tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7016595908048439522024-02-19T05:32:17.724-08:00StoredStoriesFrom the banks of memory.Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-33284520453700027132014-09-03T17:09:00.000-07:002014-09-03T17:09:14.342-07:00Flash Fiction: Beloved Sister<div class="p1" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="s1"><i>I read "Going Long. Going Short," from the Opinion section of the New York Times about flash fiction (read it <a href="http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/09/30/going-long-going-short/?_php=true&_type=blogs&_r=0" target="_blank">here</a>). The last couple weeks I've attempted to write flash fiction in response to <a href="http://www.terribleminds.com/" target="_blank">Chuck Wendig's </a>challenges. Those have been fun. In the NYT's piece, Grant Faulkner mentions writing fiction of a 100 words or less. I liked this idea, so i thought'd I give it a try today as my sort of writing exercise. </i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Beloved Sister</span></span></div>
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<span class="s2"><span style="font-size: x-large;">M</span></span><span class="s1">orning covers the wooded backyard in soft simplicity. It's like daddy's serious whispers. We never tuned in to those very often. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Not much gets seen around here, neither. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Usually, it’s stampede out the door. Honk my way to work. Velcro myself in for ten hours. Push my exhausted ass home. Nibble at a Lean Cuisine. Look at a few glowing screens. Snore through the nightly news. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">It’s funny that I’m still sitting here looking at it. The phone just rang a moment ago. Maggie’s gone. She’s really gone. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">You know, everything looks more real in the morning time. </span></div>
Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-38951045043353531582014-08-27T11:47:00.001-07:002014-08-27T11:53:39.320-07:00Flash Fiction Challenge: Breaking on the Track<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">This flash-fiction piece represents my response to Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction challenge from <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2014/08/22/flash-fiction-challenge-and-action/" target="_blank">August 22. </a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The rules were to create a story that was all action. No more than 1,000 words. Well, I'm kinda in the penalty box on both accounts. But, here's my try. (Warning: this is a violent story). </span><br />
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<b>Breaking on the Track</b><br />
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: large;">D</span></b>el Small entered the crime seen. The area under the overpass was swarming with police and crime scene investigators.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Though short and skinny, Del pushed bruisers twice her size out of the way as she waded through the mess. Her presence loomed large.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">She reached the center of the all the commotion: the corpse. Bruised and naked, the woman was hanging, arms outstretched, from the overpass. Del held her breath and pushed back a knot moving upstream toward the bone above her heart.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">"Like the fucking crucifixion," Landon said as Del stepped into the huddle of detectives.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">"Get her down, for Christ's sake,” she said, her pony tail flapping at each word. That little bone she felt in her chest started to buckle. “She's been up there long enough.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Landon gestured to the Sergeant. Officers snapped the last photos of the slain prostitute and took her down. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">"Another kilt hooker, and I gotta blow my Sunday morning," one of the young cops said, walking by.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Del grabbed his arm, spun him around, and smacked his face. His eyes bulged as though he’d been bitten by a snake.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">"You talk like that again about one of these women, and I'll have your balls. And your badge. You got it?"</span></div>
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<span class="s1">"Yes m-ma'am," he stuttered, pulling away. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">She shook her head. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Her name’s Bette,” she said, turning back to the huddle. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Fucking pricks. These women had bad enough lives. She pushed back through the throng of investigators, got in her truck, and sped off. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Jumping Jesus!” she cursed while driving around the slow-ass drivers on the expressway.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It was then that the little heart bone snapped. Something she’d been holding down flowed up into her neck and head. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">She decided to dig up Jasmine Grimm. She needed the backup. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The truck’s tires squalled as Del turned the corner and stopped at her house. She hopped down from the truck and walked quick, determined steps into her house. In the closet, Jasmine hung on a styrofoam head. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">** </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: large;">S</span></b>ix inch heels, a flashy dress, a colorful face, crinkled chestnut locks, and hoop earrings. It had been years since she’d been undercover on the track. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">She boarded a bus headed toward Route 6. She plopped down next to a lady with cotton ball hair. The lady snatched her purse away and held it tight with her curled arthritic hands. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">She didn’t have enough proof, but she knew it was Chainsaw Greene, a gangster working for Johnny Ford. She’d gotten an eye-witness report. Sort of. You could see a <i>yes</i> in someone’s eyes even when they said something else. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The image of the Bette dangling like a fish from the overpass kept swirling around in Del’s brain. She saw the dirt and grass burns on the body. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">When the last victim, Alicia McGregor, got murdered, Bette had called the cops. She was working on the track nearby when Chainsaw started gutting Alicia. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Bette had moved toward the electrifying scream like a bug to a zapper.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Afterward, Del sat with Bette in the police station, comforting her and trying to get answers. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Bette sat before a few rows of pictures. Del, on a hunch, pushed one out. Bette said, “I told you. I couldn’t see who it was.” </span></div>
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<span class="s1">But the real answer was in her eyes. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Del got off the bus at the Stagnet Motel and walked around the corner. A car pulled up. A red cherry poked through the slit in the window, and smoke curly-cued out. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">"Get in," said a greasy voice. This was just another sleezer. Not Chainsaw.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Her heals slapped the pavement, defiant, and dismissive. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Come on, honey. I got lots of cash.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The car lurched ahead of her and popped up on the curb. Undaunted, she kept walking. The driver door opened. A large man with a round belly and a pumpkin head hoisted himself up from the seat. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Yo, bitch, you heard me. I know you did. I got somethin’ for you to work on,” he grabbed under his hanging gut and lifted his tiny twiddler up and down. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The chomping heels stopped right in front of him. Del looked him up and down and laughed. Then sighed. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Can’t you talk bitch? I got three hundred. And maybe if your good, some blow.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">She walloped his crotch. He doubled over. She put a knee right in the middle of his pumpkin head. There was a crack. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“You broke my nose, you cunt,” he yelled behind her as she walked on. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Her knee throbbed. His tooth had cut into her flesh. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">A HumV pulled into the motel lot. Del had a little tickle in her gut; this was the one. A blue glow came from inside the Hummer. The window rolled down. A face turned toward her at the sound of her incoming claps on the pavement. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">When she saw the face, the tickle turned into a clawing. His face was a prickly white cactus. It was Chainsaw alright. Only the momentum of the heels kept Del clicking toward the HumV.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“You looking for some fun?” she smiled at the face. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">He looked at her with a sneer. His stout frame heaved in a drag from an electric cigarette. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“How’s your snatch. It clean?”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Well, honey, it can smell like roses for the right price.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">His gaze bore into her brain. “What’s your price?”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Fifty for yank, a hundred for a suck, and two-fifty for a fuck.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Get in,” he said.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">They sped down the turnpike into the factory district, which was vacant except for a couple cars bouncing up and down to a vibrating beat. The ass end of a girl was sticking out of a Charger. A hand grabbed the girl’s hair and pulled her down. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Fucker,” Del mumbled under he breath. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“What?”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Fuck it,” she said. “I forgot to pay my light bill.” She feared she was losing her touch. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">He pulled into an alley and turned off the Hummer. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“This way,” he said, leading her to a hidden door. They went down a dark hall and turned into an office. It was long and wide with a bed at the far end. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Let’s have a drink,” he said, pouring two bourbons. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">She drank a swig, and sat on the bed.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“We gonna get down to business, or ain’t we?” she said.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Looks like you had a bad customer earlier,” he pointed to her knee. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Occupational hazard.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">He took off his shirt and pants and pulled her against him and held her face into his fat chest. She couldn’t draw a breath. She slapped against his arms, but he held on. Her lungs began to burn.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">He pushed her down on the bed and cackled at her. She bounced up and slipped past him. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“I know who you are and you won’t be raping any more women, asshole,” she said. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Oh, is that so?” He laughed. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Del swung a leg toward his face, but he caught it and brought her down. He pulled her toward him and slammed her against the wall.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">She began to roll herself up, but he got on top of her. She reached under her skirt and pulled out a knife. The blade sank into his belly. </span></div>
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Before he could yell, she sliced through his throat, which gurgled as air and blood bubbled through the hole. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Chainsaw sat up on his knees and reached out for her, but she back away and stood against the wall. She side-kicked his head; it fell back, revealing a soft fold of windpipe gasping for life. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">She looked down it to see if he had a heart bone. Nothing. Just like she thought. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">She pushed him over, and grabbed up his nuts and bolt. His little eggs looked like they’d pop out from her grip. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“No more rapes for you fucker,” Del said sawing away. </span></div>
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Blood splattered her face. The throat gurgled hard and the body jerked. Then all went quiet. <span class="s1"></span></div>
Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-64318001053558253722014-08-19T15:57:00.001-07:002014-08-19T15:58:06.205-07:00Baby Blue - Flash Fiction ChallengeThis is my story for Chuck Wendig's <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2014/08/15/flash-fiction-challenge-color-title-challenge/" target="_blank">Flash Fiction Challenge this week</a>. The directions were to write a story using a color in its title. 1000 words is the limit.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Baby Blue</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">by Chuck Knight</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Zan and Mary were expecting a little boy. In a month, he’d enter the world, wide eyed, all the world a blur. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">This was their first baby. Things were looking good, right from the start. The genetic counselling suggested the future was bright.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Today Mary would have another check up. “There’s no need to worry. Really,” Dr. Hinkle said. But they did worry. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Even if the baby came out--” Mary said.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Different-” Zan inserted.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Yeah, different. I’d love him, of course. I feel him more everyday,” Mary said, her eyes searching Zan’s.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Me too,” he said, nodding. “I’d love him no matter what.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">In secret, Zan crossed his fingers and said a little prayer, before going to work. During the entire walk to work, Zan tucked his head. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">At work, he replenished the produce department, said hi to customers, but kept his head tucked. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">At lunch, he sat staring at his PB&J sandwich.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Can I join you?” Jenny said. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Not looking away from his food, Zan grunted consent. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“So, it’s a month now, right?” Jenny said. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“What?” Zan looked up. “Yes, yes! A month now.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“You and Mary must be excited,” Jenny said, unzipping her lunch.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Oh, yes. Yes, we are,” Zan smiled. The smile faded. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Jenny,” he said. “What was it like when you found out that Daniella was--”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Autistic. I was relieved.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Relieved?”<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Yep. Relieved. It explained a lot of things and helped us take care of her better. At first, I thought it was just her personality to not smile every time I smiled at her or to follow things. I figured she didn’t care, but then I knew something was a little off.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Zan bit into his sandwich and nodded.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Listen, I know what it’s like to worry about your baby turning out OK,” Jenny said. “It’s normal to worry.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Zan choked down the rest of his PB&J and went back to work. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">When Zan got home, Mary was still gone. He flipped on the TV, and surfed through a barrage of nothing, finally stopping on Rosemary’s Baby. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">It was on the part where Rosemary goes into labor and gets sedated by Dr. Sapirstein. Zan watched as Rosemary’s discovers that she’s just become the portal of Satan’s spawn. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“She just rocks him and smiles?” Zan said out loud. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">He heard the door. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Mary?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">No reply. He heard steps go down the hall to the bedroom. He rose and walked down to the bedroom. The door was pushed to.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Mary?” He called, entering the room. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">She lay on her side, away from him.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Mary, you OK?”</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">He wrapped his arms around her. “What did Dr. Hinkle say?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">She wiped a tear from her eyes. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Is the baby OK?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Yes,” she said.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Well, what did he say?”</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“When our baby comes out, he’s going to be a little different,” she said.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Like what?”</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Blue,” she said turning toward him.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Blue? What does that mean?”</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Blue! It means blue!” she shouted at him. She rose and went into the bathroom.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Zan went back to the den and sat in front of a blackened TV screen. He rocked, gentle and serene.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Mary emerged from the bedroom, and began making dinner. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">They ate in silence. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">At the end of the meal, Zan reached for Mary’s hand.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“He’ll be the most loved blue baby in all of history, Mary,” he said. “I don’t care.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">She released a breath that she’d held onto all evening. She nodded her head. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“I can’t imagine not loving this baby for something stupid like color,” she said. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">That night they began to plan for having a blue baby. The nursery, which had been green, was to be repainted blue. They’d get blue curtains and blue blinds, and blue lamps and lampshades. They’d get blue sheets, and a blue baby comforter. Hell, they’d even buy Smurfs to hang above the baby. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">They were going to let the baby know, as soon as he could begin to know blue, that he was fine. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">They worked all day Saturday overhauling the baby’s room. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">She and Zan were having a baby shower on Sunday. Holding out till the shower, they hadn’t announced the sex of the baby yet.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">They decided to tell all at the shower. They ordered a blue cake, blue plates, blue napkins, blue utensils, and blue balloons.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">The baker said, “So it’s a boy, yes?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Oh yes, a blue boy,” Mary said when she picked up the cake. The baker smiled and nodded but, when she’d left, he chuckled, a little uncomfortable. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Everyone at the shower, seeing all the blue, looked knowingly at Mary and Zan. Zan’s friends patted him on the back. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Boys have much energy,” Mary’s mother said to her. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Mother we’ve not said anything about the sex,” Mary said.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“But, all this blue?” her mother replied.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Mary laughed. She flattened her blue napkin on her lap and looked at it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“There’s more to the blue than just the sex,” Mary said smiling. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Her mother searched Mary’s face for signs of stress or fever.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“I’m OK, Mom, really,” Mary rose and pulled Zan away from his friends. They whispered back and forth. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Zan quieted everyone down and said, “Yes, as you have gathered, we’re having a boy.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Everyone clapped.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“That’s not all,” Mary said. “He will be blue.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">The claps slowed and stopped. Zan and Mary explained and answered questions. From this point on, people smiled at them in a different way than before. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Angered, Zan was determined to shelter their baby from such palpable pity. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">The day of labor came. Baby “Blue” (as they decided to name him) entered our world at 11:58 pm on an April night. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">The doctor looked surprised.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“What is it? Is Blue ok?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Zan held Mary’s hand as the doctor presented a bright (normal) pink baby boy.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“But, we expected a blue-” Zan said.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Mary squeezed Zan’s hand, a signal between them that he’d best be quiet. </span></span></div>
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Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-23527610551415834422014-07-16T19:26:00.002-07:002014-07-16T19:26:50.021-07:00Util-i-not, or How to Live Life (StoredStory#22)<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>O</b></span>ne summer afternoon, I lay on a wooden A-frame swing, pushed myself back and forth, a looked into the canopy of the elm tree, not really seeing leaves, but seeing a thousand thoughts and embracing them as best I could. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA_W2WCdAXQPmbIcw3F2nb2t7k3AnWvHvcIAJVulABcuvDYvPymUVfKIDg7Ii0MiX2sDG8f8NkFI8ILNfAsgclAi2glN3ftIP6mdWKlQy6EqeN8DfkiH18HrJ1TTsFqUSvS1tl8a4Nw3w/s1600/IMG_0030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA_W2WCdAXQPmbIcw3F2nb2t7k3AnWvHvcIAJVulABcuvDYvPymUVfKIDg7Ii0MiX2sDG8f8NkFI8ILNfAsgclAi2glN3ftIP6mdWKlQy6EqeN8DfkiH18HrJ1TTsFqUSvS1tl8a4Nw3w/s400/IMG_0030.JPG" /></a></div>
I sometimes sit and stare into space sometimes, imagining things, pondering things, asking questions, reflecting on life, and communing with myself. On this particular summer afternoon, my partner poked his head outside and asked, "What are you doing?"<br />
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"Enjoying nature," I replied. He shook his head, ducked back inside, and slid the glass door closed.<br />
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I wonder how many people find sitting with yourself (minus a TV) to be odd. I find it enjoyable. Sitting with no added stimulation other than the natural environment or reclining in the peacefulness of your own home, devoid of much noise is one of the sanest things I think we can do.
Some might find these moments to be without much use. To that, I would reply we can't measure everything by use. We can't measure much of life by its use. Life is an experience, with no purpose other than being a human being, not a human doing.<br />
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Most of my life I've been a dreamer. As such, I see life as an experience, as a journey, even; this is perhaps why I don't fit in so well with the values of world of business.
It's not that I haven't tried to fit in with the culture of utility, measurement, success, achievement, productivity, etc. I have tried. It drives me crazy. It's like putting a bag over a cat's head. Cats will back up till they are out of the bag. I've wanted to back up out of my bag, but it's a pretty big bag, this thing called American culture.<br />
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I once tried to explain the my experience of getting lost in my writing. I related how I got so immersed in a writing session that I failed to notice the darkness of night envelope me. The listener said, "It's a way to pass the time."
His remark startled me to my bones. Is life only a series of events where we search for things to pass the time? And pass the time till when? What are we waiting on? Something magical to happen? A great epiphany? Death?<br />
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Life is not about utility or passing the time. Life is about experience. Life cannot be measured by how usefully we use our time. Life's value comes in the experiences we have and share with others. We can only savour the moment.
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<blockquote>
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.- Walt Whitman</blockquote>
Walt Whitman writes about sitting with oneself and experiencing what it means to be alive. For him, we touch real life by loafing. Even though sitting with "nothing to do" is frowned upon, we need to loaf more often. Even if we can't do it for long periods, I think having fifteen to thirty minutes every day to just sit and be would make life feel better.<br />
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So, to make a "useful" list for how to live life, I sum up my thoughts with the following:<br />
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<b>1.</b> Sit, lie, float (loaf) all by your lonesome every day for a few minutes. Dream, meditate, pray. Whatever it is that works for communing with the self.<br />
<b>2. </b>Try to see life not as a series of to-do's or filled with activities to merely pass the time, but as an experience.<br />
<b>3. </b>Find something you enjoy just for the sake of doing it. Get lost in it. Lose yourself like a kid at play.
<b>4. </b>Do number one with another person from time to time.<br />
<b>5. </b>Remember life is short. What are you waiting on? Oh wait, stop waiting and LIVE!Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-11466569147443431092014-06-16T07:32:00.001-07:002014-06-23T06:33:47.811-07:00Dad (StoredStory #21)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV04jSqJIGo92X6nA1sXQEnzFhv30sMvCbeN8ulnEhOzlfXUfzdb-dn7lvTlNqL1byrtUpqxGeq1mF61WKBj5adSP93z1DY0yTIDB0yTZ77qongIZgay8keavnIV2tJzDZszNZpal155E/s1600/Sunset+from+Dad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV04jSqJIGo92X6nA1sXQEnzFhv30sMvCbeN8ulnEhOzlfXUfzdb-dn7lvTlNqL1byrtUpqxGeq1mF61WKBj5adSP93z1DY0yTIDB0yTZ77qongIZgay8keavnIV2tJzDZszNZpal155E/s1600/Sunset+from+Dad.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taken by Dad June 2013</td></tr>
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<em>It has been a while since I wrote a StoredStory. A little over a month ago, my dad passed away. Since that time, I've been trying to work through the grieving process--it truly is a process. </em><br />
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<em>I began writing this not too long after he died, but I stopped because I felt I needed more time before sending it into the world. I wanted to write a sort of memorial story about him. This is dedicated to him.</em> <br />
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The sky was a dullish gray, stormy, and the florescent lights above me glowed like white light sabers. In the garage, I had jacked up my 1983 Pontiac 2000, had gotten the wheels off, and began the removal of the brake pads. With a Reader's Digest car maintenance book beside me, I worked as far as I could go, but I had questions that the book could not answer, questions that only someone with experience and know-how could answer. I was just a seventeen-year-old kid. <br />
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I am not a natural at mechanics; being too skittish I'll break something, I never push myself far enough. On this particular occasion, I was in a real need for a brake repair, and I had adopted my dad's do-it-yourself mentality. Yet, I was inexperienced. Unfortunately, my dad was sick with a stomach bug and was in bed. Ordinarily, he would have done the job, but I decided to do it. <br />
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Despite feeling really sick, Dad worked as my consultant. I would go inside with a question, he would describe what I needed to do, then I would return to the garage. Then another question, another patient instruction, and my return the garage. This went on a few times. <br />
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With his help, I was able to successfully replace my brake pads; that day, my dad was a patient teacher even though he felt like crap and couldn't get out of bed. <br />
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Even in moments where he wasn't patient with my willfulness, we could always laugh about it later. One time I was being obstinate over learning multiplication. He got a little flustered and asked me, "What's two times three, six?" We all burst into laughs and would chuckle anytime we recounted this story.<br />
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Yet, I finally learned to listen when I needed help with the brakes. He had a great deal of mechanical knowledge, accumulated over a lifetime of living and working on a family farm, working as a mechanic, studying electricity, working at Pan American Airlines, owning an RCA TV repair shop, supervising maintenance teams at Armstrong Rubber Company. The list goes on. <br />
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On Friday, May 9, 2014, Dad passed away. This has been a difficult loss. Yet, I am happy to think on the life my dad led, to think about the many facets of his personality, and the many interests he had. As all humans are, he was a multi-sided man. That's the beauty of human life--we are often many things, often seemingly contradictory, but these are parts of a whole. My dad's life exemplifies this mystery of being human. <br />
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He was practical and pragmatic. He often said things like: "Your home is where you hang your hat" and "Make it a good day!" He saw a job as a means to survive, not as a career that offered a fulfilling pathway. Yet, he was creative. He played the guitar, which he taught himself to play when he was a young man still at home with his parents. He enjoyed playing in an instrumental band for a while. <br />
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When I was a kid, he signed up for a correspondence course in photography. Mom and I were sometimes models for his homework, but we also shared the spotlight with Shirley-- a Styrofoam head with a brunette wig. Dad continued to take hundreds of photos for the rest of his life. He loved taking pictures of nature and wildlife. I have the last pictures he ever made on my phone; he had taken some beautiful shots of some flowers and a sunset and had texted them to me. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU9otQBMQVZmy7lcnYlCJsoBxar-zZk4Did7AHWx3FxLTbWp84qvzGoxHLv1D0pMQtaRZsm8MesGDDob0II4LX-TCNh7e8I36j4PK1WCMpphERWI-uIFbRiPMT1ZlrNqlasefpzp2tp_8/s1600/Flower+from+Dad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU9otQBMQVZmy7lcnYlCJsoBxar-zZk4Did7AHWx3FxLTbWp84qvzGoxHLv1D0pMQtaRZsm8MesGDDob0II4LX-TCNh7e8I36j4PK1WCMpphERWI-uIFbRiPMT1ZlrNqlasefpzp2tp_8/s1600/Flower+from+Dad.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taken by Dad June 2013</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Dad also painted in the style of Bob Ross; he put happy little trees all over canvasses, framing mountain scenes with coniferous branches. For a few years, each elementary school teacher I had received a painting for Christmas, which often earned me jeers and taunts from my fellow classmates, who felt sure I was getting a bump in grades. He was asked to do a painting of our church upon its 100th anniversary. He had been provided an early photo of a clapboard building nestled against the trees and large hill. The painting still hangs in the church to this day, I believe. <br />
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For a while, he and our neighbor made wooden crafts. The most memorable of these crafts are a jackass with overalls, the rooster from Looney Tunes, and bikini-wearing geese. <br />
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He also wrote sermons that he often delivered on Wednesday nights at our church. He would type them out on a manual Royal typewriter, which I would sometimes bang on while he tended to bills or other items in his office. <br />
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Dad was strong willed, determined, not afraid to stand up to people. Yet, he was tender-hearted, friendly, and a jokester. He kept his word, even when it was difficult. He cried when he prayed. He would cry when he told me he loved me. He always greeted people with a cheerful smile. And, he loved humor and would often find some way to laugh. He would joke even when he was ill. <br />
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He loved to tell stories from his life; I would hear the same tales many times over the course of my childhood. Many involved his years of growing up, of playing high school football, of serving in the army, and the rough work of policing, the problems encountered supervising at a tire factory, and the woes and joys of life. Yet, perhaps the best thing I heard was how proud he was of me; he felt it was an important message children need to hear.<br />
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For the many wonderful memories and moments, I am grateful and will hold them close to my heart forever. <br />
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</script>Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-62089878178634379742014-05-06T10:28:00.000-07:002014-05-06T10:28:09.485-07:00Dressed for a Tornado (StoredStory #20)My grandmother wore slippers and scooted around her house. She wore plain solid dresses during the week--her work attire. For some reason, a pale lime dress with a rugged texture lingers in my mind as her characteristic wardrobe. She wears that dress in one of the few pictures I have of her. <br />
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Children often emulate those they see. Interestingly, I was happy to emulate members from both genders of my family. I tried to walk like an uncle, cross my legs like my dad, cook like my mother, and dress like my grandmother. <br />
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As a child, I had a thing for women's clothing of all varieties. I would try to take steps in high heels too large for my boyish feet, I would spin in gowns and sit upon a seat, and I would shuffle in my grandmother's slippers wearing plain dresses. I don't know if this happened often, but the still-frame shots from my childhood slide show suggest this happening on a stormy day. (And there is also that actual photo of me a pink tutu). <br />
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One by one the shots go like this: it's dark in my grandparents' kitchen, adults head to the root cellar, I see my slipper feet and a dress that skirts round my leg, I step down onto the first step leading to the cellar, we wait for a tornado to pass.<br />
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I suppose I would like to have felt stylish for the storm, or maybe I was just caught by surprise in my grandmother's dress. <br />
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I'm not nearly as stylishly brave today, though I long to be sometimes. Perhaps I would care to be dandyish once in a while, but I have no bravery to make the change. Yet, I love the feel of freedom in a t-shirt and jeans; that has been me for years. And then there are those times when I have slipped on women's attire for the masquerade of Halloween. I was Wynonna Judd, which was fun, that one year. <br />
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Maybe how we dress shows what roles we have and wish to have. Maybe I'm a nurturing soul with a huge need to relax in comfy cottony t-shirts but with a bigger need to show the world, on occasion, a wildly colorful and vibrant inner life. <br />
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Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-60158498416874378692014-04-28T05:30:00.000-07:002014-04-28T05:42:59.846-07:00Brought Up by Tanglefoot Weed (StoredStory #19)<strong>Tanglefoot weed</strong> - (n). a shrub/tree native to South Carolina that my mother often referred to in telling stories of her childhood. Used for spanking naughty children, who are commanded to break the branch with which they are to be whipped. (I think it's mythical, maybe. Or a colloquialism that is specific to South Carolina).* <br />
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If Pip in <em>Great Expectations</em> can be said to be brought up by hand, my mother can be said to be brought up by tanglefoot weed. <br />
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Often my mom would tell and re-tell stories of being disciplined by tanglefoot weeds. When hearing these stories, I always wondered what they were. (I've never seen one in Tennessee). <br />
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Though mom would regale me with stories of whippings with tree branches, she never brought me up by hand or tanglefoot weed. I can count on one hand how many times she actually spanked me. For the most part, discipline from her was verbal. Spanking was the exception, not the norm. <br />
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But, when I did cross the threshold into unacceptable behavior, then I would get it. I don't remember the first time my mom spanked me, but I have heard the story. Apparently, we had gone to the grocery store, and I, wearing cowboy boots, decided to kick my mother. I'm not sure why I did it, but it got me into trouble.<br />
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Apparently, this spanking caused an exchange. Another customer who had seen the event threatened to call DHS. <br />
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"You go right ahead, lady!" my mom challenged. <br />
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Mom spanked me the second time because I had wondered off with my father up our mountain. We had twenty-two acres of wooded property in the hills of East Tennessee, and there had been a dirt road cut so we could go up one of the ridges in the truck. A friend was visiting Dad, and I went along with them up the mountain for a fun adventure.<br />
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However, the descent landed me in a seething pool of a mother's anger. She had not been informed about me going, so she'd probably imagined I'd been eaten by that panther she said lurked in the yard. Before there could be any explaining about where I'd been, she spanked me because I had wandered off. <br />
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The last time Mom spanked me was while we were on vacation in Cataloochee, a pioneer settlement that is part of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park in North Carolina. We had ridden over to the Caldwell House, a beautiful two-story house in blue trim built at the turn of the twentieth century. To get to the house, you have to cross a gully by walking on a log foot bridge. While making my way across, I was "sassing" my mother, a crime I'd been accused of before but one which had no harsh penalty. <br />
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I think this time the sassing had pushed her too far, and there was an opportunity to connect me with the mythos of her past. The grounds around the Caldwell house had sprouted the mythical tanglefoot weed I'd heard so much about. Mom broke off a foot-long switch of tanglefoot and introduced me to it.<br />
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I recall nothing about the plant: its leaves, its shape, its color are all submerged somewhere in my past. But, its story lives on, and in an odd way, the tanglefoot makes me feel closer to my mom's childhood, though mine was not as harsh or severe as hers. <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*I can find no definition or reference through Google or in a dictionary to an actual tanglefoot plant. There is a product called Tanglefoot used to protect trees from insects. There is also a musical reference to a tanglewood tree, but I can find no plant by that name.</span> Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-35832126978698133392014-04-24T11:19:00.001-07:002014-04-24T11:22:11.577-07:00Killer Criticism (StoredStory #18)We stood outside a gas station, just around the corner from my friend Shay's* house. The evening had painted the air a smoky gray. Shay had wanted to get a pack of smokes and a case of Bud Lights. <br />
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As we chatted, smoke billowing up from our faces, Shay took note of my two front teeth. <br />
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"You know, you could get those sanded down, level," she offered. I imagined some industrial sander held over my mouth as my teeth were rubbed down to the gums. <br />
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"It would look better."<br />
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At first, I figured it was the L.A. in her that made her think about the aesthetics of my upper, central incisors. It's not like I have vegetable peeling, bunny chompers. They are a little longer than the adjacent teeth. So what? And who was she to give unsolicited cosmetic advice? "Kiss my ass," I said on the inside. I'm sure I flashed a smile in an effort to gracefully take the insult. This unsolicited advice has been filed away, internalized for years now. <br />
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I'm not sure that criticism of your physical features (something you obviously didn't choose) counts as advice. <br />
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But, I have had advice and constructive criticism on the brain lately, and this story came to mind. <br />
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Criticism of any kind is like a killer in a horror movie. It comes in all shapes and sizes. We run from it, we hate it, we get angry at it, we shield ourselves as it jabs at our egos, and we want to kill it before it kills us. But, if it is constructive (you know the kind--where we are given specific and helpful feedback on some endeavor or behavior of ours) then we can learn from it.<br />
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This doesn't mean the criticism is always kindly delivered. And, it doesn't mean that the person is truly motivated by helping you; the advice giving could just be a tool used to inflate the advice-giver's ego. However, (this is worth repeating) if it is constructive, we can learn from it.<br />
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I recently read a couple of articles that offer some perspective on giving and taking advice. I think there are some good points in <a href="http://zenhabits.net/how-to-accept-criticism-with-grace-and-appreciation/" target="_blank">Leo Babauta's thoughts on taking advice</a>. It really helped me dismantle the wall in which I'd trapped one my recent killers. Leo also offers his wisdom <a href="http://zenhabits.net/how-to-give-kind-criticism-and-avoid-being-critical/" target="_blank">for anyone who does the criticizing</a>. <br />
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Matt Walsh has a good point in <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/matt-walsh/learn-how-to-take-criticism_b_4825336.html" target="_blank">his article</a> about internalizing criticism that is constructive. <br />
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<em>"I ask that you try an experiment. Just do this for a day. Just one day. Try to go about your day under the following four pretenses: 1) You are not perfect. 2) You could stand to improve in every single facet of your life. 3) People who point out your flaws or critique your actions aren't necessarily motivated by cruelty, hatred, and animosity. 4) Some people know how to do certain things better than you know how to do them, and you should be grateful if they take the time to offer you guidance and insight into their areas of expertise.</em><br />
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<em>Try to navigate one 24 hour span like the sort of person who believes these four things."</em><br />
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I felt wounded last week when I got some feedback that was unsolicited. It's not that I don't take criticism, but I felt angry at the delivery. Yet, even in the minutes after the conversation, I alternated between, "Oh, this is helpful and raises a good thought" and "I didn't ask for advice; you shoved it in my face. How dare you!" <br />
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Sometimes it takes a while to de-killerize killer criticisms, especially when someone set them loose on you without you asking. But, if it is about something you care about doing to the best of your ability, then it helps to face the killer. <br />
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*Name changed. Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-80153675930046734382014-04-15T14:44:00.000-07:002014-04-16T05:09:11.697-07:00Bursting Into Life (StoredStory #17)There was a season in my younger life where I ran like freaked animal. Apparently I could run pretty fast for a three year old. Fast enough that my aunt had to scoop me up into the safety of her arms before I reached the highway in front of the Dollar Store one afternoon.<br />
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This early propensity to run probably has something to do with those moments of hyper-active bursts that I've had all my life. Imagine the spring-loaded tension in the thighs of a cat ready to pounce. The eyes grow dark and zero in on a target as the feline creature hunkers, barely able to keep from running. The urge is so compelling, the cat does everything to hold her hind legs in place; you've seen it--the back end does this swerving, rocking dance thing and then BLAST OFF. The whole cat-pounce, spring loaded, dancy thing happens in my chest. It's a buildup that needs to be relieved.<br />
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As a child, my cata-bursts would manifest in sundry ways. The first time I can recall the cata-burst happened when I saw the excitement of firecrackers on the Fourth of July from the neighbors (who knows, it might have just been a boring Tuesday on a fall afternoon). So, with bombs ka-powing overhead, the cat crawled into my chest and readied itself for its own fireworks. There were arrow shaped ply boards lying around over the yard. I grabbed up one and began flinging in through the air making my own explosives sounds. </div>
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One day the inner cat accomplished a pretty daring feat. My dad had installed a screen in our storm door of our 1940s farmhouse. In fact, my parents had been doing a lot of fixing up for many days. As Dad had worked on things throughout this particular day, I ran around out the yard, hardly able to slow down. </div>
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For some reason, I must have had to go indoors, but I was turning and turning like a caged animal. The wild creature needs wide open space, and in this moment, I was no different. I began running around the house, which unfortunately was not conducive to running; I would have to turn around in a room and zip back through to the other rooms. I kept doing this, but after a while, I saw where there was a weakness in my cage. </div>
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The storm door lay ahead of me. Its window was still raised and the only thing between me and the outdoors was the new screen. Scratching my feet on the carpet like an angered bull, I began my gallop toward the door. Head down, arms tightly pulled against my body, I felt the screen give way to the hardness of my skull. I knocked the screen out. I'm sure about a thousand flies buzzed their wings in rapturous praise and swarmed through the grand reopening of the house's protective barriers. </div>
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Newly freed from my dwellings, I probably couldn't have run fast enough from the fury of a papa bear who'd worked all day, only to have one of his projects destroyed in less than one second. </div>
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These bursts still come and go, but luckily I'm not jumping through windows. Now, my cata-bursts are sublimated into furious romps toward tasks, some of which are probably less meaningful than a storm door screen. </div>
Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-57947848578910656682014-04-10T08:36:00.002-07:002014-04-10T08:52:44.570-07:00Warping through Childhood (StoredStory#16)When I was a kid, I had a friend from church who would come over on Sunday afternoons. Usually we reenacted scenes from movies, especially light saber fights between Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker. Matt, smaller, skinnier, and suppler than I, would always be Luke Skywalker. As a fatter kid, I would get winded easily, so I didn't run or do any acrobatic stunts. But, I sure could walk. The important thing about Darth Vader is that he walks menacingly; I could do that walk.<br />
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We found sticks just about the right size for light sabers and would whack at each other pretty unmercifully. Apparently this got a little worrisome for my dad, who decided to show us how to play nicer. As soon as he left, we went right back to the way we had been doing it. <br />
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Oftentimes, Matt and I would watch movies and then begin to work through parts of the movie, sometimes creating our own versions of the scenes. I especially loved when we did Star Trek, which quickly became my favorite Sci-Fi during my most formative years. After watching Star Trek III, Matt might be Captain Kirk, and I would be Scotty or Sulu. I had a small rocker from my baby years that I could still fit in. I'd stretch Monopoly over my lap as the console to punch in commands. Imagination is such a wonderful part of being human. <br />
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Matt is two years older than I, so we reached an awkward phase where I was still a child and he was, well, transitioning. In the bowels of his grandparents' basement, Matt and I began to Star Trek our way through encounter with the Klingons. He was several feet behind me, and I was using a record player for my console this time. <br />
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"Direct hit, captain!" I began falling over as the torpedoes hit our ship. All the while, explosives sounds came out of my mouth along with a lot of spit. <br />
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We had been doing this for a few minutes--both of us full throttle with our Start Trek speak, our falling over, our sound effects--but then I felt a chilling moment of utter silence behind me. <br />
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In mid-spit-explosion, I turned and saw Matt's cousin Angie standing there. Matt was shrugging as though he had no idea what was going on. <br />
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That might have been the last time I Star-Trekked with another person. Luckily, I still had my wonderfully vivid imagination. During the height of The Next Generation (TNG), a slew of great toys came out, including a replica USS Enterprise NCC 1701-D with sound effects. There were four buttons on the neck of the ship: warp speed, torpedoes, phasers, and I think phaser/torpedoes with explosions. <br />
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I driveled all over this ship in the store. We couldn't afford it; we often couldn't afford things, and I learned early on that its ok to want things, and it might hurt a little when you can't get it, but some things are worth waiting for. <br />
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While I didn't have the Enterprise, I did have buckets of Legos. I found a way to construct NCC 1701-D. Though it had a square saucer section, my mind rounded the hard edges, and it flew proudly whenever TNG came on TV. Where we lived, the Fox affiliate signal was often distorted, snowy even. Roof antennas could only do so much in the mountains. This didn't deter me from watching. What couldn't be seen clearly was cleared up in the my own internal filter. (Maybe this is how I learned to be an optimist). Watching through snowy pictures, I went on many adventures with my Lego ship in hand. <br />
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One day I had the amazingly remarkable surprise to get the actual Enterprise toy I had salivated over. I can't remember what the occasion was, but I loved that ship so much. It replaced my Lego Enterprise, which sat lonely and dusty like the Velveteen Rabbit. I kept it for posterity sake for a long while and sometimes would take it out for a spin up to warp 9 just like you do with any classic. <br />
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On one rather cold, gray day at the new house we'd moved into, I took my Enterprise out and began to orbit the house in a standard pattern. This didn't last long. Somehow I couldn't smooth the house's corners into planetary roundness. There were no Cardassians or Romulans in the space of my yard. Whole Star systems died out and there were only trees, and bushes, and a concrete bird bath. <br />
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I had reached my transition where the reality of the world presses itself into your consciousness. My imagination didn't die, but it took new forms. I was sad to put down my toys. Toys. I was sad to see them as such. But, this is what happens, I suppose. Yet, those early years stay with us and are held deeply inside. I still have the Enterprise, which now hangs happily from the ceiling in my Star Trek corner. Sadly, I have not found the Lego Enterprise, though I hope it didn't get sent to the shipyard for dismantling. May NCC 1701-D, Lego and true replica, always proudly serve the fleet of my imagination. Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-60974751429947371662014-04-04T10:48:00.001-07:002014-04-04T11:36:42.663-07:00Writing For Advice (StoredStory #15)When I was a child, I often thought I would end up being a writer. As children often do, I idealized what the writing life could be, but I always was attracted to creating a story. My active imagination worked wildly. Even if I wasn't writing a traditional story on paper, I was still imagining it or making up something. <br />
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My earliest memory of having a pen in hand is making lines on blank sheets of typing paper. My dad had a manual Royal typewriter, and I borrowed his sheets to try my hand at writing. This was before I could write actual words, so I did the next best thing. Doing what I saw on cartoons, I scribbled wavy lines (I believe the Smurfs scribbled their letters). My dad wanted to teach me how to actually write real words, but I willfully refused. He was trying to help me, but I wouldn't have it. <br />
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I think refusing his instruction might have bothered my dad at the time, but I see my refusal as something good. I was happy doing what I had learned thus far. Yes, I was making nonsensical signs on a page, but at the tender age of two or three, that's all I had interest in. I was playing at being a writer. Emulation is where anything useful begins. Playing plants a seed of learning. (And, I don't mean playing in any pejorative way. I see playing as an important art that adults sadly lose). <br />
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Years later, after I had learned to write real words and form sentences, I wrote stories sporadically, and then in fifth grade I wrote my first poem, a dreadful first attempt. Still, my parents were always celebratory over my creative endeavors. <br />
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At ten to twelve years of age, I was curious how one actually went about the writing process. What do authors do to write novels? How do they plan out the plot? How are characters developed? <br />
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Around that time, I somehow had gotten a copy of Danielle Steel's <em>No Greater Love. </em>While she might be dismissed by some as a genre writer, she has a professional career as a paid writer. Of course, as a pre-adolescent, I was not aware of the literary versus genre fiction distinction that is often made. (I have my thoughts about this and might share them elsewhere, but I generally think that the distinction leads to a dangerously dismissive attitude). <br />
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In any case, I loved the novel as it was a historical romance that begins on the Titanic. After reading it, I decided to write Ms. Steel a letter of praise. Yet, I loaded the letter with many questions about the writing process. There was an address in one of the last pages before the back cover. <br />
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Weeks went by. I probably forgot about the letter, but isn't the season of forgetting the best time for things to appear? One day, after getting home for school, I had a letter from Danielle Steel. She had typed the letter (she uses manual typewriters to this day, I think) thanking me for my "kind words for <em>No Greater Love</em>." She then went on to answer my questions about the writing process. She said she usually does take notes as she is thinking of plot and does plan out her novels. But, perhaps the most useful piece of advice she gave was this: that a writer needs to get in the habit of writing every day, "even if you end up throwing out most of what you write."<br />
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Her letter is stored away in some of my old writing folders. I run across it occasionally, and I re-read it every time. I smile and am grateful for this letter. <br />
<br />
I still play at writing. For years, I dismissed myself as a creative writer. Some alien value system took over my brain for a while, for I quit thinking that I could ever write fiction. During my twenties, I occasionally wrote fiction or poems, but that dismissive voice persisted. <br />
<br />
Now that I'm in my thirties, I have slowly picked fiction writing back up, and it is enjoyable, freeing, and seems right. Yet, it is difficult, scary, and quite ego-smashing. I am glad that I scribbled as a child, had supportive parents, and got that letter from Ms. Steel. These early memories helped me take my creative impulse more seriously today. Even if I never have any success at publishing, I feel that I need to give room to writing. Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-50891634582788403542014-04-01T12:45:00.001-07:002014-04-01T14:13:51.787-07:00Chickinsurance (StoredStory #14)The man was wearing a slate blue suit and a wide navy blue tie with red diagonal lines. We all sat in the living room as the man opened his briefcase, pulled out papers, and began asking my parents questions.<br />
<br />
I usually hated sitting through family business transactions, but for some reason I was glued to the seat for this one. <br />
<br />
Our life insurance agent used to make house calls to renew insurance policies. I don't know if this still happens, but in the late 80's when it was time to re-up, this man appeared, ugly suit and all.<br />
<br />
Perhaps what drew me to the scene was the man's name. He was called Delmice, a name I've never heard since, but one that struck my fancy. (There should be some fictional Delmice living in some gothic southern tale). <br />
<br />
Delmice also drew me in because he seemed rather flirtatious, yet mysteriously held back. There was something up his sleeve. I must have sensed his flirtation with my mom because when he asked my mom her age and she jokingly said she was thirty-seven, I intervened.<br />
<br />
"Ma, you are not! You're forty-four!"<br />
<br />
Seven-year-old children are still quite honest. I don't remember how the rest of the interview process went, except that Delmice got really hungry during his visit. Mom had made fried chicken earlier, and there was still some chicken legs sitting out on the dining room table. <br />
<br />
Delmice somehow weaseled his way from our living room to the dining room where he noted how good that chicken looked. <br />
<br />
Obligingly, Mom offered a leg. He began eating it and remarking how good it was. Then, like a gremlin, he took another leg, and another, and another. I watched as a pile of bones began to stack up on the plate. He sure liked my mom's cooking. <br />
<br />
Delmice finally left, but his visit was now forever inked onto my brain. He returned years later when I was older, sassier, and had my own jocular repartee with my mom over his impending visit.<br />
<br />
"Delmice is coming, Ma! You gonna make him some chicken?" <br />
<br />
At thirteen, I reveled in rubbing my mom the wrong way through jest. So, she heard about Delmice all damn day long. <br />
<br />
"Your boyfriend is coming!" I would cackle. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, Delmice was just not as entertaining as I had remembered him. He was a diminutive man suited in some unremarkable color. His thin mustache remained in a straight line during his visit. This time he seemed serious, cautious, maybe even a little sad. <br />
<br />
There was no chicken that day. Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-19481828819149888322014-03-31T06:23:00.001-07:002014-03-31T12:01:12.333-07:00Creative Seeds (StoredStory #13 )I feel lucky that I can think of some wonderfully nurturing moments from my days as a kid in school. Especially if you are a creative type, nurturing teachers leave lasting impressions. A nurturing moment plants a seed that becomes rooted as a fond memory that will sustain you even in dark times. <br />
<br />
When I was in second grade, I had visited my aunt and uncle who own a farm. We lived four hours away from the rest of our family, but we made several visits throughout each year. However, this visit to agrarian living must have sparked something inside; I ended up writing a story. Not only did I write the story, I made it into a picture book that I bound with glue. Having learned from my wonderful school librarian about the anatomy of books, I even created a book spine out of a strip of paper. <br />
<br />
I took this book into class one day and showed it to Mrs. Ryan. Mrs. Ryan had a smile as wide as a white-kernel ear of corn. She used to let me help "grade" by checking answers in the teacher's book against what other students had put on their papers. This was probably during times when I was too sick to go outside during recess. I felt special during "grading" and wanted to become a teacher. <br />
<br />
When I brought my book in, Mrs. Ryan took time out of our class day to let me stand in front of the class and read my story. As I read, I turned my book toward the class to show the pictures just as my teachers always did when they read to us. The book was peopled with stick figured farmers and stick cows. There was probably a barn. Maybe a house too.<br />
<br />
Mrs. Ryan's thoughtful, kind act left such an impression in my young mind. She let me have space to share my creativity with my fellow classmates. What took less than five minutes of class time communicated a lasting message that remains with me to this day. <br />
<br />
When I taught English at a technical college, I once asked my students to write a journal entry about a teacher or mentor who had influenced them in some way while they were growing up. Sadly, there were some who could think of no one. (Or, maybe they refused to). I can think of many adults who gave me more than they might have realized by just letting me be me. For that, I am forever thankful. <br />
<br />
Children need moments where mentoring adults plant seeds that will last a lifetime. This is the way the world gets freshly created over and over through the generations from age to age. Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-53784145942410336172014-03-25T06:14:00.001-07:002014-03-25T11:54:30.294-07:00Touch Test (StoredStory #12)I am one of those people who have to feel the texture of objects. Whenever I am in a store with fabrics, I touch many of the ones I pass. I am tactile, perhaps a kinesthetic learner and sensor of the world around me.<br />
<br />
This propensity started at a young age, probably way before I ever remember. But, the earliest memory of my kinesthetic longings, if recounted with my mom, would send her blood pressure soaring even to this day.<br />
<br />
We were enjoying a cool, early summer day in Cades Cove, part of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. We lived close, so Cades Cove was often a weekend retreat. <br />
<br />
As often happens at Cades Cove, whenever there is wildlife spotted, everyone stops. Time sort of slows down into this sorghum stream, and people take notice of their surroundings. To get around the main points of Cades Cove, you have to drive an eleven-mile, one-way loop. There are many stop offs, but whenever there is a sighting of some sort, there is usually a traffic backup.<br />
<br />
On this particular day, a throng of nature-lovers had all joined the sorghum stream and took notice of something in one of the meadows. A fence sliced us off from the meadow. Against the fence tall grasses had grown up just enough where I could not see what was going on because of my five-year-old height. <br />
<br />
I was in the middle of the road, among the gawkers with their cameras. I've always kind of had a dreamer quality where I just stand in my surroundings and don't notice the immediate activity around me. I had sunk into one of these musing moments and failed to see that the people had parted as though Moses had struck his rod against the pavement. <br />
<br />
I was on one side of the parting, and my parents were on the other. Then, the thing that people had gathered to see emerged from the tall grasses and went under the barb wire. He had a dead fawn in his mouth. The fawn's white speckles of youth sagged on the limp body. The brown fur of the grizzly bear holding the fawn poked out in places. I stood right at the edge of the part in the road as the bear made his way across. <br />
<br />
I joined the sorghum time and watched the bear walk as though he were in slow motion. His body was within a foot of mine, and so I did what any curious child might do. I stuck out my hand and felt the fur on the back of the bear. <br />
<br />
Now, I'm sure my mom 'had a duck' (what she sometimes likes to call a fit). But, in that brief moment, I learned what a bear felt like. And, the bear didn't seem to mind.Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-43090069038232109942014-03-24T06:26:00.000-07:002014-03-24T06:27:40.798-07:00A Case of the Popping Button (StoredStory #11)Zippers and buttons, though small parts of our garments, are quite significant. A zipper or button has the power to change things for you really fast. When I transferred to a customer service position at a bank, I was shadowing Angela, a fellow a customer service rep during my training. Around mid-morning, a customer walked up to us. She had on a long, navy trench coat that was open. Under that was a solid button blouse. <br />
<br />
In the midst of our interaction with her, one of the blouse's buttons took on a mind of its own. The button holding together the fabric over her boobs decided to come loose. So, here we were, listening to this customer's serious concern, yet her brazier and cleavage became exposed. Angela, who was training me, said lightly, "Your blouse," as she delicately pointed her pen toward the woman's chest. The lady, in mid sentence, looked down, fastened the wily button back and continued with whatever she was saying. <br />
<br />
Well, the button wouldn't have it. It defiantly undid itself and stuck out its tongue. Bad button, I thought. "Ma'am, your button again," Angela politely interrupted. This time the lady put down her things on the desk and used both hands to re-fasten her shirt. She began once more, not undone by this continued problem.<br />
<br />
Wouldn't you know it? The button popped the blouse open again. I stifled a chuckle as I noticed a grin play at the corners of Angela's mouth. This time the customer didn't even need us to tell her that her button had once again come undone. Frustrated, she grabbed both sides of her blouse, pulled them together, and clamped her fist over that devilish button as if she were smothering it. <br />
<br />
Angela and I had a nice chuckle over the incident after the customer left. Then my own fiascos with zippers or buttons came to mind. Poor lady, I thought. I began thinking of that time in fourth grade when I had to be in front of the classroom. Fourth graders are so honest to their peers. A resounding "You're fly's unzipped" reverberated around the room. This was too much for my easily embarrassed fourth grade self; I cried. We had a substitute that day, and she tried to comfort me by telling her own story of her unzipped fly at a ball game filled with tons of people. <br />
<br />
Of course, all the comedy or concern with buttons and zippers has to do with what they are keeping hidden, so we use metaphor to talk about them. "You've left the barn door open." The unspoken part of this metaphor is that animals who have wills of their own are kept in barns, so I we tend to think of certain body parts in the same way. <br />
<br />
And sometimes things we wish were hidden, aren't. Like what people think or say. We sometimes want to tell people who gab annoyingly to "zip it!" or "button it!" So the fly itself become a metaphor for the mouth, or more precisely how we wish the mouths on other people were under our control with a simple fastening movement. <br />
<br />
Yet, many things in life remain hidden except in certain circumstances. And that can make all the difference when something is revealed. Zippers and buttons are emblems of our hidden lives. But, unlike many tools of best kept secrets, when zippers or buttons fail, it's cause for a good laugh or commiseration. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-62259586612933846852014-03-20T12:44:00.002-07:002014-03-20T12:53:44.911-07:00The Night My Parents were My Scientific Subjects (StoredStory # 10)The<i> Ghostbusters </i>movies and cartoon left an indelible impression on me. I used to watch the movies regularly and would never miss the Saturday morning cartoon.<br />
<br />
I loved everything about<i> Ghostbusters</i>. The humor, the ghosts, the goblins, the spirit worlds, and the scientific feel. In fact, seeing Egan be so intellectual inspired me to experiment. And, indeed one night I did do an experiment because of <i>Ghostbusters II</i>. This was the night my parents became the subjects of my scientific experiment.<br />
<br />
In the second movie, it's five years later, the Ghostbusters are out of business, and we see each Ghostbuster doing his own thing. Ray and Winston are making appearances at the birthday parties of over privileged children, Egan is doing scientific experiments, and Peter is hosting a TV show called World of the Psychic.<br />
<br />
It was Egan's experiment that got my juices flowing. In the scene where Dana visits Egan because her baby carriage supernaturally ran away, Egan is testing how human feelings might affect the surrounding environments. In particular, he observes a married couple who believe they are waiting for couples' therapy. He has made them wait a long time while also incrementally increasing the temperature in the waiting room they are in. They seem explosively and deliciously angry.<br />
<br />
Hmmm. In my ten-year-old brain, I wondered if raising the temperature would affect my parents. So, one night, I inched up the thermostat a little. Then, moments later, I went back and edged the arm toward 85 just a little more. It was nearing bed time but, with clipboard in hand, I began observing the parents. "Uhh hmmm!" I would say to myself as if I were on to great discoveries. But, that didn't last long.<br />
<br />
I didn't notice any flaring tempers, which was odd. Maybe heat had the opposite effect on them. At some point, sleep overtook me, but when I woke the next morning I remember asking my dad if he felt mad. I then explained my experiment.<br />
<br />
"You know, I thought it was a little hotter in here!" He seemed rather amused about the whole thing.<br />
<br />
Even though this experiment was a bust, it had still been fun trying to see if I got the result I wanted to get.Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-33854921178962153132014-03-18T08:38:00.002-07:002014-03-18T08:39:41.789-07:00Cats in Red Wagons (StoredStory # 9)<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Children are quite impressionable. They also like to act. We
call it playing or make believe or dress up. But, kids reenact what they see. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know I did. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Being raised in the Church of Christ, I saw many baptisms. They
dunk you in all the way, too. I also heard many sermons that seemed to last
whole afternoons, right during the best play hours on the day before school
started again. But nonetheless, I often emulated the things I saw.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I once (probably more than once if we’re realistic here) gathered
all my babies, as I called my stuffed animals, in a throng of adherents around
the coffee table. Upon the coffee table, I placed my dad’s vintage (Elvis style)
microphone and stood before it as I began to preach to the masses. The pound
puppies barked their “amens,” and the cats meowed up songs of praise. If I had
a pig, I’m sure he oinked. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A year or so later, after a rainstorm, I saw that my red wagon was
full of water. The outdoors were still gray and damp, and the air was full of moisture as
if ready to seep tears. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two of our cats just
happened to be walking by, and as I gazed from them to the red wagon, I decided
they needed to be baptized. So I took up one, and began, “I baptize you in the
name of the Father, the Son, (Meow) and the Holy Spirit (Meooow!!).” The poor cat
clearly was not ready for such a shocking bath of rainwater. He tore away from my hands, and reached a safe distance where he began shaking the water from his feet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">My parents used to love to tell this story to people. This story -- one among many embarrassing stories--evoked laughter and smiles. Perhaps pride. Pride in the idea that I (this little boy) would be part of a continuing tradition. </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">But, when I think of this story now, I often feel bad for the poor cat. Now I can think about how it must have been for him, which I wasn't able to do yet as a little boy. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Play-acting continues for a lifetime, I think. We perform the lives we see every day, the ones we have internalized, and the ones we envision. Cat-baptism is not part of my script anymore, but remembering it is. Our lives are wagons of reflecting rain water that hold onto old scenes. And, the instant replay is perhaps one of the most defining traits of being human. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </div>
Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-50324164398497935512014-03-17T06:27:00.001-07:002014-03-17T10:57:32.600-07:00F-Bombs Bursting in Air (StoredStory # 8)My parents protected me from the F-word for as long as they could. My dad considered it the nastiest word a person could possibly ever utter. Although, he didn't particularly care for "sucks" either. I remember when a band playing at a music awards show wore black t-shirts with "War Sucks" in white lettering. Dad was not amused by the choice of wording. Oh, and that time Stephen King's <em>The Tommy Knockers</em> was supposed to come on TV, Dad thought it was the Tummy Knockers and wondered in horror at the audacity of network TV. The common denominator here is all these words have a sexual element in their etymologies and common usages. Except for Tommy, but you get how replacing the "o" with a "u" changes things up quite a bit!<br />
<br />
During my childhood, the F-bomb kept me from being able to watch a lot of movies that I heard other kids talking about. Like <em>Child's Play</em>. In fact, it was <em>Child's Play</em> that introduced me to the concept of the F-bomb before I had ever heard it said. I had seen the VHS boxes on the rental rack at Billy's Grocery. (Nope, I didn't have Blockbuster where I grew up, but the little country grocery store had a two-sided shelf with current titles). Plus, my friend Matthew had told me all about Chucky while we watched the glowing red embers of a camp fire glare menacingly at us during the crisp night. My imagination being what it was, I was scared to death of the idea of a man entering a doll's body via some satanic ritual. But, I was so utterly fascinated and curious. I wanted to see <em>Child's Play</em>. <br />
<br />
I needed to see <em>Child's Play</em>. Since I hadn't seen it, I imagined all sorts of horrors. I began having dreams of Chucky being in my room at night. One night in particular, Chucky was climbing up my bed covers at the foot of the bed. With knife in hand, he was pulling himself up, but the covers would slide off of me, and he would land back on the floor. I woke from this dream just as the covers slid over my feet and went off onto the ground. I was paralyzed with fear. I lay there not knowing what to do. In a burst of animal flight or fight, I hopped to the end of the bed, reached and grabbed my covers, and threw them back over me. I don't remember falling back to sleep.<br />
<br />
A while later, we visited my aunt and grandmother. My second cousin stayed there a lot, so he had a lot of movies to watch. Looking through the VHS collection, I came across <em>Child's Play</em>. YES! I could now watch this damn thing and get it over with. So, in my coy, childlike way of asking, I began dropping hints that I wanted to see this. All the adults must have had a consultation. I'm sure they went down a list: he's still scared of the dark, he'll want to sleep with someone, what's this movie about anyway?, and oh it has the F-word. In fact, I saw my aunt whisper in my mom's ear about this last detail. That decided it. I could not see it.<br />
<br />
But why? I pressed them about it quite a bit. My dad always seemed to try to give a rational answer. "Because it has a word, the most disgusting word in the world in it. It ain't fitting to watch!" <br />
<br />
Okay, well this opened a whole new set of questions, and replaced my interest in <em>Child's Play</em> for a hot minute. Ever inquisitive, I wanted to know what word it was. Can't you just tell me? How do you spell it? At least what it starts with? What does it mean? Why is it so bad? <br />
<br />
Time went on. I tried at different times to get the word out of my parents. I needed to know. Knowledge was and has always been my way of dealing with the world. Maybe if I knew it, I could go ahead and see <em>Child's Play</em>. No such luck. My parents would not tell me the word. <br />
<br />
One day in fourth grade, a couple of us went into the boy's bathroom. Our bathrooms had light blue tiles on the wall. Scrawled high up on the shiny tiles by the last stall was "FUCK" written in this rather pointy font, kind of like Chiller. As soon as I saw the word, I knew that was the one my parents had remained so tight-lipped about. This was the word they didn't want me to know. Now I knew it. What was so vulgar, I wondered. I didn't know what it meant, but I knew I had better never say it in front of my family. Part of my curiosity had now been settled by an accidental discovery in the field research called life. <br />
<br />
And perhaps this is part of the beauty of innocence, and how we try to protect it. We discover the world bit by bit because we are gently released over time into the world. It's like decompressing a scuba diver. <br />
<br />
I wouldn't see<em> Child's Play</em> for years to come, but when I did, I don't even think the F-bomb really registered. Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-84603258000511805632014-03-14T07:42:00.004-07:002014-03-14T09:24:05.773-07:00A Shock in the Yard (StoredStory # 7)<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was a sunny day, but the cool shadow of the house covered
me like a damp towel. Mom was working several feet away. I was squatting while
running my fingers through blades of grass. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Little Chuck!” </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The cells in my five-year-old <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>body shook a little at hearing the serious
tone in my mom’s voice. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Stand up, walk into the house and get your daddy.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was lawnmower deck propped against a tree near where
mom was standing. She had somehow pulled a ligament around her knee while
twisting around near the mowing deck to get to me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I automatically did as told.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Tell him to get the
hoe.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dad was on the couch reading a magazine. He came out side. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“There’s a copper head over there,” mom urged. The snake had been just behind where I was squatting. Later, stories told would go like this: "He almost sat on the snake!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dad chopped at the head of the snake. He extracted an oozing
white liquid from the snake’s head and explained that was venom. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mom ended up having surgery, and I’ve always been highly
afraid of snakes. I would like to make my peace with serpents, but I find it
hard. I respect them, and I don’t believe in killing them. But every time I see
one, my cells feel like they’re going to leap from my body in escape. </span>Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-54338641116643390042014-03-12T07:35:00.001-07:002014-03-12T07:35:31.766-07:00A Knocking Richard - The Anti-Climactic Ending (StoredStory #6)And, this is the rest of the story. So, after the drunk man named <a href="http://storedstory.blogspot.com/2014/03/a-knocking-richard-storedstory-5.html" target="_blank">Richard tried to forcefully</a> (yet unsuccessfully) enter my home, I wondered if I'd ever see him again. It's not like I wanted him to come back any time soon, but I feared he might just haunt my neighborhood for a while.<br />
<br />
As fate would have it, Richard reared his ugly head again. Well when I saw him again the next day, he was actually reclined, head and all. I came home from work and saw, to my surprise, the neighbor who lives to the left of me and a police officer standing out in the middle of the street. They moved aside as I pulled in my driveway. I went over to see what was going on. I had a slight inkling they might be there because of my new acquaintance. Sure enough, the police officer explained that there was a man on the deck of the neighbor who lives to the right. Not only was Richard on the deck, he was passed out cold on the deck. The officer asked if I knew "that man" or if I knew whether or not he was staying with the neighbors next door. My left-hand neighbor said he had seen the man stumbling around in their yard. "Nope, I don't know him. And, I don't know if he's theirs," I said pointing over there. "But, I've seen him wandering around the neighborhood before." "Well," the officer said, "we'll have to wait for your neighbor to get home before we can do anything.<br />
<br />
We all stood waiting for my neighbor to come home. <em>God, why didn't I just call the cops yesterday? Do I tell them what really happened? Do I just keep my mouth shut? At least Richard hadn't hurt anyone. Or had he? Nahh, he's just a drunk guy who probably has no home right now.</em> At the same time, I was kind of relieved. Richard would now be taken care of. Or so I hoped.<br />
<br />
My neighbor came home and gave us all a questioning look. "Ma'am, there is a man passed out drunk on your deck. Do you know this man or is he staying with you?" the officer asked. She looked like a bee had just stung her nose. Then she just looked plain amused. "No. Oh wow, I'm surprised the dogs didn't go crazy!"<br />
<br />
"Alright, I'll have him removed. It's gonna take some help; he's kinda a big guy. I'll radio it in." The left-hand neighbor and I went back to our respective homes. I ended up making a few calls. "You won't believe what's going on." As a country dweller who'd moved to the city, I felt so urban all of sudden. My first almost-home invasion. My first time talking to the police because of my almost home invader now squatting his drunk ass on my neighbor's deck. I get oddly celebratory about strange firsts. <br />
<br />
"You cannot tell your parents! Your mom'll freak!" my friend Brandon said. True. So, I let my tongue be silent on Richard, even though I usually like to confess such oddities of personal experience to my inner circle. I finally did tell my parents years later after the freshness of it had worn off.<br />
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After leaving everything to the hands of the capable cop, I took a long nap. When I woke up later and made my way to the bathroom, I heard the rhythmic pinging of a diesel engine outside my house. Peaking through my bathroom blinds, I beheld a fire engine with a passel of firefighters all there to remove a drunk man still obviously passed out. Relieved, I went back into the quietude of my home. After this Richard experience, I now peak through my door's window anytime there is a knock. Luckily, I've never seen Richard again, but there's plenty of pesky sales people. And, now I'm more prone to call the police if I see or hear someone or something who might need to be tended to. <br />
<br />Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-42826042727085432792014-03-11T06:00:00.000-07:002014-03-11T10:03:49.126-07:00A Knocking Richard (StoredStory #5)It was late afternoon when I heard a knock at the door. Being a generally trusting twenty-something at the time, not to mention that I was expecting a possible love interest to pop in any time, I waltzed right up to my door and opened it. I didn't even ask, "Who is it?" The charming prince who I was expecting and who I could just "see" standing on the other side of my door was .... (cough)... a smelly old drunk man with a Santa Claus beard and a cigarette perched in his right ear. Now, in the ten seconds I stared at him, I somehow couldn't get my limbs to close the door. I think I was too stunned, confused, perhaps saddled with that oh-shit feeling when presented with unexpected circumstances.<br />
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The man began to push his way in. An invisible acrid cloud of alcoholism wafted over to my nose. I grabbed the man's arm and said the only thing I could think of. "Who are you, sir?" Now, I don't imagine too many people would stop and make room for pleasantries whenever a strange drunk man is trying to bulldoze his way into their houses. But, no, my pleasant personality just can't be overcome even in a crisis. "Richard!" he replied. He grunted as he tried to shove past me. "Well, Richard, you are not welcome here!" I pushed back at the man like a cat who's had it and doesn't want to be held. My strong-arm maneuver managed to work; I got him back just outside the door post and slammed the door shut. I locked the door and ran for the hallway. Richard began furiously pounding on my door. "What's-a-matter with you!" he roared. I covered my ears fearing I had now entered the scary movie scene of my life. This is where you get killed, Chuck, I said to myself. Thoughts raced through my head. I could just see him breaking a window, bursting in, and taking over me and my house. He'd hold me at knife point, and then he'd light that sweat stained cigarette and stink up my living room. I shuddered. </div>
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All of sudden, the pounding stopped. Oh crap! Was the kitchen side door unlocked? He would go for that next. I ran to it and made sure it was locked. All was quiet. I stepped stealthily through the kitchen, into the hall, back to the living room door. I peaked out. There Richard was falling over in my yard. Then, he got himself up and walked away. Now, normally I would call the cops, but for some reason, I just let Richard go. He could have been a danger to me, to others, and to himself. I swore to myself that the next time I was presented with such a situation, I would call the cops. What if he had chopped up my neighbor down the street? It would be my fault because I could have stopped this whole thing right then and there. But, no, I failed that night, and the problem didn't just go away. But in the spirit of Paul Harvey, I must say there will be 'the rest of this story' I'll tell in #6. </div>
Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-57802823157682081462014-03-10T06:00:00.000-07:002014-03-10T06:00:14.622-07:00Beautiful Skin (StoredStory # 4)The metallic tray gave me a cold, shiny stare as I surveyed its contents: long-handled swabs, alcohol pads, bandaids, measuring instruments, and a thirty-two ounce jar of Vaseline. "Style your Smile," the poster to the left of me said. Before and after pictures of wrinkle lines around a woman's mouth promised wrinkle erasure. On the wall directly across from this poster was a poster warning about sun damage. It showed pictures of four different skin cancers along with artistic renderings of what happens at the cellular level. Directly across from me hung a two-dimensional peacock with various curvy patterns reminding me of a busy wall-paper. One blue-green feather broke away from the flat pea-fowl surface at the bird's head, hinting that this thing might just tear itself away from the frame and enter into real life. Waiting in only a thin gown for my dermatologist, I had too much time to think about skin. "You have beautiful skin," a guy in a bar once told me. He had done Tori Amos' makeup, or so he said. Hmm, maybe my milky pale tones are pretty? It had to be true since since it was coming from a make-up artist, right? Who am I kidding, he was probably just being flirtatious and lying about Tori Amos'. Still, I took the compliment (and kept it); I think I needed it. This is the only time anyone has said this. Usually it's, "Look at THOSE white legs!"<br />
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I looked over at the woman styling her smile and felt bad that she couldn't just accept those wrinkles. I think smile lines are beautiful. Mart, a friend of the family who laughed all the time, once declared proudly that she liked the lines around her eyes. It meant she had had a happy life full of laughter! Laugh lines, she called them. I kept looking back and forth between the posters like I was at a tennis match: wrinkle erasure, skin cancer. Skin cancer, wrinkle erasure. Commercial advertisement, medical information. Medical information, commercial advertisement. Society's pressure to be "young and pretty"and to defy the beauty of aging had entered the sacred space of the doctor's office. I stared ahead at that pea-cock and hoped he'd peal the rest of his body off and get away. I was ready to help him and get the hell out of there.<br />
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Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-3073889408074481572014-03-08T07:34:00.000-08:002014-03-08T07:43:14.540-08:00Grocery Tale (StoredStory # 3)<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">I used to work at a grocery store. One slow morning, I was having a conversation with Janice, the Assistant Customer Service Manager, while she was standing at a register during dead time. A lady wearing a striped button shirt with snugly fitted brown denim pants pushed up to the register with a large cart of groceries. As the customer began to put groceries on the surveyor belt, Janice and I continued our conversation in hushed tones. Meanwhile, the lady got on her all four</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">s as though she were about to pay homage to the grocery cart. This didn’t really grab my attention as I realized she was pulling out a large bag of dog food from the lower level of the cart. As I soon learned, timing makes all the difference in the world. Just as Janice finished her tale, I exclaimed rather loudly in reply, “Oh wow!” The lady, who was tugging at the large dog food bag with her back side raised in the air, turns her head and gives me a scorching gaze. Janice chuckled, and I … well, I can think of a number of things I probably wanted to do (like flee the scene), but I just kept my mouth shut and my eyes down and bagged the damned groceries.</span>Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-39107337444892012162014-03-07T12:04:00.002-08:002014-03-07T12:04:18.586-08:00A Grandpa Breakfast (StoredStory #2)It was still the dark side of the morning, during that moment when the silence wants to tell you something if you just listen close enough. My 90-year-old grandfather was up at 5:00 am probably just as he had been up for most of the thousands of mornings of his life. I don’t even remember why I was visiting. Only the kitchen light was on. He was bent over the stove frying an egg in a cast iron skillet for his breakfast. “Junior, do you want some breakfast?” “Sure.” That was the only time my grandfather ever made breakfast for me, but it’s enough to last the many thousands of mornings I hope I ever get to live.Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-701659590804843952.post-64431104676042791092014-03-07T12:03:00.000-08:002014-03-07T12:03:17.663-08:00Excess (StoredStory #1)The darkness had just begun to soften the long, hot late summer day. His Trappist habit almost touched the floor, the fronts of his shoes barely poking out from underneath the snow white tunic. We began with the sign of the cross, and he uttered words with his deep bass voice, a thick Bostonian accent, from pages of Modernist poetry. He loved Pound and Yeats. At some point in the talk, Fr. Kelty said, "Ne quid nimis." This was the first time I heard these words from Terence. "Nothing to excess," he explained. I think of this often, and it has been dancing around in my head since yesterday as I had begun to think that even well-intentioned principles can be taken to excess and become damaging. Perhaps, Aristotle's Golden Mean is something to think about. <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/storedstories?source=feed_text"></a>Chuckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05834833026794927511noreply@blogger.com0