew that this was the opportunity of a lifetime and it was simply not worth passing up.
Her first few weeks at the newspaper were tedious; filled with menial jobs like serving her colleagues tea and fetching lunch from the local store down the road. But to her dismay, her duties were yet to involve writing itself.
Nonetheless, Elizabeth couldn’t wipe the smile off her face. Being amongst some of the greatest writers in America boosted her self-esteem. She felt honoured to be working with such inspiring people. It was just a shame her positive feelings weren’t reciprocated.
“So you’re an aspiring journalist, I hear?” her colleague Paul questioned, with a smug look on his face.
“Yes I am. I hope to become a proper journalist one day,” the girl answered proudly. Her enthusiastic response was just a front, it secretly hid her discomfort at the direction of the conversation.
“Well, it’s a tough job, you need thick skin to survive. Not everyone makes it, you know,” Paul looked at the girl and shrugged. “At least this internship will teach you whether you’re cut out to be a journalist”. The middle-aged man took a sip out of his tea, and walked back over to his desk.
Elizabeth’s mood changed within seconds. It was difficult not to be affected by Paul’s words. They sounded loudly in her ears; he spoke with such conviction. The ambitious girl from Australia wondered whether what he’d said was true. Maybe she wasn’t cut out to be a journalist, maybe she wouldn’t be able to handle the realities of the job.
As much as she appreciated her colleague’s advice, she couldn’t help thinking that the stereotype she’d heard was true: that Americans were, indeed, arrogant. Although she believed in constructive criticism, she felt like all the dreams that she’d had as a child were shattered instantly. She wished that Paul had been more careful with his words.
Questioning her decision to move to America, Elizabeth began reassessing her future. Unsure of what to do, she went back to a place where she felt safe and secure – back home to Australia.
“I thought the internship was meant to last 3 months?” Her friend Samantha asked, looking confused.
“Yeah, it was meant to.. I just needed a break from it all…” Elizabeth let out a big sigh, as she strolled through the park with her friend.
“The internship not going too well then?” Samantha had a heart of gold. She was one of the reasons Elizabeth almost stayed in Australia.
“It’s been going okay. It’s great being around all the writers.. It’s the people, the crime.. I’m just not used to it…”
Samantha let out a sudden gasp. She reached for the handbag she’d been holding, but it was nowhere to be seen. Her eyes followed a figure running down the street.
“Get back here!” Samantha yelled, attempting to chase the man for a hundred metres but to no avail.
“I’ll call the police!” Elizabeth placed an arm around her friend. “I hope you’re okay…”
“Yeah.. I think I’m okay… just in a bit of shock…” Samantha looked white as a ghost, she’d never seen her friend this frightened before.
“I can’t believe this happened here, I thought Australia was meant to be a safe place…” Elizabeth mumbled, as she took out her phone.
“So.. you’re back again hey?” It was her colleague Paul, sans the smug look on his face.
“Look, I’m sorry about what I said before you left. I’m sure you’re a great writer, I just don’t want you to hope for too much and be let down…”
“Yeah, that’s fair enough,” Elizabeth said with half a grin.
“I used to be just like you. But it’s a dog eat dog world, you’ve got to fight for what you want. Fight until the end. Prove that you can make it,” Paul explained.
“You know…” he continued. “You remind me of myself.. You’ve got that passion, that drive.. Keep that going and trust me, you’ll be a journalist one day,” he winked and walked back to his desk.
Elizabeth started to realise that her colleague wasn’t all that bad. He was a little blunt for her liking, but she could relate to the self-discipline that he abided by.
That night, she dreaded leaving the office in the rain. The city was so much busier than she was used to, quiet Perth was far removed from this place.
The rain was pouring down. She waved her hand frantically, hoping to catch a taxi.
As she saw one approaching, Elizabeth slipped on the wet ground beneath her. Having fallen into the direction of the vehicle, she felt a pair of arms grab her and pull her away.
Elizabeth was shaking. “Oh my goodness.. you just saved my life…”
Pulling down his hood, the good Samaritan laughed. “I guess you could say that…”
“Thank you. I don’t know why you put your life at risk for me, but I’m so incredibly grateful…”
The man turned serious. “10 years ago, someone saved my life. I was one of the victims of 9/11…”
Elizabeth was stunned. “I’m sorry to hear…”
“A fireman gave up his life trying to save me. If someone lost their life for me, I thought I might as well make a difference with mine..”
Elizabeth smiled. “Well thank you for saving mine…”
The girl from Australia reflected back on how far she’d come. She remembered all the prejudice, all the stereotypes, all the pre-conceived notions she had before moving to America. She thought she knew what to expect, that everything she’d heard would turn out to be true. But she’d been completely and utterly wrong.
Crime could be found anywhere in the world, as well as disrespectful people and disrespectful behaviour. But to confine such stereotypical views to one country would be ignorant and unfounded.
In order to be a successful journalist, Elizabeth had to open her eyes to every side of the story. After only two months in America, she had realised that it wasn’t the unsafe place she once thought it was. It was where she’d had the best work experience of her life. It was, indeed, ‘the land of dreams’.
Wonderful writing! Quite a change in your character from beginning to end. Good work.
My
Signature
By Andrew
Ronzino
“Would you like to sign first, Mr. President?”
Thomas says to me after he finished penning the beautiful words that
would forever change the direction of our lives.
He hands the quill to me. I take it and look at it,
mesmerized by the drip of black ink that desires contact with the
parchment. Could I do this? Declaring independence from Great
Britain is the correct course of action, but what will it mean for
me? My family? My friends?
Freedom.
This is why we fight. This is why we rebel. This is why we are
declaring our independence. We want freedom. Our united thirteen
States of America all agree; it is unanimous, we will win our
freedom.
I look down at the document on the desk, ignoring the anticipation of
my colleagues. They expect their President of Congress to sign
without hesitation, but alas, I cannot. One does not simply sign a
document like this without thinking about the repercussions of such
an act. To do so would be rash and unwise.
How will the world be affected by this act? I cannot know. Who can
know the changes this uprising will cause?
America is going to change. There will be years of fighting ahead of
us, of this I am certain. However, one day, we will be free because
of what is happening here today. America is the future. Where it
will go after I sign this document, I cannot say. Maybe America will
become a magnificent country and a seat of great power founded on
these mighty words before me, or maybe we will be small and
insignificant, hidden away from the rest of the world, protected by
the paper I am about to sign. Either way, I would not be surprised
if this day is eventually celebrated as a holiday.
But something else plagues my mind as I read the text over again.
How will I be remembered in all of this? Will there be stories about
me? Will history record my part, or will people like Thomas
Jefferson, John Adams, and Benjamin Franklin receive the glory?
How can I think of such a thing at this time? How can I be so
selfish? I cannot deny that these thoughts have a place in my mind.
I do wonder. I question my
place in all of this. Will I be remembered for the life I lived, or
merely as a signature on the historical document that formed America?
I want to be known for my life; for what I have done and for what I
am still yet to do. This act is important, but is not the rest of
our lives as well? Is not every act important?
“John?”
Thomas is getting impatient.
I am not delaying because I am unsure if I want
to sign my name, but rather to take in the moment and understand what
this fully means. This is an iconic moment, and I want to savor it.
I need to know what we are doing is going to be remembered.
I read the second line of the Declaration one more time and soak in
its words.
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are
created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain
unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the
pursuit of Happiness.”
What beautiful words. This is what it’s all about. This
is America.
I look up at Thomas, who is glaring at me inquisitively.
“Is everything alright, John?”
I smile at my friend. “Yes, Thomas. All is well. Let us declare
ourselves independent.”
I place the tip of the quill to the parchment and sign my name. I
sign it large, I sign it proud—John Hancock.
Beautiful writing.
Thank you!
Those words always make me feel testy, self-evident truths, the pursuit of happiness. Great way of telling this story Andrew. I enjoyed readi g it very much. Aidan
Oh no!! My iPad self-corrected and turned ‘teary’ into testy! These words certainly don’t make me feel testy in the least. A
Haha! I had a really bad Auto-correct fail a week ago, so I know how you feel.
Thank you! I enjoyed writing it. It’s very different from my normal writing, but I think that’s a good thing.
Wow! I love this! Beautiful take on the America is…prompt. I think all Americans should read those words from the Declaration of Independence more often. It really brings things back into perspective. Great job!
Thank you very much. I agree. Most people seem to forget those words and what it all really means. We take America and freedom for granted sometimes.
An American Romance by: MikeStein123
I was at a nice, fancy restaurant with my girlfriend, whom I had been going out with for quite a while now. It had all of the romantic components: white tablecloth, candles, champaign, flowers, and fancy food. We had just finished our main meal, the best steak I have ever had. Desert would be brought soon and then I would lose the rest of the money in my checkings account when the bill came. Sarah and I were just staring into each others eyes, deeply in love. She had such beautiful bluish, grayish eyes; I swear I could have stared at them for hours. Then, she took my hand.
“Henry,” she said. “I love you so much right now. This dinner was amazing and well you are just amazing. Your handsome, smart, funny, and so sensitive and understanding.” Then things started to go downhill. I froze. I was touched by what she said, but I just couldn’t say the same thing. She got insulted and ended up throwing a $25 soufflé on my face. It tasted delicious; it was creamy, soft, and, rich, and on my face. “I can’t believe you Henry,” she said, her nostrils enlarged; it’s never a good sign when her nostrils get enlarged. She glared me for a second. “Good bye, Henry, I just can’t believe you don’t love me too,” she screamed, tears streaming from her eyes. “Forever!” Boy was I glad I didn’t get any desserts that were on fire.
One week later…
I was in NY, on my to Grand Central Station. It was a beautiful summer day; a gentle breeze complemented the warm weather. I was on my way to Albany for a business trip; I arrived at the station about three hours early, so I decided to get some lunch. I passed the large crowd of people heading to the apple store or annoying tourists standing in the middle of the pavilion taking pictures of random irrelevant signs. “Oh my gosh that sign says that a train departs to the Bronx at seven; honey take a picture;” and meanwhile I’m trying to walk; it is a train station.
Anyways, I went down a floor to the dining area of Grand Central Station. It was still noisy and crowded, everyone jumping to get dirty tables or a knish before their train is suppose to come. I walked over to a diner-type restaurant, hoping for a nice little lunch. One of the servers came up to me immediately. She was a slightly dark-skinned, tall woman, wearing just a plain pink shirt and jeans.
“Table for one?”
“Yup”
“Ok, great, follow me.”
I followed he around a whole bunch of clumped together tables until I finally arrived at a table seated for two on table away from the edge of the diner. As I was handed a menu, I peered to my right and saw the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen. I was immediately entranced. She was a slightly tall woman with black hair, put back in a pony tall. She wore a purple shirt and matching short purple shorts. I awkwardly stared at her beautiful green eyes and was transported to a vast jungle, full of large, mountainous trees and bushes. They were gorgeous; she was gorgeous.
“Eh, vat are you doing,” she asked. Her French accent put butterflies in my stomach, or it may have caused because she obviously was freaked out by my creepy staring.
I knew what I had to do; it was the oldest cliche in the book, but it was so true. “I was getting lost in your beautiful green eyes.”
“Zat iz the oldest cliche in zee book.”
“I know, but it’s actually true with you.”
She giggled. I have no clue if that meant hehe your cute or hehe your a freak; I better start eating faster. She continued speaking in her smooth, silky french accent, “Do you vant to sit?” She motioned towards the chair across from her. “I could use a little company. Az long az you don’t stare at my eyes for zee whole time. Oui, Oui?”
I sat down at the table. “I take it your from France?”
“Oui. I am visiting New York for a week. I just came in a day ago and was told I had to visit Manhattan and Grand Central station.”
“Maybe I can give you the grand tour of the city?
“Maybe?” Her voice sounded beautiful; it gave me chills, warm gentle chills every time she talked. A waiter came over to take my order and dashed away.
“I’m Henry by the way. And you are?”
“Charlene.”
The waiter brought my coke and everything went downhill from there. After my whole episode with Sarah, I felt the urge to not mess this relationship up like I did with Sarah. So, being the idiot that I am I said, “I love you Charlene.” Her face was filled with surprise and being I could tell she was a little freaked out. I regretted my statement immediately.
“Are people in New Your alvays zo affectionate?” She chuckled. I knew there was only one way out of this mess.
I began to break down. “Well you see, just a week ago I was dating this girl and we were getting intense. I took her to a nice restaurant and we had a great time, until she said.” I was sobbing, looking pathetic. “Until she said she loved me and I, I just couldn’t say it back and now we broke up.”
“Zat is terrible. What iz her name?”
“Sarah,” I replied. And then things got much worse. Sarah walked right up to my table.
“Well if it isn’t Henry,” she jeered. She turned to Charlene. “There’s no point in going out with him. He’ll never love you. Trust me, I know.”
“Actually,” Charlene said. You should have seen the look on Sarah’s face when she heard Charlene’s French accent. I didn’t know her mouth could open that wide. “He just told me he loves me.”
Then, Sarah took my coke and poured it on my head (I knew I should’ve gotten beer; it’s better for your hair). The cold liquid and ice drizzled down my hair as I jumped up screaming. (I was just glad they didn’t bring my soup yet.) Sarah walked away and Charlene ran over to me with a napkin, helping me clean up my mess.
“Are you ok?” She asked, while patting my hair with a napkin.
“Yup. I am definitely awake now.” Charlene laughed a little.
After that whole episode, Charlene and I finished eating our lunch. I showed her around the city the day after my meeting and we went on a couple of dates before she went back to France. I will miss her and believe or not Sarah too, because Sarah taught me one important thing: don’t buy potentially harmful foods, especially when on a date. Anyway, that is the tale of my American romance. God Bless America!
America
is in Big Trouble
by
Ronna DeLoe
Hope Riley took a long, quizzical
look at the letter in her hand. She trembled as her fingers loosened their
grip. The paper fell to the floor, cascading in a circle like a whirlpool. She
felt behind her for the sofa and sat down in a daze.
She heard her husband calling to her
in the background but she couldn’t answer.
Is
this true? she thought. Am I going to
die so soon?
Her husband came into the living
room, saw the letter on the floor and the expression on his wife’s face. He
picked it up, his face somber. As he stood there reading it, his brow furrowed and
tears began to form in his chestnut-colored eyes.
He moved to the sofa next to his
wife and put his arm around her. She sobbed into his chest, her small frame
heaving, each sob like tremors from an aftershock.
“The oncologist told me it was
ovarian cancer, advanced stage when I went to see her,” she said. “She also
told me that if I got another letter from her asking to see me again, it wasn’t
good. Well, she’s asking to see me again. It’s the horrible ‘C’ word. Advanced
stage,” she repeated.
She
had hoped that maybe, just maybe, things would go her way.
She gazed out the window into the
bright sun, whose rays were broken up by tree limbs in the front yard. The
shadows of the trees danced in the summer breeze. They looked like they were
inviting her to go outside and play in the warm summer day, walk barefoot on
the lush grass and listen to the sounds of bees and dragonflies while they
flitted about. But at that moment she didn’t care about the tranquil blue skies
or the sounds of summer.
Her husband hung his head, looked at
a spot on the carpet, and said nothing.
“It’s not your fault,” she said as
she settled into the sofa. “We couldn’t afford the doctors’ bills or
healthcare. Don’t blame yourself.”
He sighed as his craggy face took on
the expression of the Drama tragedy mask.
“If only I’d been at my old job,” he
said. “Then you could’ve caught this early on. We’d still have health insurance
if I were there.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong and
you didn’t have a choice. You were laid off along with just about everyone
else,” she said. “We can’t even afford this last doctor visit and all the
tests, so how were we going to pay for insurance?”
She looked at him, tears welling in
pools behind her sorrowful eyes.
Tom shook his head. He didn’t want
to hear it. Hope was forty-two years old, two years younger than he. He thought
about their two young children, relieved they were in day camp.
Hope got up, grabbed some tissues from
the bathroom and started dabbing her eyes and wiping her face. She thought
about Tom, how he’d worked so hard at a Mom-and-Pop computer company on the
coast of Maine, and how he enjoyed being a computer technician. And then
without warning, seven of the ten employees were let go because the business
couldn’t afford them during the hard economic times. Tom lost his family’s
healthcare along with his job.
He was luckier than most. He’d
interviewed for only a few jobs after he was laid off, but he received
unemployment checks for ten months. Jobs were scarce on the Maine coast. Not
finding one, he set up his own computer repair shop in the garage. That was
four years ago, but they hadn’t been able to afford health insurance since he
was laid off. He was making a living, but it wasn’t enough.
“Maybe we should have stayed in New
York,” he said as he followed her.
Hope sighed, waiting before speaking.
“I know there are no jobs here but that wouldn’t have helped. Remember when we
went back there to visit? We drove down Central Avenue in Hartsdale and everything
had changed. The car dealerships were out of business and so were the gas
stations. A diner had become a bank and even the grocery store went under. It
looked surreal, remember? It was as if a movie set had been dropped there, taking the place
of everything that had always existed. It’s not any better there. My parents tell
me that all the time. Everyone’s looking for work and nobody has healthcare
there either.”
She shuffled to the kitchen lost in
thought, went to the table and folded her body in slow motion into a kitchen
chair. Tom sat down next to her and patted her hand.
Neither one of them spoke. Tears
clouded their eyes again.
Suddenly they looked through their
wet eyes at the new scene playing outside the kitchen window. Dark storm clouds
had burst in, obliterating all traces of the sun. They hadn’t seen them coming.
They sat at the kitchen table holding
hands and not talking, their mood somber and resigned.
The
clouds were now a thick, inky black. It looked like the sun gave up, chased by
the storm clouds. Hope started crying again as the heavy rain tumbled from the
sky. It crashed with an ominous and violent thud on the ground just as their
children were getting off the camp bus.
Her thoughts are supposed to be in italics, but that didn’t translate to posting it here. Also, like many entries, the text is obviously broken up due to the way it’s posted here, but the whole story is intact. Thanks! Ronna DeLoe
This is absolutely beautiful but also sad because it’s so true about how the state of the world is.
Thank you, Mara.
Very well written story about a very sad but true story. It addresses the very sad state of affairs in America today.
Thank you William. I appreciate our armed forces and what they’ve done for us to give us freedom. I never take that for granted. This depicts another side of America, which is unfortunately true for too many Americans.
A sad, well-written story that hits home or so close to home for many in America. I never dreamed we’d see this state of affairs in America, but I’ve known many with a similar plight though not always so tragic. I’d like to tell you that it brought tears to my eyes because it captured the common scenario so well- your story did capture the insidious process rather poignantly, but alas, I’ve shed enough tears in my grieving for America, but I haven’t given up my fight. Thank you for encouraging me to continue, A healthcare worker.
Thank you so much.
Thanks for the work you do in healthcare. It’s sorely needed, especially for people who cannot afford to pay for it. Thanks for not giving up!
True for so many of us. Thank you for your story. But I wish it were fiction.
Thanks Lynna. I wish it really were fiction too. I know too many people without healthcare and it has wreaked havoc with their lives.
This very well written short story unfortunately describes the plight of a very large number of middle class people in the U. S. today. Several years ago, I had a small business that had to close when health insurance went up beyond the roof. Thanks Ronna for putting this situation into words.
Joe
Thanks for your comments. As much as I want to look at America in a good light, there are too many people suffering these days. I have many neighbors and friends who are without healthcare, and it is awful what they have to go through — no dental care, which translates to loss of teeth, no healthcare which means when they’re sick they can’t go to the doctor. Their health deteriorates faster than those with healthcare. It’s very sad and thanks for understanding the situation that many Amercians are in.
This is a well written short story and very descriptive. How real it is and sad for us Americans that we can’t provide health care for so many who need it. For one week I thought I didn’t have any health coverage because of a change with the insurance company. I panicked because I had several appointments already made with various doctors and was concerned about how I would be able to afford it without the insurance. In that one week several phone calls were made, quick trips to the post office were made and we sent out new forms so that we could be covered for the new fiscal year.
Health care for everybody at reasonable cost is absolutely mandatory.
Harriet
Thank you Harriet. I’m sorry you had to go through this. Yes, America is wonderful, but we are writers and it’s important for us as writers to bring up the important issues of the times, no matter which side we take.
I’m glad you were able to resolve your issues. Thanks again.
Oh, I see you put this in the wrong place on this page. Thanks for your efforts to place it here.
This is really well written and your writing style is amazing. It flows naturally and although you use big vocabulary and a lot of similies, none of it seems trite or out of place at all. Very well done!
Thanks Molly. I really appreciate it.
I so enjoyed this story – it was told as if I was right there. The reality of it is very strong. Well written and a good read :O)
Thank you!
I’m hoping things change with health care in America. It’s ridiculous that we pay more than any other country for health care, but receive very poor care for all that money. Many people think we have the best quality health care in the world just because we pay the most, but our infant mortality rates, and other unresolved health issues prove otherwise. Just because something costs the most money, doesn’t mean it’s the best quality.
Thanks for sharing your thoughts on this subject. I hope things change too.
Very well written. I felt I was right there with Hope and her husband. It is so sad that this is the plight of many americans today.
Thank you!
I’m a poet also, and Iike to make sure that in addition to descriptive poetry, I’m covering topics that make the reader think about what’s going on in the world around them — not just the elite part of society, but also what’s happening to the people who are suffering and why they’re suffering.
Ronna- what an excellent job of putting into words all the emotions and feelings many Americans are going through. I am a nurse who gets paid fairly decent, but insurance coverage for my family costs a ridiculous amount. Not only does it take a huge portion of my paycheck, we are restricted to seeing only physicians that are “in-network.” There is no out of network coverage. So Lord forbid if anything “out of the ordinary” occurs we would be just like someone without insurance coverage if we were required to be seen elsewhere for treatment. Something is desperately wrong with this picture. Unless someone takes charge of this- businesses and companies will continue to create and adopt health care plans which give no freedom to the consumer who actually is working to have insurance in the first place. Didn’t mean to get on that soapbox. Bravo for choosing to voice this issue through your writing. Perhaps more writers should use their platform to be heard on various social issues
Thanks so much, Wendy, and thank you for what you do. It’s a controversial issue, I know, but this is an issue for many Americans. I feel as a writer, I can raise issues that should be discussed. I knew I was taking a chance with this issue, but apparently this has hit home for a lot of people, including me. Thanks again!
I liked how the story read so smoothly. All the information that was needed was in the at the right places. It was a sad story for two reasons. The fear of cancer, which I had myself, and the fact that there was no money or healthcare to help because of lack of job. Very well written.
Hi, lovely Write Practice people! I live in Wakefield, West Yorkshire, England, UK, and this is my take on America is…have a nice day! (It ended up rhyming, hope that’s okay).
America is very far away.
3620 miles from the UK.
From California to Wakey,
it is 5217 miles away from me,
in my front room, sipping my tea,
bagged by Mr Sullivan in 1903.
I worked that out on my Apple iPad,
the best idea Steve Jobs had,
whilst watching Scooby Doo on Sky TV,
though Mystery Incorporated is a mystery to me.
He-man, Muppets, and the Street of Sesame,
how kids programmes used to be.
I could have written this with a Loud ballpoint pen,
but prefer touch typing, like Frank McGurrin.
I could have sealed it in some of Mr Tupper’s ware,
and left it with Berryman’s teddy bear.
But my QWERTY ramblings I will share,
thanks to the inventions of you lot over there.
Nirvana, Hendrix, Rock n Roll,
Manson, Reznor, Motown and soul.
Alien, Zed, Bill and Ted,
“69 dude” is once all I said.
Depp, Hanks, and James Dean.
Friday the 13th, Halloween.
Cup cakes, doughnuts, burgers with cheese,
Brownies, bubblegum, jellybeans.
Edison, Ford, Les Paul, Franklin,
Obama, Gates, Luther-King.
Flippers, crackers, pink lemonade,
Nylon, Teflon, hearing aids.
Slinkys, pegs, safety pins,
Zips and bras, and all such things.
I well remember back in the day,
when roller boots were all the rage.
When Barbie ruled, and My Little Pony played,
in their stable, with plastic hay,
next to Girls World’s head, a bald skinhead,
make-up resembling the living dead.
Weekends were for my TV face,
Laurel and Hardy, Lost in Space.
Laughing out loud to Tom and Jerry,
Garfield, Bugs, and poor Wile E.
My square eyed face made to come for tea,
before the A-Team and Mork and Mindy.
Where would I be without Superman,
the hippy John Lennon, or Rosanne,
Charlie Brown, and Mr Chaplin,
and my Snoopy lunch box to keep my dinner in.
Ghostbusters, Big, Fox’s time travelling.
Gremlins doing skateboarding.
Chucky, Flea, Bon Jovi,
Monster trucks, RVs, The Big Bang Theory.
Amps, fans, stadium bands,
Pauly Shore, Edward Scissorhands.
Rich Hall, Fresh Prince, Mama Cass,
Coca-Cola, Pepsi Max.
Columbo, Star Trek and Star Wars,
Jeans, ear muffs, curly straws.
Joplin, King, Madonna’s tits,
Prior, Rock, the great Bill Hicks.
Jaws, Johnny 5, CSI,
ALF, X Files, Steve S. Vai.
Daria, Friends, Stephen King,
That Rocky theme, the moon landings.
It’s clear, although these are just a few,
we share much more than just the red, white and blue.
I know that it is likely we will always disagree,
on the spelling of colour, cheque, and jewellery.
Or if a parcel is a package, a lorry is a truck,
a bathroom is a toilet, if a store is a shop.
And we’ll never find agreement between garbage and rubbish,
if gas is really petrol, or if chips are fries or crisps.
Or if I’m wearing pants and trousers, or just the one pair,
or if my rubber is an eraser, or if I have jam or jelly in my hair.
But it doesn’t matter, I don’t give a chuff,
‘cos it seems my life would have been so dull,
if you hadn’t produced all this stuff
So cute! I loved it. Aidan
Thanks 🙂
Very nice! By the way, I’m envious of how you guys spell colour.
That was really fun and I like the rhyme! I could almost hear it turning into a rap song!
Very cute! Thanks, neighbour! (What’s a silly little pond between us anyway? :-))
“I had to come to the New World for a new life,” Nicolas Liedhl said, shifting himself in his chair. For a moment or two he was lost in a memory, thinking back to the passage from Norway aboard a North Sea Liner. Recollecting the bustling harbor of New York City, Nicolas was transported to 1886. The halls of Ellis Island were cramped as ever in his mind, and the new environment was both exhilarating and terrifying. New languages and prodding officials prompted many different feelings, but none more than the feeling of freedom. Freedom to do new things. Freedom to succeed or fail.
Looking down at his inquisitive daughter, Nicolas decided to open up completely to Ruth. “Ruth, I had no other choice. I either had to work the land or go out to the sea. Life was rough in the old country. Life was difficult, but it was something I knew. But The New Country… it was different. It was brand new. I had no idea what it would be like here, but I believed it could be better than my old life. When my mother begged me to stop whaling because of the danger, I told her I would cross the Atlantic.”
“But didn’t that hurt her?” asked Ruth.
“It took her awhile to accept it Ruth, but she understood that the New Country was the best place I could go to have a great life. No other place would give me that opportunity, not even Norway.”
Leaning back in his chair, Nicolas, gazed up into the evening sky. The air was accented with the chorus of the summer evening sounds on the plains. Coming back to the conversation, he spoke, “Listen Ruth, being an immigrant means you were willing to take a chance, you came here in refuge from something or tried to better yourself. It means you came here, and adapted to a new situation. When I landed in New York, all I had was a suitcase in one hand and my Bible in the other.”
Indeed, like most immigrants, those from Norway had to adapt to survive. Not only was the culture and language foreign to them, but the work was different from back home. The Norwegians left a crowded country with little opportunity for growth in hopes of finding something in the New Country.
“But wasn’t it tough learning how to farm?” asked Ruth.
“You’re right Ruth. It was tough, incredibly tough. But I just knew that I had to do it. I was a man of the open sea, but now I needed to become a man of the open land. I grew accustomed to this life, slowly but surely.”
Pausing for a moment, he smiled at his young daughter. “Our neighbors were so helpful to us too. Look after others, my beautiful girl. Always remember, that you are a Norwegian, and you come from good stock.”
“What’s good stock father?” Young Ruth began to smile and giggle. Slyly she added, “Is that like the cattle you work with?”
Her smile was made even sweeter sitting out on the open plains. He smiled back and thought about how he helped bring over sick relatives from Norway. He used his situation to help other people and wanted to pass along his strong Lutheran faith to the second generation.
“See, even though you might be free to do just about anything, you also need to look after others. Here, you are not asked what or who was your father, but the question is, ‘what are you?’ I worked hard, and by the grace of God was blessed. So I decided to share that blessing with others. My family was able to come over and join us in the New Country, because I wanted to help them start a new life, and I—no, we are very fortunate to have them here with us.”
Looking up at the starry sky again, he continued, “Why I remember when we were finally joined together. Do you remember how we all hold hands and sing?”
“Of course,” Ruth exclaimed excitedly. “I look forward to the singing around the tree at Christmastime!”
Nicolas laughed to himself and in a state of amusement replied, “Just imagine the first time we did that on American soil. When we were all together singing, finally on the same side of the ocean. I remember your grandparents, aunts, and uncles, all together here singing together. Nothing brings me greater joy than thinking about that precious time we have together. You were born into a wonderful community Ruth, so make the most out of it.”
He called Ruth up to him and pulled her onto his lap. His weathered hands lazily caressed his daughter’s hair. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was to be here. He worked hard, coming from a state of poverty to owning a cattle ranch. How grateful he was that he took a chance and came here. How grateful he was that though difficult as it might be, he could make something of himself here, something he could not have done back home.
Pioneers from all lands left the comfortable home of their ancestors and journeyed here. They started a new life and slowly but surely made the nation better. This is what builds the character of America. This is the promise of America.
I enjoyed your immigrant story. The part about all the relatives being on the same soil resonates as an immigrant in the other direction. Well done. Aidan
The Veteran
He took the treasure from its place and walked outside. The
voice of his grandson surprised him. How had he missed hearing his middle daughter
arrive with her brood?
“Hey Paw Paw! Happy Fourth of July! Can I help you raise the
flag?”
They walked toward the pier through the morning dew.
“Gonna be a scorcher today. What did your mama make for
lunch?”
“We brought squash casserole, green beans from the garden,
sliced tomatoes, and ham. She made a couple pies too. Did Maw Maw make her
cherry dessert?”
“You know she did. It took her a while to get the stripes
like she wanted. The blueberry stars are a little whoppy-jawed, but she’s right
proud of it.”
As they hoisted the flag, Jonathan held it carefully making
sure it did not touch the ground. Paw Paw was a real stickler about that sort of
thing. As he tied off the rope a little breeze caught Old Glory just right and it
popped against the bright blue sky.
Though the day was as hot as promised, the lake water was
cool, and lunch included all the delicious offerings of summer. But the best
was yet to come. Just like every year he could remember, his cousins, aunts, and
uncles piled into a couple trucks and headed to the causeway as the sun began
to set. Maw Maw handed out little American flags. Radios were tuned to the
patriotic station and Lee Greenwood sang God
Bless the USA. All eyes expectantly watched the sky.
A loud boom signaled nine o’clock. Each explosion filled the
night with a beautiful display of color and light. The kids waved their tiny flags
in unison like conductor batons to The
Stars and Stripes Forever.
“There’s Paw Paw’s song!” someone said as Anchors Away played. A loud flourish of
fireworks with the 1812 Overture
boomed in great timing as the grand finale. The smell of sulfur came on a distant
breeze. The night was suddenly black and quiet again.
Back at the lake house family members lined up in yard
chairs by the water as they anticipated the boats headed home. Hundreds of
lights moving slowly across the choppy water made a great parade.
Jonathan helped himself to the remaining fifty states and
joined Paw Paw on the porch swing. They watched as his little brother fished by
lantern light.
His grandfather broke the silence as he took a sip of coffee.
“There sure was a lot of good food today.”
“I remember a time when we were docked in Hong Kong. Some
women from an orphanage asked if they could paint our ship in exchange for food.
They had ropes rigged to lift themselves up and down the sides of the aircraft
carrier. Somehow they were able to paint the entire outside of the ship by
using their little system of ropes and pulleys. After each meal, the sailors
would separate their leftovers into bins for the ladies to take back to the
orphanage. It was heartbreaking to think of children going hungry but those
ladies did what they could to feed them.”
Jonathan loved it when his grandpa told his Navy stories,
though sometimes they were pretty sad. He hoped that someday he would have
adventures to tell. He could just imagine women swinging from ropes on the outside
of a giant ship like the one they had toured in Charleston. Paw Paw had even
took him beyond the barriers to see where he had manned his station on the Wasp.
“Another time me and a buddy were on shore leave in Japan.
We went to the movies and before the main feature they had a documentary of
sorts about the bombing of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. There we were in our
uniforms in a room full of Japs. We decided to skip the movie that night.”
Grandpa laughed as he remembered.
“So Paw Paw, did the children eat that slop you scraped off
your plates? Why didn’t they have food?”
“Son, everybody is not as blessed as we are in our country.
And it was not slop. We divided the vegetables into one pan, the bread in
another, and so on. Most of us purposely left more than usual. Normally there
wouldn’t be any leftovers at all. But most of the guys felt sorry for the
people and did what they could to share. Until you travel outside the United
States of America you will never know how fortunate you are.”
Jonathan ate the rest of the red white and blue cheesecake
in small bites, feeling ashamed at how stuffed he was. He started to ask him to
tell more, but he thought he saw tears in his grandpa’s eyes.
His little brother jerked a fish from the lake and called
for the net. As he went to help he was surprised that his grandpa stayed on the
porch. Catching a catfish that size was no small thing for his little brother.
As he passed the flagpole, he realized the flag was still there. Once the
catfish was put on a stringer, he met his grandfather. Together they lowered
the flag, folding it into a tight triangle with the field of blue displayed on top.
Handing the treasure to his hero, he pulled his body to attention and sharply
saluted.
“Thank you son,” the veteran said softly.
“Now let’s go take a look at your brother’s fish.”
It’s the middle of the year and I’m in the middle of the country. Well, I was on that day. Almost.
The date was May 30, 1995, and I was stationed at Whiteman Air Force Base which is located just east of Kansas City and roughly 340 miles from the middle of the continental United States or as some might jokingly describe it, the middle of nowhere. My unit, the 509th Transportation Squadron, was the base’s liaison to the town of Concordia, Missouri; founded in 1860. On this particular day a group of us piled into a bus and were driven eighteen miles north. Our mission was to represent both the base and the active military during a statue rededication ceremony in the town’s central park. Nearly seventy-two years earlier; September 23, 1923, a limestone statue of a WWI Doughboy standing at attention was placed in the park by the American Legion and their Auxiliary as a memorial to the soldiers of the Great War. Later the plaque was changed to include the American Civil War and the Spanish American War. In 1994, it was determined the statue was in dire need of attention to counteract the decades of weathering it had endured. The community; including the American Legion and Auxiliary, the Veterans of Foreign Wars and Auxiliary, the Heritage Club, the Lions Club, and the Civic Club, pulled together to make the restoration possible. The pride, love and support this community has for it’s military history was on full display this evening and you didn’t have to be a soldier to recognize it.
All the requisite officials from the federal, state, and local governments were on hand. As you might expect, the ceremony included dignitaries, speeches, and pageantry commensurate with the occasion. In my first hand opinion, what truly made the event memorable, and distinguished it from other generic civic ceremonies, were the people facing the stage rather than those on it.
There could be no question the bus load of active Air Force personnel, formally dressed and standing at attention, made an impressive addition to the crowd. As one of those airman I couldn’t help but observe those around me. The speeches are long forgotten but what I saw has stayed with me in my memory as clear as series of photographs in my hand.
It was a comfortable late spring evening and many, young and old, turned out for the party. I remember feeling the presence of a US Congressman lent an elevated level of importance to the occasion although I couldn’t have told you who he was in a crowd. It was, however, easy to identify former military members. The familiar wedge hats worn by members of the American Legion and the VFW dotted the audience in great numbers. Men of all ages, representing all branches of the US military and the conflicts they fought in stood proudly with their families. Some were too old to stand without aid or no longer could at all but they sat just as proudly.
There were several men dressed in full uniform too. Because Concordia is so close to an Air Force base there were more than the usual amount of people in blue. It was a kick to see how the dress uniforms had changed over the years compared to what we were wearing that day. One man stands out for me. His dress blues weren’t very different from ours indicating his time of service was relatively recent compared to others there. I supposed he could have been one of us, a senior member of our ranks but for reasons of his own his time of service was behind him. He was probably old enough to have a child among us. A fresh, young airman continuing her family’s service to our country and it was a reminder that the reason we were there was not a relic from the history books. We were linked to those fallen soldiers from so long ago. Also in blue, light blue spring jackets, were members of the American Legion Women’s Auxiliary. The mothers, sisters, wives and daughters of veterans past and present continuing to offer love and support to all of us.
At the conclusion of the formal portion of the ceremony, people mingled as they are want to do on such an occasion. Lot’s of hand shaking and brief stories of service were exchanged. Older veterans were particularly happy to see our contingent of young faces and told us so. The feelings of comradeship transcend time, branch of service and gender. It was just as emotional for us to meet them and be aware of the combat and danger they had seen. The Gulf War was the most recent US conflict at the time and most of us had not been there given how short it was and our relative ages. There were, however, men and women present who represented all US involved conflicts including WWII, Korea and Vietnam. Unfortunately I don’t recall if there was a WWI veteran present. To my young eyes it was difficult to distinguish an aged face. WWI and WWII belonged, in experience, to my grandfather’s and their fathers. At that point there sadly weren’t many WWI veterans left alive, anywhere.
The refreshments were homemade. In my acquaintance this is typical in a small town and we were all better off for it. The women of the Auxiliary stood under a tent slicing pieces of cake onto little white paper plates and handing them over with a smile. The image of them crowded under the canopy, volunteering and wearing the identifiable blue jacket, is one of the stronger ones for me. They represented an important part of what the soldiers of our history fought for: home and family. Love.
Although I was gifted the opportunity to experience small town living for a few years as a child, my teens were experienced in a more urban environment. As a result I was able to view the picture painted before me on this evening from an outsider’s point of view. What I imagine was a usual experience for the folks who lived there was a moment out of time for me. A special memory I will always have as a memento of my time as an active duty member of the United States Air Force and one of a handful of similar memories that will always make proud; and, it can’t be helped, also make me cry.
Michelle Tibbetts
tibbetts.michlle@yahoo.com
An American Conversation
“I don’t like the
Midwest. It’s stifling.” Jory adjusted his tie.
“The summers are
tough, but it shouldn’t be too bad this evening,” said Tressa.
“See, that’s what I
mean. You can’t think beyond your little backyard. So narrow-minded and
intolerant. How can anyone live in such a hostile environment?”
“I’m not sure I
know what you mean, Jory.”
“You know, all
the pre-judgment and prejudice. Bible thumping, gun racks in your truck
window, Confederate flags, and all those attitudes.”
“Well, I’m sure
Lindsey appreciates you enduring the oppression for her wedding.”
“Lindsey’s awesome.
I’m just not sure why she decided to stay in Podunk, USA.”
“Interesting point.
Dallas IS rather provincial.”
“What are you
smirking at, Tress? You can’t compare Dallas to anything out on the
Coasts.”
“True. But every
American city and town is unique. I love exploring as many as I can. Road trips
rock.”
“Are you kidding me?
America has become so polarized. Right wing ideologues yapping about how we’re
going to hell in a hand basket. They probably regurgitate that stuff at every
gas station along your lovely road trip. It just gets so tedious. No thanks, if
I’m going to go somewhere and enjoy it, it won’t be here.”
The other wedding guests
filled in the seats of the banquet tables, chatting among themselves.
“Do you know anyone
else here, Jory?” Tressa asked.
“I’ve only met
Lindsey’s brother, when he came to visit her on campus once. He’s pretty
cool.”
“He won’t be here.
He’s still in rehabilitation.”
“Rehab? Did he
get mixed up with some meth lab out here? I hear it’s a regular infestation.
One in every trailer.”
“No, Jory, physical
rehab. IED in Kandahar took off his right leg.”
“Oh. He’s in the
Army? He never said anything about it when we were hanging out at
Starbucks.” Jory fiddled with the gold ribbon on his wedding favor.
“Don’t let him hear
you say that. He’s a Marine. They’re particular about their military
affiliation.”
The tinkling strains of a
sitar came across the speaker system, and a group of people moved through the hotel ballroom. The women looked like a nest of shiny Easter eggs. Several men wearing
white cotton kurtas followed behind. Others wore regular street clothes. They took their places on the stage.
“Ooh, it’s about to
start. Lindsey looks pretty in that blue sari. The blue silk and silver embroidery really make her blue eyes
and blonde hair pop.”
“Yeah, what’s the
deal with that?”
“Raj is a Zoroastrian.
The ceremony is going to follow those traditions.”
“What do Lindsey’s
parents think about that?”
“Well, I don’t think
her dad was too crazy about it. He doesn’t believe in any religion.”
“A man after my own
heart. Religion is an opiate of the people.”
Tressa laughed. “The
reason he didn’t want them to do the ceremony is that it is two hours long and
he has to sit up on the stage with them the whole time.”
“Two hours? Nobody
told me that!”
They sat in silence for
the first hour while the priest spoke. He occasionally pointed to the wedding
couple and raised his voice. Jory looked at his watch for the fifth time. He
leaned over and whispered to Tressa.
“When will this be over? It’s cool they wanted to do the traditional stuff, but I’m bored
out of my mind. At least they could have done it in English.”
“Shh, not so loud.
It’s Parsi. I think it’s beautiful. Too bad you weren’t at Lindsey’s cousin’s
wedding last year. That’s her over at the third table. She married Peter. They had an awesome Chinese tea ceremony, where they serve
tea to all the relatives to honor them. She wore this amazing red silk robe.
Peter’s father is the funniest guy. I will introduce you later. He and his wife
moved here from China in the seventies.”
“Did the tea ceremony
take this long, too? Even though I can’t understand it, I can tell this guy is
droning on and on. Look at the old guy falling asleep on the platform. That is
hilarious. Who is he? He looks like a farmer.”
“That’s Lindsey’s
dad. He has a Ph.D. in chemistry. He doesn’t like to dress up.”
“Why is that lady
holding an egg to her forehead?”
“That’s Lindsey’s
aunt. She’s the oldest female relative of the family. It’s tradition she gets
to do the blessing with an egg and water and some rice, I think. That’s her
husband, third one from the right on the platform.”
“You mean the black
guy?”
Tressa raised an eyebrow. “Well, yes. They’ve
been married for 35 years and have five kids. He owns a construction
company.”
“I bet all her other
relatives have a problem with that.”
“Actually, they
don’t. They’ve outlasted most of the marriages on this side of the
family.”
“You mean divorce is
still cause for being ostracized here? I knew this place was so backwards,
trying to force their beliefs on people.” Jory drummed the table with his fingers.
“I don’t think people
here are against divorce, Jory. It’s just hard on families, but they work it out.
That’s Lindsey’s mom in the second row, and that’s Lindsey’s stepmom, two seats
to the right of her. People work stuff out.”
“Hey, they’re
lighting candles now. What does that mean?” Jory asked.
“I think it means
they’re almost done.”
“Who was the woman
that got up to light the candles? She was kind of hot. Can you introduce me?”
“That’s Barbara. See
the woman sitting next to her? That’s Clare. They’re partners. Barbara is
Lindsey’s stepsister. They didn’t used to get along when they were younger, but
now they hang out and stuff.”
“Figures. I can’t
even hook up in this backwater.”
“Hey, if you’re nice, when the
reception starts I’ll introduce you to Chelsea. She has a degree in
international relations. She’s working with an NGO in Kenya to help start
micro-businesses for impoverished women.”
“Yeah, but is she
cute?”
Tressa sighed. “Yes,
Jory, she is cute.”
“Good.”
The music started again
and guests rose to congratulate the bride and groom.
“Hey, there’s
Jonathan. Let’s go say hi to him,” Tressa said.
“Who’s
Jonathan?”
“He used to be my youth pastor. Lindsey, too. Really cool guy. He runs a coffee house for runaway youth
now. Toured with Sheryl Crow for a few
years before he went into pastoral work. He got this petition going to stop some strip
clubs from being built near an elementary school and then ran for city council. It was
a close race but a lot of people didn’t agree with his stand on the
clubs. I think you’ll like him.”
“He’s probably
pro-life, too.”
“Probably.”
“See? That’s what I’m
talking about, Tressa. That’s what’s wrong with this country. America used to
be a place where people believed in something. Anyone could speak their
opinions, work on changing the system if they didn’t like it, live their lives the
way they chose, stand up for American ideals and helping others was encouraged.”
“I think it’s stilll possible in some places if you search for it,” said Tressa.
“I don’t know. America is such a narrow,
judgmental, all-about-me, white bread mentality country now. I hope Lindsey knows how much
I’m sacrificing to put up with this.”
“I’m sure she does,
Jory. Let’s get some hors d’oeuvres.”
Like my story, you called attention to the other side of America, the side that some people like to forget about. Thank you!
Yes, it’s not your typical point of view, but it’s based on some actual events and conversations. I liked looking from a backhanded direction that what a lot of people don’t like about America is also some of the best things about America: the myriad of options and opinions people have and have a right to have. It’s all in point of view, I think.
I like this story for so many personal reasons. Very well done!
Thank you very much, Steph. 🙂
Nazeeya sat on her little cot looking
at a patch of sky through the small window high above her head. It
had been days since she had seen the whole expanse of that blue or
smelled fresh air. It had been days since she had seen anything,
except the walls of her prison, and men.
She imagined her younger sisters, her
mother, her father all sitting under the same blue sky. Were they
looking up as they tended the garden in their little village and
thinking of her too? The ache in her chest grew tight, almost too
tight to breathe as she remembered the last day she had seen them.
Her father had brought a strange man to
the house. He was at least twice Nazeeya’s 15 years. A cold chill had
shivered down her spine as he was introduced as her prospective
husband. His name was Abhijay. “He will offer a home to you,” her
father had said. “You know we have little to feed you with. Women
in his village are scarce and he needs a wife.”
Her parents had little choice, and she
knew it. There was no reason to argue. Had they known her fate they
may have been less willing to part with her, even for the modest
payment. Abhijay had taken her hundreds of miles away to a village in
the province of Delhi. But a marriage had never taken place. She had
lived with him as a wife for several weeks and then he had sold her
at a profit.
The new man had not bought her to be
his wife either. She was taken to the outskirts of New Delhi and
given into the custody of Avani. The old woman had charge of a house
full of girls. They rarely saw one another but she could guess their
stories. They were poor, with little hope, now even less.
She pulled her blue sari around her and
swatted away flies. Dressed in azure from head to toe she was the
only bright spot in the drab, dirty room. The greyness had crept into
her soul until she felt nothing. Except perhaps the faintest glimmer
of irrational hope.
Reaching under the thin mattress of her
cot she pulled out a magazine. Written in English she understood none
of the articles or advertisements. She did understand the pictures.
Images of well dressed, well fed people smiled at her. Pretty houses
and pretty things, bright colors and unfamiliar landscapes spoke to
her of beauty and wonder.
One page in particular captured her
attention; a man in a uniform, his arm around a woman, children by
their side. There were pictures of him getting off of a plane
surrounded by his family all holding little flags. A picture of him
playing with a dog in front of a nice house, the same flag hanging
from a pole. Red, white, and blue. She knew what that meant. America.
It was her one hope. Even more than
returning home she longed for a new life in America. There was
nothing for her here. If she went home would she be sold again? Her
parents couldn’t afford a dowry, or to keep her, which is why they
had sold her in the first place.
She tore out the picture of the family
standing happily together, flag waving proudly in the background.
Folding it carefully into a square she tucked it into her dress
beside her heart. Quickly she slid the magazine back to it’s hiding
place. She never knew when the key would grate in the lock or who
would enter.
Several hours later Nazeeya was awoken
by Avani storming into the room. Yelling at her. Hitting her with a
heavy stick. She makes out from the woman’s shrill screams that she
has committed the ultimate sin. She’s become pregnant. Apparently a
customer has complained about her condition. Angry at the
inconvenience and loss of income the old woman takes her anger out on
Nazeeya’s thin, already bruised body.
It’s dusk and Avani drives Nazeeya
from the room and into the courtyard where the man waits for her in
an old black jeep. The old woman throws her into the back and shuts
the door. Huddling in the floor Nazeeya glances up at the strong back
and bald head of her owner. Trembling she rides in silence as the
houses slip away and fields flash by in the twilight.
She knows she will never
make it to the land of promise as he roughly drags her from the
backseat into the empty field. Fumbling for the page tucked into her
clothes as she’s dragged along, she reaches for hope even now. Her
eyes fall on the smiling faces and bright flag as the man shoves her
to the ground, planting her face in the dirt with his boot.
Nazeeya’s
heart races to the sound of steel as he unsheathes his Gurkha
knife. Freedom comes in many forms. She closes her eyes against the
harsh world. With a whoosh of his blade her red blood stains the
brilliant blue of her sari and splatters her crumpled hope.
***
Sometimes it’s hard to imagine such brutality in our cozy world. Sadly, while this piece is fiction, stories like this one are played out around the world every day. I think it’s important, and a gift, to use our freedom for the good of others. If you’re interested in doing that here is a website that sells jewelry made by young women rescued from the horrors of human trafficking, offering them dignity and hope. http://www.isanctuary.org/home
Beck … this is a chilling story and it’s very sad that these atrocities continue in this world today and to realize there are so many sufferers. I was hoping for a better ending. I’m sure you have captured the vision of America in many remote locations throughout the world. “A land of hope.” Beautiful …
Thank you Robert for your comment. It is chilling I’m afraid. Sometimes we complain about our country and goodness knows it has it’s problems. I just wanted to remind us that so many people in the world live without our most basic freedoms and safety. We really do have so much to be thankful for.
Beck, I agree with Robert. Chilling is good word for it. This is powerful “The greyness had crept into her soul until she felt nothing. Except perhaps the faintest glimmer of irrational hope.” Nice job.
Thanks Eileen, it is chilling I’m afraid. I thought it was interesting how your piece evoked some of the same feelings of gratitude through comparison.
Such an important story. Beautiful writing.
Thank you Marla! It was hard to write but I felt that it was important.
It’s not on topic, but it’s beautifully written. And yes, trafficked girls are having a bad time in so many parts of the world.
Thanks for your comment Oddznns! It is a sad situation isn’t it! I disagree that it’s not on topic though. The prompt isn’t What America Is To Me rather America Is. I wrote from the perspective that “America is” still a land of opportunity and hope to many people around the world. I assumed, rightly, that there would be many typical patriotic posts about America. I wanted my piece to stand out as unique and chose a different approach. I also feel as an American the need to be responsible with my freedom and act for the good of others.
Ah I see. Yes.
Huh????
That was powerful Beck. I think although it was hard to read it is my favorite of all the beautiful things you’ve written.
Thank you Marianne, that’s very kind of you to say. I agree it is painful but I’m glad it was powerful for you. I had hoped it would have an impact.
“Seven one-thousand, eight one-thousand, nine one-thousand,
ten one-thousand, ready or not here I come!”
The sand was blistering hot and their weren’t no hiding
places. The only reason we were
playing hide-and-seek was because Mom said we couldn’t go swimming. “Wait a half an hour before going in
the water, boys” was what she said.
We only ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches – mine had sand in it,
but Mom made me eat it anyway – and we still had to wait.
Alexandra always went right in after she ate if she wanted
to, and she never got a tummy ache.
She said Mom was crazy and didn’t know what she was talking about. Mom was afraid to make Alex mad because
Alexandra would scream and yell and pull her yellow hair out. Everyone feared Alex and the fusses she
made. Mom said she got stuck being born and didn’t get a breath for a minute or
two and now it made her mad all the time, and that was why she yelled at
everybody.
We didn’t want that to happen, today was a special day. Joey was coming home. I missed my big brother
Joey. Joey was fun. Joey let us do pile drivers on his bed
in the morning when we were little.
Mom said Joey got hurt real bad in Vietnam and now he had only one leg,
kind of like granddad – only different. Joey didn’t die.
Looking for a hiding place seemed silly. The beach had no trees or bushes or
buildings. The lifeguard towers
didn’t count, they had signs painted on warning us to ‘stay off’. So we just quit and sat in the sand
near Mom’s towel. Bored. She said
we didn’t need towels, we were boys and we could dry off by playing. Alexandra had a towel, a bright pink towel. She sat on it all day when we came to
the beach. She said if we touched
it we would be in big trouble. We
learned to leave her and her stupid towel alone.
“Ok boys, you can go play in the water.” Mom announced.
The three of us jumped to our feet and raced to the waters
edge. Nearing the chilly water we
noticed two surfboards floating nearby.
Seconds later two heavy-breathing, long-haired surfers ran out of the
soup grabbing up the boards only to return immediately to the ocean. We stood
there for a while watching them. I was jealous. I wanted long hair and a
surfboard. Our dad said long hair
was for no-good hippies, and that surfers were lazy. I thought it was groovy, but I didn’t dare tell my dad.
Grady and I wanted to go swimming but we couldn’t go in very
far because Simon was with us.
Simon was always keeping us from doing stuff. Mom said we were only supposed to be twins – me and Grady –
but Simon surprised everyone when he poked his head out, she said he missed a
breath too – but not as much as Alex – and that’s why he’s littler than Grady
and me and we would need to keep watch over him. Grady and I always kept big breaths available, we agreed it
wouldn’t be good to be like Simon or Alexandra.
The three of us wandered down by the pier, because down
there we knew we could go out a little further without the water getting over
our heads too soon, and Simon liked chasing the baby crabs up the pilings. I kept watch for Joey and hoped he would
get here soon. Dad said he would
bring him right from the airport, at least for a few minutes, and then take him
home to change and come back to light fireworks. I wondered how Joey would walk with only one leg.
“Grady, do you think Joey will be able to play with us.” I
said.
“Of course he will Percy, he’s got one of those prosthetics.
Mom told me.” Grady said.
“Huh, a what?” I said.
Grady continued, “Mom told me all about it, it’s an
artificial leg that Joey can put on in the morning and take off at night and it
makes him walk almost as normal as you and me.”
Simon had a crab cornered and without looking up chimed in
… “Mom told me his leg don’t hurt him no more neither.”
Hurt him? I thought.
That made me think of what happened to Joey. He must have been scared all the time after that until he
got on the airplane to come home.
Just then we heard Alexandra screaming something awful. It was my Dad’s truck. We could see it
coming slowly along the beach road.
I could just make out someone in the truck with Dad and knew it would be
Joey. Grady and Simon raced past
me heading in that direction.
“Joey, Joey, Joey, it’s Joey,” they chanted.
“Wait for me.” I yelled. Running fast, I soon overtook my brothers and made it to
truck first.
When I saw Joey, my heartbeat was choking me. I couldn’t believe it was him he was so
different. It took him a minute to get out of the truck. He wouldn’t let my Dad help him, then
he hobbled on over to the group of us.
He had to move with what seemed like a big dip and a hop to the right
and then a slow lift to the left and then over again with each step. He had on blue pants with red stripes,
a dark jacket and a funny looking white hat – AND, I think he was bald! My Mom
was crying – Alex too – I think the whole beach stopped what they were doing and
watched us as we greeted Joey for the first time since he left California.
My Mom and Dad and Alex and Grady and Simon spent the
longest time talking to Joey and I could see that Joey was different. He didn’t talk much and he looked off
into the distance as if he was looking for something. I wondered if the enemy people were still looking for him
and I decided to keep watch too.
“What’s the matter Percy?” Joey said.
“Nothing,” I said, choking back tears. “I’m keeping an eye out for bad guys.”
“The bad guys went home too, Percy.” Joey said.
Just then Simon and Grady came over and Joey grabbed us all
up and wrestled us into the sand and let us do mini pile drivers on him for a
long time. Dad brought out Joey’s
big green bag so Joey could change into his trunks and stay at the beach with
us all day. Dad said Joey didn’t
want to miss a minute of fun with his family at the beach this fine
Independence Day 1972!
That was a great American moment from the eyes of a little boy, taking in the reality of life around him and trying to make sense of it. There isn’t much that is more American than a freckle faced, buzz cut boy!
Thank you Beck … appreciate the comments.
Hi Joe,
As mentored by you I keep attempting. I believe a country is a country because of it’s citizens. The people of a country gives it it’s social and cultural ethos, and when people of two different countries meet, good and strange things happen as would be clear from my following story.
hem
Innocents Abroad
—————————————-
‘Could you please
pedal a bit fast brother? the road is not very crowded,’ Payal urged the grey
haired rickshaw puller who, as on every other day she hired his rickshaw for
her daily trip to the bank’s branch, was humming the latest Hindi film ditty
under his breath as his bare legs kept a steady up and down movement
alternatively, on the right and left pedals of the rickshaw. Payal did not fail
to notice that the rhythm of his labouring legs kept perfect time to the tune
he was humming to himself.
He hummed
the end of the scale of the song and turning around on his triangular perch
smiled from ear to ear and replied, ‘Sure sister I’ll do that but what’s the
hurry? The Bank doesn’t open before 10 AM and if I’m not mistaken the time
should not be more than 9.20 now.’
‘Quarter
past nine,’ Payal said, glancing at her wrist watch, ‘I want half an hour
before the bank opens to clear yesterday’s pending work. It is very difficult
to get a peaceful half an hour in the bank once the Public dealing starts. I also
took an early Delhi Transport Corporation bus from home so that I could reach
the bank before the Public starts trooping in.’
Payal
thoughts turned to her wonderful husband of ten years and she blew an imaginary
flying kiss at Mohan. He had been concerned at her leaving earlier than usual
for work and had insisted on dropping her to the Bus Stop on his motor cycle. He
told her not to worry about Archit, their 7 year old son; he would organize his
breakfast, his lunch box and drop him at the school- bus stop. She did miss her
husband terribly at odd hours of the day.
‘In that
case sister’, the rickshaw puller’s voice broke into her thoughts, ‘I’ll pedal
like the Jokers in the Royal Jumbo Circus ride their wooden bicycles, fast and
furious.’ His legs started pumping up and down in great speed.’ Have you been
to the Circus sister?’ he enquired breathlessly.
‘Not so fast
please,’ Payal remonstrated, ‘You are not cycling on a smooth Circus Rink, this
road has big pot holes and all three of us will surely topple over in case even
one of the wheels goes into a pot hole.’
‘Don’t worry
sister,’ the puller assured her,’ I know every stone on this road and also all
the cables, pipelines, sewage lines that run under it,’ as he continued at
break neck speed.
Payal held
on to both sides of the rickshaw for dear life and closed her eyes.
‘Here we
are,’ she heard the rickshaw puller announce, ‘Exactly 9.25 AM, you can work in
peace for half an hour.’
Payal got
down from the rear of the rickshaw, ‘Please go to the Canteen,’ she told the
rickshaw puller, ‘You will find Sadhu Singh there, ask him to give you a cup of
piping hot tea and a packet of glucose biscuits, tell him that I’ll pay for
these. Please also tell Sadhu to send me a cup of tea as well.’
‘Thank you
sister, tea and biscuits will do nicely in this cold Delhi weather and Sadhu is
an old friend of mine,’ he responded.
‘After you
have had your tea, don’t forget to come to my office for the fare and is your
name Ram Khilawan? I’ve heard your friends call you that at the Rickshaw
stand.’ Payal asked as she unlocked the
big steel cupboard, very prominent in her small cabin, and took out a big stack
of files from its depth and carefully arranged the pile on the top right corner
of her table. Payal opened the first file as she made herself comfortable on
her high backed revolving chair.
Ram Khialwan,
who was watching Payal settle down to work with a great deal of interest,
nodded his head in the affirmative to Payal’s query and hesitantly ventured a
question in return, ‘Sister is this how all the office wallahs begin their work
in the morning, with such a huge bundle of papers? And I can read from the plastic plate nailed
in front of your cabin that you are Manager, Foreign Exchange; are so many
files required for your work?’ He did sound perplexed.
Payal stared
at him and said, ‘ Brother there are days when the files go up to the ceiling
as I spend the entire day signing debit/credit vouchers and then the next day
I’ve to request Ram Khilawan to pedal fast so that I can finish yesterday’s
work.’
Ram Khilawan
smiled at the sally and with a look of pity at the plight of office wallahs said,
‘My job is easier, I spend ten minutes dusting my Rickshaw in the morning and
straight away start my work.’ Payal, was by now deeply engrossed in her work
and didn’t notice Ram Khilawan leave her cabin.
Payal worked
steadily for the next twenty minutes before her attention was distracted by a
commotion at the bank’s main entrance. She could hear Nagendra, the Bank’s Head
Guard’s voice raised in exasperation as he tried to explain to someone, in
broken English, that the bank was not yet open and he couldn’t come into the
bank before five past ten even if he was the Chairman of the Bank.
Payal’s ears
picked up at the heavily accented drawl of complaint, ‘Yo bro, nobody is gonna
make me chairman of no bank unless it is a different type of bank. I beg you
brother let us enter in peace so that we can get some Indian money in exchange
for Uncle Sam’s Travellers Cheques.’
Payal was
sure it was not an Indian accent. She shouted, ‘Guard ji let him enter. Please
bring him to my cabin.’ Nagendra, a stickler for rules, yelled back, ‘If you
say so madam, you can explain to the Branch Manager when he enquires why a
customer was permitted into the branch before opening time.’
‘Don’t worry
Nagendra ji, I’ll give the explanation.’ Payal was curious about this customer
with an accent, which reminded her of the Second World War movies made in
Hollywood. War movies were Mohan’s special favourites. She had lost count of
the number of times Mohan had dragged Archit and her to see ‘The Longest Day’,
‘Patton’, and ‘Battle of the Bulge’. Archit could even sprout the dialogues
from these movies with the appropriate facial expressions picked up from the various
characters.
‘Yo lady,
G’morning to you, nice to see ya working so hard early in the morning; that’s
what I keep telling Joan here that these here Indians, particularly the Indian
ladies work real hard and that’s the
reason the Country is developing real fast.’ Payal smiled and looked up at the
tall, well built, curly haired, sharp featured black man wearing a pair of well
preserved, clean, faded, ink blue Levi jeans with a half sleeve light blue
checked shirt tucked in at the waist. His lips were spread wide in a smile
reaching up to his eyes which were like two dark pools of liquid ebony emitting
a golden light.
‘Good
morning sir,’ Payal replied, ‘Sorry for the bit of bother you had at the
entrance. Nagendra is a great one for following rules and he has been working
with this bank for the last 30 years. It is difficult to change such old
habits. Would you and the lady care for some tea?’
Payal looked
at his companion and was struck by her beauty. Thick, shining blond hair, cut
short at the neck curled softly under the two ear lobes framing a high cheek
boned face with a lovely peach and blossom complexion, two big, diamond shaped,
twinkling blue eyes set far apart on either side of an exquisitely carved nose complemented the
slightly parted lips shaped like petals of some exotic flower. The parted lips, raised up at both the
corners, gave a hint of white, even teeth as also of the joyful spirit the lady
possessed. All this beauty was set on a dainty frame, not very tall, clad in
navy blue T shirt, tucked into light blue jeans, worn over off white sneakers
without socks. Payal felt a bit flustered in presence of so much beauty and did
not fully catch the first few words of the tall, dark man’s reply to her
question, ‘Whoa lady, you don’t have to ‘sir’ me’. He said, ‘This here Joan,
the love of my life, couldn’t be older than you. You can be her sister for all
you know and no sister -in -law ever ‘sirs’ a bro -in -law in our part of the
world.’ He had a wide, toothy smile on his face.
Payal, who
had heard some part of the man’s reply was confused and responded, mostly to
the beaming smile, ‘so nice of you to call me your sister sir. In India it is
not taken amiss if the younger sister calls her elder brother sir.’
‘Is that
so?’ He still had the delighted smile on his face, and turning to his
companion, who had been observing the conversation with her lips puckered up in
a smile said, ‘What do ya say my beautiful one, should we make this lovely lady
your sister or mine?’
‘Stop
fooling around Robert.’ The lady companion decided to take a part in the
proceedings, ’Can’t you see the lady is trying to finish off some work, you are
distracting her,’ she scolded Robert with a smile and turning towards Payal
said, ‘Please don’t mind his antics. He puts on that Atlanta City accent so
that people mistake him for a rapper. Otherwise he teaches Philosophy at
Berkley.’
Robert had a
rueful smile on his face as he pulled out a folder from his hip pocket and
said, ‘Isn’t life difficult, you want to be a rapper and it turns you into a
philosopher.’
He opened
the folder and took out a bunch of American Express travellers cheques and
looking up at Joan enquired, ‘what do you say love should we exchange 1000
dollars for Rupees? That should be sufficient for our trip from Delhi to
Rajasthan and back?’
‘Whatever
you think is right darling,’ Joan replied, ‘you know how poor I am at keeping
track of money?’
‘And mind
you,’ Robert said, swivelling his face towards Payal, ‘this from a lady who
teaches Physics in Berkley.’
Payal
smiled, both of them appeared to be tightly bound to each other in a special
world made for each other. She sighed, thinking of Mohan and stretched out her
hands for the traveller cheques Robert handed over 1000 dollars worth of
cheques to her along with a Passport.
Payal opened
the first page of the passport. Robert’s face beamed up at her. His full name
was Robert Redwood. She now opened the packet of Travellers Cheques, she looked
at the cheques closely. She compared Robert Redwood’s signatures on the
passport with the buyer’s signatures on the Travellers Cheques. The signatures
were different. She looked up at Joan and asked, ‘Were these cheques purchased
by you?’
Joan looked
perplexed and replied, ‘Yes, sure they were bought by me.’
‘In that
case could I see your passport please?’ Payal said stretching out her hand.
‘I am not
carrying my passport; it is safely locked in the Hotel safe. We thought only
one passport would be required at the bank for encashment of TCs.’ Joan’s voice
was a whisper.
‘You are
right,’ Payal explained, ‘only one passport is required but it should be of the
person whose signatures are there on the TCs. ‘Joan was now in tears. She clung
to Robert and in a voice full of remorse said, ’I am sorry darling I couldn’t
take out my passport from the safe as you told me to. I had forgotten the
password for opening the safe.’
‘Why didn’t
you ask me?’ Robert held her close and enquired tenderly.
‘I was
so embarrassed, what would you think of me; a teacher of Physics forgetting a
three digit password.’
Robert held
her tight and said, ‘I would have thought the world of you. You are human and humans
do forget unimportant things like passwords of Hotel safes.’ They both burst
out laughing and turning to Payal said, ‘Would you help us lady in getting the
passport, our hotel is The Great Indian Star Hotel.’ Payal
thought for a while, she could see Ram Khilawan waiting outside her cabin for
his fare.
She beckoned
him inside and said, ‘Ram Khilwan ji. Please take this gentleman to his hotel,
it is close by and bring him back in 20 minutes.’
‘I know both
of them are putting up at “The Great Indian Star” Hotel,’ the rickshaw puller
replied. ‘Come sir,’ he ushered Robert out of the cabin, ‘we will go and come
in a jiffy. The two ladies can enjoy their cups of tea.’
By: Hem
Srivastava
I so agree! A country for me is defined by the people who live in it. Very unique take on the topic. Some beautiful lines here – my favourite is ‘I know every stone on this road and also all the cables, pipelines, sewage lines that run under it’.
“If I had a Hammer”
Every Sunday Ray watches the cars parade into East Presbyterian’s parking lot. Usually he sits on the small screened porch, coffee propped on his knee. On hot mornings, like this one, Ray wears a threadbare t-shirt and grey boxers. He assures Grace no one can see through him the screen. She smiles and shakes her head.
He knows the cars, their order of arrival. The old folks come first, parking near the doors and gripping the iron railing as they navigate the steps. The young families pull in next, assembling car seats and diaper bags, herding toddlers through the door. Then Grace walks out on the porch and stops beside him. Often she brings him breakfast– toast topped with a shiny egg. Sometimes she just stands quietly until he turns. “I’m going now.” She says. She holds her small black purse tight against her trim waist. She still looks so good, Ray thinks. “Wish you’d come,” she says. Ray nods and smiles. She leans to kiss him.
“Maybe next week.” Ray receives her kiss. He runs his big hand lightly around her back. “I’ll make dinner.” He watches her push the screen door open, descend the steps, and cross the street. She stops outside the heavy arched doors of the church and turns. He knows she can’t see him, but she waves anyway. Then she swings the big door open and disappears.
When they first moved here, thirty-four years ago, Ray went too, slipping into the back pew, standing and singing and always following Grace’s lead. He shook hands and endured introductions, waiting while she made conversation, learning those strange people with their flat vowels and stern faces. Back then, it was a church of carpenters and tradesmen. New in town and out of work, Ray hedged about his past, unsure of their view of the long and now ended war. Most listened without judgment. Some offered suggestions about who might be hiring.
A few days later, the black rotary phone on the wall of their tiny kitchen rang. Grace handed the receiver to Ray and rested her hand soft on his shoulder. Ray listened, said yes two or three times, stood, and hung the phone back in place. “One of the old men from the church.” he said. “Asked me to help fix up a house for some Vietnamese refugees.” Grace nodded. “No pay, mind you. All volunteer.” Grace smiled and left the room. “Now don’t go getting your hopes all up,” he called after her.
Ray worked alongside the men for two weeks. A big, balding carpenter with a fading Semper Fi tattoo on his forearm ran things, handing out assignments, checking work, scowling often. Ray watched the church folks, skilled and otherwise, patch walls and hang doors, scrub sinks and update wiring. Everyone wanted to help, it seemed, too many people in one place, even kids dragged along by eager parents. Once Ray watched a mother slap her teenage son’s face so hard, Ray winced. Just before, Ray heard the boy mutter something about cleaning a house for a bunch of gooks.
One evening the father of the refugee family toured the house. He was led around by the big carpenter and a translator, smiling and bowing, somehow standing proud among all those towering Dutch folk. Ray retreated to the backyard. Shaking, he lit a cigarette and squatted, squinting at the house. Wondering how long until he wouldn’t see the enemy around every corner.
Over the next six years, three families occupied the house, found jobs, learned halting but sufficient English, and moved on. They politely attended services with their sponsors and then slowly returned to their own religious affiliations. They were Catholics and Buddhists and unbelievers. Ray found permanent work with the big carpenter. A refugee himself, he hung at the edges of the church. Then, like the smiling people with their strange customs, quietly drifted away.
Ray waits until he hears music carry from the church. He listens, then rises and carries his cup to the kitchen. He tugs on a pair of battered jeans and strolls through the porch and down the steps. The Sunday paper lays rolled in its plastic skin. He peels it free and sits. The front page is cluttered with war and rumors of more. Promises of troop withdrawal. Warnings of new conflict. He snorts, shaking his head at the U.N.’s strongly worded warning to Syria. Locally, the city police declare war on street gangs. Ray ignores the rest, then tosses it through the screen door. The music from the church stops and Ray imagines the preacher reading the scripture before the sermon. Above, the sun nears its peak in the steel blue sky. He begins to walk.
Two blocks from their house, a two-story building stands surrounded by scaffolding. Ray stops to watch a crew of volunteers, dark-haired men, some bearded, scrabbling up ladders, mix mortar, pass concrete blocks from gloved hand to gloved hand. Cars crowd the dusty lot. There is not a pick up truck in sight.
The building sits quiet for weeks, then bursting upward in spasms. A painted plywood sign displays the finished building. Its strange characters are probably Arabic, but to Ray they may as well be Vietnamese. Grace has often mentioned the church’s puzzlement over this new neighbor. They’ve held prayer meetings and invited experts on Islam to speak. They sent a welcoming delegation. Not much came of it, but maybe a gap narrowed.
A group of men assembles around a bunk of 2x4s. They begin carrying stacks of lumber through the arched opening that will be the front door. Ray listens as a saw whines, the familiar clatter of cut offs hitting the floor. Then the competent rhythm of hammer blows. They’re doing all right, Ray thinks. He stands in the shade of a big maple and watches, patting his pockets for a phantom pack of cigarettes. He quit years ago, but the memory lingers.
Ray crosses the street and wanders back. When the first tower came down, he was at work, arguing with a plumber about the clumsy holes he’d just drilled through a joist. The news from New York trickled from the painter’s radio, but they were too busy to understand. Who could make sense of planes crashing into skyscrapers anyway? But as the enormity descended, they all gathered around the paint-splattered radio and listened, cursing softly, glancing at the sky. Some broke the circle, sat in their trucks and call their wives. Finally, Ray sent everyone home.
Ray stops just short of the church. The last time he went inside, except to complete some repair Grace volunteered him for, was the night of September 11. People arrived throughout the afternoon, bewildered, in need of each other. The pastor opened the doors, and by 7:00 p.m. a packed church gathered for prayer. Ray walked beside Grace through those big, sun-grayed doors and stood with head bowed. Grace wept. The pastor prayed mercy on an unknown enemy and comfort for all. Grace reminded him of that later, when the nation roiled for vengeance and the machines of war clattered.
The music begins again, a triumphant hymn sending them out. Ray crosses the street, angling toward the house. Inside, he fixes a light lunch, eats his portion and leaves Grace’s in the fridge. Then he laces his work boots.
When Grace steps outside, she sees Ray—carpenter’s bag slung from his shoulder, hammer swinging—walking toward the mosque.
beautiful writing. i see everything.
Love the punch at the end! The internal conflict is perfectly matched to the “war and rumors or more. . .”
Oh my! This one must be my favourite. It’s about reconciliation and how America is about everybody. I love this.
Very nice, well done.
I enjoyed your story very much. Well done.
I an in awe of this.
As always your words are carefully chosen and written and dance together beautifully. Great visuals throughout. 🙂
Bob, I liked your story. There were a lot of different emotions in it. Ray thinking about the war he was in. Then 9/11 tragedy and now how he was working on a mosgue.
The story read very smoothly and I could see all the different feelings take place.
Nicely done.
America Is What You Choose to Make It
I was laid off January 27th, 2011. It was a Thursday and I thought my world was ending. I was 37, had been out of school for 12 years and was deeply vested in (what I thought was) my career path. But now, suddenly and unexpectedly, my career and my livelihood were swept out from under me. I was the primary breadwinner and now had no idea how we were even going to pay the bills. Fortunately, the company I had worked for offered me a fantastic severance package and I actually wound up with 5 months pay. Unfortunately, this created a frantic countdown to what I imagined was the end of times. On the nights I was lucky enough to fall asleep, I would wake up in a state of panic with visions of selling my house and moving back into my parents basement. I couldn’t get through any given week without a panic attack, and I became prone to unexpected bouts of crying.It was a weird world to settle into. For 12 years I got up every morning and went to work. That’s just what I did. That’s what adults do, right? But now I had no place to go. No commute to get through. No desk to sit behind all day. No clients to manage. No deadlines to meet. I suddenly had no purpose. I also now carried the stigma of ‘she who was laid off.’ Friends and family didn’t know what to say to me. I could tell they always wanted to ask how I was…but they KNEW how I was. I was jobless. I think they were always just happy when I didn’t wind up melting down on their watch. Most times it was just easier to stay at home so I didn’t have to deal with the weirdness. Then the snow came and lots of it. And suddenly I was happy I didn’t have to bundle up and commute for hours on dicey, icy, snow packed highways. I sat inside where it was warm and watched neighbors clear off cars and shovel driveways. I started to realize that along with not missing the commute, I also didn’t miss the office politics or the forced team building. Then I began to realize I had far more time to do the things that actually meant something in my life. The things that made me…me. I had time to write again. I had time to start making great online connections. And I finally concluded the corporate machine I had been stuck in for so many years might not be what I wanted anymore. Maybe being spit out was actually a good thing.And yea, maybe, at some point, I started talking to the dog. But in between these very one sided conversations, I also started creating really great things. And I started seeing opportunities in places I hadn’t before. In places I didn’t even know existed. I started participating in a weekly writer’s chat, and I attended a meeting of local writers at a little hotel bar on a cold Saturday afternoon. I was doing things I didn’t think I ever would, and I couldn’t help but whisper thank you to the ugly corporation who let me go. Out of these conversations and connections sprang a new look at not only Corporate America but America itself. I had worked at the same job for the past 7 years because I thought I was stuck due to a “bad economy.” Everywhere I turned were reports of an underperforming economy, job loss and high unemployment rates. Experts touted how hard it was to find a job and how lucky the employed should feel for even having a job. But when I started listening to the individual workers and creators out there, I began to change my perspective. While the big money makers of the world saw a failing country, the individuals and small business owners saw something different. They saw a world where the individual consumer now looks for connections and stories and the customer service they once found down at the corner butcher shop. But they are no longer able to find that within these large corporations; these large corporations like the one that had spit me out. What I discovered is the little man and the underdogs are succeeding all on their own. This group sees a world of opportunity. These little guys know how to do business and do it well. The internet and social media have given them the tools they needed to get stuff done and they are finding their own success. And I decided I want to be a part of that world. While I did eventually (but temporarily) take another position inside the corporate walls for a paycheck, I am working tirelessly on launching my own start-up marketing company. I think corporate and agency marketing has become too big. While it is often impersonal and always about the money, its biggest shortcoming is it leaves out the little guys…the writers and artists and small business owners. I no longer want to be part of a workforce that just cranks out work. I want to listen to my clients and create great work and help out those who can’t afford to hire the corporate machines. So instead of the fall of America the economists continue to preach about, I choose to see the opportunities that have come out of said fall. I believe America is what you choose to make it.
jk. What a great way to flip a bad situation. I love the line about that you may have talked to the dog. We have all had those moments. Don’t stop writing and keep on dreaming!
JK I like your attitude and am thrilled about how you’ve found the positive side of what might have been a bad situation.
Under Summer Sun
Let’s go for a picnic with chicken and corn and slaw, sit out on that green grass and watch the kids play on the grass while we lie on our elbows and talk about nothing. Let’s have summer today.
It’s hot out and the kids are on their bikes and the air is still and thick, and we hear their happy screams as they tumble the day away. Let’s enjoy the slice of silence we have before they come back stomping their feet and raising their voices at us and each other. Let’s not talk about your mother’s gift for Christmas, or what Jilly said on the phone last night, or the payments on the house. Let’s not argue. We’ve waited all year for summers clock. Let’s just laze under this oak tree and be.
Later on, we’ll set up their lemonade stand on the side of the road, and some of the neighbours will come over and buy some lemonade and we’ll convince them to watch the game. Tonight we’ll have burgers and beers, and let the kids scream around the house a little later than normal. And when the kids have gone to sleep we can swing on the porch for a while, and watch the stars, holding hands and breathing in the night sounds together.
Summer’s pouring over us, sweet and slow, and I don’t want to rush her.
x x x
Bushwick yawns at 11am. The parties last night made everybody fuzzy, and the only guy around is shifting on a corner, white shirt sticking to him, baggy pants falling. A slight girl is eating chips and a can of soda for breakfast, and walking the streets alone, her two ponytails bobbing on her shoulders as she walks.
It takes a while for the wildness to stir up again, but as some shrug off hangovers and late nights – hey Pappy, you a’it? – it cranks up. Two children are yelling in the street, yea this heat like the devil – make them kids buck wild, so a parent opens up the fire hydrant, and the water spurts up into the blue sky. Word spreads, and soon the hydrant’s crawling with kids, while the water gushes out into the roads and down into the drains. There’s a twitch in the air.
People have clenched their knuckles through the long hard winters for this blue mayhem to sweep into town. They’ve been waiting for the furious hope of summer.
It’s past 12 – and everybody’s rubbing sleep out their eyes. The women come out to sit on the porch sometimes in their pyjamas, and sometimes with a towel over their head, cigarettes slanting out of their mouth, holding on to their ashtray which was once a soda can. They watch people come and people go, calling to the ones they like, talking loudly about the ones they don’t. The heat of their small apartments has chased them out, chased them to find the cool of the morning.
Men’s unblemished sneakers, full of swagger, invade the streets, and women dizzy on summer heat are laughing. Young boys zig-zag across the streets, ignoring the cars that brake suddenly for them.
Giddy music bursts out the bodeiga, and when you’re lured inside you’re hit with that spicy aroma of an exotic pantry. In a Brooklyn park, the old men sit under an oak, hunched over a chess board, waiting on the next move.
excellent descriptions! I was at each scene. The first part of it reminds me of a John Cougar Mellencamp song….hope that doesn’t offend. 🙂 It is meant to be a compliment!
Thanks Casey!! And I looked up his songs and loved the feel – exactly what I wanted for the first piece! 🙂
This has excellent descriptions. And the language is so apt!
Thanks Oddznns! 🙂
I like these two slices of America in the summer, both very well described. I like the second one better although I’ve seen more like the first. Your descriptions are such great examples of picking the right details.
Thanks Marianne. I lived in both American summers, and loved them both for very different reasons!
I am a 17 year old senior in high school, your normal, top of the line, ambitious teenager, one that is almost an adult, but not quite. I am a musician, an athlete, and a writer. During the school year, its hard to find time to really do anything that’s not involved in my daily life; so if I told you that I’ve been everywhere, would you believe me?
In a year there are 12 months, 365 days, 8,760 hours, 525,600 minutes, and 31,536,000 seconds. Which means that in 17 years there are 204 months, 6,205 days, 148,920 hours, 8,935,200 minutes, and 536,112,000 seconds; you have to add a little bit considering I turned 17 two weeks ago. Amazingly though, I have traveled for about 34 of those months give or take, and have gone in my lifetime around 300,000 mile. You won’t find too many 17 year olds that have been to all 48 continental US states, and 5 Canadian provinces.
The traveling I have done, the places I have seen, this country I now know…this is why in all 536,112,000+ seconds of my life, I have been a patriot. This is the memoir of my travels, and how I believe in what America is.
____________________
Jonny Cash once recorded an old Australian tune by the name of “I’ve been Everywhere.” Most of the American cities that he listed in that song, I’ve been too. I find that pretty crazy actually. Because of this though, I’ve seen the country in a whole new light. From the high Pacific cliffs to the sand beaches on the Atlantic; from the towering peaks of the Rockies to the very depths of Mammoth Cave; I’ve seen it all, and it all has seen me.
I started traveling at the age of 11 months. My parents went backpacking on the Butterfield Trail out of Devils Den State Park, and I went along with them. This was the start of a great adventure, one that I will never forget. This country has so many wonders that it throws at you, and I have seen so many of them. By age ten I had been as far west as the Rockies, and as far north as the north Maine woods. I had stayed in tents, pop-up campers, the occasional cabin. In a family of 4 (mom, dad, sister, and myself), going cross country in a mini-van could be pretty hard, but also exciting.
The more years that went by, the longer the trips got. Around age 13 we bought a truck camper and a four door cab, eight-foot bed monstrosity of a Chevy truck. That year we were in Vermont and New Hampshire for at least three weeks, the next out in Utah. Overtime paths began to criss-cross, wondrous places appeared yet again in our travels. I had been blessed with an amazing memory that let me be able to remember where we had been, and what it had looked like. The older that I got, the more I began to just look out at the land we were passing. The Badlands in South Dakota, the Rio Grande in Texas, the Redwood forest in California, they all had their own special effects, their own wonders.
I do have to admit, every trip does have its issues. Things do break, problems happen, and people do get fussy. But that sounds a lot like America. I could go on and on about how great traveling this country is, but there will also always be someone telling me how bad this country is; how they hate it here and this country is terrible. Personally, rarely do I ever hear positive things about this country, this government, these people. In my travels though, I have met some of the nicest people ever. I have seen how the federal government protects our wonders, and lets this country see them. I love my country.
The travels I have taken have made me realize how much of a patriot I am. How I wish to protect this country from harm, so that one day my grandkids can see what I have. America is the land of the free. It is the place that will be my home for many years to come. As I pass the corn fields of Kansas and Nebraska, I see the farmers growing us food to eat. In the cities of Seattle, Denver, New York, I see the hardworking businessmen and women just wishing to help make our economy a little better. As I pass the wrecks on the interstate, and the construction zones on the highways, I see our hard working police and firemen working to save another life, and the excavator operator working to build another road for us to travel. In each small town, I see the mess we have created, but also the rebirth that we are pushing on. In each national and state park, I see how our government, federal or state, is working hard to give Americans a place that they can relax and see our national treasures.
I see our country reborn. This is what traveling has done for me, made me see that no matter how tough it gets, America is the place to be. It’s like when we are staying somewhere and the weather is pretty bad, but its still a beautiful place to enjoy. Whether it’s in the adobe huts of Santa Fe, the fisherman wharfs on the Oregon Coastline, or even in the vacation homes on the side of the Rocky Mountains, this country is coming together to do its part, and in the past 17 years, I have witnessed old tales, new beginnings, and a future to come. No, our government isn’t perfect, but its doing its best.
They say that home is where the heart is. Well then, my heart is with this entire country. It’s in the depths of the Grand Canyon, in the Georgia swamps of the South. It’s in the glaciers of Montana and the maple farms of Vermont. My heart is with the cowboys of Wyoming, and in the Ozarks of Missouri. My hope is that people can take off their blinders, and see that this country has so many good things that it can throw out at them. The country side, the mountains, the canyons; it’s the lakes and the rivers, and the beautiful desert; like the old song goes, “this land is your land, this land is my land.” As Americans, lets keep it that way.
About a week ago, I left on probably my last family vacation before going off to college; before going off on my own. It was a nostalgic trip, and made even more by the fact that we were back in Arkansas at Devil’s Den State Park, the first time since I had been there at 11 months old. As usual, we went hiking, mountain biking, and kayaking; just a family vacation that only lasted about a week. Yeah, the heat wave was breaking records, the water was scarce, and everything was brown and dried up; but deep down inside I knew that it was hard to believe how amazing it was, how amazing this country is. One day I will take my own family to see the things I did, to see the country I will always know, because in reality, America is the place to be.
I am a 17 year old senior in high school, your normal, top of the line, ambitious teenager, one that is almost an adult, but not quite. I am a musician, an athlete, and a writer. During the school year, its hard to find time to really do anything that’s not involved in my daily life; so if I told you that I’ve been everywhere, would you believe me? In a year there are 12 months, 365 days, 8,760 hours, 525,600 minutes, and 31,536,000 seconds. Which means that in 17 years there are 204 months, 6,205 days, 148,920 hours, 8,935,200 minutes, and 536,112,000 seconds; you have to add a little bit considering I turned 17 two weeks ago. Amazingly though, I have traveled for about 34 of those months give or take, and have gone in my lifetime around 300,000 mile. You won’t find too many 17 year olds that have been to all 48 continental US states, and 5 Canadian provinces. The traveling I have done, the places I have seen, this country I now know…this is why in all 536,112,000+ seconds of my life, I have been a patriot. This is the memoir of my travels, and how I believe in what America is. ____________________ Jonny Cash once recorded an old Australian tune by the name of “I’ve been Everywhere.” Most of the American cities that he listed in that song, I’ve been too. I find that pretty crazy actually. Because of this though, I’ve seen the country in a whole new light. From the high Pacific cliffs to the sand beaches on the Atlantic; from the towering peaks of the Rockies to the very depths of Mammoth Cave; I’ve seen it all, and it all has seen me. I started traveling at the age of 11 months. My parents went backpacking on the Butterfield Trail out of Devils Den State Park, and I went along with them. This was the start of a great adventure, one that I will never forget. This country has so many wonders that it throws at you, and I have seen so many of them. By age ten I had been as far west as the Rockies, and as far north as the north Maine woods. I had stayed in tents, pop-up campers, the occasional cabin. In a family of 4 (mom, dad, sister, and myself), going cross country in a mini-van could be pretty hard, but also exciting. The more years that went by, the longer the trips got. Around age 13 we bought a truck camper and a four door cab, eight-foot bed monstrosity of a Chevy truck. That year we were in Vermont and New Hampshire for at least three weeks, the next out in Utah. Overtime paths began to criss-cross, wondrous places appeared yet again in our travels. I had been blessed with an amazing memory that let me be able to remember where we had been, and what it had looked like. The older that I got, the more I began to just look out at the land we were passing. The Badlands in South Dakota, the Rio Grande in Texas, the Redwood forest in California, they all had their own special effects, their own wonders. I do have to admit, every trip does have its issues. Things do break, problems happen, and people do get fussy. But that sounds a lot like America. I could go on and on about how great traveling this country is, but there will also always be someone telling me how bad this country is; how they hate it here and this country is terrible. Personally, rarely do I ever hear positive things about this country, this government, these people. In my travels though, I have met some of the nicest people ever. I have seen how the federal government protects our wonders, and lets this country see them. I love my country. The travels I have taken have made me realize how much of a patriot I am. How I wish to protect this country from harm, so that one day my grandkids can see what I have. America is the land of the free. It is the place that will be my home for many years to come. As I pass the corn fields of Kansas and Nebraska, I see the farmers growing us food to eat. In the cities of Seattle, Denver, New York, I see the hardworking businessmen and women just wishing to help make our economy a little better. As I pass the wrecks on the interstate, and the construction zones on the highways, I see our hard working police and firemen working to save another life, and the excavator operator working to build another road for us to travel. In each small town, I see the mess we have created, but also the rebirth that we are pushing on. In each national and state park, I see how our government, federal or state, is working hard to give Americans a place that they can relax and see our national treasures. I see our country reborn. This is what traveling has done for me, made me see that no matter how tough it gets, America is the place to be. It’s like when we are staying somewhere and the weather is pretty bad, but its still a beautiful place to enjoy. Whether it’s in the adobe huts of Santa Fe, the fisherman wharfs on the Oregon Coastline, or even in the vacation homes on the side of the Rocky Mountains, this country is coming together to do its part, and in the past 17 years, I have witnessed old tales, new beginnings, and a future to come. No, our government isn’t perfect, but its doing its best. They say that home is where the heart is. Well then, my heart is with this entire country. It’s in the depths of the Grand Canyon, in the Georgia swamps of the South. It’s in the glaciers of Montana and the maple farms of Vermont. My heart is with the cowboys of Wyoming, and in the Ozarks of Missouri. My hope is that people can take off their blinders, and see that this country has so many good things that it can throw out at them. The country side, the mountains, the canyons; it’s the lakes and the rivers, and the beautiful desert; like the old song goes, “this land is your land, this land is my land.” As Americans, lets keep it that way. About a week ago, I left on probably my last family vacation before going off to college; before going off on my own. It was a nostalgic trip, and made even more by the fact that we were back in Arkansas at Devil’s Den State Park, the first time since I had been there at 11 months old. As usual, we went hiking, mountain biking, and kayaking; just a family vacation that only lasted about a week. Yeah, the heat wave was breaking records, the water was scarce, and everything was brown and dried up; but deep down inside I knew that it was hard to believe how amazing it was, how amazing this country is. One day I will take my own family to see the things I did, to see the country I will always know, because in reality, America is the place to be.
I love your optimism and spirit, and you’ve highlighted a lot of really good things about the States – especially the people. As a non-American I found the warmth, love and hospitality of many of the people in your country incredible .
Thank you so much, that was my intention in trying to write this
This is a well written short story and very descriptive. How real it is and sad for us Americans that we can’t provide healthcare for so many that need it. For one week I thought I didn’t have any health coverage because of a change with the insurance company. I panicked because I had several appointments already made with various doctors and thought how would I be able to afford it without the insurance. In that one week, several phone calls were made, quick trips to the post office were sent out with the new forms so that we could be covered for the new fiscal year.
Health care for everybody at reasonable cost is absolutely mandatory
Harriet
Thanks for replying although I see you meant this for America is In Big Trouble.
America had
become messier with each passing generation.
Dawn had noticed that in her many encounters with other Americans, with
the history lessons she had received over her 12 years of schooling, and now
with the experiences she was having as a 19 year-old free-lance writer living
in New York City. She and her roommates
each had to hold two to three jobs just to survive in the city that never
sleeps. They perpetually lived off of
coffee, cigarettes, cheap food, and a constant case of Pabst Blue Ribbon with
the occasional inclusion of leftovers from someone’s take-home dinner. Upstairs, the four boys shared one bedroom,
while the three girls shared the other.
Downstairs, there was a large, open kitchen den combo, and the garage
was used as a studio by all of them.
Seven artists of all different kinds living in one house; each with a
different medium. You could tell America
was diverse by looking at their ragamuffin group: a sculptor, painter, sketch
artist, dancer, guitar player, photographer, and a writer, all under one
roof. With each person she met and each
conversation she had with her housemates, she realized how scatter-brained
America really was. There were many
ideas, thoughts, and inventions just in her part of the country.
Dawn had
done a lot of travelling over the past two years while living with this
group. Some had been paid excursions for
her internship at the New York Post.
Others had been risk-all mini-vacations where her and her roommates
lived in their van, eating rice and beans over a make-shift side-of-the-road
campfire. They did their laundry in the
closest Laundromat for a few bucks and used their artistic talents to sucker
other tourists into paying them a lot of money for a cheap job. They set up shop with all the other
street-vendors, playing the guitar and writing poems for dollar bills. They might have been poor, starved artists,
but they had a grand old time being just that.
On these
excursions, she realized it wasn’t just the people and their culture that couldn’t
get themselves together; the geography was also rather disorganized. Mountains and streams, coastland and
farmland—it was a mash-up of everything imaginable. You could go from your fast-paced and
colorful life in the city, to where the people talked slower and knew
everything about everyone.
Every time
Dawn closed her eyes though, she pictured a time in America’s history that she
didn’t have. She sought a time much less
messy, one less heart breaking, and one with more empathy. Dawn couldn’t find it in this current
generation; she was looking for a more thoughtful one. A generation that fought for something of
worth; not just for the sake of rebellion.
That’s the only thing her fellow young adults seemed to be fighting for
these days. More gadgets, not more
experiences. More boundary-free lives
and less of the guidance that they so dearly needed. There was more gossip happening in one day of
high school than there was in one year’s worth of bridge club meetings. There were more teenage girls pregnant and
being congratulated about it than there were girls not trying to get
pregnant. Most of the time, she felt
they were just getting more disappointment.
Because, even at the end of the day, amidst the drugs and alcohol, they
were unhappy.
Dawn didn’t
want to live in this generation of know-it-alls and children who grew up in a
false reality of an easy life. She
wanted a generation that did things with their lives; one full of people that
grew up to be doctors, thinkers, poets, and people of worth. It seemed as though the only things of worth
now-a-days were the possessions.
America was
not the land of entitlement as Dawn had been led to believe in her generation. Instead of spending her money at the movies,
she stayed home, watching cultural and social documentaries, writing prose
about lovely things, or surfing the Internet for enchanting words strung
together like a song, written or spoken by people who inspired to be something,
to think, or to create. She lived in the
generation of entitlement where instead of working for things, children
received things without even asking.
Dawn lived
in a generation where people didn’t support their country or their government
or other humans anymore. Instead of
saving tin cans for the war effort, children were now begging for the newest Xbox
on their parents’ dime. Her generation
could at least show a little support for their country, but the only support
she saw from her fellow young Americans was a mumbled National Anthem or Pledge
of Allegiance. Even then, it was a sorry
sight to see. There were people messing
around, pretending they “forgot” which hand to put over their heart. Dawn didn’t want this.
Oh, how
Dawn longed for a time back when people cared; when people stood at rapt
attention, right hands over their hearts, looking wide-eyed at the wind-rippled
flag, and more than just whispering the words.
She yearned for a time where she would see more troops stationed at home
than overseas. A time where most of the
boys in her classes would proudly go into the military, instead of choosing it
because they had nothing to do. She
wanted a time that she would never be able to know.
Dawn heard
stories of times past from her granddaddy and she longed for “the good ‘ole
days”. “The good ole days” where women
dressed up to go out in public and didn’t wear their pajamas had evaporated. Somewhere along the line “the good ‘ole days”
were lost to a generation who believed they wanted “better days”. “Better days” where you could talk to someone
without having to say anything out loud.
“Better days” where instead of reading books, you could watch more than
just news on the television.
Dawn wanted
a generation she could never have. She
wanted a generation of thinkers, but got a generation of valley girls who were
only worried about prom. She wanted a
generation of learners, but got a generation of people who cheated their way
through high school. Dawn wanted a
different generation of Americans than her own and her heart broke because she
knew that could never happen.
Profound writing. So so good.
Thank you so much. I was really nervous posting this and you just helped alleviate some of that 🙂
Madison, your protag might only be 19 but she is wise, well done. It is not an American thing, I am looking back too trying to find the optimum time to be, it is not nostalgia, bad stuff happened then too.
But there was a earthiness to people. Well done. The prose was good and the ideas profound
Thank you!
“Mamá, digame de los Estados Unidos, por fav.”
I can’t help but smile at his big, curious brown eyes as he asked me the same question he did every night—Tell me about the United States, please. I brush his curly brown hair from his face as I usher him towards his bed, a wooden plank covered with a single blanket. I am happy to oblige my little Pepe’s request. Even though I have never been there, I know enough about the United States of America to fill his little mind with hope and wonder as he drifts off to sleep. I tell him about the Golden Arches, how you just drive your own car up to the window and they hand you food. Yesterday he was fascinated with the idea of having one’s own car rather than riding the bus or a moto. Today he asks about the windows that open and close and the food that comes out of them just ready for the taking. I don’t tell him that in the States people eat three times a day. I
don’t want to remind him about how I wasn’t able to make beans to go with our
rice today. I don’t tell him that in the States children go to school every day
whether they have a uniform or not. I tell him that in the States there are big
white pots everywhere to relieve yourself in even throw paper down it. The idea
of indoor plumbing fascinates me more than it does for my little Pepe. As always, he ends our conversation asking if we can go there.
“Pronto, mijo, pronto.” Soon, my son, soon.
I hope I am not telling a lie. America is a dream.
~*~
Sleep doesn’t come easily these days. Dar lies awake starting that the ceiling fan hearing the ghost-breathing of the man not beside her. He’s not here. Even after all this time, she rolls over in their king-size bed to double check. Their marriage bed is lonely when occupied by only her. Her and the baby in her tummy. She hasn’t yet told him he’s going to be a father. She’s not sure she wants to. She’s positive it cannot wait another second. She hasn’t had the opportunity. She hasn’t had the courage.
Courage. Everyone told him he was courageous, brave for risking his life to fight for his country. At first, she believed it. She even decorated their home with American flags and bald eagles. She was a military wife who hated to sleep alone.
They should be together. After all, her husband is stateside. Yet he has chosen otherwise. She tries not to blame him. His tour of duty ended when his plane crashed. Most of the crew died but he escaped close to unscathed. Physically. Emotionally he was a wreck. The few weeks he was home with her, she hardly recognized him. Then he left. He abandoned his pregnant wife for a girlfriend as part of the healing process.
“He’ll come around.” Others’ words ring through her head. She used to believe them but they’re empty talk now. She’s not even sure she wants him back. She definitely wants back the man she dated, the man she married in a rush before he left to be brave. But he’d changed emotionally and she’d changed physically. At least he had the courage to tell her. To tell her it was over, her dreams were gone.
America is broken dreams.
~*~
Pepe and I stare as he speaks to us in a foreign tongue I do not understand. Pepe tries to translate for me using the English I urged him to learn in school, but it is not working. A woman with a little girl in her arms comes to his side. Between his English, Pepe’s broken English, her broken Spanish, and my Spanish, we somehow manage to communicate. He leaves in frustration but
she stays.
“Me llamo Dar.” She says with an outstretched hand.
In my culture, we would kiss on the cheek but this is the not my culture. This is not my world. This is her world. I must play by her games. I shake like an obedient dog.
“Mucho gusto.” I do not repeat her name. Unlike everything else here, it does not need practice. I know her name: Dar. To give. She gives us communication. She gives us acceptance. Most of all, she gives us hope.
America is a dream.
~*~
Dar smiles at the woman and her son realizing they haven’t been in American long. It’s not their lack of English that gives them away. No, that’s normal. It’s the hope-filled look in their eyes. They’ve come for a better life. Dar’s seen the scene many times before. Yet for this family, as for so many before them, it will not end the way they dream. There are no jobs, no opportunities, and no hope. Like most immigrants, this family finds themselves here at the food pantry hungry and unable to communicate.
Dar is always amazed at how far her two years of high school Spanish will go. Even though she’s not yet three, Carrie has picked up more Spanish than Dar ever will. Dar wants her child to understand the culture of the food pantry. She wants the little one to know that America is not what some believe it is. If it were, Carrie would have a father.
America is broken dreams.
Katie, a lovely story as usual, well done
Thanks, Suzie! It means a lot!
Katie
Katie
This is a great story. I do wish it didn’t ended on such a sad note thought. But that’s another truth about what America can be, isn’t it?
I wanted to juxtapose two opinions saying America is all perspective. If I rewrite it, I’ll keep in mind the idea of a happier ending. Thanks!
I enjoyed reading this Katie. I see so much misunderstanding here with the misunderstanding about what America is being much more profound than the misunderstanding due to the different languages. Thanks!!!
I’m misunderstanding what you’re trying to say. Kidding. I’m glad you enjoyed it!
I love the two perspectives, and how fluidly you weave from one to another, and then how they meet.. And that same sentence repeated, but differently. You’ve said a lot in this piece. Well done!
Thanks!
Dear Sister
Dearest sister, 2 June, 1848
Mother
finished my new dress for the church social today and it is
beautiful. I think that I shall have no shortage of dancing partners
this year!
With Love,
Anna
MESSAGES June
2, 2012
hey anna. mom said
you got your prom dress. send me pics!!
10:31 p.m.
omg liz! mom was so
embarrassing at the store. she wouldn’t let me get the strapless one
i wanted but i got a rly awesome sparkly one. dan is gonna drop dead
when he picks me up!
10:33 p.m.
it’s so pretty! you
are going to be gorgeous! did dad see? did he freak out at how low it
is?
10:34 p.m.
ugh! totally. and
it’s not even that low! i heard him telling mom that if i was at the
catholic school, i would never be able to wear it. whatev.
10:36 p.m.
i think it’s
gorgeous. anyway i have to start my reading for tomorrow now hehe.
class at 9:30 ew.
10: 37 p.m.
k. nite!
10:37 p.m.
My Dear Sister, 15 June, 1848
I am certain you will be the most
beautiful young lady in Seneca Falls! You must write me with all the
details. How I miss you, my dear. University is thrilling and
inspiring, but I do feel rather lonely for home.
With Love,
Elizabeth
MESSAGES June
30, 2012
how was prom?
11:43 a.m.
awful! he didn’t
want me to dance with my friends. he was jealous that i was having
fun with them. boys suck.
12:31 p.m.
i’m sorry! that’s
just how boys are. in my women in american history class we’re
learning about how unappreciated we are. maybe we should start a
revolution.
12:34 p.m.
lol! i wish we
could tell all the boys that we don’t belong to them!
12:35 p.m.
no kidding.
12:35 p.m.
Dearest
Sister, 30 June, 1848
I was
sorry to hear from Mother that the dance was not all you wished it to
be. Please believe me when I say that things will change, you will
seek out more from life than boys and pretty dresses. I do know how
you feel, but do not fear! We women have an incredible future before
us and yours, dear Anna, will be bright indeed. The world is changing
and you are still young. Keep your heart open, be strong, my dear,
and all will be well.
Yours,
Elizabeth
INBOX
TO: epaul14@mtholyoke.edu
I told dad I want to go to that
catholic school. it’s all girls…
Dearest
Elizabeth, 10 July, 1848
I think you must be
right. Since your last letter, I have grown stronger and have opened
my mind to the world. It is changing, my dear. You would not believe
the events that are happening in our little town! In fact, I’ve
secretly made a plan with a few of my girlfriends from town to attend
an upcoming meeting about women voting. If father knew, he surely
would not let me attend, but I will say I am visiting Charlotte in
town. Oh, dear, how I’ve changed! I am hardly the little sister you
remember! When you next visit, how you will be surprised!
Your sister,
Anna
INBOX
TO: AnnaBanana_98@yahoo.com
Hey, sis-
I haven’t heard from you in a while.
How is your new school treating you? Are the girls nice? Have you
made lots of friends? How’s your uniform?
-Liz
TO: epaul14@mtholyoke.edu
Hey Liz,
Saint Mary’s is fine. We have to
attend mass twice a day, but whatev. I haven’t made a lot of friends,
but I have two new best friends- Charlotte and Ally. They came here
to get away from public high school, too. I told them what you said
about boys and they totally agree. For our history project, we’re
writing a skit about the Seneca Falls Convention…
-A.
TO: AnnaBanana_98@yahoo.com
Wow, good for you. I think I have
some info that could help you…
TO: epaul14@mtholyoke.edu
Thanks, Liz. That’s really helpful.
Our play’s going awesome. Ally plays Susan B., so we need to make her
a costume.
A.
Dear
Elizabeth, 21 July, 1848
I went to the
convention. I have so much to say, but have not yet put my thoughts
together. For now, let me just say this: America is changing and I
will be part of that change.
Your Sister,
Anna
INBOX
TO:
AnnaBanana_98@yahoo.com
attachments:
lizpaulgetsherrallyon7-20-12.jpg
Hey Anna,
I went down to that
rally this past weekend. You would have loved it. I wish mom had let
you come. It was… indescribable. I have to finish a paper, but I’ll
write more later. For now, here’s a pic of me and the sign I carried.
If you can’t read it, it says, “I CAN CHANGE AMERICA!”
love ya!
Liz
ps. did you know
we’re related to Alice Paul? Look her up- she was an awesome lady.
TO:
epaul14@mtholyoke.edu
Liz,
I’m so proud of
you! I know it sounds stupid coming from your little sister, but I
am! Mom says we’re just like she was at our age. Well, I guess it’s a
family tradition now, huh? When I have kids, I want them to be feisty
like us!
keep fighting the
good fight!
A.
What a catchy and fun format – very creative!
Jane I like the way you mixed up historic letters and texts/ emails. Good job.
I love the format mix yet intertwined. That’s really neat, Jane!
Katie
I love the contrast here!
Very creative and diverse. We learned to teach this stuff as an alternative writing format for HS english. It isn’t as easy as it looks. good job!
A Few Words From Dr. Barton Hewlit
“And now, a few words from Dr. Barton Hewlit.”
The professor stepped to the podium, shuffled his index
cards, pulled the microphone towards him, peered through his reading glasses,
and began.
“I am America, and I’ll
have a super-sized extra value meal, with a Diet Coke, because I’m watching my
weight.
I am America, and I am
the mere concept of a pregnant Snooki.
I am America, and I am
Auto-tuning the “rockets’ red glare” part, because it’s a bit flat.
I am America, and I am
packed with flavor crystals.
I am America, and I am
a mid-life crisis Ed Hardy t-shirt.
I am America, and I am
building a new strip mall, and yes—it will have a Subway.
I am America, and I am
individually climate-controlled for your comfort.
I am America, and I am
every national monument reproduced in resin miniature.
I am America, and I am
Freedom Rock, so turn me up, man.
I am America, and I am
fishing for a “like” on Facebook.
I am America, and I am
seven minutes into the jam band guitarist’s solo.
I am America, and I am
DOUBLE TAXATION, the tragic kind that only afflicts the wealthy.
I am America, and I
will whiten my teeth or DIE TRYING.
I am America, and I am
three shades of denim all worn at once.
I am America, and I
wonder what Brangelina thinks.
I am America, and I am
chewy home-baked style.
I am America, and I am
adjusted for inflation.
I am America, and I’m
calling to see if my direct deposit is available yet.
I am America, and you
have a one in four chance of being an INSTANT WINNER.
I am America, and
SORRY—you are not an INSTANT WINNER.
I am America, and I am
a goofy video spreading like an infection.
I am America, and
batteries not included.
I am America, and I
prefer my history Forrest Gump-style.
I am America, and I am
a regrettable tattoo and/or piercing.
I am America, and I am
prisons full of pot smokers and neighborhoods full of sex offenders.
I am America, and I am
relying on foreign box office to turn a profit.
I am America, and I am
freaking SICK AND TIRED of having inadequate or not enough eyelashes.
I am America, and I am
bite-sized.
I am America, and I am
your Long Distance Dedication.
I am America, and I am
a sketchy storefront church.
I am America, and I am
an even sketchier mega-stadium church.
I am America, and I am
this side, which is tingling, which means it’s working.
I am America, and I am
acres of abandoned storage lockers going to the highest bidder.
I am America, and I am
the latest results with two percent of precincts reporting.
I am America, and I am
a walking Tommy Hilfiger billboard.
I am America, and I’m
pizza on a bagel so you can eat pizza any time.
I am America, and I am
The Next [INSERT CAREER FIELD HERE] Star.
I am America, and I am
an independently owned and operated franchise.
I am America, and I am
the mullets and perms of yore, preserved in amber.
I am America, and I am
chocolate-flavored coating.
I am America, and I am
a home run recalled due to excessive pine tar.
I am America, and I am
offering the most cash for your gold, so why go anywhere else?
I am America, and I am
a free play at fifty thousand points.
I am America, and the
next round of Pabst Blue Ribbons is on me.
I am America, and I am
outraged by the War on Christmas.
I am America, and I am
Vapor Action.
I am America, and I am
filmed before a live studio audience.
I am America, and I am
part of a balanced breakfast.
I am America, and I’ve
been done before but this time they’re calling me a “reboot”.
I am America, and I am
the anonymous racist comments accompanying an online news article.
I am America, and I am
a crazy busy Costco.
I am America, and I am
a complimentary trip to the salad bar with purchase of entrée.
I am America, and I am
complaining about how much it costs to fill up my Escalade.
I am America, and I’d
like my espresso in milkshake form.
I am America, and I am
a class-action lawsuit.
I am America, and I am
the thing Meat Loaf won’t do for love.
I am America, and I am
romanticizing the crap out of the Titanic.
I am America, and I am
fortified with vitamins and minerals.
I am America, and I am
Yakov Smirnoff’s old catchphrase.
I am America, and I am
great news the doctor says I don’t need surgery for my hemorrhoids.
I am America, and I am
the whipped cream, freshly-grated parmesan cheese, or freshly-ground black
pepper you’d like on that.
I am America, and I
have had it up to here with hypothetical illegal aliens who are going to take
my theoretical job.
I am America, and I am
not edgy but I like to throw that word around.
I am America, and I am
vegetables disguised with fruit and sugar.
I am America, and I am
a Six Sigma Black Belt.
I am America, and I am
Classical Fracking Gas.
I am America, and I
contain BHT (to maintain freshness).
I am America, and I am
a Perfect Strangers marathon.
I am America, and I’ve
got Moxie—the drink and the personality trait.
I am America, and I am
zero grams of trans fats per serving.
I am America, and I am
BOGO, the patron saint of consumerism; I am a jeggings-induced muffin top; I am
out and proud man boobs that refuse to be covered; I am thirty percent
post-consumer material; I was made in a factory that processes peanuts; I am
your fired, your porn, your horn-rimmed glasses and I am throwing my hands in
the air and waving them like I just don’t care;
and YES: I will be
putting this on my credit card.”
The doctor returned to his seat.
Suffice it to say, no one expected that poem from the
professor. He was the closest thing the county had to a poet laureate, but
anyone who knew his work knew it was more “poor man’s Robert Frost” than “poor
man’s Allen Ginsburg”.
However, the crowd gathered that day at Finleyburg’s Seventh
Annual Fourth of July AmericaFest appreciated Dr. Hewlit’s honest and abstract
yet bracing portrayal of their country.
No, I’m just kidding. They HATED it—hated it something
fierce.
Let me put it this way: If it were Biblical times, there’s
a good chance Dr. Hewlit would’ve been stoned to death.
Luckily, Mrs. Wasser’s second grade Vacation Bible School
class was next on the program, and they sang a fine rendition of “God Bless the
U.S.A.”
They got a standing ovation.
I had to read yours after seeing that you suffered the same formatting woes I did. Brian, this was incredible. Love, love, love this. You get my “Like” right off the bat!
By the way, my apologies in advance, could’ve been the kiss of death I just gave you! The ones I like most never win 🙂 .
Oh no, take it back! Just kidding.
Thanks! I appreciate the like and the kind words. Yeah, I don’t know what the deal was with the formatting. I’m enough of a boob when it comes to technology that I usually assume any mistake that happens to me is user error. I’m glad I wasn’t alone this time. But eh, what are ya gonna do? At least the text didn’t, I don’t know, get translated into Klingon or something.
Brian, great bitter nuanced speech. Good job
Thank you very much!
Great job, Brian! It’s so true!
Katie
Thank you! I appreciate it.
This is an “in” joke I’m not getting 100 percent of. But I do think the parts I can get are funny!
No worries…you don’t have to “get” it 100%. Thanks for reading and for the kind words!
Grrrreat job Brian.
Thank you very much!
Huh–sorry about the jacked up formatting. I copied and pasted this from a Word document, so I’m not sure what the heck happened. It looked normal when I pasted it, before I posted it. And the professor’s poem was italicized in my original doc. FYI.
I’ve had issues copying and pasting from Word too, even if I proof read before I post.
Katie
Carrie sucked in and preened
sideways in the mirror. Being thirteen was bad enough, but there was no hope
for the peasant hips her great-great-grandmother’s great-grandmother had
carried over on the boat from Sweden. She pulled a pair of cut-off jeans over
her volleyball bunhuggers and joined her grandma in the kitchen.
“I hate Jordan,” she grumped. Jordan
was the size two setter who had the bright idea that the team wear their
uniforms in the Fourth of July parade.
“You could march with the youth
group instead,” her grandma offered, along with a plate of fresh baked
chocolate chip cookies.
Carrie took one, put it back, and grabbed
an apple instead. “I guess. I’m going to check on Dazzle.”
#
“Here, Dazzle, have my apple. Everyone
thinks your fat hips are cute.” She threw a leg over the pony’s back and sat on
her while she grazed. Her toes brushed the seedy tips of the green summer grass;
she had officially outgrown Dazzle a few years before.
She walked the parade route in her
mind. It started at the fire hall and ended at the park outside the VFW for a
community potluck. On the way, it passed the homes of a few of her church
friends who would be marching with the youth group: the Olsons, the Bengstons,
the Schafers.
It also passed the Sharma home,
which was painted in yellows and oranges to remind Mrs. Sharma of the steamy
sun above India. Twice a week, Dr. Sharma drove the family one hour away to the
nearest temple to worship.
Carrie slid off the pony and went
back inside. Her grandma was watching Ellen and crocheting a dishcloth in the
family room.
“Grandma, I can’t march with the
youth group,” she said, flopping down onto the couch in despair.
Her grandma laid her yarn work on
her lap and muted the TV. “Why?”
“We have to pass out Bible stuff and
I don’t think the Sharma’s would appreciate it. They seem perfectly happy,
certainly happier than the Schafers. Who am I to tell them where to go to
church?” Matters of faith had been weighing heavily on Carrie’s thirteen year
old soul lately.
“Why do you want to be in the
parade?”
Carrie reached to the coffee table
and lifted a 5 X 7 portrait, under glass and framed in gold. It was a picture of
her mom, in uniform, before her deployment to Iraq.
“I thought so,” her grandma said. “Carrie,
don’t look at that picture. Hold it against your heart and see if that helps
you figure things out.”
#
Carrie spent the morning of July 4th
decorating Dazzle’s cart with red tinsel recycled from the Christmas box in the
basement, blue balloons from her cousin’s baby shower last spring, and sprays
of white flowers she picked in the pasture. She hitched up the little mare and
stopped on their way past the house to grab what was left of yesterday’s
chocolate chip cookies to add to the big basket that nestled between her feet
on the floorboards.
It was time for this parade to
start.
She did not turn towards town at the
end of her driveway. Instead, she hooked a left, skirted the highway for half a
mile, then hooked another left on a gravel lane that led into the woods. She
hadn’t gone far when a shirtless and barefoot boy dropped out of a tree limb in
front of her.
“Hi, Jake!” she called, pulling
Dazzle to a stop.
“Nice cart.”
“Thanks. Want a ride?”
He hopped in, and she slapped the reins
across Dazzle’s rump. The sound of their laugher wove between the clip of hooves
and the jingle of the buckles on the harness.
She knew Jake wouldn’t be at the parade.
It was a fact around town that his mom was a meth head, her boyfriend was in
jail, and his uncle, just returned from serving time for another DUI, was
running the show. When they pulled up in front of the sad house with blankets
hung over the windows, she gave Jake the tin of cookies and wished him a Happy
Fourth before he climbed down.
She took an old logging road behind
their plot and it spit her out at the homestead where the new people lived who
had moved from the city where the Sharma’s went to temple. They were trying to
restore an old place to get back to the simpler life they had never known. From
the look on the new lady’s face when she looked up from driving a t-post into
the fence line, their new existence was proving anything but simple.
“Hi, I’m Carrie. I live down the highway
and around the corner from you. I brought you a little housewarming present.”
She reached into her basket and pulled out a carton of brown eggs.
“Thank you,” the woman said, wiping
grime from her brow. “We bought some chicks, but they’re not laying yet.”
“Well this will give you a taste of what’s
coming. The yolks are really bright. Don’t worry, your hens will be laying
before you know it.”
Evening was slowly pulling down the sun,
and Carrie had one last stop to make on her personal parade route. She trotted Dazzle
a couple more miles down the dirt road until it came to a dead end. A driveway
that was little more than a hole in the brush opened up to one side. Dazzle’s
ears swiveled to gather information about their dim new surroundings. She swerved
away from an imagined threat from an overgrown lilac bush.
“Silly girl, you’re spooking from shadows.
Walk on now.” Carrie clucked her tongue and urged the pony forward.
They emerged at a clearing that held
what looked like the stale gingerbread house Carrie had found while she was rummaging
for parade decorations in the Christmas bin in her grandma’s basement. Crumbled
curley-qued woodwork hung like spiderwebs from the attic gable. A feral
raspberry hedge had all but claimed the picket fence that enclosed a front lawn
virtually gone to hay. Carrie tied
Dazzle to one of the support poles that held up the sagging canopy of an empty
carport. She scooped up the basket at her feet and let herself in the back
door.
“Mrs. Jackson, are you here? It’s
Carrie.” she called into the blackened house from the mudroom.
“Yes, yes, I’m coming.” Footsteps
followed the tap of a cane, and Carrie met her in the darkness, offering an
elbow to guide her out to the porch. She helped ease the blind woman onto a
rusted metal chair and pulled another for herself alongside.
“Happy Fourth,” Carrie said. “I
brought you a present.” She lifted the lid on her basket, pulled out a kitten,
and closed Mrs. Jackson’s knotted hands around it. “She’ll be a good mouser.
She’s real gentle and really likes laps, too.”
The first firework exploded like a
cannon in the distance.
“What do you suppose they look like
this year?” asked Mrs. Jackson as she stroked the soft kitten.
“Who knows?” Carrie answered. “Will
you tell me about fireworks that you remember?”
And against a backdrop of crickets
and the unseen celestial gun-spray commemorating heroes both fallen and alive,
Mrs. Jackson painted a story of the fireworks that lit up the sky the night she
helped deliver Carrie’s own mother in that farmhouse – beyond the logging road
and dirt lane and down the highway – exactly forty years before.
Sorry for the crazy formatting, all! I have a heckuva time importing from Word to this site.
First one to make me cry.
We have to live our lives to the glory of God, giving generously, in secret. I just love this story. A teenager ( mine just threatened to burn my house down) who does not do the norm, goes against the grain and shares joy. Well done Steph, beautiful tale
Thank you, Suzie. But where is yours? I don’t see Marianne’s either?
Hey Steph – I’m here in Virginia where we had some severe wind storms last week. I lost power for almost a week last (from Friday night until Wednesday) and then I didn’t have internet unless I went to Barnes and Noble and used the wi-fi until day before yesterday. Then last night the whole thing went out again (only for two hours). it was bad and I still haven’t caught up with my reading here or even with my email. My 22 year old daughter who has not lived without ac, and tv for most of her life is here with us for the summer. She was really funny. She was so bored that she actually read two books and played cards with me at night be candlelight. Anyway I’m back but not at full tilt yet.
We missed your story! It sounds like the power cuts made a memorable stay for your daughter!!
Wow, you were really roughing it! Cards, even? 😉 I’m glad you’re back up and running. We did miss your story, you’re always a fav of mine.
I did, in honour of July 4th and this contest resurrect and finish a short story which I wrote sometime ago.
It links the two Lazarus s of the bible with Mary Lazarus and I think originally it was going in a supernatural heretical way which I had to change because I became Christian.
It is a tale, but wishy washy, not worthy of these mighty contenders. You can see it at http://sukeymacki.posterous.com/america-is but it is dire
Tsk, tsk, Suzie. I thought your story was VERY worthy of submission to this contest! Nuanced, interesting characters, on theme in a discrete but profound fashion. I liked!!
Great story Steph. I wish more people thought like Carrie. Have we seen Dazzle and Carrie before? Are they part of your WIP?
No, you haven’t seen Dazzle and Carrie before and they’re not part of my WIP. My children do have an adorable pony, though, so I think various incarnations of them have appeared before :-).
That must be it. I remember one about a pony in a barn. They are such neat little animals, sometime bad though.
I love this. I love the name Dazzle for a pony. I love the image of Carrie riding the pony even though she’s a bit too big to do so. I love how she followed her own “parade route”. Very pioneering and American, eh? Great job!
Eh! You must be a northern neighbour? 🙂
Lovely story Steph! I appreciated the flavor of it, not to syrupy patriotic just the right amount of sentiment. I liked how you weaved generations into the story as well.
Thanks, Beck – I’m glad you were able to follow along. I had the sinking feeling when I finished that I had loaded a bit too much into 1248 words (as usual!).
America is… lonely
formatting isn’t great…copied from word
No woman wants to leave her wedding
dress and cling to a 6-5. A publication that explains every detail of life for
a Marine. That was my wedding present not jewelry or furniture.
But that is exactly what I did. My new husband drove down the road towards nowhere
that I knew as familiar. We had gotten
married just three days earlier and we had arrived at our duty station in a new
town more than 500 miles from home. We
had unloaded the moving truck truck and realized we had no furniture, no food,
and no money.
He had to be at work the next day and I was beyond
overwhelmed at what I was facing with a house full of boxes in a strange town
where I knew no one.
On the way to get something to eat that night he handed me a
the book about 6 inches thick and said,
“Here memorize this.
You need to know everything in there.”
For some stupid reason I did it.
That should have told me what our marriage would be
like. I would be expected to know who I
was talking to, what rank they were and what their job was.
I was expected to pull my car to a stop and observe silently the sound of Colors. The playing of the Marine Corps Anthem every
night at dusk. I was expected to wear
only appropriate clothing for an NCO wife and counsel those who didn’t.
In those first days of married life I would think I couldn’t
breathe without him. And when he left
for 17 days after we had been married for only 3 weeks. I thought my heart would die.
The rumor is if they wanted a Marine to be married, they
would issue a wife in their sea bag.
That wasn’t in the 6-5, but it should have been.
The military is an evil mistress. She‘ll dress up pretty for your husband and
lure him into the claws we will call a contract. And once she is sure her beautiful eyes and curvaceous
figure have your man. She’ll unleash her
wrath on you.
She will bring 22 month work ups and year- long
deployments. She’ll bring promised
orders to a beautiful locale only to have them cancelled while the moving truck
is sitting in your drive way. She will
woo him to accept orders to a new duty station with her convincing him it is
best that he go alone and not extend the contract so he may bring his
family.
And if that isn’t enough.
She will allow you to have him back for a time, and you get
pregnant—only to have him leave 1 month before he his born into this world
defended by his Father.
Just when you can’t take anymore. She will lighten her hold on him and make you
think that life is happy again and you really just have imagined all the bad
stuff. It must have been your
hormones.
Until that phone rings and you find out they have an air
alert drill and everyone is required to be on deck at 0500 because someone decided
to bomb an embassy in Kabul. Then you realize
it doesn’t matter that he crawls into bed with you every night, she is the one
who calls the shots.
She tells your husband where he will be and when he will be
there and for how long. She will also
decide if you are allowed to go and what will happen to your children.
The 6-5 never talked about her being the evil mistress that
she is.
When you celebrate birthdays and anniversaries alone you
shove the hate down and make the biggest day you can. Looking out at everyone with the biggest
smile you can muster and really it is the greatest day. No matter what your family says, no matter
what comes out as you cry into your pillow at night.
But don’t you dare trash talk our Military, girl on Facebook
telling everyone they have nothing, because they are nothing. Don’t you dare, trash the work they have done
for the past 9 years on the other side of the world. Don’t you degrade the fact
that my Marine lives in a tent and survives on MRE’s and does his business in a
port-a- potty that hasn’t been emptied in 3 weeks in a 120 degree heat. Don’t you degrade the fact that when he
finally called me last night. I missed it
because my 2 year old who hasn’t slept all night since his daddy left, fell
asleep on my chest and I couldn’t find my phone when it rang. By the time I did find it…he’d hung up and my
3 year old was awake.
And I sat in the floor and cried. Because who knew when he would or could call
again. What if the mission they go out
on tonight is it? His last one. And that
was my last chance. The tears won’t
stop. And I sit brushing the hair back
off my sweet boy’s forehead who doesn’t
understand that his sweet face looks just like his father and nearly rips his
mother’s heart out every time she looks at him.
I sit and comfort him so that he falls back asleep and I
fall into an exhaustive sleep on the couch.
No teeth brushed, no pajamas, why bother with any of that. It isn’t like anyone is here to notice.
Tomorrow is a big day.
Family day at the battalion.
Where everyone gets together and compares how many times they have
talked to their husband and how many packages they have sent. And you realize that it does matter if they
are a GRUNT or a POG. (A grunt is defined as the Marines that do all the hard
on the ground work. A pog is any people
other than grunts) Return dates are
whispered, but nobody really knows. The
dates are still months away and will change over and over again.
The kids run around and make new friends and get their faces
painted. The women will sit together and
plan girls night out and which
restaurants have the best kids meal free nights. It is what women and yes there
are some men out there staying home with
the kids while our country is in need of defending do to pass the time while
they are home alone. While the rest of us sit in our back yards sweating and
then jump in our pool all the while complaining we are bored and hot and
hungry. Not realizing there are men half
way around the world praying they can dodge the bullets another day. Praying
they get mail from family that day.
And every one of them asks the question–I don’t how or if I
will make it through the days until he comes back.
“The military is an evil mistress. She‘ll dress up pretty for your husband and lure him into the claws we will call a contract. And once she is sure her beautiful eyes and curvaceous figure have your man. She’ll unleash her wrath on you. ”
Love this image, a beautifully bitter piece, good job Casey.
thank you Suzie … it was a beautifully bitter life. 😉
Wow, I had huge respect for army wives before, but now it’s quadrupled! I love the metaphor of the military as a mistress, very powerful…
Zo Zo —– Army and Marine Corps wives have it so hard…they have to live married, separately and do it seamlessly without complaining. But having lived it…some of my lives sweetest memories are from that time. Thank you!
Casey, this is so compelling. I can see your fears and conflicts and love. Bravo and god bless your Marine.
Really nice. You put me “there”, just for a moment. This is a really nice example of showing, not telling–how the writing conveys so much more than just, “I’m frustrated, I’m worried, I’m sad”, etc. Kudos!
I didn’t want it to sound like a “rant” but to show freedom is what America is…but that it isn’t free. I hope that makes sense. 🙂 Thank you!
Oh, yeah, absolutely. I didn’t see this as a rant. That’s what I really liked about it: It was nuanced, it conveyed the simultaneous frustration, pride, gratefulness, etc.
This is so sad. It gives a raw glimpse, to those of us not on the inside, all it costs to have a strong, active military. To those who serve, by loving those who serve, thank you!
Thank you!
This is amazing. It really hits home with lots of close friends and friend’s boyfriends going into the military.
Wow, Casey, I can see this came straight from the heart. I’m very glad that I read this. Nice work.
America is vibrant and passionate, but uncertain of herself because of a recent lapse of insecurity. She’s beautiful although it’s hard to tell if, like fine wine, she’ll get better with age or if her face will harden and fade away into hard lines and crow’s feet. She’s sparkling and unique, educated and yet naive. She’s willing to try new things, but often prefers the comforts of her youth when too much change is afoot.
Her nails are painted red, white, and blue, except for where the paint has chipped because she has a nervous habit of biting them below the quick. She’s open to having a good time, but often gets hungover because in some ways, she can be hedonistic and unkind. She’s helpful. Maybe one of the most helpful people you’ll ever meet. At the same time, she slips quickly into her own world, choosing to pluck in her earbuds, crank her own tunes, and forget about everyone else around her. She likes what she likes and she takes pride in that. There are things about her that remain solely hers. Apple pie. Fireworks on her birthday. Disneyland. Baseball games. Cute dogs and babies Jazz music. A work hard/play hard mentality. A stick-togetherness that comes out in moments of crisis. She loves family and unity, blood, sweat, and tears.
She has her faults. She moves too fast and forgets to relax sometimes. She is competitive, entirely too often, especially when it doesn’t matter all that much. She overspends when she doesn’t have the money. She gets into arguments with her siblings, which can last hours or even years. She’s a sensationalist and becomes overly excited when things go her way. She’s loud, proud, and can draw quite the crowd. People want to be with her all of the time because she’s got something they don’t have. They can’t pinpoint the exact quality. But it’s alluring. And fantastic. Just like her.
She’s free. So free. Free to make up her mind, live out her dream, succeed or fail. She’s free to laugh, practice whatever belief system she wants, and appreciates a wide array of cultures and people-groups. America is violent at times. She allows things to happen in sometimes when they shouldn’t happen because she’s too preoccupied. She has people protecting her, but is often surprised that it doesn’t work as well as she had hoped. America is a great friend but a powerful enemy. She can be unstoppable, courageous, and wise. She can make friends easily but can miss the point when she’s stepped on toes.
America is a teenager. Getting to that age. She’s just learning how to drive and come into her own. She’s made some bad mistakes that have changed her life–some for the better, some for the worse. She doesn’t always want to follow the rules. She’s creative and zany and on the brink of something amazing or potentially horrible. It’s yet to be determined if America will succeed at growing wisely instead of just growing.
She has a great support system. She was an amazing child prodigy, advanced and ahead of her time. Everything seemed to be going great for her until she hit puberty. Now everything is up in the air. She yells at her parents, rebells, doesn’t always do her homework or learn from her mistakes. She’s at times a bit promiscuous with her boyfriend and shows a lot of skin. Except for in her better moments when she pulls away and guards the gift inside which is hers to give. In those moments, she stops and realizes that the whole world could be watching and she needs and wants to be an example to others around her. A beacon of light for those without hope. And she knows there is hope yet for her. She can still get her act together but she needs to be careful. She needs a lot of prayer, guidance, and help to be all that she can be. She can turn nothing into something and people are attracted to her because of it. She embodies hope and courage. She has many people trying to make her into something she’s not but she will be steadfast.
America is made up of her parents and their parents and theirs. She has a melting pot of color and culture running through her bloodstream. She exudes life and liberty and pursues happiness at every turn. She takes great pride in much of her personality. She seeks to find and exists to pioneer. She has a rich and vibrant history despite her youth. She’s been through some tough wars and some hard arguments, some which she started, some which she got pulled into.
Despite all of this, America is. She still is. And being America isn’t always easy. Especially right now. But America endures. And she will continue to endure as long as those who know her and love her and have helped write her story stand by her and remember her – the good, the bad, and the ugly. All of it. America is.
Melissa, I like the alluding to the person of America with a personality and characteristics like a real person. Good job.
rebels
Thanks, Suzie! I appreciate your comment!
HI Melissa
I love the big metaphor. America as an almost grown up girl. YOu’ve got her!
Nice job. As I was reading this, I kept saying to myself, “yep, yep…yep”. I like the idea of America as a teenage girl. It works.
Congratulations to everyone here! You are braver than I to tackle a topic like “America”. I thought the entries this time were great and am surprised that the list of honorables isn’t a mile long, but I guess a line has to be drawn somewhere. The judges here do a job that I certainly could not. Thanks for giving me such interesting and diverse things to read. I, who have rarely left my little piece of America, learned a lot about our country though reading the entries here. I particularly liked the “assortment” or stories and appreciate that that kind of variability is what makes America wonderful.
I agree. Reading these stories was an enriching experience.