[Critique Group 1] Leonard's critiques for January

[tuchyner5 at aol.com]

Hi Group 1,

Heere are my comments.

Leonard
-----



Deanna

 

One of the most flattering things I could say about a piece is that it is so engaging that I have a hard time keeping my mind alert to somethingabout it that needs changing. I certainly say that about this writing. In the second half there were a number of anecdotes that I thoroughly enjoyed, but there were so many of them I thought you might be missing an opportunity to play out each example and incident further. Every one of these could, and should, be made into a piece of its own.

 

This is an experiment. I have placed one of my poems in the chapter as an illustration if you will. I decided to do this as a result of Leonard’s question about my poem, Loving Amber Eyes. If you think it works,. I may choose other poems toad where I feel they would fit.

Add where they fit.

 

Chapter 9.

Girls Just Want To Have Fun

 

I know white cane users who view taking off into the unknown as an adventure.  They love exploring and meeting the challenge of finding their way back.  I like to try new things, but don’t enjoy getting lost or feeling vulnerable.  Tammy walking beside me granted me the freedom to go boldly where I would never have attempted to go without her.  I knew she would keep me out from under the wheels of the car unexpectedly turning right on red.  She would guide me safely around the open manhole.  I could approach other pedestrians to ask directions, secure that my guide would serve as a deterrent to them viewing me as a potential victim.  We could quickly move away from anyone trying to engage us in conversation if they made either of us feel uneasy.  Of course, a dog guide is not taught to protect.  In fact, a dog that shows signs of aggression during training is eliminated from the program.  Tammy had her own opinions on this matter.  Once a panhandler approached us.  When he asked if I had any spare change, her only reaction was to lick his hand.  She obviously decided he posed no threat and perhaps needed a little affection from a friendly dog to brighten his day. 

 

One day, I arranged to meet Annie in Hayward to attend a powwow.  She was supposed to meet me at the Greyhound bus station, when I arrived.  Tammy and I boarded the bus, I asked her to find a seat.  She moved down the aisle and stopped to put her head on an empty one.  An older man scrambled to his feet. He spit tobacco juice on the floor in the aisle.  He moved away declaring that he wasn’t going to sit next to no hippie girl and her hippie dog.  In his mind, my long braids long Navajo style skirt and moccasins and Tammy’s blue peace symbol had tagged us counter-culture types! 

 

When we got off the bus, Annie hadn’t arrived to meet us.  Tammy and I went outside and she located a bench for us to wait.  I placed my over-night case on the ground at my feet and Tammy curled behind it under the seat.  After a few minutes had passed, a man sat down beside me.  He moved to put an arm around my waist and murmured a crude proposition. I angrily pulled free and stood jerking on Tammy’s leash.  As she scrambled to stand beside me I ordered fiercely.  “Tammy! Kill!”  Of course, that wasn’t one of her commands, so she stood quietly waiting to discover what I wanted.  The man took off running down the street.  An older lady chuckled and reported, “Honey, he’s about two blocks down and still running.  He hasn’t looked back to see if she’s behind him.”

 

At the powwow, Tammy got carried away with the drums and the chanting.  She hung her head over the railing of the bleachers and wailed along with the singers.  A little boy performing the hoop dance was distracted and his eyes got bigger and bigger as he watched her doing her coyote imitations above him. 

 

It’s a funny thing, but if you carry yourself with head erect, turn to look in people’s direction when speaking to them and move with confidence, a lot of people don’t seem to believe you are blind.  Annie told me about an overheard conversation she observed while working at the student bookstore.  One student declared that if that girl brings her big dog to class one more time, he intended to bring his horse.  His companion tried to explain that I brought Tammy because she was my dog guide.  The first fellow refused to believe it because he said that he had seen me run down a hall leading Tammy.  I probably did run a few steps to catch a friend whose voice I recognized without using Tammy.  In a straight hall with no obstructions, I wouldn’t have felt the need to use her eyes. Although I hadn’t even light perception left after that final surgery when I was 8 years old, many people expected me to shffle my feet, walk with my eyes closed and my head down as many born blind children may do. Some of the people I know who are low vision, may look just like anyone else. They may have lost vision later in life, have such a narrow field of vision that they can read regular print, but only see a couple of letters at a time. They may be able to use peripheral vision or only their central vision, depending on the eye disease they have. These conditions may be insufficient vision to travel safely without using a mobility cane or a guide dog.  

 

On another occasion, Annie, Tammy and I decided to jump on the bus to San Francisco. We planned to do some shopping and celebrate Annie’s birthday by having dinner in China town.  As we waited on a street corner for the light to change in our favor, two sailors came whistling and walking in step behind us.  Tammy was sitting on the curb waiting for me to reach down and pick up her harness handle.  The two sailors split up as they reached us and the light changed.  A sailor took me by each elbow and continued across the intersection with me suspended above the ground between them.  When they lifted me clear of the curb, I was so startled, I dropped Tammy’s leash.  The two young men set me down on the up curb and continued on their way still whistling and walking in step.  Annie and Tammy were on the other side of the street.  All I could think to do was yell come to my dog and my two friends raced across to join me before the light changed again.  My good girl had remained sitting until my call released her.  Annie exclaimed, “DEE, I have heard of allowing yourself to be picked up by sailors, but do you have to be so literal about it?” Annie was sure everyone was staring at her.  It wasn’t until she took her dark sunglasses off that she realized that her habit of resting her hand on Tammy’s back and walking on her left side had confused people into thinking she was the blind girl. 

 

Later that day, it started to sprinkle, so Annie Tammy and I dashed to board a city bus.  A female passenger became hysterical as we walked toward her down the aisle.  Tammy showed me a seat and I hurriedly sat down.  The lady continued to scream that she was afraid of dogs.  Tammy became frightened by her hysteria and crawled half onto my lap trembling and trying to hide her face in my arms.  The driver stood up and roared, “Sit down and shut up lady.  You’re scaring the guide dog!”

 

I never stopped learning new things about Tammy as we went about our routines together.  Occasionally, she twitched or gave a start in harness.  Her head swiveled

There is a confusion of tense here. I think “Swiveling’ would be a better choice.

.  It took me awhile to realize she was watching the antics of a housefly or other insect on the wing.  If she was out of harness, she felt free to go in hot pursuit.  Imagine a ninety-pound dog leaping five feet into the air to snatch an aerial offender on the wing with the snap of her jaws.  She was really quite a good flycatcher. 

 

When we went to a black spiritual music concert on campus.  The usher thought we should sit in the front row next to the stage.  Tammy had more room and people could reach their seats without climbing over her.  As the choir broke into a rousing rendition of Rock My Soul In The Bosom of Abraham, Tammy began to sing along.  I grabbed her and tried to quiet her but it was too late.  The choir director stopped the performance and leaned down from the stage to pat Tammy on the head.  He proclaimed her “A soul sister!”  I guess she took her designation as a black Labrador/German shepherd dog  to mean she was a person of color.  She obviously thought she could claim to be both an Indian dog and celebrate that black is beautiful too.  After that I avoided taking her to events that included music, particularly singing.

 

Tammy’s house manners were excellent.  Although she had missed out on being raised in a 4H home, she didn’t climb on furniture or forage in trash cans.  Every so often though, her lack of experience led to her making an error of judgment.  For example, she tried to sniff a hot iron when I was hurriedly pressing a skirt on the floor without an ironing board.  Only my quick response saved her from being burned.  Another time, she tried to lick someone’s hand while the person was smoking.  She burned her tongue on the lit cigarette and became afraid of that individual’s right hand.  Tammy only allowed her to pet if she used her left hand.  She seemed to think the right one would hurt her. Little incidents like these made it clear to me that being raised in a kennel had left gaps in Tammy’s education. 

 

Scottie Hagedorn and I met during our sophomore year.  She was a petite green-eyed blonde girl who was in both my beginning piano and French classes.  One day she offered Tammy and me a lift home because it was raining.  I asked her up for a cup of tea before she headed back out to her family farm.  Although she got that tea, she had to crawl through a kitchen window because I had forgotten my keys.  Sometimes, you are fortunate to meet someone who you seem to recognize as a kindred spirit. 

There is an extra space after  “spirit.”

 Practically from our first exchange of words, we could finish each other’s sentences and talk in fragments and understand what was meant perfectly. Scottie’s mom decided that she couldn’t tell us apart on the phone.  She took us shopping for shoes one day.  When the sales clerk got too friendly with us, she announced that she wanted us to have sturdy no nonsense shoes as we were twins and were going into the eighth grade. That definitely put paid

Are you sure you want to use the word “Paid” here. I don’t know what it means.

to his flirtatious manner when dealing with us.   She insisted on referring to me as her other daughter.  She liked to call us Snow White and Rose Red because we didn’t really look anything like each other.  Like sisters, we often exchanged clothes and talked late into the night.  We both loved dogs. 

 

Her dog was a foolish funny little beagle dachshund cross.  Her name was Dippy, short for diploma because she had been one of Scottie’s graduation gifts from her mother.  Dippy was a bottomless pit and managed to get into everything.  She had a figure not unlike her namesake, long and round.  Our two dogs seemed to like each other even though Tammy was a dainty eater who preferred to nibble one kibble at a time.  Sometimes she took twenty-four hours to finish her food. 

 

Having Scottie and her mom adopt me made up a little for having my family so far away.  I could only make brief visits to see them each summer between summer school and the fall term 

 

These visits showed me that family life was going on without me.  Instead of being an important member, I was becoming a visitor.  My baby sister was growing rapidly from toddler to pre-schooler.  She made mom laugh when she imitated my habit of touching the frame of a door as I passed through it.  I found her serious old-maid manners hysterical.  If I dropped my sweater across the foot of a bed, she was sure to pipe, “Aren’t you going to hang that UP?”  Donny was changing into a teenager and Rob and Ruben were developing more interest in their heritage.  They spent a lot of time with tribal elders learning to dance and take part in ceremonies.  They were rapidly becoming young men.  It was hard being so far from all these changes.   

 

Rob was dating his first serious girl friend, Kerri.  They met at a roller rink.  Both were excellent skaters and were asked to represent the rink at competitions for dance skaters.  Her family didn’t approve of the friendship.  Her father in particular held a prejudice against Indians.  It was pretty flagrantly accepted dogma, among the people living near the reservation, that all Indian men drank and beat their wives.  When Rob wanted my help convincing Kerri’s family that we were not the stereotypic dysfunctional Indian family, I agreed to go over to Kerri’s house to play cards with her sisters.  It was strange being paraded before her family as Rob’s big sister who is in college in California.  Mom did her bit by joining the same bowling team as Kerri’s mother.  Although I knew that my family loved having me with them, it was clear that where they lived was no longer my home.  Home was now the place where Tammy and I lived among our possessions. 

 

My college was located just outside a small farming town.  When I got a lift from Scottie into Turlock to pick up a few necessities, I had to work my way around a large farm tractor parked in front of the J. C. Pennies.  Inside the store the manager followed us up and down the aisles.  I wasn’t sure if he was suspicious of college students or just curious about how a guide dog worked. 

 

When we stopped for a Frosty Freeze ice cream cone, I discovered another of my girl’s foibles.  She adored ice cream.  When we went to get into Scottie’s car, she jumped up on the seat, turned around and licked my cone as I tried to follow her into the car.  She never got on car seats unless I had an ice cream cone in my hand.  She knew that with one hand busy holding the cone and the other used to judge the height of the car, I couldn’t defend my cone!  She never tried to eat anything not in her dish except ice cream.  Woe to the toddler strolling innocently by minding his own business and eating ice cream.  She was an expert at the quick swipe of the tongue as we sailed past. 

 

Tammy’s desire to keep me always in sight caused her to fall in the pool while I was swimming laps.  She had slipped her collar and escaped from where I had tied her to race back and forth keeping pace with my swim.  Some girls objected to having a dog in the pool to the manager.  Of course I had gotten her to the steps and out immediately, but they thought that her landing in the water was unsanitary.  Mr. O’Neil, the apartment manager brought out a gallon jug of chlorine and poured a couple of cups of the solution into the water to appease them.  He and his wife were very kind to us.

 

In my sophomore year, my roommate and I were not getting along well.  She brought a male friend to the apartment who was suffering from some sort of drug reaction.  She kept giving him sleeping pills and tranquilizers and trying to get him to eat.  Finally I insisted she get another friend of theirs to take him to the hospital.  She was angry because she knew that the hospital staff would report him to the police, but I didn’t want him to hurt himself or have an adverse response to the counter-measures she was taking.  Since my name was on the lease, I didn’t want her to use or keep drugs in the apartment.  I wanted to buy a small piano to practice at home, and she complained the noise would disturb her studies.  I came home one afternoon between classes to find her in the process of moving out.  I didn’t have enough money to pay the rent alone.  Mr. And Mrs. O'Neil arranged for me to trade my one bedroom apartment with two girls who were sharing a studio apartment in the same complex.  So Tammy and I were completely on our own. 

In the above paragraph, there are too many consecutive “I’s”.

 

One day, they were resurfacing the road we crossed to the apartment and Tammy and I ended up with black tar on my shoes and her paws.  I took off my shoes and changed them and tried to keep Tammy on the tile kitchen floor until I had retrieved what I had come home to get.  I went and explained my problem and Mr. O'Neil helped me clean the tar off Tammy’s paws.  When I came home that evening, he had cleaned my shoes and the marks her paws had left on the floor too. 

 

One day I was bouncing a ball to entertain Tammy.  In her pursuit of the ball, she knocked my record player to the floor, breaking my favorite record album.  I threw myself into a kitchen chair in dismay over the loss and it collapsed when Tammy jumped into my lap to apologize.  When I told Mr. O’Neil about the breakage, he brought me a replacement without charge, exclaiming that the broken chair was obviously defective. 

 

Tammy felt she should vet any one who came home with me.  She decided if they should be allowed inside our apartment.  One young man, who walked me home from a dance, did not meet her approval.  She made him sit in a chair and growled each time he stood up.  She kept herself stationed between our unwelcome guest and me until he finished the cup of coffee he had requested.  Tammy saw him to the door with relief.

 

I had to publish my phone number each term to hire readers.  I began having some trouble with obscene phone calls.  This meant that I had to change my phone number frequently, to avoid them.  The first time it happened, the caller sounded so friendly that I kept thinking he had a wrong number.  Annie came over to study and I warned her about the problem.  She confidently expressed the opinion that she could handle such a nuisance by telling the caller that she had a venereal disease.  We kept at the books until we were both ready to drop.  I asked her to make some tea while I took a cold shower to wake up.  As I was toweling off, she knocked on the bathroom door in a panic.  She had answered the phone and started to take down a message for me before she realized what the caller was saying.  I grabbed my robe and went to hang up the phone.  Despite this, I felt comfortable living on my own with my furry roommate. There was simply no way my girl would permit anyone to cause me harm.  

 

When Curt came to give me a lift to the market, I put Tammy in the back seat of his car, but she insisted on pushing her head and shoulders between the bucket seats to supervise his driving and be sure I was still safe. 

 

During classes, Tammy often fell fast asleep.  In an Introduction to classical music course, our professor got frustrated trying to catch the student who dared to snore during his lectures.  This class was a large one held in the theater.  The instructor was a former conductor of the San Francisco Symphony orchestra.  He was very dramatic.  The first day of class, he appeared dressed in full tuxedo and tails.  He strode out on the stage and declaimed, “Music is God! And I am his prophet!”

 

During his class, we suffered a power failure.  The theater was located in the middle of the classroom building with no exterior walls with windows.  The room was thrown into total blackness.  The only light came from the glow from the professor’s pipe. His rich baritone boomed out “Is the little wood nymph and her dog in the room?”  When I answered that we were present, he asked, “Would you kindly proceed to the door and open it so we may see to find our way out?”  He continued to refer to me as the little wood nymph the rest of my time at school.  

 

One of the tricks Tammy occasionally played on me involved her location of seats in a classroom.  Anywhere else, she showed me an empty chair by putting her nose on the seat.  In classes, she located a chair and dove under it.  This was fine, except about once or twice a term she chose to dive under an occupied chair.  I ended up sitting down on startled classmates’ laps a few times before I caught on to her tactics.  She never chose chairs with girls sitting in them, only those occupied by male students.  I apologized and turned bright red while explaining that my furry friend thought I needed to improve my social life. 

 

Of course, she didn’t approve of any social activities that didn’t include her.  I liked to dance, and from time to time went out with girl friends to some place to enjoy this activity.  The first time I left Tammy tied to a table, she followed me towing the small table out on to the dance floor.  After this incident, I left her home.  She hated being left and wailed piteously.  One time I returned to a friend’s house to find Tammy curled in my suitcase fast asleep.  She had made herself a nest in my clothes.  After that, I learned to bring along a familiar sweater or other object of mine for her to curl up on to be able to go off with friends. The presence of my scent seemed to reassure her that I would return.

 

Tammy injured a forepaw when someone giving us a lift pushed the seat back before I had gotten her properly settled.  The paw was badly bruised and her gait was too uneven for her to guide.  My rehabilitation counselor thought I should have some cane lessons.  This was the first time I had ever used a white cane.  I knew my way around campus and only needed the basic techniques.  I found though that I tended to walk too fast and caught that dratted stick on things.  I ended up doing a lot of pole-vaulting with the cane, putting a permanent bend in it.  Tammy strenuously objected to being left alone while I went out with that stick.  During my first lesson, she howled so loud that Mr. O’Neil came up to the apartment to be sure I wasn’t hurt.  It was such a relief for us both when she was able to return to guiding.

 

   The fluid grace that a good team can achieve is like dancing.  Each of the partners responds to subtle almost imperceptible body movements and reacts to those cues almost without thought. It doesn’t happen instantly, but over the first year, the teammates develop an understanding of each other’s reactions. Communication becomes as natural as breathing. Perhaps the following poem I wrote about a 16 block to a dentist appointment will give you a sense of what I mean:

 

Dancers

By DeAnna Quietwater Noriega

We are cloud dancers,

You lead and I follow.

Our steps synchronized

Our bodies swaying to the same rhythm.

 

Swept along in the current of the jet stream.

Floating lightly on the swell of an updraft,

Swooping into a glide down the slope of a down draft.

Side slipping around a gaggle of migrating geese.

Pausing a few beats to let a thunderhead rumble past.

 

Through fog and mist through falling snow we whirl,

Our movements in perfect unison.

Where your paws lead,

My feet follow.

What does it matter,

If only we two hear the music.

We move together as one being.

We are Cloud dancers, you and I.

 

I love this poem and like the way it fits into the story. The title  is good, but somehow I like “Cloud Dancers” even better, just on the basis of the sound.  To a Jewish boy from New Jersey, it has  a poetic Indian sound.

There is also an emotional bond that makes a dog guide very responsive to its handler's moods and state of well-being.  Tammy always knew my true feelings even when other friends were fooled by my efforts to project a smiling exterior.  When I was actually frightened or unsure, she was never deceived by my pretenses of composure or confidence. She could always make me laugh or relax.  One way she did this was to give air kisses.  Someone had tried to break her of licking faces.  She brought her face close to mine and flipped her tongue in and out rapidly without actually touching me with it.  This never failed to make me smile.   

 

Cleora

 

 

Good mix of dialogue and description. The story line was laid out in a clear, understandable way. You’ve spent a lot of time on the development of the relationship between these 2 guys. I assume it will be an important part of the story at large.  Be careful not to get myred down in unnecessary details.

 

motorcycle. As he placed his helmet on his head, and reached for the chin strap, his eyes fell on his old bicycle hanging on the garage wall. Pausing, he stared at the bike. Could that be the answer? He knew there was no way he could approach D'Jonna's community with his motorcycle. He dismounted and walked over to the bicycle. The tires were soft, but the rubber felt ok. A few rust spots dotted the frame, but the chain and peddles looked as good as when he had hung it there. Finding the air pump he aired up the tires

:Aired up,” must be a colloquialism.  We would say, “pumped up.”

 

and lifted the bike down.

This must be another  colloquialism. How can you lift something down. To lift is to raise. In this case, the bike was lowered.

 

Taking some oil and a cleaning rag, he carefully and lovingly went over the entire bike inspecting every part especially the wheels, steering, and breaking; making sure everything was in tip top shape. The sun was just going down as he finished up. Straddling the bike, he finished fastening his chin strap and headed down the driveway.

One would not use a otorcycle helmet to ride a bike.

 

Turning right, he peddled hard; the gears were a little stiff at first, but they shifted all the way up to the tenth gear and back down. A little use and they would be working as good as new.

I know this is another time, perhaps a parallel universe  However, no one rides 10 speeds anymore. The gears are up in the twenties these days.

 

He brought the bicycle back to the garage and hung it back on the wall. In his room, he lay on his back in bed with his hands clasped behind his head. Now, how was he going to get it out to D'Jonna's community. He was on the track team, but he didn't relish riding all the way out there on a bicycle, then all the way back. If he could get it out there, he could leave it in the old building, but how would he get back. If he borrowed his dad's pickup, he would want to know what for, and he would insist on going with him. He needed someone who wouldn't ask questions and wouldn't care what he was doing. Maybe ol' Hack at the gym. He was usually too stoned to care what was going on, and for a few bucks, he would forget anything. In the morning, John purposely waited until he heard his dad leave for work before going down for breakfast. His mother was just cleaning up. "If you want to make yourself some breakfast, make sure you clean up," she said. This new independence kick of his parents was a real drag. A few weeks ago they informed him that he would be going out on his own soon and it was high time he got used to fending for himself. If he got himself down too late for breakfast, it was up to him to fix his own and then clean up any mess he made. "no prob," he said. "I'm going to head out to the gym. I'll get something from the vending there." She looked at him disapprovingly for a few seconds, then shrugged, "Okay," she said, "suit yourself." He went out to the garage, took the bicycle down, strapped on his helmet, and straddling the bike as he went down the driveway, headed for the gym. With luck, he would get Hack to help him take his bicycle out to the old coliseum and bring him back home. The coliseum was a few miles from the building where he had met D'Jonna. It had a track, so It would be easy to convince Hack that he wanted to use the old track inside the coliseum to build up his leg muscles. There really wasn't anywhere else that he could just let go and push until he was too tired to continue. He would ride his motor cycle out to the coliseum, ride the bike out to see D'Jonna, then ride his motor cycle back home. The place hadn't been used in years. No one would be out there to see what he was really doing, and the bike would be safe in one of the dressing rooms. He smiled to himself. It was the perfect plan.

Thee is something about this plan that bothers me. I was an avid bike rider for most of my life. No one I ever knew would choose to ride around a track. People ride bikes all over the world in all kinds of environments. The only bike riding I’m aware of in which a track is used is where the track is especially built for that with very steeply banked curves  because the bikes reach extremely high speeds. the gear s are made to advantage speed over mechanical advantage.  They are not not made for the riding any other place than the specially built tracks. I’m not sure whether this sport still exists.

 

At the gym, John got on one of the treadmills and set it for moderate hill climb. After a few minutes he saw Hack, the custodian, come in from one of the locker room doors. "Hey, Hack," he greeted the gem custodian cheerfully. "Hey, John," said Hack. His speech was a little thick this morning. John shut off the treadmill and stepped down off the machine. Taking the towel from around his neck, he wiped his face and neck as he walked toward Hack. "I didn't see your motorcycle out front. Did your dad drop you off?" "No, I rode my bike. I'm trying to build up for the track meet coming up. You know, I really wish there was a track I could practice on." "What about the school track?" offered Hack. "I hate to use that. I spend half my life at school as it is. I really wish they had a track here. It would be so much more convenient than the school track." "I suppose," said Hack. "Of course, there's that track out at the old coliseum," he offered. "Hum...," said John thinking for a minute. "If I could get my bike out there, I could ride my motorcycle out, work out on the track with my bike, then ride my motorcycle back home." "Yeh, that would work. Well, see ya," Hack turn and waved as he left. Well, that didn't work, thought John. I suppose I could ride the bike out there and then walk back home. I wonder how far out the public tran goes. Still it would be a long walk back. It would take most of a day to do it that way, and if I came in hot and sweaty, Mom and Dad would be sure to ask questions. He was still working over possibilities in his mind when he heard, "Hey." John looked up to see a tall well-built young man with curly black hair standing in front of him. "Hey," he said back. "I thought they would have some stationary bikes here. What kind of gym doesn't have stationary bikes?" "Yeh," John said. "It's a long story, Something about pollution." "Pollution?" The man stared at John incredulously. "Never mind," said John with a chuckle. "It's a sort of private joke between me and my dad." "By the way, I’m Jake." "Nice to meet you, I'm John." "Is there a track around here somewhere? I don't like to run on the streets." "I know what you mean, there's an old abandoned coliseum at the edge of town. The track is still in pretty decent shape. You could probably run there. I was actually looking for a way to get my bike out there. I could ride it out but I don't want to have to ride it back home after working out, and I can't carry it back and forth on my motorcycle" "I can help you get it out there," Jake offered. Together they loaded John's bike in Jakes truck and headed out to the old coliseum. Briefly, John remembered his parent's warnings about stranger danger, but Jake seemed like an ok guy. He hoped. What's the worst that could happen? He might steal his bicycle? The coliseum was dirty and a bit run down, but the track was still in good shape. There were a few weeds and some grass growing up between the cracks, but it was passable. They took turns making a few laps around the track. They found a secure place to leave John's bike, and decided there wasn't really any need to lock it up. "As soon as I get my own bike, we can ride around together," said Jake. "You don’t know anyone that has an old one they would sell do you?" "The Harris Bike Shop down town may have some refurbished ones," said John. "Meanwhile, you can use mine in the mornings and I'll use it in the afternoon." "Great. I'll check it out." He dropped John off at home and went on his way. John grabbed a snack on his way to the garage to get his motorcycle and hid for the coliseum. He figured he had just enough time to ride his bicycle over to the area where D'Jonna's people were and explore a little. But, when he got to the coliseum, his bike wasn't in the room where they had left it. He looked all around, but it wasn't there. Maybe he had been mistaken about where they left it. After all, they looked at several of the rooms in the area before deciding on one. He spent an hour looking in every single possible place. It wasn't there. "Idiot!" he shouted to the crumbling roof overhead. Clearly, Jake had headed back here immediately and taken it. Why buy one when this one was here for the taking? Thinking about it, it was Jake's idea that it didn’t need to be locked up. He swore and jerked the handle of the door hard enough for the door to slam back and bounce off the wall and almost knock him over. "Well, that was smart," he said. "Now, the ceiling will probably fall on me. I deserve it for being so stupid." He slammed the door back against the wall again, but this time he was on the other side when it came bouncing back. Kicking trash out of his way as he went, he made his way back to where he parked his motor cycle. His luck, Jake probably came back to see what else he could find and took that too. "Hey," said Jake. John whirled around to see Jake rolling his bicycle back into the room they had decided on. "Sorry," he continued. "Harry's place was closed when I got there and so I decided to come out and take another ride. I wouldn't have if I'd known you were coming back." John felt his face heating up to the bright red of Christmas paper. "Oh, yeh," he stammered. "I decided to come back and take a ride myself. When I didn't find it I thought..." He let his voice trail off. "I know. I mean, you only met me this morning. You thought I had come back and taken it. I understand. I am so sorry. You did say I could use it in the morning and you would use it in the afternoon until I could get one of my own. I am so sorry. I feel so bad." "It's ok," said John. "No harm. I'll just use it tomorrow. Say around one o'clock on?" "Sure," said Jake. "I'll be sure it's here for you. And, I'll see Harry first thing and see about getting one of my own. Maybe sometimes we can ride together. It will make the time go faster." "Sure," said John. Terrific, now the guy is going to want to be a buddy. He was going to have to be careful. "By the way, how come I didn't see your truck when I rode up?" "I parked on the wrong side," said Jake. "I am terrible with directions. It's a wonder I didn't have to come get you to find the place again." "You know," said John. "We should exchange phone numbers. That way we can contact each other and coordinate." "Sure," said Jake. "What's your number?" John gave him his number and Jake called him. "Got it," said John holding his phone up to show he had the number. "Well, I'm parked out front. I better get home. It's getting late." "See ya," said Jake and went toward the other exit. John blew air out of the corners of his mouth as he got on and started his motor cycle. This was getting complicated. He should have just ridden the bike out here and walked back. Fewer complications. Then he chuckled to himself. The one place he didn't look was on the track inside the coliseum. He could have saved himself a lot of frustration, high blood pressure, and evil thoughts if he'd just checked the track.

 

The piece captures the mood and color of the times.  I was transported backwards in time. It was a bit of a jolty ride, and I had to get re-aclimated. I was confused by the ending, until I drew the conclusion that this was just the beginning of a larger piece of work. In that case, it’s a good beginning. Otherwise, it leaves me standing on a staircase fishing around with my foot for a step that is missing.

 

The Reporter

Marcia J. Wick, The Write Sisters

Copyright January 2018

Word Count: 1140

 

 

Through thick glasses, I squinted at my first boss, the editor of a small town weekly. Mr. Conway’s fat fingers danced like popcorn on the round typewriter keys, clickety-clack, pressing words onto the page. His burning cigarette rested neglected in the ashtray as he churned out copy.

The ashtray is a good device; especially since it comes up later.

Great beginning paragraph.

 

I was his cub reporter. New on the job, fresh out of college. I turned to my notes from the town hall meeting as he banged out highlights of Homecoming week at the local high school. Football, I was learning, was the only big news in this little town.  He hit the return, advancing the page to the next line with a “ding.”

 

Mr. Conway’s overflowing ashtray was perched on the edge of his oversize wooden desk, which was backed up to mine. It was 1976, and it was common to light up indoors. 

It took me several readings of this last line to realize  that it was talking about cigarettes.  When I did figure it out, I wondered who was doing the smoking.

 

Through a continuous curl of smoke, I peered  as he lifted a corner of the sheet for a quick scan. Seeming satisfied, he whipped the coarse paper out of the roller and pinned it to the desk blotter with his left elbow. Dwarfing a #2 pencil in his right hand, he circled the headline, marked up a typo, and indicated the end with a “30” before into the “out” basket the story flew.

The order of words here, coupled with the mystical use of the number ‘30’ was confusing.

 

A police scanner perched on a tall table across the room  squealed and squawked , alerting us that emergency vehicles were being dispatched to an accident on the two-lane highway heading out of town. I blinked as the big newsman’s chair scraped across the wood floor. He shrugged on a jacket and crushed a pack of cigarettes into the breast pocket of his button-down shirt. Grabbing a 35 mm camera and a film canister, he grinned at me.  I remained rooted to my wooden swivel chair.

Is a 35 millimeter  camera a motion picture camera?  If not, why the need of a film canister?

 

“You coming?”

 

I had been on the job only one month. Until then, my boss had assigned me to cover the desk while he chased the more urgent news. I leapt up, grabbing a notebook and my coat. Mr. Conway’s unsmoked cigarette, cold ashes end-to-end, still rested perfectly shaped in the tray.

Nice touch. Also, I now know that it was his cigarette that was making all the smoke.

 

I followed my editor out of the back room, the “news room,” through the front office, the “sales room,” heads lifting and turning as we flew out the front door. We jaywalked across Main Street to the parking lot opposite the office. The newspaper boasted a prominent two-story storefront near the end of the mile-long business district. The paper’s name, the Express Breeze, was emblazoned bright white like a masthead across the barn red building façade. 

I know what a mast  and a boom are, but I don’t know what a mast head is.

Hopping into Mr. Conway’s old Buick that day, I asked him about the paper’s unusual name.

 

“The family had two rags,” he said. “The Express was a weekly and The Breeze came out once a month. When we were bought out by the Freedom Newspaper chain, they were merged.”

Who made the decision to merge them? was it the new owners or the old family owners?

 

At that time, many family-owned papers were being taken over by syndicates, but

Express/Breeze? I wondered if they had thought about changing the name when they had the chance, but I kept quiet. Still the new girl on the job, I didn’t want to be rude.

Why would this have been considered rude?

My fellow grads wouldn’t be too impressed, I lamented. They had landed jobs on solid papers called “The herald” or “The Tribune” or “The Times.”

 

Prior to graduating that summer with a Journalism degree, I had mailed out 100 mimeographed copies of my inaugural resume, but I had received only standard rejection letters. Ultimately, I landed my first job by word of mouth; the editor of my college paper met Mr. Conway at a conference and learned firsthand that the small town weekly was looking to hire a reporter. I jumped on the job.

 

Not calculating culture shock, I moved 3,000 miles from my high country Colorado home to the rolling hills of western New York. Without considering, I traded in a campus swelling with 11,000 radical bodies, most in their 20s, for a little town of 7,000 sedate souls ranging in age from one day to one hundred plus years.

 

I thought I was worldly and ready for adulthood after sampling the freedom of college life, but sex, drugs and rock and roll in between cramming and churning out term papers couldn’t have prepared me for rural life in small town America. I would soon learn that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

 

In Dansville, like Mayberry RFD on television, families were rooted, extended, crossed, and co-mingled for generations. Everybody knew everyone; they were all cousins or in-laws, or so it seemed to me. Mr. Conway’s brother was the mayor, and their wives were sisters. Extended family members – aunts, uncles, children, and their childrens’ children - worked at the bank, owned the men’s clothing store, coached at the high school, sold real estate, taught music, and cut hair.

 

As Mr. Conway steered his sedan out of town on the tree-lined road, I recalled driving my purple boat-of-a-car into Dansville for the first time the month before. Cresting a hill, I had glimpsed a picturesque village cradled in brilliant fall color. I couldn’t have predicted that my move to this scenic valley would  prove nearly fatal.

 

New in town, I felt invisible, although hidden eyes watched warily as I drove around. Scouting for a place to live, I picked up a PennySaver and scoured the classifieds for rentals. It was easy in the tiny town to locate most addresses. Still, there were some apartments for rent on streets that I couldn’t find.

 

Turning a corner, I spied the quaint Town Hall and decided to stop in and ask for a map of the area. Walking into the dimly lit lobby from the bright outdoors, I heard someone say, “You’re the new reporter.”

 

It wasn’t a question, so I replied with one.

Very clever  line.

 

“Yes?”

 

“You’re looking for a place to live.”

 

Again, this shadowy man appeared to know me. So, I asked, “How do you know?”

 

“Sue is my sister.”

 

I stood, hands in the pockets of my khaki pants, still puzzled.

 

He continued. “She works in the sales room at the paper. She said you should call Betty Fox. She’s looking to rent the top part of her house on Franklin Street.”

 

It was like I had been transported into an episode of The Twilight Zone. I wasn’t comfortable with this strange man knowing my business. I was used to coming and going without anyone caring or knowing my whereabouts. I had deliberately moved far away from the prying eyes of my parents, and I had envisioned anonymity in my new life.

 

Light drifted into the lobby from an opening door, and the silhouette of a holstered gun took shape. The man, I now realized, was a cop.

 

He led me into an office, pointed to a village map taped to a countertop, winked at me, and walked out.

I am wondering here how the chief  character almost lost his life.

 

Sally

This is a warm story about and during a season that needs warmth. I like the way you describe your immediate defensive reactions to the act of kindness. I have the same reactions. I would bet this is very common for people with handicaps that do not want to  be perceived as handicapped people, but just as people.  The story has a moral.  “Keep your heart open to genuine acts of graciousness.”

 

A Random Act Of Pasta

Good title. the ‘o’ in the title should not be capitalized

 

 

 

It was, in truth, a dark and stormy night in a dark and stormy season.  Temperatures had plummeted to just above zero, and several inches of snow had fallen in the post-holiday gloom.  My husband was facing cataract surgery in the coming week, and this day marked the tenth anniversary of my mother’s death.  Short of taking a Caribbean vacation that was beyond our budget and abilities, we realized there was only one sensible, easy pick-me-up.  So, my husband Sandy and I put their working attire on our guide and service dogs and headed to a nearby Italian restaurant for dinner.

 

I am of the firm belief that most of life’s problems can be, if not solved, temporarily vanquished by a glass of wine and pasta.  As we entered the restaurant and caught the aroma of garlic and seafood, we were enveloped by a warmth that touched body and soul.  Nothing could change the weather, medical concerns, or the longing I still felt for my mother, but a few hours in a cheerful atmosphere and a meal I didn’t have to prepare or clean up lifted my spirits as the hostess led us to our table.

 

Entering a dining room and getting seated always took a little maneuvering for Sandy in his power wheelchair while working his service dog Pumpkin.  Following with my guide dog Laurence, I waited while the hostess moved chairs, pulled out the table, and ascertained we had enough room for our dogs.  I also heard the murmurs of other diners about the beauty and intelligence of Laurence and Pumpkin and how well-behaved these two Labrador retrievers were as they settled under the table.

 

A glass of merlot and a brimming plate of shrimp scampi later, I had reached a mellow state and was enjoying an espresso while Sandy did justice to a piece of toffee cheesecake and a latte.    

 

All good things, however, must come to an end.  Placing the check on our table, our waiter told us that the people at the next table who had just left traded bills with us because they loved our dogs.  Our bill was considerably higher, and, for a moment, I was indignant.  Did they think that a blind woman and a man in a power wheelchair were objects of pity who might welcome some financial help? 

 

Perhaps it was the wine or the fact that I had mellowed with age, but I calmed down and gave our benefactors the benefit of my doubt.  After all, I had recently helped a good friend financially when she needed home care following surgery, and Sandy and I often donated to animal-related charities as well as shopping regularly for our church’s food cupboard.  Who was I, then, to question our fellow diners’ random act of kindness?  In the depths of an incredibly cold winter, a random act of kindness broke the real and metaphorical chills of life and warmed everyone’s souls.  Besides, I reasoned, who wouldn’t love our dogs?

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