The Price of Words

Since I have a stack of 7th grade personal essays staring at me, I thought I should probably finish the one I started as a model for them.

                I sat alone on the steps outside Lakenheath High School in the gathering dusk, waiting for the late bus to pick me up.  It would amble along for more than an hour before depositing me across the street from my house in Newmarket.  Spring hadn’t made up its mind if it was going to stick around yet or not, and I was glad I had a sweatshirt.  Normally the stop was crowded with kids who hung out after school for drama or sports or detention or whatever.  I had stayed behind for other sentimental reasons: sophomore year was coming to a close and within a few days I would be leaving England forever.  Dad had been reassigned stateside after three and a half years, and although I was anxious to leave, part of me didn’t want to let go of what had become an integral part of who I was.  I wanted to soak it all in before I left.

                The voice came from nowhere.  “Do you still think I’m conceited?”

                Startled, from my reverie, I stammered.  “What?”  And then I looked up.  Carrie Williams stood over me.  “What did you say?”

                “I said,” she said, switching books from one hip to the other, “do you still think I’m conceited?”

                Where was this coming from?  Of course she wasn’t conceited; Carrie was one of the most compassionate, selfless souls in our small sophomore class.  We weren’t exactly friends, but we ran in some of the same circles.  I had known Carrie since midway through seventh grade when I moved from Japan and found myself in class with her and several others for most of the day.  The only classes I didn’t have with her that year were band, gym, and science.

My mind raced back over the few interactions I had had with Carrie over the past few weeks.  Had I really said something that insensitive?

                “You remember, don’t you?” she asked.  “Back in eighth grade?”

                And then, as she stood there, tapping her foot impatiently, a scene rushed to my recollection.

                Eighth grade.  Mr. Haworth’s algebra class had just bombed another test—me included.  Most likely, I was shuffling along with Rob, Will, or John, all comrades in our miserable algebra experience.  And then we stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

                Carrie, surrounded by a group of her friends, stood in our way, bangs flipped and sprayed to perfect hardness, smacking her pseudo-fruity neon gum.  And then the interrogation began.  She turned to each one of us individually, her finger pointed, asking one question: “Do you think I’m conceited?  So-and-so said I was conceited.  Do you think I’m conceited?”

                We stood facing each other like rocks in the middle of a stream.  Between the math and science buildings, countless seventh and eighth graders flowed around us, concerned about reaching second period on time.  A small trickle of students merged from the rivulet coming from the library to the north, broadening the width of the middle school river.

                My friends looked like terrified hedgehogs caught on the back roads of a British fen between the headlights of an oncoming three-wheeler.  Each shook his head and stammered.  “Nope.”

                I was confused.  I didn’t know what that meant.  The closest thing I could retrieve from the recesses of my vocabulary was “conceded.”   But that didn’t make any sense.  I stood clueless, with no idea about she was saying.  Scrambling for an appropriate answer, my mind raced over recent blacktop gossip.  It was rumored that Carrie and my buddy Neil had French kissed outside in the library entrance earlier, despite all the protestations that she didn’t like him more than a friend.

                That sounded like she conceded something, right?  Internal conclusion reached, I nodded my head.

                “What?” she shrieked.  “You think I’m conceited?”

                “I-I guess,” I replied.

                Laughter erupted.  The crowd began jostling and shouting.

                Carrie stood there, her jaw hanging like a broken trap door, her blue eyes hidden behind clumps of mascara.

                Then the bell rang and the swarm of students fled to their classrooms like rats to their holes as the cat-like assistant principal Mr. Allan emerged from the office building to chase away the stragglers.

                I hadn’t given that incident a second thought until those same blue eyes, shining in the dying light, behind not as much make-up, looked straight into mine.  I hadn’t had too much interaction with Carrie over the past few years—few words, if any passed between us apart from meaningless pleasantries when other friends were around, but it seemed like she really wanted to talk now, like there was something she needed to get out.  Her eyes flickered, not with anger, but with a little aching, it seemed.

                “You remember, don’t you?” she repeated.  “Back in eighth grade?”

                I swallowed hard and nodded, embarrassed like a kindergartner caught eating paste.

                She continued.  “Why did you think I was conceited?”

                I looked down at my feet.  Shuffled.  Tried to think of something to say to mask my embarrassment.

                “Hmm?” she prodded.  She wasn’t upset, but honestly curious.

                I looked up, her eyes catching mine, and I knew I couldn’t lie.

                “Well,” I began, “I don’t think you are conceited.  I never did.”

                “Then why did you say that?”  Her voice quavered a little.

                Realization sucker punched me.  Sheepishly, shaking my head, I answered: “Back then…”

                “Yeah…?”

                “I didn’t know what ‘conceited’ meant.  Sorry.”

                Carrie Williams stood with her jaw hanging open for a few more seconds, and the eighth-grade flashback returned for a moment, just the way I left her standing on the blacktop a few years prior.  Then she shut her mouth and breathed slowly through her nose, pausing as if searching for what to say next.

Only the rush of traffic interrupted the silence.  And then, unexpectedly, she started to giggle quietly.  “Did you know I’ve been carrying that grudge around for two years?”

Her confession startled me.

“I decided that I didn’t want to like you because of that day,” she continued.  “That was dumb.”

I reflected on the truth of her comment.  If I looked back at the interactions I had with her, they were strained: student council assignments had indeed been awkward when the two of us were together.  Class assignments didn’t go so well when we were in the same group.  Realization of what my vocabulary ignorance had done between Carrie and me crept up behind me, just as the bus did.

I grabbed my backpack and trumpet case, mumbling another lame apology.

“You know,” she said as I started to climb aboard, “we could have had a lot of fun.”  A semi-flirtatious smile grew on her lips.  “Too bad you’re leaving.”

“Yep,” I conceded, “Too bad.”

She waved as the bus pulled away.

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

                  Last night little Ally unwisely chose to walk home from school in the snow.  She received a note to wait for me to come pick her up after choir practice, but for some reason, she chose to ignore the directive from her mother.  She first walked to the church, and then she tried to make her own way home.  By the time she staggered home through the freezing storm an hour later without hat or boots or her coat zipped up (lucky she had gloves), she was soaked.  And she knew she was in trouble.  Needless to say, she thawed out, received a stern talking to, and shivered until bedtime.

                  It reminded me of a time when I was in high school where I was hanging with my friend Jon and Steve out at The Coop one wintry Friday night.  For those who don’t know, The Coop was literally a large chicken coop converted into an apartment on the back of Jon’s parents’ property.  A bunch of us pitched in labor one summer to clean and refinish the insides.  (Some of that process could possibly make its way into another of these narratives.)  It’s where we would hold massive parties, crash after long adventures, eat Rally burgers, listen to tunes, discuss the mysteries of the universe—such as girls or road trips, play poker, and do other guys things.

                  Back on track now, the three of us were chillin’ at the coop on a snowy night.  I believe we had finished working late and decided to crash.  The snow had been coming down heavily during the day, but it had slowed to a light flurry.  We were bored and a little stir crazy, so we decided to go for a walk.

                  Shortly after eleven p.m. we crossed the highway and tramped onto the white blanket that lay across the farmers’ fields.  For a short time we joked, wrote our names in the snow, and goofed off, but then the snow picked up and a stiff breeze started blowing the whiteness sideways into our faces, silencing our raucousness.  We trudged on.

The soft fluff that drifted through the air muffled the noise of the scarce cars that slid by and enveloped the night in a reverent silence.  We trudged through the fields, over small hills, and down frozen gullies.  After a while the wind picked up and blew out the clouds, leaving the sky black and star-pocked.  From the top of a small rise we finally paused, a checkerboard of frozen fields before us, the lights of the city behind us.  As quickly as the wind had picked up, it disappeared.  Time held its icy breath and left us to inhale Winter’s richness and ponder its cruel potency.  God tapped us on the shoulder.

                  “Cool,” one of us muttered, expelling visible breath.

                  I don’t think another word was spoken.  Usually we would be joking, singing, or generally making noise, but tonight it wasn’t necessary.  Understanding hung in the air like our visible breath.  Later we hiked back into town by way of an ice-covered rutty farm road and were picked up by Jon’s dad at the Quik Trip convenience store where we had stopped for hot chocolate and MSG-laden microwaveable grub.  I believe it might have been around two a.m. by this time.  We knew we were in deep (frozen) doggie-doo.  The parental figures were all furious and demanded that we explain ourselves.

                  We couldn’t.  Our wanderlust and its bonding powers overwhelmed us and imprinted an indelible experience that left the three of us without words.

For us, we shared something that didn’t need explaining.

Even though it was wrong, Ally, I understand.

Worst. Meal. Ever.

Today’s story comes from a piece I started earlier this year after I read “The Battle of the Red Hot Pepper Weenies” by David Lubar from the short story collection of the same title.  My students wanted to know about different foods I have tried: best chocolate, weirdest texture, hottest (like the story), grossest, etc.

I’m not really sure about the hottest thing I've ever eaten.  It’s possibly Dave’s Insanity Sauce, which my brother dropped into a dish of mac and cheese.  I cried brimstone for hours.  I don’t really go in for the super melt-your-teeth-out hot stuff, though.  I prefer flavor over potency.  That’s why I usually stick to milder sauces—the flavors are richer and enhance whatever they are added to.   But when it comes to stuff that’s painful going in as well as coming out, there is definitely one episode that stands out.

When I was serving as a missionary in southern Spain, my companion and I were working in the small pueblo of Andújar.   Through some acquaintances, we met an elderly woman named Conchita.  Her family had all moved away, so she was rather lonely.  We would visit with her fairly frequently and help her around the house or do her shopping as she was getting on in years, and life had not been very kind to her.  One day, out of the blue, she invited us over on occasion to eat.  We didn't even know she could cook as she had mostly been eating cold foods—ready-made packed foods or fresh fruits or bread.  That and the fact that her eyesight was going (quickly) gave us cause to be little worried.

Reluctantly, we accepted her invitation, and she immediately began planning a menu for us.  She set the lunch two weeks ahead.  Why so far off, we didn't know.  Maybe she had to wait for her pension to clear or for her new teeth to come in the mail, but whatever the delay, for the next few weeks, she would tell us of how she was preparing the best feast ever.  “Just like I used to,” she would exclaim.  And then she’d clasp her rosary and escape to some far off time only her mind could see.  We began to get a little worried.

The day of the appointment came, and we arrived at Conchita's apartment with a blend of anticipation and trepidation.  The table was only set for two.  When asked why she wasn't eating with us, she scowled and growled, “I've already eaten.  Don’t you know I can’t eat all this rich food I've prepared?  It’d kill me off for sure!”  Hesitantly, we slid into the wobbly hardback chairs.

As quickly as she could shuffle in, the first course was served: soup.  Not too bad, right?  Heh heh.  I wouldn't be telling this tale if it wasn't disgusting.  The soup was a lukewarm watery broth with lumps of overcooked spinach, not-so-cooked eggplant and some chunks of cold dried and salted fish—cod, I believe.  Elder G— spluttered as the first spoonful crossed the threshold of his mouth.  I wiped my eye and tie and shirt.  “Super delicious!” he pronounced.

My hand shook as Conchita turned to me.  “What do you think?”  I gulped it down, trying not to let anything touch my tongue on its way down.  I grimaced; hopefully, to her it would appear that I was smiling.  Gave it too thumbs up, and made a supposed-to-be-yummy sound.  Really, I was trying not to gag and spit.

We squirmed and swallowed for the next hour or so, trying our hardest to avoid drinking the warm gazpacho she sloshed together in a semi-clean pitcher.

When we couldn't bear any more, we excused ourselves as politely as we could (It still took about twenty minutes to get out the door.), and we headed home.

As we walked down the apartment building stairs, both of our stomachs audibly expressed their displeasure.  We glanced at each other knowingly, and without a word, we started moving double time back to our place.  Stream poured from my forehead, but it wasn't just from the heat or the pace we moved at.  The outward signs of my insides’ rebellion started to manifest themselves.  I burped and re-tasted the helping of landfill I had forced down my throat.  My stomach lurched, and I looked over at my companion.

Elder G— appeared worse than I felt: white face, glasses slipping, I thought he might faint on the spot.  Suddenly, he threw off his backpack and demanded the keys.  “I’m not going to make it!” he burbled, and he took off sprinting, leaving in in the dusty road.

Five minutes later I stumbled up to our fourth-floor hole-in-the-wall.  My pace had slowed to a crawl as the cramping gradually grew worse.  The front door swung in the light breeze.  Shoes, pants, and shirt littered the hallway.  As I took in the disheveled state of affairs, I heard a scream of relief coming from the bathroom down the hall.  I’m not going to mention what else I heard (or smelled).  I'll leave that to your capable imagination.

Let’s just leave it by saying that we didn't work much (or very far from our apartment) for the next few days.  And we never ate with Conchita again.

Pillow Fight!

My brother Marc and I were discussing this episode during a post-Thanksgiving dinner belly scratch, so I thought I would tackle the topic.  I've told this story many times, but this is the first attempt at putting it to paper.

One summer Saturday afternoon when I was eleven, and we were living on Yokota AFB, Japan, my parents figured I was responsible enough to watch my two younger brothers by myself.  Marc was nine, and David had just turned seven.  Mom and Dad went to the bowling alley for some kind of church social.

As I have mentioned previously, the three of us used to wrestle for fun on Sunday afternoons.  After that fad had subsided, we moved on to pillow fighting.  And here there were no holds barred.  Any pillow, any stuffed animal was fair game.  The only rule was that you couldn't stuff anything hard inside the pillowcase during the fight.  (We all know why rules have to be made.)  The fight ended when the other two surrendered.  We usually never got that far but had to stop when Mom discovered what we were doing.

But back to this particular a Saturday afternoon with no parental supervision.  I, as the eldest and biggest and strongest (I didn't even exercise), was beating the living crap out of Marc and David.  I stood atop Marc’s Superman bedspread in the far corner of the room as he and David attacked one at a time.  As soon as I would bludgeon one, the other would attack.  I would pummel him, and the process would repeat.  To this day I still wonder that they never attacked me together.  For about half an hour the cycle would repeat.  Smash.  Stagger. Smash. Stagger.

Whether I had administered the world’s first pillow concussion, or whether he finally got smart, I don’t know (and neither does he; I asked him the other day as we were reminiscing the scene), but as I would up for another plush kill shot, Marc ducked.

Definitely thrown off balance by his modified game plan, I slipped off the bed, my momentum spinning me three times in the air in one of those slower-than-life-speech-blurring- scenes where you are aware of what is about to happen but can’t do anything about it.  I crashed my head hard on the corner of a metal wall heater then collapsed to the floor.

Dazed for a few seconds, I shook it off and hauled myself to my feet.  My head didn't hurt too much, just a good knock to the noggin—not even concussion-consideration-worthy.   Then I noticed the large indentation my head had created in the metal.  Wow! I wondered how long it would be before anyone else (with authority) noticed.

And then David started shrieking like a little girl.  “You’re bleeding.  You’re gonna die!”

I reached back to feel the point of impact, and sure enough, it came back bathed in bright crimson.

I went to the bathroom mirror and noticed that the back of my neck was now red, as was my T-shirt.  It was dripping pretty quickly.  For some reason, I did not panic.  I got a spare towel (made sure it was an old one, Mom) and stuck it to my head, applying pressure because that’s what scouts who have their First Aid merit badge do.  See, kids.  Paying attention at Scout meetings pays off.

I sent Marc to fetch our neighbor Mrs. Brown, who knew how to contact Mom and Dad.  They returned swiftly, and the next thing I knew I was in the ER getting one stitch in my head.  Not too shabby.  Mom thought I would need to be numbed, but the doc said it would be easier to stitch it up right away.  And so I discovered that I have a high tolerance for sharp things in my head.  It didn't hurt a bit.

What did hurt was when I returned to have the stitch removed by the flight surgeon (or whoever was on call).  He cut the stitch, but then pulled the wrong end.  So the ginormous non-boy scout knot went first back through my scalp and into my head, and then came back out the other hole, which promptly bled into my hair for a minute or two.  Ouch!

And within a day or two my brothers and I were back at it again.

Three Sisters!

To get the ball rolling, I’m going to start with something simple and something Christmassy, although I promise right now that not all of my posts will be Christmas-related.  This afternoon I started a list of ideas about Christmas and only came up with four.  One will definitely be saved for later in the month.  The others will appear randomly—depending on how much time I have to write each day.

Toward the end of 2006 Amy was pregnant with our fourth child, who was due to arrive at the end of April.  With Sariah and Zac we found out the gender well in advance.   With Ally, we decided to let it be a surprise until delivery.  We wanted to do something different, so as cheesy as it sounds, we decided that it would be fun to have the baby’s gender be a surprise to open on Christmas morning.

At the appointment when everything is revealed, the ultrasonographer checked everything out: counted toes, analyzed brain matter, told us when to close our eyes, and sealed the pictures in an envelope.  Little Sariah, Zac, and Ally could hardly stand to wait.  We placed the secret near the top of the Christmas tree (so grubby little hands couldn’t “accidently” reveal the surprise) and waited.

Christmas morning arrived as usual with squeals and Santa and the brightly colored mess of recyclable paper and plastic.  We had decided to open the envelope last.  And although the three little yahoos chomped at the bit for me to put sets together, dress baby dolls, and insert batteries, the kids quieted down when Amy pulled down the small envelope.  Zac—hoping for a brother—and Sariah—wishing for another sister—started crossing their fingers.  Ally may have just slurped hers.

“It’s a sister!” exclaimed Amy (or something close to that).

Sariah cheered.  Ally joined in.

Zac’s stood speechless for several seconds.  Then his eyes brimmed with tears and held for a few more moments before exploding: “But I already have two sisters!”  He broke down, weeping like a kid who Santa had passed over.

It took several minutes to console him.

The need for special “guy time” between a boy and his dad shot to the top of the priority list.

A day later he came up to Amy with a crayon creation in his hand.  “This is for ‘Little Bit’” he said.  Apparently he was over the trauma that would be Brooklyn.  Then he sneaked away to terrorize his other sisters.

It’s a good thing Sam came along a few years later.

Call for Storytime

So it's almost December, and I have come up with my December blogging idea.  This year I'd like to explore a different memory every day and share a short narrative.  Since I've been delving into the past recently, it sounds to me (at least right now) that I shouldn't find it too difficult.  However, I would like to ask for your assistance.  I've got a few that I want to stat with, but I need you to help me think of ideas--times in my life that might be worth writing about--small little slices of life.  So please chime in with what you would like to hear/read.  Whether it's a general suggestion like an age, a grade in school, or a place I lived, or even if you have a particular situation or story you'd like me to tackle, I'd love your input.

Check out my other posts throughout joeaveragewriter.blogspot.com if you need to see what subjects I've tackled recently.

I'm excited to see which stories reveal themselves over the next thirty-one days.

Sunday Afternoon Wrestling

This was written (with my students) after reading Eoin Colfer’s “Artemis Begins” from Guys Read: Funny Business.

Unlike most brothers, we didn’t beat the crap out of each other out of anger.  No, the abuse was voluntary and most of the time encouraged by the recipients.  I don’t think I did too much damage without their consent—just an occasional dead-arm punch.

Back when there were just the three of us boys, we established a weekly tradition when we lived in Japan.  For some reason Sunday afternoons were sacredly observed as Mom’s nap time.  We’d come home from church, have a large dinner—usually chicken and rice, lasagna, or something else loaded with carbs, and then Mom would disappear for a few hours.  Sometimes, when Dad was home, we’d wrestle with him, and then settle down for a movie.

Every once in a while, Dad would have an extra meeting, or would be gone on a TDY for the Air Force, and we’d have to entertain ourselves while Mom slumbered.  Of course, it was only natural to carry on our tradition of Sunday afternoon wrestling.  However, without Dad to supervise, it would get out of control and heads would get busted, eyes poked, feelings hurt; but we kept fighting for the fun of it.  And without fail, we’d wake up Mom, and that would be the end—the rest of Sunday spent in our rooms, apart from each other.

One Saturday we watched WrestleMania III where Hulk Hogan defeated Andre the Giant.  By the next day Marc had perfected his impersonation of Randy “Macho Man” Savage, and was in rare (annoying) form.  I decided to try a new move on my brothers.  I was getting tired of using the same techniques that kept them at bay; I needed to inflict a new type of pain.  You see, as I was the oldest, they usually tag-teamed against me when Dad wasn't there to keep things even.  Sometimes, they would attack at once and try to pin me.  They never could.  Ever.  Still can’t.

A few months before, my parents purchased new blue-gray couches for the living room.  They were tired of the ugly basic brown base furniture the military supplied.  The back stood about three or four feet off the ground: the perfect height, or so I thought, to be the “top rope” of our wrestling ring.

After I had knocked both Marc and David to the floor, I climbed to the top rope, and jumped at them with my arms stretched out for a double clothesline as they staggered to their feet.  It worked a little too well.

Unfortunately, I fell faster than I had anticipated, and when I caught both of them, sending them thudding back to the floor, their resistance didn’t slow me down at all.  My head smacked into the thinly carpeted floor.  All three of us lay there for what seemed like forever.  No one cried.  No one tattled.  But our wrestling careers seriously calmed down after that.  When we half-heartedly started back up, David tried the same aerial tactic multiple times, but I would just catch him mid-air and set him on the couch.  Somehow, wrestling my brothers lost its luster for me.  It was never the same again.  I would never lose.

Just a few summers ago, Marc, David, Nicole, and Dad all ganged up on me to try and throw me in the inflatable kiddie pool set up for the grandkids.  Guess who the only one who didn't get wet was?

Am I Really Innocent Until Proven Guilty?

That title sounds like I'm going to bash our judicial system or something.  It was purposely misleading.  And that's part of my quandary this morning: I had a thought as I have been working on a short personal narrative piece with my darling little seventh graders (and the stinky ones, too).  And I know I haven't really concerned myself too much with this in the past, but I started thinking about the ethics behind writing personally.  How personal is too personal?  When I attempt to write about my past, do I take pains to change the names of the guilty, or innocent, as the case may be?  Or do I let it all hang out and not care who sees the blood, sweat, and barbecue stains on the laundry?

What are the repercussions of telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth as far as my mind dictates?  I know that over time my version of an episode changes; it gets better.  And usually it continues to improve with each retelling.  So where do I draw the line?  Is there some invisible boundary that when I cross it all my writing credentials spontaneously combust?  The cliche reports that truth is stranger than fiction, but when does others' strangeness and quirkiness need to be protected?  When is it authentic detail, and when is it "TMI," as my students love to misuse?  Of course, I never want to disparage anybody (most of the time), and I'm not too cool with defamation of character, slander, or the like.  What is going to convict me?

In the past, I haven't really cared, or maybe the better way to put it is that I haven't cared to write anything that might be considered too personal by other involved parties.  I don't worry about sharing when I farted during algebra in 7th grade or when I peed on a rattlesnake, but it's when I involve other people--friends, enemies, civilian casualties, not-so-innocent bystanders--that I start to get a titch nervous.

Regardless, I'm a little stuck due to my newly-overly cautious ethics sensors (maybe its my dissertation jitters coming out--running the use of human subjects past the IRB); they're a little crossed.

Any thoughts on that?

Veterans Day Reflection

                I suppose I should write something patriotic seeing as yesterday was Veterans Day.  In the morning we had a nice assembly with Sgt. Long and Gen. Burton from the Utah National Guard.  I always get a little misty when I ponder the freedoms I enjoy and those who have made that freedom possible.  A rousing rendition of “The Star Spangled Banner” always gets the tears flowing.

    Dad always springs to mind first, since he was active duty USAF while I was living at home.  He retired around the time I graduated from high school, and was gone quite often for military training.

                The summer before I started high school he had been stateside (We were living in England) for several weeks.  When he returned to RAF Mildenhall where he was stationed, he learned that his squadron had been mobilized and were headed down to Saudi Arabia and Kuwait for Operation: Desert Storm.  He spent two days with us and then was gone.

                Those nine months were tough.  I gave up watching the news.  Avoiding reading about it was harder, as I delivered the Stars and Stripes in my neighborhood.  Eventually he returned, but then spent the next several months alternating between temporary duties in Russia, Germany, Turkey, and home.  I have to say that it was crazy not knowing if he would come home or not.

                I am grateful for him, his sacrifice, and for the opportunities I have had as a result of his assignments around the globe.  I have been places, witnessed events, and met people that have influenced my life.  I count myself fortunate to have been an Air Force brat.  It is part of who I am.

                And when thinking of other veterans who have made a personal impact on my life, I can’t forget my mom, grandfathers, uncles, in-laws, friends, and even random strangers.  The men and women who helped me to grow, especially when Dad was gone, who served their country in many ways—security, mechanics, intelligence, etc.—will never be forgotten as they are a part of who I am.

                Earlier this year I had the chance to visit Arlington National Cemetery with my wife, her father, and her brothers while we enjoyed an extended family vacation and reunion in Washington D.C.  It was the first time I had ever visited the hallowed ground, and it was every bit as inspiring as had been advertised.

                Shortly after the experience I tried to express through writing the awe and majesty I felt while strolling through the waves of marble markers—only broken by a few larger memorials—but I feel that I failed miserably.

The following six paragraphs are another attempt to capture that moment, which will most likely also fail because I don’t believe that words exist to describe the pride, the richness of history, tradition, and honor, or the reverence for the past that I felt as I ambled across those hills above the western shore of the Potomac overlooking the capital of our nation.

The air hung heavy with humidity, but as we hiked up the grounds double-time toward the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, a light sprinkle began, further dampening those few spots on our bodies that were not already wet with perspiration. 

               Before we could catch our breath from the forced march, the changing of the guard began, and I was privy to one of the most awe-inspiring rites I have ever witnessed.  Pondering the symbolism, the simplicity, and the crisp elegance to which the soldiers performed their duties, I stood as the gravity with which these duties were performed washed over me.

                Shortly, the ceremony was over, and the newly charged Marine resumed his solemn vigil.  As we moved away to find the Confederate Memorial, I juxtaposed this experience with that of the occasion where I witnessed the pomp and pageantry that surrounded the changing of the queen’s guard at Buckingham Palace: bright reds and blacks and whites, thronging tourists’ camera flashes.  Although that in itself was quite the spectacle, it lacked the reverence displayed on a rainy, summer afternoon in Arlington.

               We continued our visit by visiting several memorials and gravestones—some famous, like Abner Doubleday, supposed inventor of baseball, complete with homages of weather-worn baseball shrines left by diehards—others not so famous and perhaps forgotten.  I submit that these, almost overlooked in the endless tide of white marble, were perhaps some of the most touching.  Each one represented an individual, but together they formed a powerful force to be reckoned with--equally on the battlefield in life and also in death, serving as a reminder to those who linger on this earth of the sacrifices required for freedom.

                The flame at President John F. Kennedy’s memorial reminded me of the fire that burns in Philadelphia and in other historic sites, representing past sacrifice and symbolizing the ever-present need for good men and women to step up when required and do their duty to God and man.

At the top of the hill, at Arlington House, we ran into one of my former students.  I seriously can't go anywhere (even 2200 miles away) without running into one of them, can I?  It was still cool to see Maddy and realize how big an impact one seemingly insignificant individual like me, an English teacher in Utah, can make on the future of our nation.  Despite all the screwy things that happen in our country and in the world, regardless of the corruption that runs rampant through all aspects of life, there are some things that are good and proper and right.  And Arlington Cemetery helped me put them back into perspective that gray afternoon in July.

Later on that same trip, to kill time on a Sunday afternoon, my brother and I took our families to visit a small Confederate graveyard in Jonesboro, Georgia, just outside Atlanta.  Here someone had forgotten the dead.  Without the kids noticing, my sister-in-law and I picked up a dozen or so empty forties.  It upset me to think that so much disrespect existed, especially in a land known for its tradition and proud heritage.  Still, it was nice to see the rest of the cemetery well preserved.

              After a summer of patriotic events and traversing this magnificent country we live in (23 states and the District of Columbia in 25 days), I appreciate the sacrifice of our veterans even more than I have before.

Practicing What I Preached

True to what I implored all of you to do for the National Day on Writing, I wrote today.  (Most of) My students did, too.  They came away with quite a few projects that they are anxious to pursue, too.  A successful day if a do say so myself.  Here's my draft:

“Melancholic Block”

I flip blankly

through the curling blue-covered notebook

in my hands—

seventy pages of college-ruled nothingness—

and chew the end of my eraser,

along with my thoughts,

spitting out nothing—

digesting even less

Memory’s phonograph drones

its nondescript tune

until it reaches the inner-most

circumference of the aged vinyl—

song over;

the needle, abandoned and forgotten,

trips incessantly—

going nowhere

Melancholy wanders over

and notices that I

don’t look up

she drapes her dusty arm

over my shoulder,

her wispy tresses trailing

like a metaphoric afterthought

that means nothing in particular

and listens to the same slow symphony:

sad

a glance from her ashen eyes

clarifies:

words won’t work today—

the muse is absent—

home with a sore throat

but even without words,

understanding exists,

as she places a

tepid hand over mine—

not grabbing

not holding

not squeezing—

just there

it’s reassuring,

knowing these doldrums

of unmoving lines,

will be weathered,

but for now…

I break out the oars

and strike for the other side

As always, comments and criticism are welcome.

It's That Time of Year Again!

Time for zombie haiku.  To kick off SFJH's 4th annual zombie haiku contest, I have penned ten new zombie haiku for your reading pleasure/disgust.  Please feel free to try your hand at this undead tradition by dropping a limb, I mean a line or three in the comments.

“let’s give her a hand”—

zombie’s attempt to find a

snack for his daughter

hand and foot in mouth

is a meal for young zombies

not another plague

watching The Walking

Dead reminds zombies of old

fam’ly videos

rude teenage rebel

learned painful lesson; she told

zombie, “Just bite me.”

zombie kids always

fight over the human prize

hiding in the box

philosophers turned

zombie are often tempted

to split their own skulls

refrigerated

remains are never as good

as fresh flesh served raw

intestinal tug-

of-war ends when zombies hit

the end of the line

when sunbathing near

zombies, be careful or else

more than skin might peel

the hunger games are

undeniably zombie’s

favorite pastime

Reminder and a Plea for Help (or The Well is Running Dry)

First and foremost, I need to remind everybody that next Sunday, October 20th, is the National Day on Writing.  Since it falls over the weekend, I am going to celebrate the day twice.  First, I will celebrate on that day individually.  Second, I will celebrate on Monday with my students.  Awesome, huh?

I just have one problem.  I'm not sure how I want to celebrate this year.  I started this blog for the NDoW back in 2009.  In 2010 I asked for feedback for help with a publication decision.  Only two people responded.  I guess not that many people read this blog.  The next year was a complete bust, and I blamed it on Fall Break.  Instead of celebrating on October 20th, I began my first of two failed attempts at NaNoWriMo.  2011 definitely doesn't make the writing highlight reel.  Last year, in 2012, I reminded everyone else to celebrate.  I gave my students the assignment to "impress me."  That actually produced quite a bit of good student writing across multiple genres.  I also decided to share the story behind Average Joe--a little history behind the name.

And that brings me back to now.  I have a couple ideas kicking around in my brain.  There's a presentation that my colleague and I are working on that I'd like to squeeze an article or two out of.  The muses have also whispered a poetic line or three; they just didn't show me how to connect the dots.    My committee chair would probably be happier if I buckled down and finished my dissertation proposal.  I'm trying to figure out how to approach NaNoWriMo.  And, like always, sixty-three and a half assorted ideas remain percolating on the back burner.

If any of you have any ideas, please feel free to share.  Anyone have a challenge or something?