May 26, 2009
I want to walk on water.
I want to dip my toes in the icy sea
and feel the frothing foam
hold my weight above the depths;
to frolic over the fishes,
to dance upon the waves
and scream my lungs out
over the roar of the storm;
to have my steps lit
by lightning all around;
to be scared witless,
but not fearing,
knowing that it is not
my flatfootedness holding me up,
but by one word,
but by Your word—
come.
Peter did it.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Saturday, May 16, 2009
The Leaning Tree
January 200?
I wrote this one night while cooking at the Waffle House. I wanted to have something to enter in the Post & Courier and South Carolina Arts Commission sponsored South Carolina Fiction Project and the deadline was only 2 days away. I wasn't able to work on it again until the day of the deadline. I spent all day editing and re-writing, managing to get it posted 5 minutes before the post office closed. I didn't win.
The Leaning Tree
He rode out on Purpose, the gray-white mare he’d left on the farm three years ago when he went away to school. The sun had already been up for an hour, hidden by a ceiling of slate gray clouds. Probably going to snow. His breath hung in the still air like a ghost. The only sound, the muffled crunch of snow under the horse’s hooves. Everyone in the house was still asleep. Spent. Unprepared for the effort of the past few days; stress they thought they had prepared for.
The horse sauntered through the farmyard; past the rusting F150; past the bare clothesline, tiny icicles dripping off the sagging lines; past the dog pens, now empty; through the already open gate to the woods on the other side of the field.
The sweet scent of pine caressed his nostrils like a friendly cat. Purpose gingerly picked her way along the deeply rutted two-track cut by Dad's Ford, the John Deere, and mother nature. The road wound and forked through the forty acres of forest that surrounded the main house and farmyard. He and his three older brothers, all of them moved away from home and starting their own families, had hunted deer and ‘coon and rabbit with their dogs out here. Large mounds of snow-covered branches and roots were scattered in clearings on either side of the road. Dad had said something about selling some of the trees to help pay Mom’s hospital bills.
A year and a half ago he had learned about his mother’s cancer. His first year at State had been more intense than he'd expected, but he kept to the books. Being the first to go to college made him push harder. Now with Mom gone it just doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Maybe I should just quit. Save time and money. Come home and help Dad.
The two-track rolled out to an open field. Brown and broken stalks poked up through the snow. The bleached gray slat barn was supposed to protect the aging John Deere from the weather, but little mounds of snow sat on top of the huge tires and seat. He had made some weak promises to his father to fix the roof. Animal tracks criss-crossed the whitened field like impatient doodles. A hawk circled over the far end, the future looking bleak for some rabbit or squirrel.
The cornfield butted against the apple orchard. Harvested fruit (the farm’s main source of income for over two generations) was now applesauce or cider vinegar. Large empty crates, stacked rank and file, stood around the perimeter of the orchard; a makeshift fortress. Smaller crates cluttered the orchard floor; some stacked two and three high near the trunks, others strewn about carelessly under the unprotecting canopy of the leafless trees. As a boy, he had learned hard work picking up drops. And he had watched as Mexican migrant workers worked even harder to pick the red ripe fruit for their few dollars; all seemingly content.
Leaving the fruitless trees, the land slowly sloped up. A small ridge—open, unplowed, and left to its own. Dried up Queen Anne’s Lace stabbed the snow here and there. Clumps of dead grasses not flattened by the snow peeked out at the world. A single maple tree stood at the top of the ridge. Three main trunks rose to form a wide canopy. The trunk to his left had been recently struck by lightning, its deadened limbs bent to the earth.
He slid from the saddle to the ground and let the reins drop.
When I was a kid I used to pack up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, potato chips, and pop to eat out here.
I smoked my first...and last...cigar by this tree. I thought I was so cool, until I coughed my lungs out and puked my guts up.
My back was against this rough bark when Darlene first kissed me. A few weeks later we discovered more than a kiss under this tree.
My hunting dog, Bones, is buried right over there.
Mostly, I just came out here to watch the clouds slide by and the breeze blow the grass.
Yeah, this is where I made my decision to go to school upstate. Stayed out here until it got dark. Mom was so proud that I was going to college. Any college.
And in the shelter of naked branches, he leaned back and wept. For as long as it took, he wept and sobbed. Puffy snowflakes floated down to frozen earth. Wiping his chapped cheeks, he took the reins of Purpose and walked her home.
I wrote this one night while cooking at the Waffle House. I wanted to have something to enter in the Post & Courier and South Carolina Arts Commission sponsored South Carolina Fiction Project and the deadline was only 2 days away. I wasn't able to work on it again until the day of the deadline. I spent all day editing and re-writing, managing to get it posted 5 minutes before the post office closed. I didn't win.
He rode out on Purpose, the gray-white mare he’d left on the farm three years ago when he went away to school. The sun had already been up for an hour, hidden by a ceiling of slate gray clouds. Probably going to snow. His breath hung in the still air like a ghost. The only sound, the muffled crunch of snow under the horse’s hooves. Everyone in the house was still asleep. Spent. Unprepared for the effort of the past few days; stress they thought they had prepared for.
The horse sauntered through the farmyard; past the rusting F150; past the bare clothesline, tiny icicles dripping off the sagging lines; past the dog pens, now empty; through the already open gate to the woods on the other side of the field.
The sweet scent of pine caressed his nostrils like a friendly cat. Purpose gingerly picked her way along the deeply rutted two-track cut by Dad's Ford, the John Deere, and mother nature. The road wound and forked through the forty acres of forest that surrounded the main house and farmyard. He and his three older brothers, all of them moved away from home and starting their own families, had hunted deer and ‘coon and rabbit with their dogs out here. Large mounds of snow-covered branches and roots were scattered in clearings on either side of the road. Dad had said something about selling some of the trees to help pay Mom’s hospital bills.
A year and a half ago he had learned about his mother’s cancer. His first year at State had been more intense than he'd expected, but he kept to the books. Being the first to go to college made him push harder. Now with Mom gone it just doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Maybe I should just quit. Save time and money. Come home and help Dad.
The two-track rolled out to an open field. Brown and broken stalks poked up through the snow. The bleached gray slat barn was supposed to protect the aging John Deere from the weather, but little mounds of snow sat on top of the huge tires and seat. He had made some weak promises to his father to fix the roof. Animal tracks criss-crossed the whitened field like impatient doodles. A hawk circled over the far end, the future looking bleak for some rabbit or squirrel.
The cornfield butted against the apple orchard. Harvested fruit (the farm’s main source of income for over two generations) was now applesauce or cider vinegar. Large empty crates, stacked rank and file, stood around the perimeter of the orchard; a makeshift fortress. Smaller crates cluttered the orchard floor; some stacked two and three high near the trunks, others strewn about carelessly under the unprotecting canopy of the leafless trees. As a boy, he had learned hard work picking up drops. And he had watched as Mexican migrant workers worked even harder to pick the red ripe fruit for their few dollars; all seemingly content.
Leaving the fruitless trees, the land slowly sloped up. A small ridge—open, unplowed, and left to its own. Dried up Queen Anne’s Lace stabbed the snow here and there. Clumps of dead grasses not flattened by the snow peeked out at the world. A single maple tree stood at the top of the ridge. Three main trunks rose to form a wide canopy. The trunk to his left had been recently struck by lightning, its deadened limbs bent to the earth.
He slid from the saddle to the ground and let the reins drop.
When I was a kid I used to pack up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, potato chips, and pop to eat out here.
I smoked my first...and last...cigar by this tree. I thought I was so cool, until I coughed my lungs out and puked my guts up.
My back was against this rough bark when Darlene first kissed me. A few weeks later we discovered more than a kiss under this tree.
My hunting dog, Bones, is buried right over there.
Mostly, I just came out here to watch the clouds slide by and the breeze blow the grass.
Yeah, this is where I made my decision to go to school upstate. Stayed out here until it got dark. Mom was so proud that I was going to college. Any college.
And in the shelter of naked branches, he leaned back and wept. For as long as it took, he wept and sobbed. Puffy snowflakes floated down to frozen earth. Wiping his chapped cheeks, he took the reins of Purpose and walked her home.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Riding Out the Storm
Again, early turn of the century. And again, another assignment for the Institute of Children's Literature.
This is going to be the worst summer ever. I have to spend it with my sister, Carly, here at Uncle Bud's farm. Uncle Bud used to work at this big university studying meteorology or thermodynamics or something like that. He told Mom that he got the farm with a government grant to continue some “experiments”. Anyway, our parents think this will be a great “ed-U-cational” experience. I'll bet they only want to keep me away from computers. Josh, Matt, and ZD just got this new game, “ThunderKiller”, that you can play over the internet. So much for all day gaming with the guys. And it looks as if it's going to rain.
“Hey, Ryan! Uncle Bud is going to show us around on his tractor!” Carly's a year younger than me. She's OK for a girl.
“Now this here big red barn is where I park the tractor and keep a few cows and a horse named Lightning,” Uncle Bud said.
“Lightning! Is he safe to ride?” asked Carly.
“Why certainly. His name may be Lightning, but he's as gentle as a breeze. Think you might want to ride him, Ryan?”
“I don't think so. I'm not much into yippee-i-oh-ky-ay.”
“If you change your mind, I'll show you how to saddle him up. Now after you get chores done, you kids can roam around the farm wherever you like. I just ask that you stay out of my lab over there.”
“It just looks like a barn with a bunch of satellite dishes and windmills and stuff.” I'm very observant like that.
“It was a barn,” Uncle Bud said. “I've just modified it somewhat. Those aren't satellite dishes. They're 'atmospheric generators'. And those windmills can withstand high velocity winds. It's rather complicated. There's an intercom at the entrance. I wouldn't hear you if you knocked. The doors and walls have been reinforced and make the whole building soundproof.”
We've been here a whole week and I think I'd rather be in Mrs. Strunk's English class. Carly's been riding Lightning. Not me. No way. I've helped with the milking, and I've seen parts of a cow I'd rather not discuss. They smell so bad my nose wants to puke. There's nothing on TV—basic cable, farm reports, and the Weather Channel, which Uncle Bud has on all the time. And it still looks like rain.
I've been wanting to see what's so secret about Uncle Bud's lab, but the windows are all bricked up. You can't see anything when he opens the door. It's like trying to look inside the teacher's lounge when a teacher goes in or out.
“Ryan. Have you seen Uncle Bud?” Carly asked me while I watched an action packed weather report.
“Nope.”
“Beep, beep, beep. A tornado warning is in effect until 7:00 PM this evening for the following counties…” Several nearby counties were named and then ours.
“Was that our county, Ryan?”
“Sure was. Let's find Uncle Bud.” I ran to the door. It's not as if I was scared or anything, I just figured Uncle Bud ought to know.
“Ryan! Look! A twister!”
OK. Now I was scared.
“Carly! Ryan! Over here! In the lab!” Uncle Bud was waving wildly at us.
When we got inside the lab, it was like something right out of Star Trek or something.
“Shouldn't we be in a basement, Uncle Bud?” Carly asked.
“We'll be safe in here, Carly. Remember, the walls have been specially reinforced. Now watch this monitor while I adjust the remote camera on the roof. Excellent! The twister is heading directly for us.”
“Are you nuts?” I'm not being disrespectful, but under the circumstances…
“It's all right, Ryan. I was hoping this would happen. Using the atmospheric generators I've set up a low pressure system around the lab to attract the twister. Wind speeds indicate this is an F5, the strongest.”
“Why would you want to attract a tornado?”
“To stop it with its own power. The windmills will use the tornado's power to generate an equal and opposite pressure system using the atmosperic generators to kill the twister.”
“Whoa! Those winds are getting stronger. Are you sure these walls will hold? They're vibrating worse than a set of bad speakers. And the floor is starting to feel wobbly.”
“Uncle Bud?”
“Yes, Carly.”
“It looks as if the camera is spinning around. There's the house. There's the big red barn. There the house again. The barn. The house. Why do they look as if they're getting farther away?”
“I don't think it's just the camera that's spinning,” Uncle Bud answered. “You kids sit down and hold on tight.”
It's a good thing I like rollercoasters. Wait until the guys hear about this one. If I get to tell them.
“Ryan! Take control of that joystick. Watch the monitor and try to keep the generators pointed inside the storm, while I adjust these voltages.”
Holding the joystick was like trying to keep a dog from chasing a cat. The twister seemed to be jumping from one side of the screen to the other. I held on tight hoping there was a way to turn the rumble feature off.
“OK. Wind speeds are slowing.” Uncle Bud turned a few dials and pushed some levers. “Atmospheric pressure is stabilizing. I think we're actually stopping it.”
“So how are we going to land this…” SLAM! CRASH! CRACK!
That answered that. I think Uncle Bud should have installed seat belts and airbags.
“You kids all right?”
“Yeah, we're OK,” I said. Bruised a bit, a little airsick, but OK.
Carly was holding her knee. “I think so,” she said.
“I'm sorry about the 'ride'. The lab wasn't supposed to be ripped from the foundation. We'll have to make sure that doesn't happen next time.”
“Next time?” I think I'd rather ride Lightning.
This is going to be the worst summer ever. I have to spend it with my sister, Carly, here at Uncle Bud's farm. Uncle Bud used to work at this big university studying meteorology or thermodynamics or something like that. He told Mom that he got the farm with a government grant to continue some “experiments”. Anyway, our parents think this will be a great “ed-U-cational” experience. I'll bet they only want to keep me away from computers. Josh, Matt, and ZD just got this new game, “ThunderKiller”, that you can play over the internet. So much for all day gaming with the guys. And it looks as if it's going to rain.
“Hey, Ryan! Uncle Bud is going to show us around on his tractor!” Carly's a year younger than me. She's OK for a girl.
“Now this here big red barn is where I park the tractor and keep a few cows and a horse named Lightning,” Uncle Bud said.
“Lightning! Is he safe to ride?” asked Carly.
“Why certainly. His name may be Lightning, but he's as gentle as a breeze. Think you might want to ride him, Ryan?”
“I don't think so. I'm not much into yippee-i-oh-ky-ay.”
“If you change your mind, I'll show you how to saddle him up. Now after you get chores done, you kids can roam around the farm wherever you like. I just ask that you stay out of my lab over there.”
“It just looks like a barn with a bunch of satellite dishes and windmills and stuff.” I'm very observant like that.
“It was a barn,” Uncle Bud said. “I've just modified it somewhat. Those aren't satellite dishes. They're 'atmospheric generators'. And those windmills can withstand high velocity winds. It's rather complicated. There's an intercom at the entrance. I wouldn't hear you if you knocked. The doors and walls have been reinforced and make the whole building soundproof.”
We've been here a whole week and I think I'd rather be in Mrs. Strunk's English class. Carly's been riding Lightning. Not me. No way. I've helped with the milking, and I've seen parts of a cow I'd rather not discuss. They smell so bad my nose wants to puke. There's nothing on TV—basic cable, farm reports, and the Weather Channel, which Uncle Bud has on all the time. And it still looks like rain.
I've been wanting to see what's so secret about Uncle Bud's lab, but the windows are all bricked up. You can't see anything when he opens the door. It's like trying to look inside the teacher's lounge when a teacher goes in or out.
“Ryan. Have you seen Uncle Bud?” Carly asked me while I watched an action packed weather report.
“Nope.”
“Beep, beep, beep. A tornado warning is in effect until 7:00 PM this evening for the following counties…” Several nearby counties were named and then ours.
“Was that our county, Ryan?”
“Sure was. Let's find Uncle Bud.” I ran to the door. It's not as if I was scared or anything, I just figured Uncle Bud ought to know.
“Ryan! Look! A twister!”
OK. Now I was scared.
“Carly! Ryan! Over here! In the lab!” Uncle Bud was waving wildly at us.
When we got inside the lab, it was like something right out of Star Trek or something.
“Shouldn't we be in a basement, Uncle Bud?” Carly asked.
“We'll be safe in here, Carly. Remember, the walls have been specially reinforced. Now watch this monitor while I adjust the remote camera on the roof. Excellent! The twister is heading directly for us.”
“Are you nuts?” I'm not being disrespectful, but under the circumstances…
“It's all right, Ryan. I was hoping this would happen. Using the atmospheric generators I've set up a low pressure system around the lab to attract the twister. Wind speeds indicate this is an F5, the strongest.”
“Why would you want to attract a tornado?”
“To stop it with its own power. The windmills will use the tornado's power to generate an equal and opposite pressure system using the atmosperic generators to kill the twister.”
“Whoa! Those winds are getting stronger. Are you sure these walls will hold? They're vibrating worse than a set of bad speakers. And the floor is starting to feel wobbly.”
“Uncle Bud?”
“Yes, Carly.”
“It looks as if the camera is spinning around. There's the house. There's the big red barn. There the house again. The barn. The house. Why do they look as if they're getting farther away?”
“I don't think it's just the camera that's spinning,” Uncle Bud answered. “You kids sit down and hold on tight.”
It's a good thing I like rollercoasters. Wait until the guys hear about this one. If I get to tell them.
“Ryan! Take control of that joystick. Watch the monitor and try to keep the generators pointed inside the storm, while I adjust these voltages.”
Holding the joystick was like trying to keep a dog from chasing a cat. The twister seemed to be jumping from one side of the screen to the other. I held on tight hoping there was a way to turn the rumble feature off.
“OK. Wind speeds are slowing.” Uncle Bud turned a few dials and pushed some levers. “Atmospheric pressure is stabilizing. I think we're actually stopping it.”
“So how are we going to land this…” SLAM! CRASH! CRACK!
That answered that. I think Uncle Bud should have installed seat belts and airbags.
“You kids all right?”
“Yeah, we're OK,” I said. Bruised a bit, a little airsick, but OK.
Carly was holding her knee. “I think so,” she said.
“I'm sorry about the 'ride'. The lab wasn't supposed to be ripped from the foundation. We'll have to make sure that doesn't happen next time.”
“Next time?” I think I'd rather ride Lightning.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Fireworks in Goose Creek
Don't remember the date. This was an assignment for the Institute of Children's Literature, a course by mail that I took at the turn of the century. They actually paid me $35 (I still have a copy of the check) to use it in an upcoming manual.
The twilight hours of the Fourth of July in Goose Creek exploded with the traditional fireworks. The event brought many out of their homes on that warm summer evening. Vehicles of various hue burst through the intersections, scattered into stuffed lots, searched for a front row seat. A siren blared in the background. Clusters of people gathered around cars, spread out on blankets, settled into lounge chairs. The populace was prepared for the presentation.
Firecrackers snap-crackle-popped in surroundsound. Bottle rockets screamed. Miniature starbursts leaped out of the north, south, east, and west. A yellow and pink clad, ponytailed, little girl jumped up and down, pointing out the impromptu pre-shows. A thin scent of gunpowder drifted past my nose as I noticed a single bright star positioned above the powerlines.
All around us the beds of trucks and backs of vans had become temporary theater boxes. We ourselves were not too uncomfortable in the slight humidity, sitting in the back of our mini-van with the hatch up, munching pretzels and drinking Mountain Dew and ginger ale.
And then without announcement, a short volley of whistling red and green lit the northwestern sky directly above the Westview Middle School parking lot. After a short moment, blazing white shooting stars dripping smoke soared into the air. Bursts of red, white, and blue. A bang of bright green. Puffy white spheres snaked through the darkness. Fireflies of orange, then a glimmer of silver hung in the air. A muffled BOOM. The evening train shouted back a reply. A glittering bang as bright emerald lights shifted to purple.
A young boy cried, burying his smudgy face in his mother’s leg. The younger sibling in the mother’s arms seemed unaffected.
Green dots were scattered into the sky; gold dust fell back to the ground. A massive explosion sent shock waves that rocked the van. Green crackles were pushed aside by a big red starburst. Pop! Pop! Pop! Golden poprocks in the sky. A massive multicolored disco ball of light hung in the sky and a group of boys nearby all exhaled an OOH.
A fountain of silver sequins fell before the finale—an onslaught of colors that echoed off the storefronts. Blinding strobelight flashes shot out from a shower of white, a burst of blue, FLASH, green, white, red, FLASH, FLASH, BOOM, red and blue, BOOM, FLASH, orange, white, FLASH, FLASH.
The sky fell silent. We waited for more. People walked down the sidewalk carrying or wearing glowing neon bands of blue and red and green and yellow that must have been purchased at an earlier event. A whoop burst from a passing vehicle. An officer’s whistle guided traffic out into the streets and through the intersection to form a long line back to our house.
The twilight hours of the Fourth of July in Goose Creek exploded with the traditional fireworks. The event brought many out of their homes on that warm summer evening. Vehicles of various hue burst through the intersections, scattered into stuffed lots, searched for a front row seat. A siren blared in the background. Clusters of people gathered around cars, spread out on blankets, settled into lounge chairs. The populace was prepared for the presentation.
Firecrackers snap-crackle-popped in surroundsound. Bottle rockets screamed. Miniature starbursts leaped out of the north, south, east, and west. A yellow and pink clad, ponytailed, little girl jumped up and down, pointing out the impromptu pre-shows. A thin scent of gunpowder drifted past my nose as I noticed a single bright star positioned above the powerlines.
All around us the beds of trucks and backs of vans had become temporary theater boxes. We ourselves were not too uncomfortable in the slight humidity, sitting in the back of our mini-van with the hatch up, munching pretzels and drinking Mountain Dew and ginger ale.
And then without announcement, a short volley of whistling red and green lit the northwestern sky directly above the Westview Middle School parking lot. After a short moment, blazing white shooting stars dripping smoke soared into the air. Bursts of red, white, and blue. A bang of bright green. Puffy white spheres snaked through the darkness. Fireflies of orange, then a glimmer of silver hung in the air. A muffled BOOM. The evening train shouted back a reply. A glittering bang as bright emerald lights shifted to purple.
A young boy cried, burying his smudgy face in his mother’s leg. The younger sibling in the mother’s arms seemed unaffected.
Green dots were scattered into the sky; gold dust fell back to the ground. A massive explosion sent shock waves that rocked the van. Green crackles were pushed aside by a big red starburst. Pop! Pop! Pop! Golden poprocks in the sky. A massive multicolored disco ball of light hung in the sky and a group of boys nearby all exhaled an OOH.
A fountain of silver sequins fell before the finale—an onslaught of colors that echoed off the storefronts. Blinding strobelight flashes shot out from a shower of white, a burst of blue, FLASH, green, white, red, FLASH, FLASH, BOOM, red and blue, BOOM, FLASH, orange, white, FLASH, FLASH.
The sky fell silent. We waited for more. People walked down the sidewalk carrying or wearing glowing neon bands of blue and red and green and yellow that must have been purchased at an earlier event. A whoop burst from a passing vehicle. An officer’s whistle guided traffic out into the streets and through the intersection to form a long line back to our house.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Dare to Cross
August 28, 2001
This is a story about following your dreams—the cost and the payoff.
A dark silhouette stood at the edge of the English Channel at Shakespeare Beach, the White Cliffs of Dover behind and the sun just peeking over the horizon ahead. Matthew Johnson was tall for twelve. The guys on the Junior American Swim Team called him the Metal Giant because he was so much taller than everybody and he wore braces.
The salty surf splashed at his feet, daring him to go further. He would take the dare—when he was ready. His thoughts went to the hundreds of miles of training, to the many meets and marathons, and the endless fundraising. This was his dream. You bet he would take the dare.
His father, who pulled double duty as his coach, called from the escort boat. “Whenever you're ready son!”
Matthew wiped at the chalky white 'channel grease' smeared all over his body. Pulling his goggles down and adjusting his swim cap, he waded into the bone-chilling water. “66ยบ isn't so cold. I think Lake Superior was colder.”
Matthew waved his arms above his head. This was the signal to the official observer that he was beginning his cross. Matthew ran and dove into the water. The cold yanked at his breath. He spit out a bit of the briny ocean. His arms cut at the waves. The incoming tide pushed at him, but not as hard as Matthew thought it would. “Yeah, I can do this. I can definitely do this.”
# # #
Not much happened the first five hours. His body had started 'talking' to him, but he'd been through that before. He stayed 15 to 20 feet away from the boat, coming closer for his 30-minute feedings. His father would pass a cup of sports drink or hot broth to him using a long stick with a cup holder. Lunch was a carbo-bar and distilled water.
“How far?” he yelled up at his dad.
“Don't worry about that. Just swim.”
Easy for you to say, thought Matthew as he finished off the bar and plunged forward. He could see a shipping boat farther ahead seeming to block his passage. Ships are informed of the presence of channel swimmers and this one would be gone long before he got close. But the wake would not. Already he felt the first waves hit, forcing him back.
“Stupid boat!” A clump of oily seaweed slapped his mouth as he shouted. He wanted to puke.
# # #
2:00 pm. Over halfway across thick, dark clouds threatened the clear, blue sky. The wind was getting colder and the water was getting choppier.
“No, not now.”
Matthew looked over at the escort. His father was holding up the white-board they were using for quick messages. STORM. Matthew swam in closer to the boat.
“We might have to call it, son,” Mr. Johnson shouted over the rail.
“Please, Dad. Let's wait.”
“This could be bad.”
“Please.” He didn't want to be stopped now, not because of weather.
“Stay close.”
Matthew tread water near the boat as thunder rumbled past. A few heavy raindrops plummeted around him.
PLOP.
PLOP. PLOP.
Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop.
And it was gone.
# # #
8:15 pm. Matthew had been in the water a little over 14 1/2 hours. He was lucky he hadn't run into any jellyfish. The crew had spotted a group earlier and he swam around them. That added a half hour to his time.
It was getting dark. His dad had passed him a glow stick at the last feeding. He attached it to the back of his swim cap. It looked like a glowing alien finger sticking out of the back of his head.
“You're less than a mile and a half from shore,” yelled his dad.
His arms and legs were lead. His lips were swollen from the saltwater. Most of the channel grease was gone. He couldn't see very well in the dark, but he thought he could make out the shoreline as he bobbed up and down. A mile and a half. The moon seemed closer.
“OK,” he said weakly. “I'm going for it.”
With his goggled face toward France he dug his way through the surf. But the tides were changing and dragged him back with each stroke. “I'm not going to make it. I'm going to drown within sight of the beach.”
A light flashed over his head. Then again. And again. Looking up he could make out a dark silhouette at the edge of the cape and the light circling on top. The lighthouse. Cape Gris Nez, France. His landing point.
Adrenalin raced through him. With a renewed purpose he punched through the waves. The channel tides continued to pull at him, to drag him back and down. Matthew wasn't going down. His hand hit sand. The surf gave up and his stomach and knees scraped bottom. Crawling to shore, cold and tired, he cried. He had crossed. 16 hours, 39 minutes. He wasn't the fastest or the youngest, but he, Matthew Johnson, had crossed the English Channel.
Channel Trivia
The English Channel is approximately 22-24 miles across from Shakespeare Beach, Dover, England to Cape Gris Nez, France. Swimmers actually swim 30-40 miles because the tides push them from side to side. The water temperature is about 60°F. (Try sitting in a tub of ice water all day!)
The French call the Channel "La Manche" (the sleeve).
Channel grease is a mixture of Lanolin® and Vaseline®. Swimmers smear about two pounds of this gunk all over their body to help prevent hypothermia (Look it up!).
The first person to swim across the channel was Matthew Webb in August 1875. It took him 21 hours 45 minutes. He died a few years later attempting to swim under Niagara Falls. Actually, the first person to cross single-handed was Captain Paul Boyton in May 1875, but he wore an inflatable suit with a sail attached to his left boot while using a paddle.
Other records(as of 12/07):
Youngest Person: Thomas Gregory from the United Kingdom in 1988, 11 years 11 months, in 11 hours 54 minutes. (Since 1994 the rules forbid solo attempts by swimmers under the age of 14. (Records and Firsts))
Oldest Person: George Burnstad, USA, 70 years, 4 days crossed in 15 hours 59 minutes.
Fastest Crossing: Petar Stoychev from Bulgaria swimming from England to France in 2007 crossed in 6 hours 57 minutes 50 seconds.
First Woman: Gertrude Ederle from USA in 1926, 14 hours 39 minutes.
Most Crossings: Alison Streeter has made 43 crossings.
First to Swim the Channel Underwater: Fred Baldasare from USA in 1962 crossed in a frogman suit in 19 hours 1 minute.
Sources for sidebar:
Channel Questions, Marcia Cleveland and DevPlan, Inc., www.doversolo.com
Channel Swimming Records, www.channelswimming.com
Records and Firsts, www.doverdc.co.uk/museum/information_resources/channel_swimmers/records__firsts.aspx
This is a story about following your dreams—the cost and the payoff.
A dark silhouette stood at the edge of the English Channel at Shakespeare Beach, the White Cliffs of Dover behind and the sun just peeking over the horizon ahead. Matthew Johnson was tall for twelve. The guys on the Junior American Swim Team called him the Metal Giant because he was so much taller than everybody and he wore braces.
The salty surf splashed at his feet, daring him to go further. He would take the dare—when he was ready. His thoughts went to the hundreds of miles of training, to the many meets and marathons, and the endless fundraising. This was his dream. You bet he would take the dare.
His father, who pulled double duty as his coach, called from the escort boat. “Whenever you're ready son!”
Matthew wiped at the chalky white 'channel grease' smeared all over his body. Pulling his goggles down and adjusting his swim cap, he waded into the bone-chilling water. “66ยบ isn't so cold. I think Lake Superior was colder.”
Matthew waved his arms above his head. This was the signal to the official observer that he was beginning his cross. Matthew ran and dove into the water. The cold yanked at his breath. He spit out a bit of the briny ocean. His arms cut at the waves. The incoming tide pushed at him, but not as hard as Matthew thought it would. “Yeah, I can do this. I can definitely do this.”
Not much happened the first five hours. His body had started 'talking' to him, but he'd been through that before. He stayed 15 to 20 feet away from the boat, coming closer for his 30-minute feedings. His father would pass a cup of sports drink or hot broth to him using a long stick with a cup holder. Lunch was a carbo-bar and distilled water.
“How far?” he yelled up at his dad.
“Don't worry about that. Just swim.”
Easy for you to say, thought Matthew as he finished off the bar and plunged forward. He could see a shipping boat farther ahead seeming to block his passage. Ships are informed of the presence of channel swimmers and this one would be gone long before he got close. But the wake would not. Already he felt the first waves hit, forcing him back.
“Stupid boat!” A clump of oily seaweed slapped his mouth as he shouted. He wanted to puke.
2:00 pm. Over halfway across thick, dark clouds threatened the clear, blue sky. The wind was getting colder and the water was getting choppier.
“No, not now.”
Matthew looked over at the escort. His father was holding up the white-board they were using for quick messages. STORM. Matthew swam in closer to the boat.
“We might have to call it, son,” Mr. Johnson shouted over the rail.
“Please, Dad. Let's wait.”
“This could be bad.”
“Please.” He didn't want to be stopped now, not because of weather.
“Stay close.”
Matthew tread water near the boat as thunder rumbled past. A few heavy raindrops plummeted around him.
PLOP.
PLOP. PLOP.
Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop.
And it was gone.
8:15 pm. Matthew had been in the water a little over 14 1/2 hours. He was lucky he hadn't run into any jellyfish. The crew had spotted a group earlier and he swam around them. That added a half hour to his time.
It was getting dark. His dad had passed him a glow stick at the last feeding. He attached it to the back of his swim cap. It looked like a glowing alien finger sticking out of the back of his head.
“You're less than a mile and a half from shore,” yelled his dad.
His arms and legs were lead. His lips were swollen from the saltwater. Most of the channel grease was gone. He couldn't see very well in the dark, but he thought he could make out the shoreline as he bobbed up and down. A mile and a half. The moon seemed closer.
“OK,” he said weakly. “I'm going for it.”
With his goggled face toward France he dug his way through the surf. But the tides were changing and dragged him back with each stroke. “I'm not going to make it. I'm going to drown within sight of the beach.”
A light flashed over his head. Then again. And again. Looking up he could make out a dark silhouette at the edge of the cape and the light circling on top. The lighthouse. Cape Gris Nez, France. His landing point.
Adrenalin raced through him. With a renewed purpose he punched through the waves. The channel tides continued to pull at him, to drag him back and down. Matthew wasn't going down. His hand hit sand. The surf gave up and his stomach and knees scraped bottom. Crawling to shore, cold and tired, he cried. He had crossed. 16 hours, 39 minutes. He wasn't the fastest or the youngest, but he, Matthew Johnson, had crossed the English Channel.
Channel Trivia
The English Channel is approximately 22-24 miles across from Shakespeare Beach, Dover, England to Cape Gris Nez, France. Swimmers actually swim 30-40 miles because the tides push them from side to side. The water temperature is about 60°F. (Try sitting in a tub of ice water all day!)
The French call the Channel "La Manche" (the sleeve).
Channel grease is a mixture of Lanolin® and Vaseline®. Swimmers smear about two pounds of this gunk all over their body to help prevent hypothermia (Look it up!).
The first person to swim across the channel was Matthew Webb in August 1875. It took him 21 hours 45 minutes. He died a few years later attempting to swim under Niagara Falls. Actually, the first person to cross single-handed was Captain Paul Boyton in May 1875, but he wore an inflatable suit with a sail attached to his left boot while using a paddle.
Other records(as of 12/07):
Youngest Person: Thomas Gregory from the United Kingdom in 1988, 11 years 11 months, in 11 hours 54 minutes. (Since 1994 the rules forbid solo attempts by swimmers under the age of 14. (Records and Firsts))
Oldest Person: George Burnstad, USA, 70 years, 4 days crossed in 15 hours 59 minutes.
Fastest Crossing: Petar Stoychev from Bulgaria swimming from England to France in 2007 crossed in 6 hours 57 minutes 50 seconds.
First Woman: Gertrude Ederle from USA in 1926, 14 hours 39 minutes.
Most Crossings: Alison Streeter has made 43 crossings.
First to Swim the Channel Underwater: Fred Baldasare from USA in 1962 crossed in a frogman suit in 19 hours 1 minute.
Sources for sidebar:
Channel Questions, Marcia Cleveland and DevPlan, Inc., www.doversolo.com
Channel Swimming Records, www.channelswimming.com
Records and Firsts, www.doverdc.co.uk/museum/information_resources/channel_swimmers/records__firsts.aspx
Sunday, May 10, 2009
By the Water's Edge
No Date
A cool breeze. The scent of pine. The stillness of the water. Birds play at the water's edge. Dragonflies dart through the reeds. Fish hide under lily pads. A weekend camping trip by the lake? No…my less than a quarter acre backyard with pond.
When I first bought the house, the only things in the backyard were a couple of crepe myrtles in the far corners, a few small red-tips along the edge of the property, and a lone mimosa smack in the middle. The mimosa died soon after I moved in and had to be removed. The backyard was dubbed “the great Savannah plain” by my wife Lynn and daughter Carrie because it was so wide open.
I planted some pine, a few cedar, and a willow to get a woodland feel and some shade. It needed something else. One Saturday when I had nothing else to do, I took the better part of the day to dig a hole where the mimosa used to be. (Being not in good shape, I thought it would take several days.) It has been a work in progress since.
What has been surprising is the amount of enjoyment we as a family have received from this hole filled with water. Watching the growth of plants in and around the pond is a source of constant wonder. My green thumb is more a shade of brown. We're often amazed at the height of the reeds transplanted from a nearby ditch, some over six fee; the many leaves of water lilies that cover over a third of the pond; and the yellows, reds, and pinks of the flowering cactus, caladiums, and water lilies.
In the morning or early evening, we like to feed the fish—originally about a dozen 24 cent goldfish, now grown to 5-6 inches. Sometimes we do this as a family (dog included), sometimes alone; but there always seems to be something peaceful…soothing…in watching these huge goldfish swim about sucking up the flattened flakes of food. One winter the pond actually froze over and we watched as they swam about under the ice. In the spring, we look expectantly for baby fishes. Many have survived, in a variety of colors other than gold (some with black, some all brown, one or two white), to become part of our school.
Spring also heralds the arrival of an amphibian or two. Our youngest daughter, Catherine, has seen first hand as scores of eggs become tiny tadpoles. Not all of the eggs make it that far and only a few of the tadpoles get very big. I believe visiting birds or the fish have enjoyed a tasty delicacy. Even so, the deep throated songs of the adults serenade our suburban home with a nighttime woodland lullaby.
Our little pool has also hosted a variety of winged creatures. We've seen the glistening blue-black crow, brilliant red garbed cardinal, the somber dusty gray dove. The pond has become their little Greek public bath, their mini Irish pub; a place to meet for a dip and a drink. But my favorite winged guests have to be the dragonflies. Metalic blues and greens zipping through the reeds; hovering on crystaline wing over lily pads; resting in the sun on a rock—these beautiful insects add aerial life to the still water.
But the birds and fish and frogs aren't the only ones who like to play in the water. On hot summer days, Catherine and her friends love to sit on the edge and soak their feet. I fixed a place just for that purpose—I knew the temptation would be too great. There are also stepping stones to cross or squat on to watch the fish. Our grandsons, Arthur, 3, and Ethan, 1, are constantly intrigued by the water's edge. (I get up a lot to make sure they don't try to walk on water.)
Our backyard pond certainly is a great source of enjoyment, aesthetically and educationally, for the entire family. But you know, I wouldn't pass up an occasional weekend camping trip by the lake.
A cool breeze. The scent of pine. The stillness of the water. Birds play at the water's edge. Dragonflies dart through the reeds. Fish hide under lily pads. A weekend camping trip by the lake? No…my less than a quarter acre backyard with pond.
When I first bought the house, the only things in the backyard were a couple of crepe myrtles in the far corners, a few small red-tips along the edge of the property, and a lone mimosa smack in the middle. The mimosa died soon after I moved in and had to be removed. The backyard was dubbed “the great Savannah plain” by my wife Lynn and daughter Carrie because it was so wide open.
I planted some pine, a few cedar, and a willow to get a woodland feel and some shade. It needed something else. One Saturday when I had nothing else to do, I took the better part of the day to dig a hole where the mimosa used to be. (Being not in good shape, I thought it would take several days.) It has been a work in progress since.
What has been surprising is the amount of enjoyment we as a family have received from this hole filled with water. Watching the growth of plants in and around the pond is a source of constant wonder. My green thumb is more a shade of brown. We're often amazed at the height of the reeds transplanted from a nearby ditch, some over six fee; the many leaves of water lilies that cover over a third of the pond; and the yellows, reds, and pinks of the flowering cactus, caladiums, and water lilies.
In the morning or early evening, we like to feed the fish—originally about a dozen 24 cent goldfish, now grown to 5-6 inches. Sometimes we do this as a family (dog included), sometimes alone; but there always seems to be something peaceful…soothing…in watching these huge goldfish swim about sucking up the flattened flakes of food. One winter the pond actually froze over and we watched as they swam about under the ice. In the spring, we look expectantly for baby fishes. Many have survived, in a variety of colors other than gold (some with black, some all brown, one or two white), to become part of our school.
Spring also heralds the arrival of an amphibian or two. Our youngest daughter, Catherine, has seen first hand as scores of eggs become tiny tadpoles. Not all of the eggs make it that far and only a few of the tadpoles get very big. I believe visiting birds or the fish have enjoyed a tasty delicacy. Even so, the deep throated songs of the adults serenade our suburban home with a nighttime woodland lullaby.
Our little pool has also hosted a variety of winged creatures. We've seen the glistening blue-black crow, brilliant red garbed cardinal, the somber dusty gray dove. The pond has become their little Greek public bath, their mini Irish pub; a place to meet for a dip and a drink. But my favorite winged guests have to be the dragonflies. Metalic blues and greens zipping through the reeds; hovering on crystaline wing over lily pads; resting in the sun on a rock—these beautiful insects add aerial life to the still water.
But the birds and fish and frogs aren't the only ones who like to play in the water. On hot summer days, Catherine and her friends love to sit on the edge and soak their feet. I fixed a place just for that purpose—I knew the temptation would be too great. There are also stepping stones to cross or squat on to watch the fish. Our grandsons, Arthur, 3, and Ethan, 1, are constantly intrigued by the water's edge. (I get up a lot to make sure they don't try to walk on water.)
Our backyard pond certainly is a great source of enjoyment, aesthetically and educationally, for the entire family. But you know, I wouldn't pass up an occasional weekend camping trip by the lake.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
A Couple of Old Private Eye Short Stories
Don't have a date.
Here are a couple from the files. I think I wrote these late at night (I mean really late at night) while working at Waffle House as a cook, late nineties/early 00.
No Free Lunch
I lit another cigarette. My seventh since I’d been sitting in this run-down diner on the wrong side of the tracks. The smoke twisted and turned like a crappy mystery novel up toward the ceiling, then hung there like a bad omen. I was an hour early. Forgot to set my watch back from daylight savings. Never saved me any daylight. Anyway, it gave me some time to wolf down a grilled cheese and glass of milk (eases the ulcer). Hadn’t eaten in a couple of days.
The waitress poured my third cup of coffee (irritates the ulcer). She didn’t seem to mind this old fart sitting here sipping java that was probably fresh ground during the Nixon administration. I was her only customer. Seemed to be a nice kid. A little homely—chubby in a bad way, lousy complexion, bad teeth, one eye a little higher than the other—the proverbial face only a mother could love. Her blond hair in need of another bleaching was done up nice and her inch long nails were recently painted in a shade of red that reminded me of fresh blood on concrete. Two kids, two fathers (must have been drunken sailors in a really dark bar). Lived with her mother who drank too much and needed to see a chiropractor twice a week for neck pain caused by a little fender bender two years ago. She was going to school at night to become a paralegal. I encouraged her. The legal profession needed more nice people like her.
I was early, but now my snitch was late. Buzz Buzz (obviously not his real name) was never late, even according to my newly corrected watch.
I crushed out my cigarette in the pile of ashes in the cheap aluminum ashtray, left a ten spot under the half empty coffee cup, and told pretty girl to keep the change. She smiled at me like I’d just given her an early Christmas present. My gut was churning—maybe from the coffee, maybe from a bad feeling.
Buzz Buzz had information for me that should crack this case wide open. Information that would put some influential people in a bad way and me in a good way—professionally and financially. My supersized meal ticket. But I needed to know what Buzz Buzz knew and was hoping nobody else knew that he knew.
I walked out onto the quiet sidewalk. The afternoon sky had turned a yellowish overcast making the dingy neighborhood look even more dingy. The air was still. That proverbial calm before the storm.
A dozen cars, including my old Buick, were hunched against the curb on either side of the road. Most looked like they’d been parked there since the Reagan era. Not another soul was in sight.
I pulled my keys out to unlock the door. Habit—there’s nothing inside to take and the Buick isn’t worth the spare parts to steal. My first stop after this case would be the new car lot. As I heard the familiar thunk of the lock as I turned the key, I spotted Buzz Buzz sauntering across the street just down the block. Back in the day I would have busted his ass for jaywalking.
Just as I was about to call out to him, the scream of rubber on asphalt pierced the silence. A black BMW with tinted windows (much too dark to be legal) raced around the corner like the proverbial bat out of hell and made fresh roadkill out of Buzz Buzz. My last link to becoming a respected dick flattened on the pothole infested pavement; my down payment on new wheels downed.
I walked back in the diner and asked pretty girl to dial 911. Maybe she wouldn’t mind later showing an old fart a really dark bar.
No Pain, No Gain
This is going to be my last cup of coffee. The stuff really works my ulcer, but going without puts that proverbial monkey on my back. And I was out of cigarettes. Been scrounging butts out of ashtrays. Sometimes you get to choose your pain. Sometimes…
I don’t know how far down this bottomless cup in this all night dive I can go. I haven’t slept much this week. And my ulcer is starting to talk to me. I’ve been working a routine spousal check for a man you’ve probably never heard of that was anything but routine. Loverboy has been sitting in a booth at the other end of the diner as long as I have. And I have no idea where this case is going. All I know is I need some nap time.
But my client is paying me well. Too well by most standards. But I’m not complaining. I’ve been waiting for cash like a driver waited for gas during the crisis of ’77. Or was it ’79? And my tank is running on the proverbial fumes. I’m really hurting. I’ve got enough for this coffee, tip and a phone call.
Loverboy’s an athletic type; complete opposite of my client. All-star football, basketball, baseball, and track in high school; starting linebacker at the state university; first draft pick lost to major knee surgery. Doing pretty good selling real estate now. The woman is one of those intellectual types—not unpretty, just a bit plain. Thin, no boobs. Glasses. A cross between Hillary and that woman on “Ally McBeal”. Easy to see what she gets out of the deal, seems he’s getting a bit short changed. I hadn’t actually caught them in any indiscretions. I’m not really sure what the relationship is, but I’ll find out. If my ulcer doesn’t kill me first.
Loverboy was up and walking toward me. Slight limp. I’m thinking he’s headed for the single seat restroom right behind me (tells you a bit about the class of this establishment), but he’s looking right at me. He walks right up to me and leans in real close. So close I can smell the tunafish sandwich he’d just finished off.
“I’m going to hand you my cell phone and you’re going to call Mr. H_______. You’re going to tell him you have nothing further to report, case closed. Or we can continue this conversation out back and I’ll be doing all the talking, if you get my meaning.”
I got his meaning. I made the call. I don’t like these new-fangled cell phones with all the little buttons. My client (excuse me, ex-client) didn’t sound too happy about the sudden end to my investigation. Says he’s putting a stop payment on the check he just sent. Oh, well. My retirement check will be in next week. Until then I’ll be as scarce as Jimmy Hoffa. Sometimes you get to choose your pain.
Here are a couple from the files. I think I wrote these late at night (I mean really late at night) while working at Waffle House as a cook, late nineties/early 00.
I lit another cigarette. My seventh since I’d been sitting in this run-down diner on the wrong side of the tracks. The smoke twisted and turned like a crappy mystery novel up toward the ceiling, then hung there like a bad omen. I was an hour early. Forgot to set my watch back from daylight savings. Never saved me any daylight. Anyway, it gave me some time to wolf down a grilled cheese and glass of milk (eases the ulcer). Hadn’t eaten in a couple of days.
The waitress poured my third cup of coffee (irritates the ulcer). She didn’t seem to mind this old fart sitting here sipping java that was probably fresh ground during the Nixon administration. I was her only customer. Seemed to be a nice kid. A little homely—chubby in a bad way, lousy complexion, bad teeth, one eye a little higher than the other—the proverbial face only a mother could love. Her blond hair in need of another bleaching was done up nice and her inch long nails were recently painted in a shade of red that reminded me of fresh blood on concrete. Two kids, two fathers (must have been drunken sailors in a really dark bar). Lived with her mother who drank too much and needed to see a chiropractor twice a week for neck pain caused by a little fender bender two years ago. She was going to school at night to become a paralegal. I encouraged her. The legal profession needed more nice people like her.
I was early, but now my snitch was late. Buzz Buzz (obviously not his real name) was never late, even according to my newly corrected watch.
I crushed out my cigarette in the pile of ashes in the cheap aluminum ashtray, left a ten spot under the half empty coffee cup, and told pretty girl to keep the change. She smiled at me like I’d just given her an early Christmas present. My gut was churning—maybe from the coffee, maybe from a bad feeling.
Buzz Buzz had information for me that should crack this case wide open. Information that would put some influential people in a bad way and me in a good way—professionally and financially. My supersized meal ticket. But I needed to know what Buzz Buzz knew and was hoping nobody else knew that he knew.
I walked out onto the quiet sidewalk. The afternoon sky had turned a yellowish overcast making the dingy neighborhood look even more dingy. The air was still. That proverbial calm before the storm.
A dozen cars, including my old Buick, were hunched against the curb on either side of the road. Most looked like they’d been parked there since the Reagan era. Not another soul was in sight.
I pulled my keys out to unlock the door. Habit—there’s nothing inside to take and the Buick isn’t worth the spare parts to steal. My first stop after this case would be the new car lot. As I heard the familiar thunk of the lock as I turned the key, I spotted Buzz Buzz sauntering across the street just down the block. Back in the day I would have busted his ass for jaywalking.
Just as I was about to call out to him, the scream of rubber on asphalt pierced the silence. A black BMW with tinted windows (much too dark to be legal) raced around the corner like the proverbial bat out of hell and made fresh roadkill out of Buzz Buzz. My last link to becoming a respected dick flattened on the pothole infested pavement; my down payment on new wheels downed.
I walked back in the diner and asked pretty girl to dial 911. Maybe she wouldn’t mind later showing an old fart a really dark bar.
This is going to be my last cup of coffee. The stuff really works my ulcer, but going without puts that proverbial monkey on my back. And I was out of cigarettes. Been scrounging butts out of ashtrays. Sometimes you get to choose your pain. Sometimes…
I don’t know how far down this bottomless cup in this all night dive I can go. I haven’t slept much this week. And my ulcer is starting to talk to me. I’ve been working a routine spousal check for a man you’ve probably never heard of that was anything but routine. Loverboy has been sitting in a booth at the other end of the diner as long as I have. And I have no idea where this case is going. All I know is I need some nap time.
But my client is paying me well. Too well by most standards. But I’m not complaining. I’ve been waiting for cash like a driver waited for gas during the crisis of ’77. Or was it ’79? And my tank is running on the proverbial fumes. I’m really hurting. I’ve got enough for this coffee, tip and a phone call.
Loverboy’s an athletic type; complete opposite of my client. All-star football, basketball, baseball, and track in high school; starting linebacker at the state university; first draft pick lost to major knee surgery. Doing pretty good selling real estate now. The woman is one of those intellectual types—not unpretty, just a bit plain. Thin, no boobs. Glasses. A cross between Hillary and that woman on “Ally McBeal”. Easy to see what she gets out of the deal, seems he’s getting a bit short changed. I hadn’t actually caught them in any indiscretions. I’m not really sure what the relationship is, but I’ll find out. If my ulcer doesn’t kill me first.
Loverboy was up and walking toward me. Slight limp. I’m thinking he’s headed for the single seat restroom right behind me (tells you a bit about the class of this establishment), but he’s looking right at me. He walks right up to me and leans in real close. So close I can smell the tunafish sandwich he’d just finished off.
“I’m going to hand you my cell phone and you’re going to call Mr. H_______. You’re going to tell him you have nothing further to report, case closed. Or we can continue this conversation out back and I’ll be doing all the talking, if you get my meaning.”
I got his meaning. I made the call. I don’t like these new-fangled cell phones with all the little buttons. My client (excuse me, ex-client) didn’t sound too happy about the sudden end to my investigation. Says he’s putting a stop payment on the check he just sent. Oh, well. My retirement check will be in next week. Until then I’ll be as scarce as Jimmy Hoffa. Sometimes you get to choose your pain.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Turning Night Into Day
March 2009
Trident Technical College, Copyright ©2009
This was written as an assignment for my English Comp I class at Trident Technical College. My instructor suggested that I submit it to the new school student anthology.
The atrocities committed upon the Jewish peoples in the early twentieth century are widely known and well documented. Elie Wiesel is one voice among thousands declaring the inhumanity of those times upon his people and himself. At the impressionable age of 16, he suffered the loss of his father to starvation at the Buchenwald concentration camp, as well as the deaths of his mother and younger sister in the Auschwitz-Birkenau death camp. Wiesel vowed to not speak for ten years of the torturous brutalities he and ten thousand other prisoners endured (Hurst and Pavlick). His silence ended when he penned Un di Velt Hot Geshvihn (And the World Was Silent), the original Yiddish version of Night in 1954 (McDonald and Trotter 506). Night asserts that what Elie Wiesel witnessed as a young teenager in the Auschwitz-Birkenau and Buchenwald camps was the numbing effect of constant brutality and the threat of individual annihilation upon social conscience and personal faith. What he also recorded, however, as seen through the refining lens of hindsight, was the glimmer of hope within his people and possible redemption pictured in shadowed Christian symbolism.
In one chapter from Wiesel's account, the prisoners of the death camp are so numbed to the indescribable brutality around them that they are not merely unconcerned bystanders, but have also become willing participants. Wiesel depicts this condition when he tells of a young prisoner from Warsaw who is to be hanged for the crime of stealing. As the verdict is being read and the condemned youth stands defiantly before his executioners, their ability to be affected as a whole is demonstrated in the whispered question of a prisoner named Juliek: “Do you think this ceremony'll be over soon? I'm hungry…” (Wiesel 507). During this grave moment, Juliek's regard is for the prisoners' only meal: soup. Soup is their life. It is their sole concern. Soup is the currency of life. To preserve their own life “Two prisoners helped […] for two plates of soup” (Wiesel 507). The other prisoners do not seem to mind that their fellows assist. It has been said that if you do not resist evil you assist it. This saying speaks of this moment as the prisoners are no longer merely observers but have become actively involved in their own genocide.
Wiesel, on the other hand, though “no longer troubled” by the “thousands who had died […] in the crematory ovens” (Wiesel 507), experiences a re-awakening, if only briefly, of the threat to his life individually. The sheer numbers of the atrocities committed behind the closed doors of the crematory are desensitizing. “But this one […] he overwhelmed me.” (Wiesel 507, emphasis added) Wiesel writes that as he stood watching the Warsaw youth: “I could hear my heart beating” (Wiesel 507, emphasis added). Wiesel's reaction to this single life and his awareness of his own evokes a scenario in which he appears to feel that “This is a person. A vibrant individual. Soon to die. I am an individual. Alive. Death, brutal death, is a very real threat to me.” But the reality did not last. The numbness settled back over him, for when he returns from the execution for the evening meal he “remember[s] that I found the soup excellent that evening…” (Wiesel 508). He is still alive.
Although there are other hangings, it is the shock of executing a young child that produces a spark of humanity within the prisoners; but Wiesel looks upon the scene and loses faith in his God. This hanging is different from the ones before. The crowd spurns participation. There are no prisoners helping this time. As the chairs of the condemned are tipped over, Wiesel states that there is “Total silence throughout the camp” (Wiesel 509). There is no discussion of soup. This dying boy, dying an agonizing death, is more than the group conscience can bear. They openly weep. The “forgotten […] bitter taste of tears” (Wiesel 508) is fresh on their tongues. Unlike the hanging of the defiant Warsaw youth, this hanging touches their hearts. Wiesel, conversely, sees in the horror of this slow, tormenting death of “the sad-eyed angel” (Wiesel 508) the death of his God. As the other other prisoners question where God is during this atrocity, Wiesel responds internally. “Where is He? […] He is hanging here on this gallows…” (Wiesel 509). He sees no other explanation for how this could be happening than that it is God himself being executed. And at the end of the day, even his life giving soup now “tasted of corpses” (Wiesel 509).
God hanging on a gallows. Wiesel himself may not have intended to use Christian symbolism to show the possibility of hope for the prisoners, but a powerful picture of redemption can be seen in the second execution. Author Dorothy Sayers once wrote:
God in the form of Christ hanging upon a cross is the central image of sacrificial redemption for the Christian faith. Wiesel describes this child as “the little servant, the sad-eyed angel” (Wiesel 508). Likewise, Christ is often referred to as the Servant King. In another parallel, this “child with a refined and beautiful face […] would not speak” (Wiesel 508) before his torturers just as Jesus remained silent before his accusers. Additionally, this young innocent “struggl[ed] between life and death” (Wiesel 509) while hanging between two adult prisoners. Three gallows—three crosses. The hearts of the prisoners were rent in two even as the veil of the temple was rent when Christ died (Matthew 27:51). In Christianity, the cross, the sacrifice of Christ, is the symbol of redemption, the payment for and setting free from sin and guilt. Likewise, through the loss of this one, this innocent, many are given an opportunity to free themselves, their hearts and their humanity from the bondage of this insidious holocaust.
Loss. All who faced the threat of these unrelenting atrocities lost. The defiant youth and others—many others—lost their lives. Ten thousand captive bodies lost their sense of humanity, of compassion, of life beyond a bowl of soup. Wiesel lost his faith. Yet the loss of one life, though senseless and tragic, broke through to the hearts of these prisoners— prisoners of body, mind, and soul—offering an opportunity to be human again, redeeming them from the sin of complacency and freeing them to feel again.
Trident Technical College, Copyright ©2009
Works Cited
Hurst, John and James Pavlick. “Elie Wiesel Biography.”
Academy of Achievement ed. Hugh Esten. March 2, 2009.
American Academy of Achievement. March 6, 2009.
www.achievement.org/autodoc/page/wie0bio-1
McDonald, Ann, and Jack Trotter, eds. World Views: Classic
and Contemporary Readings. 5th ed. Boston: Pearson, 2008.
Sayers, Dorothy. Introductory Papers on Dante. New York:
Harper & Brothers, 1954.
Wiesel, Elie. Night. Trans. Stella Rodway. McDonald and Trotter 506-09.
Trident Technical College, Copyright ©2009
This was written as an assignment for my English Comp I class at Trident Technical College. My instructor suggested that I submit it to the new school student anthology.
The atrocities committed upon the Jewish peoples in the early twentieth century are widely known and well documented. Elie Wiesel is one voice among thousands declaring the inhumanity of those times upon his people and himself. At the impressionable age of 16, he suffered the loss of his father to starvation at the Buchenwald concentration camp, as well as the deaths of his mother and younger sister in the Auschwitz-Birkenau death camp. Wiesel vowed to not speak for ten years of the torturous brutalities he and ten thousand other prisoners endured (Hurst and Pavlick). His silence ended when he penned Un di Velt Hot Geshvihn (And the World Was Silent), the original Yiddish version of Night in 1954 (McDonald and Trotter 506). Night asserts that what Elie Wiesel witnessed as a young teenager in the Auschwitz-Birkenau and Buchenwald camps was the numbing effect of constant brutality and the threat of individual annihilation upon social conscience and personal faith. What he also recorded, however, as seen through the refining lens of hindsight, was the glimmer of hope within his people and possible redemption pictured in shadowed Christian symbolism.
In one chapter from Wiesel's account, the prisoners of the death camp are so numbed to the indescribable brutality around them that they are not merely unconcerned bystanders, but have also become willing participants. Wiesel depicts this condition when he tells of a young prisoner from Warsaw who is to be hanged for the crime of stealing. As the verdict is being read and the condemned youth stands defiantly before his executioners, their ability to be affected as a whole is demonstrated in the whispered question of a prisoner named Juliek: “Do you think this ceremony'll be over soon? I'm hungry…” (Wiesel 507). During this grave moment, Juliek's regard is for the prisoners' only meal: soup. Soup is their life. It is their sole concern. Soup is the currency of life. To preserve their own life “Two prisoners helped […] for two plates of soup” (Wiesel 507). The other prisoners do not seem to mind that their fellows assist. It has been said that if you do not resist evil you assist it. This saying speaks of this moment as the prisoners are no longer merely observers but have become actively involved in their own genocide.
Wiesel, on the other hand, though “no longer troubled” by the “thousands who had died […] in the crematory ovens” (Wiesel 507), experiences a re-awakening, if only briefly, of the threat to his life individually. The sheer numbers of the atrocities committed behind the closed doors of the crematory are desensitizing. “But this one […] he overwhelmed me.” (Wiesel 507, emphasis added) Wiesel writes that as he stood watching the Warsaw youth: “I could hear my heart beating” (Wiesel 507, emphasis added). Wiesel's reaction to this single life and his awareness of his own evokes a scenario in which he appears to feel that “This is a person. A vibrant individual. Soon to die. I am an individual. Alive. Death, brutal death, is a very real threat to me.” But the reality did not last. The numbness settled back over him, for when he returns from the execution for the evening meal he “remember[s] that I found the soup excellent that evening…” (Wiesel 508). He is still alive.
Although there are other hangings, it is the shock of executing a young child that produces a spark of humanity within the prisoners; but Wiesel looks upon the scene and loses faith in his God. This hanging is different from the ones before. The crowd spurns participation. There are no prisoners helping this time. As the chairs of the condemned are tipped over, Wiesel states that there is “Total silence throughout the camp” (Wiesel 509). There is no discussion of soup. This dying boy, dying an agonizing death, is more than the group conscience can bear. They openly weep. The “forgotten […] bitter taste of tears” (Wiesel 508) is fresh on their tongues. Unlike the hanging of the defiant Warsaw youth, this hanging touches their hearts. Wiesel, conversely, sees in the horror of this slow, tormenting death of “the sad-eyed angel” (Wiesel 508) the death of his God. As the other other prisoners question where God is during this atrocity, Wiesel responds internally. “Where is He? […] He is hanging here on this gallows…” (Wiesel 509). He sees no other explanation for how this could be happening than that it is God himself being executed. And at the end of the day, even his life giving soup now “tasted of corpses” (Wiesel 509).
God hanging on a gallows. Wiesel himself may not have intended to use Christian symbolism to show the possibility of hope for the prisoners, but a powerful picture of redemption can be seen in the second execution. Author Dorothy Sayers once wrote:
If an image displays the universal pattern, it will display it at all levels and in all circumstances, whether the poet was or could have been conscious of these possible applications or not.(19)
God in the form of Christ hanging upon a cross is the central image of sacrificial redemption for the Christian faith. Wiesel describes this child as “the little servant, the sad-eyed angel” (Wiesel 508). Likewise, Christ is often referred to as the Servant King. In another parallel, this “child with a refined and beautiful face […] would not speak” (Wiesel 508) before his torturers just as Jesus remained silent before his accusers. Additionally, this young innocent “struggl[ed] between life and death” (Wiesel 509) while hanging between two adult prisoners. Three gallows—three crosses. The hearts of the prisoners were rent in two even as the veil of the temple was rent when Christ died (Matthew 27:51). In Christianity, the cross, the sacrifice of Christ, is the symbol of redemption, the payment for and setting free from sin and guilt. Likewise, through the loss of this one, this innocent, many are given an opportunity to free themselves, their hearts and their humanity from the bondage of this insidious holocaust.
Loss. All who faced the threat of these unrelenting atrocities lost. The defiant youth and others—many others—lost their lives. Ten thousand captive bodies lost their sense of humanity, of compassion, of life beyond a bowl of soup. Wiesel lost his faith. Yet the loss of one life, though senseless and tragic, broke through to the hearts of these prisoners— prisoners of body, mind, and soul—offering an opportunity to be human again, redeeming them from the sin of complacency and freeing them to feel again.
Trident Technical College, Copyright ©2009
Works Cited
Hurst, John and James Pavlick. “Elie Wiesel Biography.”
Academy of Achievement ed. Hugh Esten. March 2, 2009.
American Academy of Achievement. March 6, 2009.
www.achievement.org/autodoc/page/wie0bio-1
McDonald, Ann, and Jack Trotter, eds. World Views: Classic
and Contemporary Readings. 5th ed. Boston: Pearson, 2008.
Sayers, Dorothy. Introductory Papers on Dante. New York:
Harper & Brothers, 1954.
Wiesel, Elie. Night. Trans. Stella Rodway. McDonald and Trotter 506-09.
Guess What Happens to My Food
A diversion from the poetry. Don't remember when I wrote this. It was inspired by my daughter Catherine when she was about five.
Little Catherine ran into the kitchen and poked at her mommy’s leg.
“Mommy, Mommy! Guess what happens to my food when I eat.”
Mommy looked down at Catherine. “Do tell.”
“Well, first you have to chew it real good with your teeth. And while you’re chewing it mixes with your spit.” Catherine giggled.
“That’s saliva, dear.”
“Yeah. And then when you swallow, it goes down your asparagus pipe.”
Mommy smiled. “I think you mean your esophagus.”
“Uh huh. And then it plops into your tummy and gets all mixed up with all the other food. I think that is so yucky. I like to eat my food one thing at a time.”
“That’s okay,” said Mommy. “You can’t taste it in your stomach.”
Catherine thought about that for a little bit and then said, “I know, but it’s still yucky.”
“Is that all that happens?” asked Mommy.
“No. Then it goes into your intestines where all the good stuff gets soaked into your blood. Did you know I’ve got a big intestine and a little intestine?”
“Yes dear, I knew that,” Mommy said with a wink and a grin.
“Then know what happens?” Catherine put her hand in front of her mouth to stop from laughing.
“No, what?” asked Mommy.
“You poop it out!” And Catherine fell on the floor laughing really hard.
Little Catherine ran into the kitchen and poked at her mommy’s leg.
“Mommy, Mommy! Guess what happens to my food when I eat.”
Mommy looked down at Catherine. “Do tell.”
“Well, first you have to chew it real good with your teeth. And while you’re chewing it mixes with your spit.” Catherine giggled.
“That’s saliva, dear.”
“Yeah. And then when you swallow, it goes down your asparagus pipe.”
Mommy smiled. “I think you mean your esophagus.”
“Uh huh. And then it plops into your tummy and gets all mixed up with all the other food. I think that is so yucky. I like to eat my food one thing at a time.”
“That’s okay,” said Mommy. “You can’t taste it in your stomach.”
Catherine thought about that for a little bit and then said, “I know, but it’s still yucky.”
“Is that all that happens?” asked Mommy.
“No. Then it goes into your intestines where all the good stuff gets soaked into your blood. Did you know I’ve got a big intestine and a little intestine?”
“Yes dear, I knew that,” Mommy said with a wink and a grin.
“Then know what happens?” Catherine put her hand in front of her mouth to stop from laughing.
“No, what?” asked Mommy.
“You poop it out!” And Catherine fell on the floor laughing really hard.
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