[Critique Group 1] Leonard's comments on Martia's sub

[tuchyner5 at aol.com]

This is excellent.  



You use interesting  words with very little  repetition.  



You have a good mix of dialogue andnarrative.  



There is a good spattering of  spice in your words.,  



enough to keep it interesting.  



You had me holding my seat to see ifyou were fired, quit or kept on. 



Cudos 




 


Martia  sub August 21




 


Blackballed



Word Count:  2172



 



 



Every month, Mr. Kowalski composedan editorial for the fourth Thursday edition.  Tapping a pencil on hisdesktop calendar, he informed me, “The December editorial deadline falls on theWednesday before Christmas this year. I’ll be out of town with family thatweek. We’ll close the office for the holiday”



 



“I can write it for you.” I jumpedat the opportunity even though I didn’t recall learning to craft editorials injournalism school. How hard could it be? In September, Mr. K’s opinion piecehad addressed the ballooning village budget. His October diatribe attacked theimpact of property tax increases on senior citizens. The tone of Mr. K’sNovember editorial was magnanimous, crediting civic organizations in thecommunity for supporting families in need during the holidays.



 



“There are actually five Wednesdaysin December, so I could write the editorial after I return,” Mr. K. continued.



 



“Hey, no. Enjoy the holiday anddon’t worry about it. Let me write the December opinion piece while you’regone,” I insisted.



 



“We won’t have a courier that weekeither,” Mr. K. realized. “Could you drive the copy to the printer in GrandRapids that day, too?”



 



“Sure, sure.” In my excitement, Iwasn’t considering that the Wednesday before Christmas fell on one of theshortest days of the year. I’d have to meet an earlier deadline in order todrive back and forth to Grand Rapids before dusk turned my purple carriage intoa yellow pumpkin, but I wouldn’t mind working on a day others were off. Mostpeople - children, families, and lovers - anticipate the holidays with reverie,but being single, far from home, without friends or family near – I figured I’drather work to help get through the lonely time. 



 



“I’ve got nothing better to do,” Isaid. 



 



“OK, you handle the ball,” Mr. Kreplied in sports vernacular. 



 



That week, I pondered possibletopics to address. Editorials express opinion, I thought. Well, I have a few ofthose. Here’s the thing. As idyllic as the small town of Lake Holland appeared,from my perspective, the townspeople were living behind the times. Only whitemen served in positions of influence or power. The town council, school board,and merchants association were directed by men. Women served as clerks,secretaries, and coffee makers. Females were excluded from membership in thevolunteer fire company, yet they were expected to raise funds for fireequipment through the ladies auxiliary. The male dominated white culture Iencountered in Lake Holland was jarring for me, coming from a progressivecollege campus and a military community generously sprinkled with color. Theonly dark-skin families I saw in Lake Holland worked the fields and lived inshanty houses along a dirt road that ended at an abandoned cemetery. 



 



Alone at the office, lost in my viewof the world, I banged out my opinion. 



 



“Unfortunately, the charm of aquintessential village like Lake Holland is sullied by pervasivediscrimination, chauvinism, and outdated practices at odds with the 1970s,” Iwrote. “Lake Holland, while on the cusp of emerging as one of Michigan’s top‘go-to’ destinations, is stuck in the past. It’s like people are stranded inthe 1950s, trapped in an episode of the Twilight Zone.”



 



On a roll, I continued typing, “Thisis 1976, after all, America’s Bicentennial. Voting rights have been extended toblacks, the Equal Rights Amendment is headed for ratification, and young womenare choosing to delay motherhood in favor of joining the work force. LakeHolland should catch up with modern times if the town expects to enticenewcomers and retain young families.” 



 



Scanning my draft, I didn’t fear myideas were particularly radical. I actually hoped my editorial might enlightena few souls and jump start the town’s progress. I assumed my outsider’s insightand a broader point of view would be welcome by a community competing forbusiness and tourist dollars. 



 



Satisfied with the editorial, Islipped it into the courier’s envelope and congratulated myself for puttingthat week’s edition to bed for Mr. K. Now for the drive to Grand Rapids. Itbeing barely noon, I’d have a comfortable four hours to make the round tripbefore sunset, but the afternoon clouds were low and heavy. We’d had a nicewindow of late fall-like weather, but precisely according to the calendar,winter was blowing in.



 



Fortunately, the roads remainedmostly dry on my drive to the city, but excitement over my first trip to GrandRapids was literally over-shadowed by the threatening weather. Relieved, Ifound my destination without trouble. Inside the lobby the promised drop boxwas clearly marked for after hour and holiday service. Errand complete, Ireturned to my vehicle. In that short time, the parking meter had acquired atwo-inch snow cap. I dug the windshield brush from under the driver’s seat andcursed myself for not keeping a pair of gloves in my car.



 



Navigating the return route, mysqueaky wiper blades barely kept pace with the falling snow. I was mesmerizedby wet confetti flying into the windshield. I prayed that oncoming vehicleswere driving with headlights on. My own headlamps only illuminated swirlingflakes, further obscuring the ruts left by the car in front of me. 



 



The return trip took twice as longin the wintry weather. The lane narrowed and the edges of the roadwaydisappeared. Thick slush built up in my wheel wells and my retreaded tiresbegan slipping. Although there was still daylight, the white world in front ofme might just as well have been black. When I crested the last hill I’dencounter before entering the village, I sighed with relief. The next second, Ishuddered when the headlights of an oncoming vehicle past me on the rightinstead of the left. Was I driving on the wrong side of the road? I could nolonger see any road. Holding my breath, I stifled a scream, My purple turtlecrawled the final mile to my apartment. At least a foot of snow had blown upagainst my screen door. I tugged on the frozen handle and lurched up thestairs. Home base. I’d made it in one piece. Crumpling onto the couch, I sobbedwith relief and regret. My heart hurt. If I’d been in a head-on collision thatday, it would have been days before anyone even missed me. My family would havegathered to celebrate Christmas Eve, unaware that my life had ended. I wantedto sleep through the loneliest week of my life.



 



Depressed and snowed in, I worked tosalvage my determination. I lived in my PJs for the next four days. My littleblack and white Panasonic broadcast the Dick Van Dyke Show. The audience’slaughter lightened my mood. My sewing machine hummed as I constructed curtainsfor the bedroom, and the sweet scent of home baked chocolate chunk cookiescovered the stink of cigarettes which I indulged in as well. On the kitchentable, my Charlie Brown tree dropped needles onto a small assortment ofpresents from my parents. Although no one constrained me from unwrapping giftsearly, I adhered to the family ritual and waited until Christmas morning. Myparents would expect to hear proper surprise and gratitude when they phoned atthe appointed hour.



 



By Monday, I’d shaken off the frightfrom my close collision, and I strode into work, confident that I’d carried theball well on behalf of Mr. K. I smiled at my boss but his face, like a theatermask, was frozen in a tragic frown.



 



“What’s wrong?” I dumped myoverstuffed purse and lunch bag onto my desk.



 



Mr. K gruffly snapped back the pagesof the paper he’d been perusing to reveal my holiday editorial. He stabbed atthe headline with his beefy index finger.



 



“Lake Holland Stuck in Past,” itread. The bold byline credited me, Claudia Krump, for the stinging opinionsexpressed in the piece. 



 



At once, I realized how damning mywords would appear to a long-time local like Mr. K. The hurt in his eyes waspalpable. He didn’t speak. Too late the light dawned. I had shamed him and histown. I had put Lake Holland’s shortcomings on display. Why did I insist onmuddying the small town’s reputation with my mindless tirade? Wasn’t I learningto like the people? To top it off, I had callously delivered this gift to thetown just in time for the holiday. Talk about being out of step. Yet, intypical fashion, I attempted to defend myself.



 



“Mr. K, let me explain.” 



 



“This is what I get for enticing ayoung newcomer to town?” My editor interrupted, shrugged on his jacket, snaggedhis cigarettes, and stomped out of the office leaving me to stare at theindelible newsprint.



 



His sharp words hit their mark. Isank into my swivel chair and buried my face in my hands. Hurting Mr. Kowalskisomehow felt worse than wronging my parents over the years. For the first time,it mattered what someone like Mr. K thought of me. I recognized the harm causedby my poor judgment. Could I ever make it up to him? Would Mr. K still evenwant to be my boss?



 



The winter chill outside was nothingcompared to the cold freeze I faced at work over the next month. The week myfateful editorial was published, I was uninvited to the annual merchantappreciation luncheon. 



When I entered the Town Hall to checkthe overnight police roster, the officer on duty turned his back to me. At thedonut shop, the clerk dropped my change on the counter rather than into myoutstretched hand. Back at the newsroom, I discovered a telephone message on mydesk rescinding my invitation to the Women’s Civic Club banquet that weekend. 



 



I was being blackballed. The localswere ganging up on me. In desperation, I called Officer Braun for advice. EvenRobbie gave me grief.



 



“What were you thinking? This isn’tyour home town. You’re not from here. Who are you to judge the way we live? Whydon’t you go back to Colorado and leave us alone.”



 



Conflicted, I attempted to defend myrighteous viewpoint. “It’s the 1970s, after all, more than a decade since thecivil rights march on Washington D.C. Of course, I didn’t mean to smear yourtown. I’m surprised that anyone even reads the paper around here. “I cried.



 



In fact, every person I’d befriendedand many more I never would had read the editorial and swore to be my enemy. Ianguished. Who was I to judge them? The villagers weren’t complaining. So what?They were behind in the times. That had its advantages, didn’t it? Rural lifewas slower. Families were intact. Lifelong bonds were strong.



 



“What should I do now?” I lamentedto Robbie. 



 



“You can’t fix this,” he said. “Youdidn’t consider our feelings when you mouthed off about our ways, so now youcan eat crow,” Robbie ended the call.



 



I berated myself. After all, didn’tI envy the ways of a small town, where people had roots, wheremulti-generational families were close, where you could call on your neighborsfor help. Why hadn’t I thought to write an editorial about those qualitiesinstead?



 



The weeks passed slowly. The townleaders stretched me on a rack. Mr. K doled out assignments without comment.His silence was worse than criticism. After the town council meeting, the mayordeclined to answer when I asked for a quote on the budget plan. The schoolboard chair didn’t return my phone calls about the teachers’ contract. Even myco-workers at the office looked away instead of saying “good morning.” Could Iever recover my reputation? Any night, I feared I’d be tarred, feathered, andrun out of town by an angry mob.



 



Nearing a breaking point, I grappledwith a decision. Should I stay in Lake Holland or jump ship? Maybe I shouldaccept the photographer’s invitation and return to Colorado to hope for a joboffer from the newspaper there. Although the compulsion to quit was tempting,I’d already moved halfway across the country. I was becoming invested in thesmall community. I had accepted a challenge and was testing myself. If Ideserted now, I’d be admitting defeat. 



 



For weeks, my head churned with theimpossible decision. One night late in January, despite downing half a bottleof wine, I struggled to sleep. I turned and tossed, twisted in my sheets like acorkscrew. Ultimately, my stubborn streak kicked in. I freed myself from thecovers at first light. I needed to clear my head.  Layered up for thesnow, I gathered my cross country ski gear and drove to the Lake Hollandtrailhead.



Years later, I struggled with the“what if?” What if I had left Lake Holland then, with my tail between my legs,before the real news hit? I didn’t know then that the decision I made that daywould change my life forever. 



 



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