[Critique Group 1] Leonard's critiques for March

[tuchyner5 at aol.com]

Cleora

 

The word count by my computers calculation   is 1,196 words

 

I really enjoyed this piece. There are some issues, but aren’t there always? It’s a description of a blind  woman’s  perceptions   and experiences  in her neighborhood, especially  of the wild things that lived with the human residents. Charming descriptions.

 

87 words

 

City Ducks

by:

Sly Duck

 

Julie held her sighted guide Sharon's arm as they walked along the trail behind her house.

The way this is worded, it sounds like the arm is the sighted guide.

 

It was a fine day for a walk. The birds merrily cheered the warm spring day; the gentle fragrance of blossoms floated on the warm breeze; and Julie could hear the rustle of the new leaves on the trees. Sharon raised her hand and pointed at something ahead of them. "There's a turtle doing something beside the walk up there," she said. "I can't tell, but I think its laying eggs." They stopped across from the turtle and watched while she worked. "I suppose we should move on and leave her alone," said Julie. "Yes, you're right," she said. They walked on for another three minutes and then turned around. The turtle was gone when they came back.

 

One mid-summer day they were walking along the path again. "Oh, look," said Sharon. She had stopped and turned slightly. She was pointing in the direction of the stream running along the bottom of the slope between the walk and the apartment complex on the other side. "

It’s probably my problem, but I can’t make out  what the picture is. If other readers are having trouble, the sentence needs re-working.

 

What?" said Julie.

 

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Sharon. "I keep forgetting. It's a duck with one, two, three... six... no, I think it's seven. Yes, it is a mother duck with seven ducklings. They are so small. I could barely see their little heads bobbing above the blades of grass. Now they are all down by the shore and the mother is trying to get them to follow her into the water." Sharon chuckled. "One of them doesn't want to go in. It's running back up the bank."

 

They stood there a little while longer while Sharon watched and described the scene to Julie. They turned down the path and started walking again. Julie could hear that Sharon was grinning as she said, "She finally got them all in. Now they are coming out and going back up the bank." They walked another five minutes and turned around. “

 

Are the ducks still here?” asked Julie as they neared the spot where they had been seen.

 

"No," she said, stopping and looking around. "I don't see them anymore."

 

A slight breeze helped, but the sun was hot and they were glad to get back inside where it was cool.

 

In the early fall, Julie was walking with Jack. "Do you have beavers back here?" he asked. "

 

Not that I know of," said Julie. "Why? Is there a dam across the stream?" "

 

No. Wait," said Jack, "it can't be a beaver. It doesn't have a wide flat tail."

 

"It's a nutria ," said a slim fast-walking stranger as he hurried by.

 

"It's eating the grass," said Jack.

Instead of using the word said all the time, vary it with other words such as: asked, commented, muttered, etc.

 

"Eating the grass?" said Julie.

 

"Yes, it's just sort of lying on its tummy munching away."

 

"Hmm. Interesting," said Julie.

 

They walked on for the rest of the five minutes and then turned around. The nutria was still happily grazing when they came back. "This winter has been warmer than any winter since I have lived here," said Julie. "It is almost the end of November and we still haven't had a freeze." "

 

I know what you mean.," said Sharon. "My brother mowed our lawn yesterday. We have never had to mow later than September before."

 

As they returned to the house, Sharon remarked that there was a large black bird with a red head, white bill, and yellow feet eating a dead squirrel on the street. She pulled out her smart phone and punched in the description. "It's a turkey buzzard," she said. "I thought so, but I wasn't sure. It is called a turkey buzzard because it has a featherless red head like a turkey."

They would have smelled the arona. Certainly Julie would have. You know where the buzzards are when you smell that horrible stench.

 

It finally turned cold. They had had almost two weeks of temperatures between freezing and twenty degrees. The doorbell rang and Julie met Jack at the door. "You have some visitors," he said.

 

"Visitors?" asked Julie. "

 

Yes, there is a flock of ducks sitting on your driveway. They have deposited some gifts for you. I had an interesting journey getting to the door." Julie chuckled understanding his meaning. When he left, he went out the garage door so he could put Julie's trash out for the city to pick up. The ducks were lined up along the opening. They didn't offer to come

I question the use of the word ‘offer’ here.

 

 

in, but they were not shy about pacing back and forth. Julie watched Jack leave and then put the door down and went back into the house. This was not the first time someone had mentioned ducks in her yard. In over two decades of living here, no wildlife from the park behind her house, other than an occasional turtle, had ever ventured into her front yard. A couple of weeks ago, one flock had been following a teenager who was eating a sandwich or something as he hurried along. Anytime something fell from what he was eating it was quickly snatched up by one of the parade members. It had been very cold the last two weeks. Maybe they are hungry, Julie thought. She picked up a package with 4 crackers left in it and went out the front door to see if the ducks were still there. It was bitter cold and she hadn't bothered to grab her coat before stepping out. She moved back into the entry way so the walls could shelter her from the wind. She rattled the package wondering if the ducks would hear and find her. She didn't have to wait long. Soon a gathering of about 9 ducks were standing in front of her. One duck was very large. It's head came about half way up her thigh. Three or four of the ducks were about two-thirds its size and there were five or six smaller ducks standing behind them. Julie wondered if these were the little ducklings they had seen that summer. Julie broke the crackers in pieces and handed some to the larger ducks in front and tossed some over their heads to the smaller ones. They snatched up the pieces hungrily. She went back in and got a full package of crackers. Again, to her regret, she didn't grab a coat on her way back out. The ducks were waiting and gratefully accepted the additional offerings. She would have loved to pet each one, but she knew they wouldn't go for that.

 

The weather warmed up and the ducks disappeared from the front yards, then reappeared after another cold snap. Julie shared another package of crackers with them. They didn't seem as hungry this time. She wondered if anyone else had been feeding them. Curiously, one of the wagging tails was thinner and more narrow than the others. Could there be a little black dog in the flock? If so, the ducks didn't seem to mind.

 

With spring just around the corner, she and Jack went out to check for fire ant beds. They found some ducks sitting quietly under the hedge at the corner of the house. "Okay, you little beggars," she told them. "Just no egg deposits and no eating the garden hose." _______________________________________________ Group1 mailing list

 

Dianna

 

I positively and absolutely love this chapter.  Comments below.

 

 

,540 words

1,544 words

Chapter 10.

Big Girls Do Cry And Other Lessons Tammy Taught Me

 

When I was a year old, my father was shipped off to fight in the Korean War.  He returned when I was three.  I had spent the time in the midst of my mother’s people surrounded with love and attention.  My great grandfather taught

More information about your mother’s people.

me to read.  My numerous aunts, uncles and extended family helped me to be a confident curious toddler.   While involved in the conflict, my father suffered a serious head injury.  It caused him to suffer severe headaches and left him with a violent temper.  The next five years were difficult.  We never knew what might send him into a rage.  I felt a great responsibility for my younger brothers.  I sometimes took the blame and the punishment for things I hadn’t done to protect them.  A spanking tended to escalate into child abuse.  My father didn’t feel I was sufficiently chastised unless I cried and I was strong willed.  If I didn’t believe I deserved punishment, I wouldn’t cry and the spanking turned into a beating until I lost consciousness.

That is shocking.

 

My parents divorced when I was nine.  I grew up fearing violent people and loud voiced confrontations.  Although Tammy showed time and again that she wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt me, she was really quite gentle, even timid in her own defense.  When a large loose shepherd dog launched an attack on her as we walked across campus, she rolled over on her back in submission.  Two boys moving along the same path rushed forward and drove the dog back hitting it with their book bags.  The owner of the dog raced up and got her under control.  Tammy was shaken, but not hurt.  One of our rescuers admitted that he acted before thinking and surprised himself.  He laughed nervously explaining he would have been afraid of such a large snarling dog if he had stopped to consider the risks. 

 

During her working career, Tammy was attacked twice more.  In all three attacks, she immediately dropped to the ground and rolled over offering her throat and belly in the classic submission posture.  During the second attack, I suffered a badly bruised face.   I stepped between a Queensland Blue Heeler and my prone guide.  The attacker was in the air launching herself at Tammy and her teeth ricocheted off my cheek.  In all three attacks, the owner of the attacking dog was close at hand and able to catch and subdue his dog.  It felt natural for me to try to defend my guide.  I had never feared animals and somehow it seemed only fair to intervene in protection of my best friend.  She certainly felt the same way when it came to my safety.

You shoed the same protective behavior with Tammy as you did for your brothers.

 

Over the years we worked together, I gained in confidence and learned to stand my ground when refused service at a restaurant or when people objected to her presence.  Even in the face of hostility or rudeness, I overcame timidity and learned to speak up for my dog and myself.  By the time I was working with my fourth dog, I was able to grab a pit bull by her collar and tail and haul her away from the small black lab I was currently working.  I twisted the pit bull’s tail until she released my guide’s throat and held her until her owner arrived.  I am only five foot three, but love gave me courage enough to deal with what I needed to do in defense of my dog.

Did you know it was a pitt bull while you were abusing it? 

As a small child, I vowed never to let the world make me cry.  When other children hurt my feelings, snatched my lunch and held it out of my reach or excluded me from their games, I retreated into books or found something else to do.  I knew if they succeeded in making me cry, then things just escalated into more teasing and cruelty.  Until the night I cried into Tammy’s coat after fighting with Sandy, I hadn’t cried over anything that others said or did to me in years. 

 For some reason at this point of the story I’m led to the questionb of how your father’s abusiveness affected him. How did he react when you were beaten unconscious? How did he react to your stoicism?

When I got lost at public elementary school, I pretended I was Hipolyta, queen of the Amazons in enemy territory.  I stood still and gathered as much information as I could about my surroundings.  I listened for traffic sounds, the clank of the lanyard on the flagpole or anything that gave me a clue as to my 0location.  I started to search around my environment with my feet hands and entire body.  Eventually I found something to help me regain a sense of orientation.  Sun, wind, scent, shade were all useful clues.  When people frightened me or hurt my feelings, I pictured myself as a turtle.  I projected my shiny brightly colored shell and hid my emotions behind a smile, a joke or a laugh.  There was no fooling my Tammy.  She saw right through my armor to the true state of my hidden heart.

 Do you have any theories as to how you developed the coping skills you did?

Tammy greeted each day with joyful enthusiasm.  She taught me to do the same.  Yesterday’s sorrows are past and we can only deal with what is going on at this moment.  Of course that doesn’t mean you don’t think of how to make tomorrow better. But it is a waste of energy to trap oneself in a tangle of what ifs.  Much of who I am today, I owe to the lessons I learned from my loving free spirited Tammy.  Because she was always there for me, I could admit my sadness. I could allow others to see the vulnerability I had spent years hiding.  I learned to let go and cry without having the sorrow tear me apart. Her lovely broad head with its silky ears in my lap gave me permission to grieve. Her presence at my left side gave me the courage to pick myself up and move on after the tears dried. You never feel quite so lost if you have a friend beside you to share the task of finding your way out of a problem. 

I wonder if the dogs  that followed Tammy had anything left to teach you. I realize that everybody has something unique to teach us, but tammy would be a difficult act to follow.

 

 




  I let Annie talk me into attending a party for some of the students in a three dimensional art course we were taking together.  Wine was served and I smelled that distinctive sweet aroma of Marijuana.  I knew this was just not my sort of party.  I liked having friends in for spaghetti and homemade bread accompanied by soft music and good conversation.  I didn’t mind if others indulged in a glass of wine, but didn’t like being surrounded by crowds of people I hardly knew. 

 

One of my classmates cornered me and suggested I spend the night at his place.  I just shook my head and gave a gentle tug on Tammy’s leash.  I didn’t need to wait for Annie to get out of a situation I found uncomfortable.  Henry tried to imply my refusal was because he was black.  I am sure that line worked with some young women, but knowing I could walk out of there gave me the confidence to just laugh at the absurdity of his assumption. I replied that being totally blind, I couldn’t tell if he were purple with green stripes.  I still wouldn’t go home with someone I barely knew. I didn’t feel pressured into participating in the sexual revolution brought about by the advent of the birth control pill and could choose to be myself without apologies. I was free to call a cab or walk out the door because Tammy was with me.  It's hard to quantify the influence of such a source of strength and reassurance in the life of a blind person.  Young women who grew up in the late sixties found it hard to figure out the rules.  As little girls, we were taught to be ladylike.  Tomboys like me were constantly being scolded to keep our skirts down and behave like little ladies.  Suddenly with the availability of the birth control pill, we were expected to forget all that princess stuff.  We were declared hung up if we didn’t join in to the free love movement.  Virginity was almost a stigma.  One friend told me she felt like the last living virgin at school.  She went home with someone because she was tired of being teased by her housemates.  Another friend spent an entire afternoon going through her address book to let several young men know she had been diagnosed with a venereal disease.  Somehow, it seemed wrong to this particular princess to engage in sexual intercourse to prove she was well adjusted.  Such an intimate act required some kind of commitment in my estimation. 

 

    With Tammy in my corner, I had the courage to stand by my own values.  In the shelter of her love and total acceptance, I could cry, laugh, and discover who I was and what I wanted out of life.  I could set goals and achieve




them.  A dog guide is a mobility aid yes, but she can also be a confessor, a guardian angel, a soul mate and a best friend.  Tammy was all of these and more to this young girl growing into womanhood in the Vietnam war era. To put a price tag on all she gave me in our time together is impossible.   

 

Martia

 

I am so glad you wrote this. If there ever was a doubt in my mind about this issue, you have resolved it. The piece speaks with authority and cogency.

 

The idea of arming teachers and staff with guns in schools causes me to break out in a cold sweat. Having worked in public education for 15 years and being a parent myself, I am compelled to weigh in on the debate. For six years, I worked at an alternative school for expelled students; for three years, I wiped runny noses at an elementary school; and for seven years, I managed the mayhem in the main office of a large urban high school. I worked with students who had been expelled from the regular public schools for offenses ranging from marijuana to murder. I de-escalated boys a foot taller than me with purple hair and rings in their noses. Never once did I feel threatened by a student, although I had a hiding place picked out if a threat came into the building from outside. 

 I have often dealt with potentially physically dangerous males, but I never had to worry about them being armed, so I never felt threatened.  If I had a gun, a possibility I never considered, the picture would change. On rare occasion, physical containment was necessary. Thank God there was never a gun in either of our hands.

The pace at a large urban high school is relentless. Office phones begin ringing at least one hour before the opening bell for students. Throughout the day, bells continue to clang, marking the beginning and end of each period; a longer tone warns against tardiness. Teachers usher students along during passing time, while support personnel try to keep the halls clear and quiet during class time. However, when you pack 2000 hot-headed teenagers into one building with 200 adults for eight hours a day, stuff happens. Medical emergencies, sports injuries, fights, drug and alcohol reactions, and mental health events are common. Students with epilepsy, diabetes, learning disabilities, and mood disorders collapse, cry, and scream for attention. During the course of a typical school day, office personnel make dozens of radio calls for security, and often dial 911 to summons ambulances, the fire department, or police in the event of an alarm.  

 Wow! You were really in the thick of it. Violence was knocking on your door on a regular basis.

Disturbances also come from outside; our school was often directed to lock down when there was police activity in the downtown vicinity.  Incident after incident, morning to afternoon, Monday through Friday, August through May – most days my job was frenetic. Interruptions were the norm. “It’s just the normal chaos in here,” I used to say, quoting a random lyric from a lost song.  The staff joked amongst ourselves that to utter the word “quiet” only served to jinx the rare moment.

 

To help keep control, we had an armed police officer in our building, and five rather burly and intimidating security guards (teddy bears in disguise) posted at the entrances, patrolling the halls, and walking the grounds. Each carried a radio so that in an instant we could summons security or an administrator to the main office or to wherever they might be required. Each classroom was equipped with a “panic” button which teachers or students could press to summons assistance. A call could come into the office reporting that a child had fainted or that a defiant student needed to be escorted out of class. Security, support staff, administrators, or police responded to each and every call so that the teachers could resume the important job of teaching as soon as the distraction was removed.

The fact that you describe a system that worked is very important for this piece. It isn’t just an opinion but a proven approach.

 

 The “frequent flyers” in the principal’s office struggled with substance abuse, chronic medical conditions, anger management, or mental health disorders.

 

The claim that guns in schools would calm the chaos is ludicrous. Teachers and staff are trained to model appropriate behavior when students are escalated. We practiced non-violent Crisis prevention and intervention. We used calm voices, non-critical language, restorative justice techniques, and peer coaching to find common ground. We called in social workers, psychiatrists, and other health care experts to work individually with students requiring higher levels of support. We did our best to adjust their attitude, check their temperature, fill their belly, talk them down (or up), wipe their nose, or call their mom. We were not threatening or judging or punishing. We provided a haven, allowing them to sit on a bench until they could regain their composure. When ready, students were sent back to class to resume the ever-important job of learning.

I like the way the kids are described in a humanistic way.

 

 

While about 10 percent of the students were troubled or challenged, that left 90 percent of the kids firmly seated in class, keeping out of trouble, earning a bright future. All day every day, teachers, like guardian angels, open their arms and hearts and wallets to help nurture our children. They soar above and beyond their traditional teaching duties. They intervene one-on-one as students struggle with cognitive disabilities, physical impairments, language barriers, or teenage angst. They counsel children whose stomachs are empty, whose homes are cold, whose parents are absent, and whose futures feel dark. Schools offer refuge, and often the only chance for a child to eat a warm meal. Schools provide a safe zone, a time out from the danger and neglect that many young people face on the streets - or even in their own homes. Children seek structure, camaraderie, and a chance to do it differently than fate prescribed. Young people seek dignity and acknowledgement, compassion and latitude. Adolescents need a safe place to flex their muscles and try out their wings.

 

When you add guns to the educational equation, you welcome the death angel into the classroom. Guns in schools would only escalate the risk of harm during explosive situations. Students and staff won’t feel safer if teachers pack heat instead of pencils, or coaches carry handguns instead of stop watches. Armed staff would appear in an adversarial relationship to the young people

I love this line.

They are there to nurture and protect. In fact, some students (and parents) could be tempted to bring concealed guns to school themselves to offset the perceived threat in the building.

 

Now that I have praised teachers and school staff, I will add a caution. Even the best of us can become slightly unbalanced ourselves on a bad day. We all have stressors at home and work. We all cope with financial pressures, illness, divorce, prejudices, or family conflicts. Under pressure, any one of us could “go off” at any moment. It could be too easy for an adult to pull the trigger upon hearing an outburst in class,

This is a heavy truth, but absolutely true. This is a fact that is important to be pointed out. I think it would be difficult for many to accept it as being valid.

but outbursts are common everyday occurrences in schools. What is needed is clear thinking, measured responses, time for deep breathing and reflection. Stop the guns at the door. Arm the highly-trained professionals who are hired, screened, and monitored to police the public. Pay teachers what they deserve for performing life-saving miracles in our schools every day.

Great ending.

 

Salley

 

I love the piece, but had a hard time understanding some of the lines.. Half way through, all my confusion was resolved. I can’t really advise you to do anything about the places I bring attention to, because on the whole it makes wonderful poetic sense, and I’m concerned that if you change some things you might lose more than you gain.

 

The novel I’m not writing

Great title.

Won’t leave me in peace.

 

Its rugged Cornish cliff paths urge me

To put on my Mackintosh, call my dog, and

Set out for a walk in ever-changing weather.

It took me a while to get my bearings about the walk. After I read the whole piece and had a holistic understanding, I had no problem getting my sea-legs, so to speak. But initially, I wasn’t clear that the lure was to walk in the fantasay of the unwritten, but thought-out novel, or to just go for a walk in your neighborhood.

Its two-up two-down stone cottages wait for me

I don’t know what two up and two down cottages are. Does it refer  to going up 2 hills and down 2 hills to pass by these cottages?

To tend the carrots and parsnips in the

ir kitchen gardens

Who is doing the tending? Is the writer observing the story’s denizens doing that? I think of course the writer means that, but the language does not make it clear.

And fill their window boxes with a profusion of yellow, blue, purple, and pink.

 Its plot of redemption and healing

I assume the (plot) refers to the novel’s plot. But my first take on it was that the gardens and the cooking was meant to produce those qualities of redemption and healing. It might mean both of those things.

With the moors, the turquoise sea, and a new tomorrow

Has added layers and subplots over the years.

 

Its characters fill my dreams and tap me on the shoulder

to remind me I hold their fates in my silent hands.

That is such a great line.

While unloading the dishwasher, I wonder if Jenny will take up

Residence in the village or return to London.

I fold Laundry and hope the injured seal pup will survive

And that brooding Owen will find joy after great loss.

I spend a few hours on my computer looking up

Authentic Cornish pasty recipes for the bakery and cream teas so popular with tourists.

I can’t understand why the elderly woman with cancer

Tells me her name is Marjorie whether I like it or not,

I love that line.

But I want her to live to see the Christmas lights at Mousehole a few miles up the coast.

The name of (Mousehold) is wonderful. It gives the story a fary tale flavor.

 

I ask myself how a tale filled with light and love

Can feel like such a heavy burden to carry.

Perhaps it is time to set it down, make a mug of coffee,

And bring it all to life.

I wish you would.

 

 
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