Final Assignment

The Lost ShiTzu

It became the bitterly cold winter of 1998. For the last week in December it rained with the temperature hovering around 33 degrees; there had been no snow at Christmas but the slush build up was beginning to solidify as the temperature dropped and the new year approached. Outside my studio on 41st there were huge ruts slowly hardening of what had once been thick slush building layer upon extended layer as the city busses cruised by every half hour of the night and day. What was developing were more like four bobsled tracks of ice in both lanes, as the temperature slowly dropped over several days under gray gloomy skies. The huge city buses sledded the streets and skated around corners: light cars proceeded with dire dread and caution under the conditions. City plows weren’t out yet as a snow emergency hadn’t been declared.
. The sidewalk in front of my unit was kept clear of snow, sleet and ice by my landlord: he owned the Suds Yer Duds Laundromat next door. The owner Nathan kept it safe and accessible for his customers applying crushed rock salt several times a day; but it was dangerous and slippery as hell. I dropped in and out of the laundry several times a day for a soda occasionally to suds my duds. It was growing dark by 4:30 under heavy clouds. We hadn’t seen the sun for two weeks. I was out of project work in the temporary data entry business after working nearly ten years for Quorum and, waiting to hear the news on several job applications I had submitted over the last few months
One evening during those weather conditions as I was slipping and sliding over to the laundry for a breather and a soda, I noticed a lump of gray sludge with two shiny orbs the size of quarters flashing in the lights, bobbing up and down in the rut closest to the curb: it was unrecognizable except for the movement. But the motion caught my attention. It was an ugly little image but I ventured closer to see what the thing was.

I was astonished to see the little moving blob was a ‘dog’: of indeterminable breed. Despite being somewhat squeamish about handling and touching such objects I took a step into the sloppy rut and snatched up the dirty little dog which couldn’t have weighed twenty pounds. It was sopping wet, shivering, extremely dirty as I swooped it into my arms; the little guy didn’t struggle a bit as I hauled him into my apartment; he was just glad to be inside, somewhere off the street out the rut. He (or she) reminded me of our Pekinese from the early days from its size and shape.
Drying him off I quickly found was not option because his fir was so thick, I couldn’t begin to dry his thick fur with a towel or hair dryer. When he shook himself vigorously a stench of some degree became more apparent. So my only option was to give him a hot bath: it reminded me of the time I broke through the ice on Whetstone creek: I barely scrambled out of that one and my clothes were frozen solid by the time I got home; mom threw me in the tub. I was still shivering hours later and so was the dirty little dog.

One of the first things I noticed as I was beginning to clean up the little mutt; he was sniffing, but wasn’t tracking any movements of my hands; and made no effort to wander around or explore my studio; like my ex girlfriend’s pesky terrier had in the past.. But he was very attentive to sounds and any words I might say to him; staying as close as he possibly could to me physically but maintaining a respectful distance which suggested he was very accustomed to people treatment. I made a brief examination of the vision of his shiny black eyes that shined like ebony but didn’t seem to have a pupil or a focus. Waving my hands a foot away from his nose, I determined he was stone blind. Strangely blindness did not seem to impair the spirit the little guy: as he warmed up: he became more lively as his energy returned in my studio. Starting standing on hind legs: could spin! In that condition maintaining his balance.

I ran a tubful of warm water and dumped in a cup of Cheer; as the suds built up I continued culling through his thick gray fur that had ice granules within it after a half hour.His skin was warm; but the stench mounted as he dried little by little. As soon as I had six inches of water in the tub I piled him in: he loved his bath immediately. Unlike my horrible cat Sly. They water turned black but the fragrance of the detergent overpowered the odor; he was no longer shivering. As I toweled him down I realized it would take hours for his lush fur to dry down: and that despite it being sopping wet had probably saved his life in the streets. I could only get at the very top layer.

By the end of the cleaning phase I was exhausted: sleep was the only option. The floor of my unit was always cold; so, I had to let him sleep on my bed as he dried off. I will never forget the smell of Cheer wafting through my sleep all night long; but my visitor never moved: I don’t recall letting him out to do his thing: he probably hadn’t or drunk eaten anything for three days. Next a.m. that occurred to me; so, I set him up with some water in the double dish bowl and poured him some Friskies left over from my last cat; he was back to normal! Sprightly, friendly and cheerful as hell. I couldn’t believe the transformation.
By six that next morning the temperature had dropped below zero and was predicted to hit minus twenty. The ruts of slush on 42nd had turned to luge tracks. Nothing moved except the busses. Later in the day I walked my visitor over to the laundry where a few patrons were sitting around the dryers. Before long I was showing him off for the performer he was: he could stand and balance on his hind paws on cue (I have no idea how he saw them): incredibly he could spin completely around as I clicked my fingers: asking if anybody knew whose dog this was (?) Nobody did. I wrote out a little message and posted it on the bulletin board:
“Lost and Found: small gray dog on 41st BLIND! Call this number
724-0000”
Frankly it was a bleak scenario: the dog was apparently abandoned; we weren’t supposed to have pets in our units; no one would claim a dog in that condition and so on. I called the caretaker and informed him of the situation: he said we can deal with it for the time being anyway, under the conditions. I am a cat not a dog lover: what’s up with that?
The rest of the day I spent writing letters, applying for jobs and contacting my and several other temp agencies, as my visitor reclined upon my bed: but he wasn’t sleeping; I could just feel he was missing something or somebody. Despite my concerns I realized I wasn’t meeting his needs, by that evening his spirits were noticeably declining. He had only nibbled his food; and lapped a little water from his dish. I let him out once before crashing on night two; but it was so cold he didn’t spend more than a minute at his duties. Again he slept on my bed, kind of whimpering all night long.

Approximately 8:30 on day three of the crisis; temperature hovering at 10 below my morning routine of reading the sports and scanning the job openings for reserve teachers, data entry people, maintenance: you name it the phone rang to life; it was the caretaker..

“Hello Mike we found the dog’s owner; I know him; he’s the old guy who sometimes comes around to read the paper; no phone no car lives about a block away down the alley; said he must have left the gate open and the dog wandered off. This is like the greatest event in his life to know the dog survived the blizzard he told me to call you. I’ll go get him in my Jeep and meet you at the laundry in a half hour. Okay?

Was it ok? It was a supernatural event of the cosmic consciousness if you ask me: a lost sheep being restored, saved for its owner at the very least; a three day drama approaching the final scene; and there had been a few in front of the Laundromat: robberies, murders assaults, drug use, vagrancy: nothing like this. It took me twenty minutes to strap on three layers of insulation from the brutal weather; the little critter was lying sadly on my hideaway bed staring into his lost back yard; and the fence that protected him perhaps; as I scooped her up and headed for the laundry she was never more comfortable than being in my arms; accustomed to somebody carrying it along.

I could see Pat’s Jeep pouring out white smoke in the sub zero temps: I recognized the old guy from his crushed gray farmer hat; yes I had seen him before buying a paper from the machine outside the laundry. He stepped gingerly out of the front seat as I walked up beside the truck; with tears in his eyes he accepted my offering of his dog back:as I handed the dog into his arms; that man was in nirvana.

“Can I offer you a reward?” he asked me.
“No but you can say a prayer for me” I said.

“I’ll do that” he said

The next day at ten a.m I received a call from my agency: they had a job offer for me and it could lead to permanent full time. I didn’t hesitate long in accepting the proffer.

Several weeks after I started working my job; I was having lunch with my co-worker Tony Palacino (he said that means ‘palace guard’ in Italian!) Ex Viet Nam marine corporal, Roman Catholic; he was a tough graying soldier who loved to tell little stories about his beloved pet; who he considered a valued member of the family; especially now that his son would be graduating from Spring Lake Park High School and moving to California to live with his sister; and find a job in L.A.
“That dog loves me as much as my son, my wife, maybe more; last night he woke me up from my nap on the couch after supper by licking, tickling my toes” he continued on with several more anecdotes before I contributed my story to the conversation.

“ First of all” I said, “ I don’t advertise it much; men don’t admit it much but I’m really a cat lover; since my last kitty Ruby got run over by the city bus, I haven’t had any pet’s in my studio: but this dog I had around for a while reminds me of yours” I was thinking of the ‘loyalty’ aspect. “You gotta hear this story man” I said as I consumed the usual green chili burrito my everyday lunch consisted of. (re: narration above)

As the final words of the drama dropped from my lips; and, I bit into the last of my green chilies , Tony exclaimed…
“My God man, it’s a good thing you spotted him like that or that dog was dead, if you didn’t grab him up he’s a goner! That’s the way those dogs are -stone blind: all that fuzz and dirt from their thick hair takes their sight away early; that’s the same kind of dog I’ve got. Gray and black: a ShiTzu’s he’s blind as a bat; they go by scent alone. Christ that’s an amazing story”

Last class assigment

Teaching adults; Last assignment .I have been working as an educational consultant for the Minnesota Literacy Consortium; along with one of my colleagues we are assigned to conduct a workshop on ‘Writing as Healing’ as a form of therapy for corrections inmates’ at the State Department of Corrections facility at Shakopee: we will be coming in once a week for six weeks; we hand out a syllabus.. (unspoken: we are gathering information for a research project that evaluates writing as therapy in corrections education programs). This first session we thank you all for showing up today I realize our course is a part of mandatory sentencing, and you get credit for being here; but you had other choices like MATH..(ha ha ha the girls get a charge out of that one) Today is just to get to know each other; we introduce ourselves; there are about 17 student inmates mostly young black females, several white young and middle aged, and a handful of Mexican and Latino females

Our basic assumption is that few of the nation’s six million offenders under correctional supervision are adequately prepared to live productive and law abiding lives upon re entering the community. It has been proven offenders find therapy in writing about the problems and various conditions and that have placed them behind bars. What happened to you? Such topics as drug addiction, prostitution, theft, almost all the women have suffered some form of abuse at the hands of spouses; child neglect, or in some cases how the women feel they got a raw deal from the court and law enforcement are common subjects in the writing

With my colleague an adult education teacher at Hubbs Center for Adult Learning, we introduce ourselves as licensed teachers; and that we are here to help them discover a strategy that will help them deal with their incarceration by writing about the experiences, their feelings about prison life, anything, everything they want to write in their journal.

We hope the girls have computer skills and can create a file; we would like to provide some kind of media, a portfolio, of semi permanent folder, three ring binder , or a box to arrange the writing in; some of these girls cut open a vane, vein, vain; some of the second language offenders can barely speak or write English.

Each week we will discuss and review the last week’s work; some students may decide to read their work for the rest of the writers. I think we’ll all enjoy this exercise. Now writers would you please introduce yourself and what you intend to write about if you can; why you decided to take this class when you had other choices; also are there any among you who have already written or published your writing (?)…Oh that’s wonderful, and could you tell us your name and story….and so on

Teaching adults: I begin to discuss a strategy with him to mediate my client’s problems in dealing with attorneys. He is a study in attention deficit; with a unique twist, building his own interpretation of traditional foundations of education, , instead of ignoring, spacing out, avoiding the subject: he converts the discussion; assertively inserting his selected subject or topic for debate which is usually a proposition or legal generalization/application that leads into discussion dealing with [his] rights lost under the sixth amendment, validation of his guaranteed contract, or any subject on the Internet, how women think, (he can talk your arm off-he thinks)he will usually stick to this point whatever it is essentially filibustering until the original thought related to the defense is lost or forgotten; every conversation must lead to this conclusion if he leads it.

Initially the problem invited itself into any extended personal or phone conversation recently this issue has become a problem in written communications with attorneys and judges. Of course if I discussed this problem with the client any such analysis made him uncomfortable; he doesn’t expect that depth of analysis; he has motives for this particular finesse of reason, to protect his lost dignity interests that I suspect are most sacred of all to him. After a long series of arguments, I explained we had to have a unified strategy in our initial meeting with his new attorney (he has had four in the six years I’ve recorded the case study); a assessment of his skills in both reading an writing is estimated at 5th grade level at start up. Perhaps 8th grade today. .

The first assignment at this stage of litigation is organizational approaching Federal Court appeal on a motion for adjustment of restitution, where all the previous issues we have involved in previous court submissions become relevant as they are the foundation of voiding the charges against him: his only way out of the box. He has enough evidence to prove his case I believe; a few attorneys have agreed for a while, until they had his money; then they resigned. I believe he has to convince this attorney with the totality of it like Nabokov’s ‘Bend Sinister’story of an ‘evil’ provenance at the bottom of this case, previously undefined that has never been accepted as a legitimate defense with any authority; the ineffective counsel defense his case depends on has been at the heart of every appeal argument I have written since 2006; it is still the foundation and only one relevant to the rarely used Rule 35 coram nobis defense strategy.

The client assignment is to read the introductory chapters of Alexander Dumas classic ‘The Count of Monte Christo’ In a brain blizzard I tell him what we’re going to have some fun during these gloomy pretrial days; the reality is he could go back to prison on contempt of court for failure to pay on the $375G restitution order he agreed to; to break the stranglehold we will try watching movie of one of our heroes. who played Jesus Jim Caviezel.as Edmond Dantes. He has heard of him. The plot which we often discussed he was familiar with the basics and had seen the movie on TV with starring Richard Chamberlain; and also the latest version starring James Caviezel the actor who played Jesus Christ in the recent Mel Gibson blockbuster; so once I presented a little background and basis for comparison the client was all for discovering any relationship to his case in the film and novel He might be able to relate to between what he considered difficult literature to read and a film he was familiar with; also any comparison he or I might derive with Jesus who he compared himself along with Job to in his sufferings, was welcome; the assignment was not a tough one and amounted to six chapters and 37 pages in which he was being asked to read: two pages a day would cover the reading assignment; though he reads very seldom he agrees to it. I am trying to convince him his contract validation ‘argument’ may confuse Attorney Arthur; we must tell him the story, the plot, the setting, the motive, the characters just like in the Count story; it take as while for the lesson to develop but it seems like it is sinking in as he gathers money for his defense fund.


Learning objectives:


Recognition: match words, phrases or paragraphs in the novel for which the student already knows the meaning: list them
Understanding the message: what is the intended message the author is sending the reader; what can be inferred from the text
What is can be inferred from the subtext, back story
React: next I ask the student to compare and integrate the information in the text with their own knowledge and prior experience
I ask the student to apply his new knowledge, insight, skills gained from reading in other contexts or to meet personal needs writing on his computer being sure to use the dictionary and spell checker sending me drafts by e-mail
Finally as you are reading what obvious comparisons are you drawing that exist between the film, the novel and the characters we are familiar with in the swindle we are dealing with in the Federal Restitution Appeal.


I do not expect the client as an unaccomplished and uninterested reader who has never understood the value of learning his native language, to pick up details of the 1805 Marseilles harbor landscape, the intricate details of the developing plot are vague, the dialogue is sparse directly related to nautical science, the clandestine plot with Napoleon is woven in: and the instructor assumes the client won’t pick them up in the Dumas text: but has gained the basic idea from seeing the movie. The guy got set up and robbed by his enemies: I am hoping I don’t have to argue with: but there was not contract involved so it’s not relevant to my case; and, he will get the point.

Looking forward to setting up the next phase of the lesson; anticipating road blocks to understanding and reacting. Here I shift roles from being a teacher to a counselor (legal) with a bit of the psychologist thrown in knowing how his manic nature leads him to generalization and irrelevancy: in our critique we do not expect him to respond or understand or be able to relate to the analogue; again his refractory nature would arrive on the scene creating to relevancy that doesn’t exist to make his point and so on.

Is there anything in the background of our case we have to clarify for the new attorney; as story teller I ask if there are any characters in the Dumas story that remind him of his story;
Now is the time to deal with changing initial assumptions: e.g. I state we can’t go into the attorneys office with the idea of laying down a list of condemnations, violations, and propositions against the US government: which has been his previous method: I emphasize those inputs have to be kept in perspective the plot of the novel adds to our lesson: (I would be curious to find out why he believes his propositional approach is necessary; his psychological motive and is it a form of denial; but that is material for my chef d’oeuvre). The story of the takeover of the business by two conspirators is what we’re interested in producing
I notify him my role as mediator is to prevent any of these issues I view as irrelevant into the conversation
A strategy we agree on beforehand will eliminate any of the guesswork about what we say
Under no circumstances do you advise the attorney what strategy to use
I am there to prevent that objecting, reminding right in front of the attorney/judge that Arthur is according to his website.
I don’t intend to be like the warden at Lino Lakes was like. Not harsh but firm. The due date of the reading assignment basic is two weeks from today; (we will watch the film the following weekend)


Short term goals. If the strategy makes it past step 1 above we have accomplished a deal; once he learns the scaffolding technique the rest is easy because he knows exactly what these crooks did: he just doesn’t like to admit the much more clever than he crooks used the courts to accomplish an illegal takeover; and in the process, humiliated, swindled, stole from him and put him in prison; it is an awful position to be in before his sons; who no longer support his defense fund; and his ex-wife a dental assistant (once his trophy bride) who divorced him and married the new dentist in town. They had twins. Ugh. I feel his grief but he has no other choice; he has to drop this hogwash story of the validity of the contract which I regard as irrelevant. It is a more attractive way of presenting his case to an attorney: a half dozen others have bailed out on him and his pseudo argument that is a memoranda list of propositions, and violations he has compiled against the United States’ court systems. My long range goal is to teach him the difference between making a slough of propositions in a list; and a structured argument: syllogism, premises, and conclusion.


Next Assignment: Keeping a writing folder


Teaching Adults: Keeping a writing folder. this exercise gets the client involved in sorting and filing physical documents so he could begin learning a defense strategy by organizing information, data, analysis he has; this will be a great help in presenting his case to his new attorney. They have some nice looking folders at Office Depot that look like a bound ledger; I recommend something of a permanent basis to begin his journal his legacy and the foundation he hopes to build off this case;

Make editing notes on the skills and new knowledge on the case you have (both) learned working on the case since it first went to State Appeal Court in 2006; it’s been a long time coming; let’s keep track of the progress in a journal; you have been learning how to type, use the spell checker and so on; your work has shown signs of improvement in the content and conventions areas; now the removal of all generalizations that detract from the message and the meaning is our next task, organizing this writing folder will help.
Always review your errors of the previous week
Use proof readers marks and codes if you are not sure of a word, phrase, meaning
It will be job one to review your work and keep you updated on the statistics; your progress as a student of English language arts and writing.
Decide what or what not to keep as units, chapters, sections
The more you review and edit the more polished your work promises to become
Add new pieces delete the old as you see fit
If you are being successful you notice your work reflecting more levels of meaning, less generalizations:
Be aware the instructor will be looking for generic language and organizational lapses

Other additions to the folder might be drafts, revisions and edits all in one folder, unfinished pieces for later, ideas for new directions and discovery in the case

In apologia I’ve been throwing in the kitchen sink trying to get my client to learn how to write adequately; it’s a grind, up and down; good days and bad; we keep track of that in our journal notes. Being the scientist it might be more helpful to create some kind of model of agricultural engineering he can apply to because he does not seem like the type of individual who is able to extract any but the most superficial meaning from stories, parables, (poems) anecdotes; if he has a strength it is in exposition of contractual details concerning lost indemnification properties due him.

I blew it in the affective area

I blew it in the affective area

It was nearing the mid quarter of my semester student teaching at an inner city high school magnet high school of very modern design well lighted interior; no outside view for the most part; good in sports and drama. Carol Channing, Josh Hartnett are products of the theatre department. I once witnessed Jody Foster speaking to students in the library after the release of Silence of the Lambs.

In literature class; one of my students who I assumed was one of the well behaved, moderate students ‘I didn’t have to worry; that were on the right path; not needful’ without noticeably poor grades -was called to my attention by Dan Kruger practice teaching supervisor whose class I was teaching: I looked at it as a performance: there would be some waivers of attention, occasional hecklers. Dan had a striking appearance because he had lost his arm in the ringer of his mom’s washing machine as a child; extremely intelligent with horn rimmed glasses he removed when reading while standing all in all representing a strange image when he read poetry in front of the class.

No I wasn’t watching the kid closesly: did I have to? Yes. And of course he was right; I began to observe the strange behavior immediately of the student in question engaged in some unusual activity; a white male quiet good looking kid 6’1 185 , cost cutter haircut, shaped like a small forward, he often wore knit black and white shirts with wide vertical stripes, and panels outwardly Jared appeared to fit in with his mates; why wouldn’t he on the surface he appeared to have the whole ‘teen’ package. Frankly I never noticed anything but the role he played I assumed he was in with the in crowd.

On the day of the peculiar aberration I observed a strange phenomenon; as I looked up from grading quizzes at my desk in the front of the room, Jared was quietly inconspicuously ‘tip toing’ around the room circling adroitly appearing to be an observer among the workgroups, between desks moving in a spiral pattern and presumably had been since I commenced the lesson ten minutes before. I didn’t recall reading his paper by the way. As I thought of it I actually I had very few assignments from Jared W__ maintaining a B- at the median of the class I recalled as I got up silently and walked over next Jared who didn’t seem to notice who I had never spoken to, or heard a word from, or said a word to another classmate; at that moment I knew what I had been missing what Krug been trying to teach me besides my lessons that were not the world’s most compelling. I realized that. My reservoir was running thin: at least they were using the same textbooks we used in high school I was already familiar with. Lessons were easy to create compared to a plan for a novel. Songs for a gig. Individual practice. I admired that part of the job; once bringing in one of my pastoral videos: the class liked but Krug questioned referring it to Mr Malmberg award winning music director for objectionable content: he okayed it.

I edged up to the student ‘hey Jared, what’s going on man are you all right? I said at low volume; his eyes were a bit glazed not focusing on me in particular like I came out of nowhere he didn’t answer immediately youth drifting around as I followed him like one of his buddies he never had in that classroom with no particular place to go, nothing to get hung upon…like ‘hello’. Are you okay Jared, oh he nods he heard me but didn’t stop interupting his circling stopping his walk in the class to talk about it; I he pointed to his lips shush! Someone said. Let’s not discuss anything within earshot of the workgroups we were circling among; in my well ordered classroom. I kept following him; no one noticed as this went on five minutes; it seemed. my patience ran thin: Suddenly desperate at the spectacle that was imminent: I spoke too soon, tactlessly: didn’t your dad ever teach you how to act around, your home, your friends, people, crude, untactful not meaning to be mean concerned really for Jared’s stability, the order of class, decorum of English Literature 12. Trifles.

Jared was tough as I knew he was I don’t have a Dad he stated matter of factly. Oh Christ was I that stupid blind again with these kids who were a hell of a lot sharper than me about the trip they were on; I wanted to be there (no I would never go back) where I had never been there done that but couldn’t approach the territory. He appreciated my effort thank you. The kid had class, making another mistake and I didn’t know how to handle the deal of the generation gap I remember vaguely reacting to it: but I had some safety: great parents, and a comfortable life, sports, class activities, officer I don’t say how irrelevant that is.
.
I just wanted to see if you’re alright; we can go to the nurse’s office No I’m okay (just leave me alone, thanks just back off). No one noticed but me and him. It didn’t seem like his behavior indicated everything was ‘okay”: it could have been worse. The kid could have kicked my ass in flash. I noticed too late, not to worry though none of the workgroups paid any attention to the dialogue. It was my convenient contingency to behave my 35 student class break that created the havoc out in to work groups who ere absorbed in their projects sure they were with; he wasn’t a part of I never noticed.. Didn’t you sign up for a group.? Yes I was in group 4 but they split up. We walk around the groups observing ourselves. None of the groups were opening their tight knit circles to let Jared even into the discussion he didn’t want to be in, 15 minutes passed work group exercise timed out; Jared never had and had effectively dodged , had never been in. I was the idiot and never recognized the drama; even commander Kruger noticed it issuing warnings several times. I wasn’t observing, recording, monitoring or keeping track of student behavior; I graded their papers, scored their test papers I entertained them with the students seemed to enjoy. Jared held a B- on exams and a C+ in writing. He should have been in drama. We didn’t learn this skill at St. Thomas. I didn’t have the background to teach that subject. Jared acted his part perfectly I just blew his cover as a kind of phantom of the classroom. How many times had it happened? At least once a week; in partnership. He didn’t fit in I didn’t get it right then either. You don’t have to hang out in class if you don’t feel like it; he took the opportunity and instantly disappeared exit stage left. A latent Bartleby the Scrivner a character becoming more familiar all the time.

Later in the day at Dan’s weekly critique of my performance, I asked about Jared’s ‘affective learning’: Kruger told me Jared’s father was in prison for violent crimes against society and property; a baad dude; or the fishing hat bandit? I wondered. Jared’s parents were divorced; had been estranged his whole education: he was like this in other classes. this weird behavior experience at South this was nothing unusual.. As time went on it became apparent to me I had no skills in attention deficit therapy including my own. My review was the usual dudgeon report: in other words who did I think was listening to my idiosyncratic lesson about the pastoral theme in Lycidas and its failure to maintain the interest of the class.and so on: Krug was just being brutally honest about irregularities in the system; doing me a favor.


Pet store story: They’re just little bugs but they love my blood, a lyric

Here we were ten minutes before 10 you said it opened at 9 my mistake sorry I’m a little edgy with the disease, eating our White Castle breakfasts, parked in front before Bills Unique Pets: her friend recommended while I am indifferent as a confirmed cat lover. Her friend owns Sue’s Clippe Shop on White Bear Chera shampoos poodles occasionally. I was along for company and no impact on the decision to buy a rather spendy Yorkshire toy (if she had to, if there were no beagles my recommendation), spaniel, lab, retriever work dogs and a few others; I wander among some somber parakeets and a born ham cockatoo in an open corner cage, tip toeing on his balance bar, entertained me while Chera who hated birds explored the store– now that bird is my kind of low maintenance pet I thought. Giving me an impression. I yawned Obviously smarter than humans who have no idea how to act; he has the old dog and pony show down There is no argument I just don’t want another one of her damn pets wedging between us on the sofa as we watch the discovery channel after I dig her garden.. I only like Bassets or Beagles: nice serious temperament not hyper no other breed pleases. How about a nice pit bull Doberman combo? My ideal pet would have human qualities and a tremendous nose. That’s why I’m along as an inspector general of the olfactory evaluation department; and to carry on a modern conversation about all kinds of trivia with a female I am once attracted to, interrupting;, stopping, asking, arguing and so on with the main topic being dogs.

Once inside we are separated in different zones. A huge gray Angora on the east wall ignored me obviously, bored. She’s not going anywhere. Remain an old maid for all I care. Cute tan retriever puppies (hah! terrorists all) forget hunting they make tremendous watchdogs, they’ll secure that perimeter around your mobile home out in the boonies that you say the sheriff’s kid has been creeping around, trying to catch a peek under the shades: she has none. I drift around the cages…doing some window peeking: Yes I am really worried for your security. Just a suggestion! I’m a cat lover; anything but one of those damn Westheimer terriers that tries to protect you/her from me. They have good noses too she affirms. Not again. She needed a break from sign language classes something to re ignite waning passion; what ever happened to a little wine a little song but this would be a night dedicated to gathering information on the Internet; wow. give Chera something to do in the public interest; capitalize on the epidemic: of bugs sweeping the country like a plague. A new business opportunity. Chera was looking at the cages. Don’t ever stick your fingers in a mink cage: I warn having done that once: Never saw an animal move so fast to bite a finger tip bloody. Chera was good with animals except cats like the one she gave me [“Sly”] on my birthday that clawed her knuckle eventually. Ouch! She yelled hating cats more. Sly ran away disappeared into one dark night.

“Which one has the best nose of the bunch she queried Bill (?) Chera was looking for something in a rather unique bed bug detecting canine [ BDC] caninus rex line if they had one; but the unmentionable subject itself of the dull honeysuckle stench eventually of dried blood, feces they leave behind after a blood feast: never mentioned; not letting him know yet if at all if she can help it she was seeking a “cimex horribilis” hunting pooch who would be a companion as well: she hated being alone; she was more alone when Roy was around; the little huntress like a predator drone would find and destroy [that story later] hunt small beasts the density, color, look of dirty mud before and blood after biting; the size of a match head and a sting to match; “That’s a no brainer lady you need my own little girl I have her in my office today because it’s so cool in the shop today; some like it that way. She sleep in there; doesn’t need cage. I’ll bring her out: a cute little Yorkie with eyes the velvety softness of a gazelle.

Oh he’s not the usual Yorkshire Terrier toy Chera reports ‘live’; no she is bluish grey but pretty reddish brown with a pooch cut: very nice female to hang out with; looking every bit the pup as she was a miniature; with paper pedigrees to prove it. On sale this week only. Bill from Eastern Europe assured us that is why she is unique; but with the specific feature we needed excellent olfactory skills to boot. Yes this is my little prize Gloria: She is spoiled. Chera accepts her from Bill hugs her; Gloria is compliant in her role; knows how to be accepted she’s a little older than she looks says Bill as she’s a miniature but she smells as well as any Bloodhound; more high tech compact size. Chera thinks. She can tell if I have her frisky treats buried in the freezer you know that’s unique; and smart this little princess can read me the paper as well as carry it like a bone; she leads me around the store knows all the animals it they need anything; the parakeets love her. Cockatoo Phil talks to her too; she has a growl like a St. Bernard to boot; a lot cheaper than a bloodhound at $1400 I’s let her go for twelve. Your can’t touch a hound for less than $4500 some go as high as $35 G’s you did say miniature, half price pedigree: she won’t get much bigger than this; ’ll give you a deal at $1250 I could have sold her for lot mores; Chera imagines being the parent of a bomb sniffing dog for Afghanistan service someday; not so good with kids an adult dog. she is my constant companion in the store; but I know you are good people and will give her a nice home. He doesn’t live with me. No?I thought he was your husband Nope. I realize and accept why we hit the castle breakfast special.

Chera is delighted with her purchase: another Westy could cost $750 and not have the pedigrees the guaranteed nose ; Gloria is cuter and will stay cute, soft silky fur, Sue Knox can clip it perfectly; I can see her with a pink bow; not that horrible gray wire she was used to scratching through that could snap a finger nail; and now she has the kind of child she wants again each little pup represents a member of the little tea party family cycle she imagines herself mother superior of; little Gloria fulfills her needs for her motherly instinct to emerge for a season; to be the mother she thought she was who has never wanted to have kids; she has no regrets at her decision at moments like this. I am there to record the moment like a barometer needle recording the pressures. And there have been a number of them; out with the old in comes the new. Chera will now train little Glow with the small lazy Susan type gadget tray 14” in diameter at $125 bucks purchased on the Internet what first appears a three dollar plastic toy; to start a new business in pest control management: raise dogs for the work like border collies. Florence Nightengale type community service someday in the future: perhaps e a stamp someday in honor of the work. A TV series based on Lassie come home.. Gloria loves her new role sniffing around the circular shelf gizmo; the contraption that revolves if necessary by a remote control battery pack optional; we don’t need that Glow can circle and sniff around the 14 inch platter of cimex mixed bugs and treats, treats alone, various combo platters of goodies to sniff, a wonderful new game for Glow. they say on the Web the thing will ‘help’ destroy the filthy ‘cimex horribilis’ invaders from Yacnor that cause millions of dollars damage in apartments nationwide; worldwide: we’re taking this all the way to Washington’s bedroom backed by Gloria’s nose or a money back guarantee with a ten dollar rebate. For further information contact: IFC “Pest Management Solutions”, www. indfumco.com, (800) 477-4432; they offer a nifty unit that will heat your business, office, home to 140 F for six hours that will fry any living bug for $60K; pick up your new business today the plague is all over the place. I understand completely why Chera treated at White Castle instead of Denny’s down Central for keeping her company. For my approval. It’s not a beagle but it’s not baad.

Exercise 44: What happened?

1. In Family Heirlooms the central character discovers that he has been the subject of his own mind nature hare/rabbit trip when he finds tracks at the exact spot of the dream; (there are number of what if’s in the story as in the others below)

2. In Dad’s Watch the main character discovers he has lost his father’s priceless
watch:; struggles to reveal the loss; if he hadn’t done it things would have been
A lot worse. It would have been a premature death for his father an example of
the mindless grief children put on their parents over small objects, later trifles, trivia

3. In the Emerald necklace the naïve protagonist 3.7 year old grandson inadvertently decides to use grandma’s sacred Holy Rosary as a necklace on Easter Sunday: Grandma went apoplectic: revealing a hidden, loyalty, volatility:

4 In Deja vu all over again; the “I” person has a conversation within a scene within a dream with a dead guy, that clears his mind: he decides to carry on with the wayward son his client is still a long way from Kansas; realizing the case has deeper levels of meaning, destiny fate than he suspected; as in second analogous District game his senior year another unexpected team loss; foreboding irony about how this district appeal is going to turn out: this court will approach Supreme court hello Scalia justice.

5. In the Friday Night Lights story of the homecoming game return for the last loser coach Ted M__ who the football player despises. He is a play maker and is used to being one. Had been there much longer than Ted ever thought about being; hated him for it and held him back Come on he’s only a kid seventeen. It came down to one play to determine a winning or losing season and continuing a 14 year losing streak: if the central character (like in Eighty Yard Run) doesn’t make the play the traditional rivals get a critical game winning first down inside the red zone: tie the score win it on an extra point with 10 seconds to go: the ex-coach fulfills his destiny wants to see his old team lose to prove they were not good enough and that -not his inability to coach is the real reason why, he had to move on by mutual agreement. But the nascent coach’s will was not to be fulfilled; people in life sometimes are like this guy I remind us-we writers we have to define them they become our property; we manipulate them; we get some pay back like in Bukowski’s stories (Barfly with Mickey Rourke & Faye Dunaway) for the beating we take as artists, teachers, coaches; intercepting Will Weaver's wounded ducks; this was a natural selection of the high school jock mind nature club with a splash of irony; that the clumsy fullback for the Blackjacks rolled out of bounds at Ted M__’s feet taking a big loss on fourth and 1; after that play the home team took over the ball in front of the ex-coach; and snapped the 14 year losing streak; this is one of those stories that gets better with age.

Technology Fiction

Today Assignment 04102010>Technology Fiction

In my lesson plan I am going to encourage the students of my upper division English majors class for secondary teachers who are aware creative writing has become required curriculum in reading and writing skills for 11th grade students in Florida high schools facing compliances ruled by legislative mandate to include writing skills in voice, word choice and sentence fluency, as components that will be evaluated, parsed and minced in validating the requirement among 11th grade students to assess their development of college level writing skills that demonstrate in particular the three primary traits of creative writing. Since becoming a component of the Florida Comprehensive Assessment Test battery of domains for the narrowing range finding, targeting, calibration and validation standards of the No Child Left Behind requirement for federal funding of schools in Florida and most other States.

As one of my media I am going to be using Ms. Cherry’s Hugo Award winning short story Cassandra; which is one of those tales that exist at the razor’s edge I desire to explore where the psychic world of the character narrator is created by the narrative voice and the imagination (as in Nabokov’s Bend Sinister which is nothing so much as outraged voice). The reader takes a step into the character’s mind and becomes emerged in the same nightmarish reality: that sounds all too familiar like the break time crush all the same at Starbucks in urban uptown Detroit… other side of the world… Bejing, {Peiping{?is anybody out there?

[Hell among the green ghostly trees, abandoned cars, boarded up businesses… smoke filled rooms, streets, skies (ne’er mention even of a cloud) shadowy patrons looked and whispered .The whispers troubled her. WAR the headline said in heavy type: (Orwell: 2084. [T]hen the alienated couple lingered over a dinner in Grabens: she in her dark hanging baggy sweater: the spectral patrons were all better dressed and stared at them sitting in a corner nearest the door where they wouldn’t be seen: Jared smiled at her without a touch of pity: only a wild fey desperation deep in his stare she understood: [full well understanding, contributing somewhat by hand gesture] why he was spending more than he could afford at a fancy restaurant like Grabens: (finally getting to the point of saying) she was beautiful: [a]nd in typical reactionary fashion she resented such triteness but fearful of offending his delicate sensibilities carried out her obligations later that evening you can be sure after more wine and so on]

Dim the lights open the curtains: Cherry knows her audience; her craft reflects what she sees through in flat details of the microcosm she shares briefly with her reader; we misunderstand Cassandra more to be pitied than those she consoles; and on and on: the drama we men love: the chase the what if; and are all too familiar forbidden ground of the commonplace we dabble with as writers; that move it too the sublime if we can write about it well; all amidst bleak olive drab conditions of dull ‘passion’ we witness at arms length though within hearing and seeing emotional distance; among: Ruins cold peaceful ruins: Back they went into the kitchens: he yielded to her sudden certainty: (she they the alienated would make it happen for a brief flicker in the night; even if waking up in the midst of flames: sirens wailing in the madness: they would somehow make it through the desperate but yet tender night and disappear as strangers in the early morning light}} } Somehow not ho hum lifted above by subtle craftsmanship an insightful word choice; inflection in dialogue unspoken; though there is none in the story you can create your own. Students should try to emulate her imaginative technique and style, word choice here and there a basilisk: the flaming fire hydrant in black and white color; a turn of a phrase, that avoids the cliché; Cherry maintains a simple, yet brilliant black and white sentence flow, a chiaroscuro amid the syntax of fragments of experience.

I am being all too brief here: this is an incredible lesson in the living color of cold grays and black and white; this style is conspicuously minus the high tech HD approach (in a sense anti classic world of the Terminator ) yet succeeding; using subdued low tones; how does the author achieve this sense of reality? We ask our students. Cherry speaks of life amidst the grind: I see it as a music video in shades of gray in my imagination: I will assign my students to use the same methods of ‘dissembling’ seamlessly the borders of reality of what the individual with the ‘gift of what if’ needs to get by in the hidden not publicized highly world that takes place in the fading shadows of the other life the character lived alienated format; at the same time detailing some of the many grays, black and whites: the trivial dramas of the human lives of those individuals living on the edge; that barely hang on amidst the ‘cracked crystal and broken china on insubstantial tables’

Into this menagerie of somewhat dulled landscape of vocabulary there remain fragments of emergent ‘desire’ among deserted street car ruins CJ Cherry spins the mysterious mythic element of the tragic tale of Cassandra daughter of Priam and Hecuba fallen royalty of Troy in flames in modern life; [s]he has the gift of prophecy but is destined never to be believed: the prompt for our students of writing is: how does (or does not) the character in the story suggest the meaning of the myth(?) Your writing students can take this assignment any direction they desire: but whatever direction they pursue should be able to answer that question: how does your story reflect the meaning of the myth(?) as in ‘I vaguely believe Cassandra is the name of a galaxy, in the Milky Way constellation discovered in my Astronomy class or later on the World Wide Web’ after attending a school, campus safety meeting for terrorism and so on I glanced at a shooting star; (what if? I was in that situation’); if the student elaborates and create a standard five paragraph essay with a topic sentence and conclusion and stays on course he may achieve a score from 4 to 6 depending maintaining voice, word choice and fluency, quality, effectiveness, persuasiveness all the intangible qualities of writing that make good reading..

Cassandra is one of a dozen short stories in “Visible Light” which range finds the galaxy and those beyond and inside each atom in it: Cherry’s is the universe of the science fiction genre; that mirrors the familiar microcosm we live in composed of fragments of the author's imagination, particles of crystal and china is accessible and assessable in the depths our writer’s exploration, and experience of his material.

Presumably these education track students the NCLB is designed to assess are high school juniors and seniors preparing to take college classes familiar enough with writing so they are beyond the basics; and, have submitted some samples of their writing that brings them to the space cadet level required to be in the class; although they may have not yet produced grade level writing in creative writing students have demonstrated mastery of the basics in content, organization, and style, as well as conventions, in other subjects such as history, social science, and physical science: (expository writing).


1st Assignment: read the story Cassandra by CJ Cherry; (part one)pick out as many examples as you can find in the future scenario story where the character imagines uncomfortable weird but common scenes: such as

she in her hanging baggy sweater: the spectral patrons around them were all better dressed and stared at them sitting in a corner nearest the door where they wouldn’t be seen (or)
bare human scenes of ‘passion’ among cold peaceful ruins: Back they went into the kitchens [amidst novel dishwashers, appliances,warrantees, service agreements] he yielded to her sudden certainty: waking up in the midst of flames: signs of danger flash in the madness; returning to the streets as burned out cars smoked in the dust, the Cherry explores
the barren inner landscape portrait..

Mercifully the estranged aliens have a brief vague arrangement for one night making trifling meaning out of the madness something less trivial, than chaos, -human, physical to hang on to as technology improves and so on; they make it through the cold, desperate but nonetheless tender night and disappear estranged in the early morning light: Cherry makes meaning of the cliches

Are you the reader responding to the humor, rolling in the aisles no, but the detailed word choice aleviates the boredom –the universl techno comedy.

In what ways are the traits of the characters one and the same?
How does the psychological drama transcend the blandness of physical reality as it does in the myth?

Part two: Answer the question: How do you feel that the mythical story of Cassandra relates to the science fiction story that CJ Cherry is telling the reader; you may or may not see any relationship or resemblance between the myth and the reality the author is writing about in a short essay; write about that

Part Three: In one of her shorter stories space travel sounds similar to modern transcontinental flight: a young man and a woman hold hands …over in a corner; one of the ‘desperate’ passengers has locked himself in the john a flight attendant and security personnel are trying to talk him out; some passengers delight in the ‘drama’; look at the rest of these people around here; they sip their cocktails and tune in to head sets; and when space traveler peer outside the windows they don’t see stars they just see lights whizzing by;that’s the tragedy of future travel; and so on.



2nd Assignment: choose from either one of these two passages of writing, scenarios of CJ Cherry that you can use as a benchmark for your first long short story (about twenty pages); use it as a source of imitation, imagination and ideas to write your own ‘Technology Fiction’ story: if you choose use the narrative or expositional style creative writing teachers will each write a story; it can be based on reports about this person’s life; can be a memoir; what ever works for you the student; as Nabokov wrote: ‘great ideas are hogwash’; that describes the territory to avoid in writing; the area of vagueness and generalization; there is a deal of work already laid out like a mine field for the imagination to trip into; we want to hear the true voice of the writer’s life on the razor’s edge of experience which gives them authority to make a prophecy that nobody believes: to create fiction that gives us a glimpse of the more omniscient empowered psychological personalities, the characters: the traits that make them real; dialogue that transcends the hogwash, we need dialogue at the razor’s edge; the details, the broken china that make character’s lives important; that raise them above the mundane daily grind at crunch time and so on; this piece of work at least in final draft form will be submitted two weeks prior to the last class period copies will be distributed to the small workshop groups of four the class has divided into after mid quarter break

part two : assignment: Final class: (with pizza from Davanni’s) Each group member will present a short synopsis of another member’s work in the group: then the person who wrote it will deliver a critique and assessment of their short story and how they would use it as a tool in their own secondary college prep writing course for juniors and seniors at a diverse inner city school such as Minneapolis South; or in their adult education classroom.


Lesson 3. published on April 6, using a child’s voice; and experimenting with other voices.

Read the story: The Emerald Rosary: (Grandma went ballistic…)

I was pretty young at the time, three at least; because I learned more after those days; and wouldn’t have done the things I did: I only came up to about Dad’s hip; sometimes I would tag along hunting with him as far as I could go along a worn path at the edge of the deep ravine we made forts, and caves in on the edge of, -carrying his double barrel on his shoulder watching him descend into the ravine in back of our house wearing full hunting gear. Around supper time he would bring home a dead pheasant or two.

My brother was a rascal; I caught him lighting matches around the propane tanks trying to blow up the house; he got whipped for it good at least once; he deserved a licking; he got in trouble a lot in those days I was the watchdog because our Pekinese Dusty would always run away; get lost dull dog.

One Sunday we were over at grandma’s house for an Easter Egg hunt with my eight cousins and my two brothers Patty wasn’t born yet; there were a lot of relatives around including my aunt who I had a crush on; she was just a couple years older than me.

For some reason both my grandma’s believed I was more righteous compared to my brother; and, rightfully so.

One time to prove how spiritual I was Grandma brought down a sparkling emerald Rosary from her bedroom jewelry box below the mirror on her dresser where I knew it was laying. She had a sheriff badge in there too.

Us kids were going to have cake and grape koolaid from a big punch bowl with ice in it for lunch after the egg hunt; in front of everybody in the dining room Grandma handed the sparkling Rosary to me saying Tony knows what to do with it don’t you Tony: as I lifted it up over my head with both hands to place it around my neck Grandma went ballistic:

“Ahh,! no no not that way….”

She screamed, raging mad in an instant; grabbing the necklace off my neck with cold sharp fingers before it settled in place snapping it off my head cradling it in her hands; Oh my God she thought I had defamed the Blessed Virgin who I didn’t know who that was. My Aunt Kate who I loved was there for me and wasn’t much taller stepped in for me calmed her down; he’s only a kid mom; no harm done.. Some of my older aunts walked it off with Grandma into the kitchen; I think she was shaking mad…..

I was always afraid of Grandma Dad’s mom after that until I grew up; there was some friction there, some apprehension there she never noticed it. And later let me know I was her favorite grandson of my dad. I did disappoint her that time; but, after that incident she liked me better; was trying to make up too; this is how I grew up before I was five and never forgot that lesson. If I had placed it around my neck I always wondered if I would have become inflamed like Hercules when he put on Deianira’s cape and might not be here today.


.

After reading the story the class has a brief discussion the student assignment is
List some of the details of the story such as voice, word choice and sentence flow that

(1) enhance the idea that the story is being told from the child’s point of view
(2) suggest the author is shaping the story
(3) Imagine any other voices in the story that might have been used by the writer such as:

Acting like the Benedictine nun with twelve kids that she was, raising her voice sternly Grandma: admonished her 3 year old grandson harshly: ‘NO NO DON’T EVER DO THAT; naughty boy, snatching the blessed object into cupped hands for safety; where did a child learn such atrocious behavior she thought not from our side of the family. You NEVER handle holy things like that. She scolded, close to slapping her grandson on the wrist but restrained by Katie her daughter a few years older than her grandson as his aunt held Grandma’s backswing.

Or.

Oh no she thought I misjudged, the little actor he’s walking out in front of his cousins to show off his prize; to don his laurels I judged him far beyond 3.6 yrs in his fourth year of existence. Grandma’s eyes framed in glasses widened in terror spry for her age she lunged at the boy both her hands grasping the icon: he didn’t have time to flinch in shock: NO NO NO. Mary Queen of Heaven for God’s sake she thought silently, spare the boy he’s too young die: knowing the green beads artifacts of the Savior’s bloody death had touched his hair; if that emerald green necklace she knew was bewitched meant life or death, an icon with great religious power was about to descend around the child’s innocent neck: he was as well as dead. If she let it happen…Lord don’t let him be a victim of my mistake to an amulet curse for misuse of holy objects; ancient yes but achieving deserved recognition in this day and age it deserved. Since St. Agnes’s vision was validated but at what cost to the trinity so valued at the heart of it; her late Father believed in. It will soon be discarded like catechism; she reflected in an instant as she sprang into action like a panther protecting her cubs from cobra’s venom; observing only the metal of the Holy Cross of the Savior actually touched flesh; and maybe a few beads below that for the introductory prayers Apostles Creed Glory Be’s actually scraped his face as she pulled the rosary chain free in her protective grasp imaginary sparks of static appeared as if by magic as the rosary separated from the child’s hair; she knew it brushed her grandson inadvertently through no fault of his own snared in an accidental sacrilegious act; might not be enough to actually trigger the curse: at least the actual noose part of the emerald green necklace didn’t get below his ears. Only time will tell the tale she reminded herself.

Think of using a child’s voice in one of your stories; write a short story from the child’s landscape view; in any case the author is at work behind the scenes shaping the story. note: I don’t believe this story would have emerged unless I took the suggestion of Bernays & Painter; it came back from flat liner status resuscitated from below consciousness by a child’s voice, to a stage of life it never had in adults voice; it wouldn’t have been that interesting an event for the other persons in the drama to have recorded anyway. I doubt my aunt would recall the story; although I may some day ask her; and, my grandma has passed on.

Assignment April 6

Henry James, ‘The Bostonians’: (re: the 1979 film adaptation starring Christopher Reeve and Vanessa Redgrave) …after she had asked (Matthias Pardon her agent) how many 1000’s of dollars he expected to make on the suffrage lecture circuit.

“For Miss Verena it depends upon the time spent. She’d run for ten years at least. I can’t figure it up until all the states have been heard from,” he said smiling.

“I don’t mean for Miss Tarrant I mean for you,” Olive returned with the impression she was looking him straight in the eye.

“Oh as many as you’ll leave me,” Matthias Pardon answered, with a laugh that contained all, and more than all the jocularity of the American Press.

“To speak seriously,” he said. “I don’t want to make money out of it”

“What do you want to make then?”

“Well I want to make history; I want to help the ladies”

“Ladies,” Olive murmured, “what do you know about ladies?”


[In the kitchen of their gated community the parents of a college Sophomore attending Carlton are having a chat about politics before the husband Roger heads off to his job in the city as a marketing consultant in St Paul. His wife Amy of some twenty odd years sits at the table sipping her morning brew reading an article on “best interior lighting schemes” in latest edition of Better Homes and Gardens. It is December 2008. She is a professional designer; and has her own business]

Shaking her head “The American public made a huge mistake rejecting the McCain Palin ticket”. What makes you think that honey he thinks about the statement and what it insinuates He fills his insulated mug from the Mr. Coffee before heading out the door. It is a clear twenty degree day according to KSTP. The Wolves, Gophers and Wild have all lost ground in the last week. ‘People have an impression that a woman is not capable of being President; in an emergency, in case something happens to him. Like an assassination or something. -Oh that’s not true, there’s more to it than that. Like what? He would be checking the Smith Barney indices later to see if their mutual fund suffered any more damage overnight. Well it seems more like an arrangement that the American public is not quite ready for yet. Ms. Sara just hopped on board a sinking ship with a golden parachute and life preserver and it rocked the boat too much said Roger choosing not to open the latent topic way when they had hashed, diced minced it enough since November It’s not an insult to women in general; she’s doing all right as an Independent. She’ll recover her losses.. That’s crap. Are you suggesting that she was a pawn in political scheme to throw he election to the liberals (?) I wouldn’t think of it. the strategy wasn’t very well thought out; she didn’t have support from either the left of the right; that split the conservative vote in a close election.

“That’s absurd every woman in America should have voted for her.”

“ But they didn’t…that’s the problem”

[ the jocular husband gives his wife a peck on the cheek as he heads out the door of their townhouse in North Oaks to his job in the city, driving his 2006 Lexus leased from Denny Hecker Enterprises]

Family Heirlooms (re: Mind and Nature by Gregory Batson)

Back in the nineties I was spending some time landscaping the grounds of what had once been my Grandad’s home in Big Stone; nestled one plateau above the basin of the great river valley, remnants of Lake Aggassis archeologically; first parent and basis of the rich river bottom soil in the farthest meadows of the State. Forty miles to the west you could see the yellow foothills of the Rockies beginning in Summit.

At various times the basic structure of the house changed. First it was a medium sized church. Before Carnegie came to town it became a library. Once a one family rambler or six bedroom convertible; a huge unheated closet at the east end that doubled as an extra bedroom; 3 stained glass windows in the attic; the west facing one stolen (replaced by plywood) at various times a house for two adults and twelve children, two baths eventually: seven males and females coming and going continuously to morning Mass, school, work, sports events, Stations of the Cross in Lent. I spent the autumn days repairing the crumbling steps up to the vestibule sided with white metal; in the sidewalk; re spacing the spirea hedge; repainting the street facing side of the building corvette gray; by now the previous structure had evolved into a three apartment ‘condominium’: that at various times housed two boilermaker foremen; a union steward pipe fitter his wife and small daughter. An ironworker and his apprentice son; once upon a time LeAnn living in the back apartment with her little girl.

Having experienced the ocean up close and physically: the view across the river valley and swum in its fountain springs and even though there’s a lot of sludge on the sand bottom now: there is no comparison. I’ll take the provincial, parochial turquoise blue, green and yellow landscape scene either east to Jake Sutton’s golden soybean field across the ravine or west in Fall over the river panorama landscape that remains as beautiful as any portrait painter except Van Gogh could imagine on any given sunny day: cloudy or not. And just as alive, natural, haunting, dangerous … I have known a greater number of people that drowned in the river than people who drowned in the ocean.

Over several weeks I composed and revised a poem dedicated to the serene chorus of the autumnal frogs: “Hail, Green Frogs of Ixtophleeown!”: (facing the frost)… croak on intrepid warriors of dawn…” Humming to the old Hank Williams classic as I composed “there will be no teardrops tonight” there will be no, on and on. In the background I imagine Patty boy playing Irish fiddle like a redwing black bird in the early morning light. I was enjoying the Euripides version of the phantom ‘Helen’ moving on to Egypt after the fall of Troy: one scene at a time.

The fall colors held on beautifully in dense Burr Oaks and Maples, robust conifers sparkled in the autumn sun never losing their leaves; as sunlight refracted off the lake filtered between rustling trees; like a horizontal mirror that filled the landscape, as I whizzed past the stiff red dog woods along the lake road that stood starkly against the dry grass. The wind was still until the second week of November; On the 15th a steady north gale howled down the 36 mile still unfrozen lake.. Bruce Hagevik former resident of the city stage manager ({“Our Town”{) 1975 ace reporter on WCCO, reported a blizzard with white out conditions in western Minnesota. Highway 75 is closed. Local radio station KDIO was off the air: the transmission in his deep voice announced: school closed, “the radio tower was down; toppled by winds in the night as high winds gusting to 45 mph pummeled the town exposed on a cliff in the plains. 20 foot waves slammed into the pierre lathering off a season’s accumulation of pigeon dung; the temperature dropped twenty degrees over night; and left 7 inches of fresh snow.

But the weird thing was that night as the winds that battered the house were dying down; I had a dream: here -I was hopping in the snow along the north side of the converted church: as a white rabbit - recalling Robert Grave’s White Goddess images, I reviewed the literature: the hare, the lapwing and the roebuck. Vaguely recalling the Battle of the Trees, the mystic shaman themes. For a moment I was alive in the archetypal world of being. It woke me up. For that instant I knew what it was like to come out of hibernattion: not a bad life after all. Not that much different than mine.

Been there done that? I guess not. Being in one of those dreams you don’t forget in its realism; its naturalism: the most remarkable sense of peace on earth I ever felt… immediately I fell back asleep; and might not have remembered the dream ever: just a blip on the radar, buried in the hole of the unconscious never to erupt again perhaps; except imitating Henry Miller’s seismographic needle I record events if I think of it record it at least in the diary of my mind; experts say try to remember your dreams by thinking about them when they occur. Take notes: I would have forgotten that one for sure as it was so brief: a flash dream I call them. It would have been buried and other wise receded forever into the subconscious, the collective unconsciousness, nature, a momentary eruption never to be recalled again…

Validating the dream was not among my immediate goals the morning after the first major a storm of the theatre of seasons. And I had already forgotten it by 9 a.m the next day, except…that: In my parka, and boots, with a hammer and some tacks in hand, I was repairing the damage to the house, hauling broken tree limbs out of the yard. I happened to wander over to the exposed north side of house to replace ripped plastic window sheathing that flapped and tore as the wind battered the house until 3. before the blizzard fell silent. There not really to my surprise it was confirmation; I discovered at the spot on the side of the converted church that just happened to be the exact place between the lilacs and the house, where the dream occurred: there was a fresh set of rabbit tracks that disappeared in the snow. I checked them more than once for just to believe what my eyes had seen. The tracks were completely gone within a few days as the daytime temperature rebounded back above freezing by Thanksgiving.


The Emerald Rosary: (Grandma went ballistic…)

I was pretty young at the time, three at least; because I learned more after those days; and wouldn’t have done the things I did: I only came up to about Dad’s hip; sometimes I would tag along hunting with him as far as I could go along a worn path at the edge of the deep ravine we made forts, and caves in on the edge of, -carrying his double barrel on his shoulder watching him descend into the ravine in back of our house wearing full hunting gear. Around supper time he would bring home a dead pheasant or two.

My brother was a rascal; I caught him lighting matches around the propane tanks trying to blow up the house; he got whipped for it good at least once; he deserved a licking; he got in trouble a lot in those days I was the watchdog because our Pekinese Dusty would always run away; get lost dull dog.

One Sunday we were over at grandma’s house for an Easter Egg hunt with my eight cousins and my two brothers Patty wasn’t born yet; there were a lot of relatives around including my aunt who I had a crush on; she was just a couple years older than me.

For some reason both my grandma’s believed I was more righteous compared to my brother; and, rightfully so.

One time to prove how spiritual I was grandma brought down a sparkling emerald Rosary from her bedroom jewelry box below the mirror on her dresser where I knew it was laying. She had a sheriff badge in there too.

Us kids were going to have cake and grape koolaid from a big punch bowl with ice in it for lunch after the egg hunt; in front of everybody in the dining room Grandma handed the sparkling Rosary to me saying Tony knows what to do with it don’t you Tony: as I lifted it up over my head with both hands to place it around my neck Grandma went ballistic:

“Ahh,! no no not that way….”

She screamed, raging mad in an instant; grabbing the necklace off my neck with cold sharp fingers before it settled in place snapping it off my head cradling it in her hands; Oh my God she thought I had defamed the Blessed Virgin who I didn’t know who I didn’t know who that was. My Aunt Kate who I loved was there for me and wasn’t much taller stepped in for me calmed her down; he’s only a kid mom; no harm done.. Some of my older aunts walked it off with Grandma into the kitchen; I think she was shaking mad…..

I was always afraid of Grandma Dad’s mom after that until I grew up; there was some apprehension some stance there she never noticed it. And later she let me know I was her favorite grandson (some died young) of my dad. I did disappoint her that one time; but, after that incident she liked me better; was trying to make up too; this is how I grew up before I was five and never forgot that lesson. If I had placed it around my neck I always wondered if I would have become inflamed like Hercules when he put on Deianira’s cape and might not be here today.



Déjà vu all over again

I was tempted many times to quit; to end my relationship with the idiot savant my adult education project: ex corrections inmate. His writing from incomprehensible gibberish as one Federal judge called it improved slightly over five years; his hopeless dejection feeling like a bum in the gutter disappeared; the voice he chose to address the post judgment world in was 'vaguely expressive, mechanical': intolerable. Now he was back in the saddle: running the show: writing (the) wrong stuff consistently, to judges, lawyers, anybody who would read the stuff; burying my key defense points (Rule 35, coram nobis) in zeal to exculpate and at the same time exonerate himself: to go beyond freedom and dignity.

Most times respectfully letting me know he doesn’t need my ideas except as window dressing on his. In his generalizations, the brash sassy personality (of the rich kid he once was) re-emerged in his writing. Along with total inability to separate subjective from objective in writing; his voice whaled, whined and cried out for justice inappropriately, mixing and mashing stiff and formal sentences. Mangling traits of content, organization style…conventions (mechanics, usage, grammar) Using phrases with scintillating word choice describing ‘axiomatic infractions’ ‘juxta-position’ ‘illicit and insidious acts’ against him done by his district judges and attorneys; expositing the events that befell him: it was not his fault. That was out of the question. At best his writing growled with an adult voice, vocabulary and sentence fluency of an eighth grade student who could care less about such traits in written communication. I had long before given up on the idea of ‘editing’ his work because I couldn’t stand to read beyond his first paragraph that was always the same

My client basically informs me constantly me with his attitude, tone, purpose and behavior he has learned enough to function in his society from another teacher: thank you for your efforts. We made it to appeal. We lost. It’s his turn now.This is a guy I know who gained celebrity in junior high for walking out of band practice with his trombone on his shoulder after being bawled out by the director for not learning his part; he was reliving the past.
What have I unleashed on the world? This is hogwash says Nabokov!


One night around Christmas 2009 after I had spent the evening agonizing over failures of progress, deciding to quit case writing for good: how to exit the fiasco with some grace; I couldn’t stand it anymore facing the cockerel character, the rich kid going through a few ups and downs, with a personality only a mother could love, the regression, the repetitions, the generalizations to a fault that bordered on solid misunderstandings of law of up to six pages: the ultimate English teachers nightmare. Falling asleep on the uncomfortable hideabed I had a cauchemar.

“ I was standing at a dry bar talking to my old friend Dave H__ (my client’s name is ‘Dave’ also); who as kids we believed was the most marvelous athlete in our town. Starting at guard in the State basketball tournament as a sophomore; replacing our most valuable player Jackie Blink who broke his leg in the final quarter of the regional finals. We knew him as a young man who could hit a golf ball straight as an arrow 300 yards; and descend in a beautiful arc hook dropping the ball 3 feet from the hole on a 290 yard par 4. Only Tom Watson could hit a golf ball like that.

The weird thing though was Dave H__ had been dead ten years; dying of liver failure and the bottle before he reached fifty; he was swindled by his partners and lost the family soft drink bottling business; in the dream I was telling him the exact story I told my client: how our great baseball team was headed to the district finals: it was my sophomore year I had started every game at second base: hadn’t made an error all season; had a number of bases on balls, some bases reached on errors: but I was batting .000; it was embarrassing. The team needed my glove only. Heading into the District Finals we were confident having hammered Granite 12-0 in the conference earlier in the season.

A sharp pain and stiffness in my lower back had been plaguing me for several weeks before that tourney game. Never had anything like it before: I was so stiff I couldn’t run, bend over in the field or swing a bat with any authority without a seriously sharp stab in my lower spine that felt serious. My back would loosen up a bit after several hours of practice but I could slack off at practice; nobody noticed. Coach had other worries like who was going to pitch that game. I hated pain; and, notified the coach who I admired and hated to inform; he didn’t advise me to visit the doctor. Coach believed I should tough out the pain, play through it. He didn’t want to hear of my ‘injury”. My old man thought the same if I told him which I didn’t. I kept the stiffness to myself not letting anybody else make the decision.

We went into that game needing my one skill, - to play my game with the glove: defense. Ron__ counted on me I never knew why until that game; but when I told him I couldn’t play second that afternoon he was more than disappointed: I had made the coach I admired and delivered papers to for years, angry after he gave me the great opportunity to play as a sophomore. The coach knew he had to play my substitute; another of my best friends a senior (excellent at cribbage, and pool who I later roomed with in college). Mick H___ had polio when he was kid; and had a stiff rod in his back so he could barely bend over (either, ever). I was thinking maybe Mickey deserved to start the last game of his career and his senior year. That I still had a few games ahead of me entered my decision to take a seat on the bench for the last game.

The Kilowatts were a lot tougher in the District Finals; it was a pitcher’s duel between Arlen Larson and our slow lefty Milt Henningson: the score was tied 2-2 bottom of the ninth. With a man on second two outs bottom of the inning, their ninth batter slapped a grounder toward my sub at second; who didn’t move a step right or left: as the slow hit baseball rolled between his legs; he chased it to the outfield grass, turned and fired home, but the runner on second who was running on a full count and two outs scored on my friend's error. The game winning single went through my wicket; I could have easily made that play as I had a hundred times before. My sub lost the game: the team lost because I sloughed off: I never got over it; and never sat out another minute of sports stories because of an injury”

When I started up from the dream in the morning light, I immediately recalled my conversation with my client and was determined I could never give up on the case despite how awful it was working with a slightly illiterate corrections inmate who was manipulating me

Assignment March 30th

Chapter 4. In the chill of the night (given first line)

“Did you hear anything Sunday night?” Denny the caretaker asked me. He stopped shoveling the last of the snow off the steps of the apartment building to make his point as I walked out to start my car Tuesday morning, heading off to Pearson to score NCLB

“Somebody broke into the laundry room and busted into the washers and dryers; really messed the place up…”.’

“Oh no I heard ‘em” banging around down there; wasn’t sure what it was. It was over in five minutes for all I could tell” I didn’t want to get involved I knew that falling back to sleep.

“They broke into 990 about 1:30 in the morning. What time did you hear ‘em?”

“It was late, they woke me up. I wasn’t sure what was going on”. Now I remember my thoughts at that moment in the night ( the sense of security breached) -not that again…I would bet some fools are stealing the quarters out of the dryers; there isn’t even ten bucks in there; they must be desperate for drugs; nothing else is that cheap.

“How much did they take out the machines?”

“Oh usually there’s about 30 dollars give or take in each one. But they did two hundred bucks worth of damage for sure. I worked on it all day; the dryer still isn’t working right; had to buy some new parts at Menards”. I thought: damn I’m glad I didn’t try to be a hero and put my neck on the block to stop those punks. I thought I knew who did it. Gang bangers from the projects next door.

“I thought of calling you but I don’t have your cell” I recalled thinking it wouldn’t do any good to call the maintenance line at that time of the night anyway. Break ins happened all the time when I lived in the hood. A convenience store clerk was murdered for the cash in the till at 36th and Minnehaha a few block from my studio; just to buy a few rocks from the crack house row. I thought this was supposed to be a good neighborhood with a lot of kids and families living by Moore Lake.

“If you ever hear that happening again just call 911”

“I sure will man”

Chapter 6. Person Place and Song


Person Place and Song

The first time I ever heard one of my songs on the radio I was giving my girl friend Chera a ride home after work. A few days before she had dressed up like a groupie (she knew that part well) and hand delivered four cassettes of the song we had been working on for a month in my studio on 41st; perfecting, polishing it for the Crash Gearbox show on KFAI 101.3 FM. It wasn’t totally unexpected but I was a bit shocked as our song ‘Spiral Staircase’ started crackling out of the speakers of my Buick Skylark.

Chera was astonished; "Turn it up" she demanded, reaching for the volume knob: I’ve gotta hear it!; she was more surprised than I was; usually she hated loud music; and, going to bars where bands were playing. She was an artist, an actress doing her thing: she reviled the rock bars, the egos of musicians, the groupie reality scene that is a fantasy in itself. Chera loved 'Aerosmith': Stevie Tyler in his tranny act; Rolling Stones at the Excel center, the major acts. When the song was over the disk jockey commented on air: “I like your song; but could you please send in a better quality tape next time?” to 15,000 listeners wondering who that band ‘Rollover’ was; Did they play at Fernandos on Lake? It didn't sound like …Prince, Johnny Lang , Bob Stinson’s ghost…? Nope it was just us: the 4209 lonely hearts club band.

Our group broke up soon after that flash in the pan; as Chera and I did in the following months as the Donaldson Warehouse slowly went out of business. She moved back to Lakeland, and, became a sign language practitioner for the State: she e-mailed me just last spring affirming I was the only boy friend she ever had that actually had a song played on the radio; and, that I would always be a rock star in her mind.


Chapter 10. That sort of person


Dave Z___ (my client)

Dave Z___ is the type of guy who will tell you the details of what he’s up to with his girlfriend, but doesn’t want you hanging around his sister who 'likes me'


Dave Z___ is the type of guy who plea bargains to six false charges; claiming he thought he could do more on the outside than he could spending 30 years in prison on false charges.

Dave Z___ is the sort of person who looks forward to going to the dentist

DaveZ____ was the type of guy who headed out parking with his high school girlfriend after Bible study

Dave Z ___is the sort of person who can generalize for an hour on the phone; but avoids talking about the serious legal issues we face in his Federal appeal whenever he can change the subject

Dave Z___ is the sort of person who believes that legal writing is one of his skills

Dave Z ____ is the sort of person who probably couldn’t pass (today’s) GED; but believes he has a great legal mind

Dave Z___ is the sort of person who believes that being an idiot savant gives him license to lecture on the supernatural.

Dave Z___ is the sort of person who claims he is a ‘mystic’; which always makes him the smartest person in the room

Dave Z___ is the sort of person who believes that fate has cheated him of his destiny

** Dave Z is the main character of my 20 page short story.


Chapter 18 Switching gender


The Operation: (a clash of genders)

“It’s not my fault that I weigh this much” said Jackie P___ as an introduction to the staff in the imaging department at Mid-America. “My dad always made me eat every single morsel on my plate when I was growing up in Stillwater. It was his fault. I’m planning on having an intestinal by pass operation if this damn company ever hires me full time like they said they would when I interviewed with Jim R___” She was very self conscious of her weight; and evidently always had been

“How much does something like that cost” I asked her as she brought up the subject a few days later. I knew the company had poor insurance in first place. I wasn’t aware they covered that type of operation

“It’s around $4500” she said. That’s gotta be major surgery with a body like that I thought. My Uncle Del died after they stapled his stomach shut by mistake in a Denver hospital; I was thinking at least $50K but didn’t say anymore about it.

“What were you doing at Alpine Temp agency?” I asked one time.

“ They were horrible; just using me. I didn’t fit in anywhere; working wherever they sent me, sorting, filing, answering phones; selling dried flowers…all temporary jobs before I came to Mid America; they said they were going to hire me full time. I was living in Stillwater and commuted to the city. Then we had an apartment on Stinson”

Another day she told us that she got kicked of her apartment because he daughter wrote “I hate you” in colored chalk on the sidewalk: and the owner thought he she was referring to him whichshe was. “I hated him too: Jackie said: he kept raising the rent; never fixed the plumbing. I complained all the time he did nothing…”. She was angry, irascible all the time, but she got along alright with the women alright. It consumed her that Mid – America wouldn’t make her a permanent employee. Her daughter had benefits from the county; she had some but not insurance through the county, to cover the operation she wanted desperately. I became the permanent employees she began to resent more as the decision to hire her full time wasn’t arriving on schedule; asking me about my salary and benefits which I wasn’t supposed to discuss with other employees. I was trying to be cordial, polite…we didn’t need a hostile workplace: like I had experienced at Diversified Technology five years previously. There was plenty of work; I was busy , wore earplugs, as employees were encouraged not to participate in idle chatter, conversation: keep your nose to the grindstone they said subtly.. Once I asked her if she wanted to talk about her problems on the phone after work.

“I don’t have a telephone!” she snapped brushing past me. Okay Okay I thought. No more Mr. Nice Guy; this girl was a volcano waiting to erupt.

Things never improved; one night I dreamed I visited Jackie’s apartment that was like a lab… like at work, and noticed there were two huge lamprey eels attached to her body: sucking the life out of her. Soon I was back at the company headquarter imaging hospital records from Lakeland Hospital in Stillwater after finishing up an outsourcing job in St Paul. I was sharing a scanning job with her as the only man in the department at the moment; along with the young girls; she loved the trivia games and dialogue on the morning show; she in particular was annoyed that I wore earplugs and wouldn’t carry on with the chatter about the FM 103 morning show . Coming back from morning break one day I was joking about my ex-girlfriend who was a sign language expert with the State; as she filled me in on her boyfriend Jose; and her daughters discipline problems in school. When out of nowhere she launched a another barrage;

“You hate women, - you just like to have sex with them” she blurted out, raging mad in an instant; her face reddening

“What brought that on?” I riposted instantly with emphasis, controlling my voice

“You think you’re better than everybody …we don’t need you around here. This is my job now”.

She screamed as she jumped up from her chair at the i830 Kodak scanner; and charged into the human resources manager to tell him I was harassing her. Jim R___ knew it wasn’t true and sent her into the break room to calm down. The situation never improved.

I was outsourced to Dakota County shortly after the incident: After 9 months Jackie was hired full time and had her operation. By the next time I saw her Jackie had lost noticeable weight but was still weighing in at about 200 lbs at least I guessed: informing me she had already lost a hundred pounds; looking about half her former size and was sporting a new tatoo on her back . she was a randy girl after all and it was coming out: Another day the department was ordering take out from McDonalds. Jackie ordered a lala palooza chocolate sundae with the works, along with a Big Mac and super sized fries.

“I can eat anything because my stomach is a lot smaller now” she crowed. “ I won’t ever gain weight anymore even when I eat rich food” I heard it; she was entitled to celebrate her victory over obesity; if it made her feel any better I thought to myself. Trying to avoid any more conflict

There was no turning back the clock; now a full time employee Jackie still despised me and was openly flirting with Keith Bailey the athletic sales manager who always wore a natty sport coat and drove a black Explorer; he sold the scanning jobs for Mid-America systems. One day Jackie was called to the office and had to go to the hospital immediately: we learned her boyfriend Jose had his leg amputated at the hip by a train in the freight yard of lumber company he worked for. He died in the emergency room of Hennepin County General from loss of blood. She took a day or two off to make arrangements: Jose was the father of her daughter. His family lived in San Antonio. I was doing most of the scanning while she was out. When she came back I could tell she’d been crying a lot. .

“I was so sorry to hear about Jose’s accident” I said and meant it. Trying to be civil, kind -what ever it took to cheer the grieving woman. I had signed a card for her and contributed five bucks… thought maybe the war was over. The funeral could be a time of truce …it was a mistake.

For a second I thought she was going to slug me; I saw that look of rage in her eyes as here mood shifted immediately to our ‘conflict”; she said nothing in reply, glaring at me as though her loss was not going to be my gain. Later that day I had a feeling she would report my hostile attitude toward women again to the HR manager Jim R__ whose son Brian just graduated from high school; and, was training in the scanning department on the new high volume i830 Kodak scanner Mid-America rented. The boy was very quiet . But I could tell omething was up. For some reason HR liked Jackie or was afraid of her; I just didn’t realize how valuable she had become to the business after her operation.

I was outsourced again for a couple weeks on a rework imaging job with the City of St Paul; when it was completed, I was informed by a phone call from HR that I was laid off the week of Thanksgiving after five at will years with Mid America. I used that opportunity to go back to school and pick up my license in adult education.

** Note: I thought of trying to write more of Jackie’s p.o.v but I think we get the drift herein: there is some hint of a female p.o.v in the rock star story: but it would be like me trying to imitate Nathaniel West writing ‘Ms Lonely Hearts’ and would sound kind of whacky. At least these anecdotes express some of the passion that may have been lacking on both sides. I am a male chauvinist pig in a reactionary environment and I realize it; any gender bias, or p.o.v comments would be appreciated. This is another of my 'reality is more compelling than fiction' ideas


Chapter 19 3rd person

(I wrote this sports piece first in first person' it might be better in 3rd but not as polished)


It was the last year of Tony’s football career. He was finally seeing a lot of action under a new coach of the football team. He was starting, finally getting the opportunity he needed, after riding the bench two years for two losing seasons under Ted M__ . The new head coach of football and wrestling John “Bo” Henry, a muscular star wrestler for Moorhead State was just starting his career. He had a stunning wife who looked better than the cheerleaders, and a young son; they lived on the lake in a small apartment. Bo was a stud: army veteran, small college player of the year: built like a brick shithouse, also coach of the wrestling team. The team loved and admired him from the first day of football practice on a humid 88 degree day in September.

The Trojans hadn’t had a winning season in our town football in 13 years; it was a little known and hidden fact, only exposed from reading old school annuals gathering moss in a corner of the library. Nobody discussed it. With a few friends he had left on the team, guys Tony had been playing the major sports with since 4th grade: the few of the best athletes in class; with a few juniors and sophomores sprinkled in; with his buddies Tony made a secret pact determined to turn the trend around. The problem never articulated in the provincial, parochial culture of the tiny Hamlet ; that percolated through the society of three year lettermen across all sports: was that the coaches had no idea how to win; or any conception of how the game was played on the field; and, were always being directed by the ‘down town quarterbacks’: who determined who of the local sons played; and what teams they played on; how much they played and who didn’t play and so on. They had no problem with losing as long as their sons and favorite town boys were playing all the time; and got the ‘glory’, the MVP awards and letters when in fact there was very little to crow about except in baseball where the Trojans were perennial conference champs or at least in the running. They were decent in basketball but rarely made it out the district.

The season was on the line as the rebuilt team approached the Dawson game; at a critical stage: 2-3 with four games to go before the district seeding. The local boys had to win at least three out the next four games to have the first winning season in fourteen years. After a thirteen year losing streak; they knew the league, the players, the coaches the whole casserole. And that they could win; if the same thing didn’t happen again. To make the situation more critical the word was passed around that former coach Ted M__ would be returning to town to observe the Friday night game. To see how his boys were doing. Nobody liked him except his lackeys from the year before who were all riding the bench.

As the starting line up was announced by his junior high coach Don Holm sitting in the announcer's booth to the large crowd that included Tony's parents, brothers and sister, “Starting at right end …. …”

Pete K__’s dad yelled, standing up waving his arm and clenching his fist for an audience in the bleachers “Get him out of there: he’s no good, …get Pete in there; and so on”

In the first quarter the Black Jacks tested the defense early on the notoriously weak side of the line; the coaches in Little Sioux knew the weaknesses well after years of domination of the Trojans. Tony split out wider than usual to help cover their all conference receiver 6’ 3” Dave Fields son of the County Sheriff. They knew each other from basketball and summer dances. That strategy exposed a hole in the four 3 defense. They were moving down the field taking chunks of yardage; using their big slow fullback Steenson with the slightly faster quarterback (Mogard) and halfback blocking in a wedge. It looked like they were running right through Toney like water through a sieve in the first quarter. With the Black Jacks driving for a touchdown on the 40, halfway through the quarter Coach Bo pulled Tony; and replaced him with Pete K___. Coach was in his grill immediately on the sidelines

“What’s going on out there?” he hollered in the ear hole of his helmet.

“I’ve gotta move out wide and drop back to help cover Fields in the open zone” , Tony yelled. “They’re running a power slant through that hole all the time. We gotta move
Raleigh (the outside linebacker) farther outside to cover the gap… ”

Tony was thinking if we can force Steenson to run to the sidelines; (he could sandwich him with a line backer before he turned the corner : he was that slow) With his blockers in front of him though the chunky fullback was murder running straight ahead. It took two defensive backs to bring him down if he got through the line which he seldom did. Coach called a timeout; the team talked it over on the sideline; moved Raleigh to farther outside linebacker and that solved the problem. After that adjustment the Trojans stopped the Dawson running attack cold most of the game .

In the third quarter left end Wentworth caught a 40 yard post from their sophomore quarterback Beyer and ran it in. Trojans were leading 13-7 going into the fourth quarter. With 3:25 remaining in the fourth the Black Jacks were driving, putting together a strong drive that resembled their first quarter successes: running the left side. Galen Steenson had run thirty plays piling up 60 yards rushing the middle of the line for no gains, and a few losses; he was gassed. But he was all they had. The game came down to fourth down and one at the Trojan 21 with 2:10 remaining. The Jack coach called a timeout. The defense went over to listen to Bo on the sidelines; urging the boys to hold out one more time. Thumping the guys on the back. ‘Keep a tight formation men,’ he shouted as they trudged back out on the field. On the way back to the last stand Tony noticed Ted M__ on the sideline; high cheekbones, a Baptist, he stood out tall at 6’ 5” gray trench coat and crew cut; ( punter at Augsburg) at about the 27 yard line. Alone: he had no friends in that hometown crowd, composed of all the people Tony, Raleigh, Wentworth…. grew up with.

Every body including the downtown quarterbacks lined up along the sidelines; some of them moved with the ball on every down. Tony just knew the Dawson gang were going to try to run their exhausted fullback around right end on the short side of the field, strategy being suck him inside or run over him with his size listed 185 on the program. Tony could see it unfolding in his mind; there were no options left for the Jacks: the Trojan pass defense was stacked with the Peterson brothers and Lindman at safety: even with an all conference end the Jacks hadn’t completed more than a few passes. The big fullback had played every down on offense and defense like Tony; going both ways at middle linebacker but Tony was fresh, waiting for the opportunity he knew was inevitable: rather than feebly running into the middle of the tought defensive line; with two minutes left in the 4th quarter he was dead in the water. Hut 2, 3: At the right hash mark Mogard faked a halfback draw to the right; he turned and pitched to Steenson moving in slow motion heading Tony’s direction out of the back field: he pounced out in front of him, pumped on adrenalin; guessing he would try to run over him: he planned to cut him off at the knees if he tried. But the big fullback didn’t even try a fake move; instead he looped out wide lumbering toward the short side of the field and the sidelines; trying to outrun Tony losing five yards on the first down he needed in ten side steps. Tony was a sprinter. Steenson put the shot –Tony leveraged the exhausted running back toward the end of his dead end run toward the sideline as he lunged, losing ground running parallel to the line of scrimmage; his heavy momentum eliminating any escape he had.. At the last instant– knowing he’d reached the end of the line at the 26; off balance, out of gas the fullback made a feeble attempt to cut back up field toward the 20 he needed to reach, to make up the loss, uuh uuh…to acknowledge his coach’s poor choice of a play(?), imagining only he could turn up field into Tony’s territory; before Tony chopped him down at the knees; he was rolling on the turf as Steenson rolled out of bounds at Ted M__’s feet. Raleigh pulled Tony to his feet. Slapping him on the back. From the crowd erupted a sound never heard before in the stadium. Former Trojans, now farmers, teachers, police roared: grown men stood with mist in their eyes that had waited a generation for a glimpse at a decent team: turned to each other high fiving everybody around them, cheering high school girls waved Trojan banners, women hugged. The pep band launched into ‘Down Main Street’ by John Phillip Sousa. It was pandemonium: like an NFL playoff game. The Trojans took over the ball at their own 27 and ran out the clock using their big fullback Bobby Ross who now delivers babies at the hospital. Dawson had no time outs left.

The Trojans shook hands with the Black Jacks after the great game it turned out to be. Ted M__ never showed up for the celebration in the locker room after the Dawson clash to congratulate his old team. They forgot he was there: he became a butch cut footnote in the annual. The Trojans won two more games in what became a four game winning streak; before ending the season of the Milbank Bulldogs in the final away game 28-14. It didn’t matter. The team finished the season 5-4 for the first winning record in 14 years. Bo Henry asked Tony if he wanted to try out for the wrestling team when the season was over; but, he declined the offer as one of the few returning lettermen for the basketball team.


Chapter 22 : the child as narrator

Dad’s Watch: ten year old p.o.v

It was the first week of June; the water was streaming clear and fast in the Minnesota river; huge black crappies had been biting like crazy below the dam for two weeks. I knew right where they were hitting the hardest, in the swirling water about two blocks south of the locks where the crooked creek, run off from the power plant water meets the rapids. In the little whirlpool the big blacks and silver bass gathered waiting for the minnows that spilled over the locks at the west side of the dam. I was not supposed to be fishing at the dam yet at 11 years old; I could fish the pier on the lake where small walleyes were biting but the fast water of the river was too dangerous according to my parents. Will my brother was only six and not even supposed to be close to the river when it was high and running fast. At least one kid had drowned there diving for tackle.

All you really needed was a cane pole; and a little technique. I brought Will along to show him the tricks of the trade hooking the big ones; he wanted to be there too for once if and when the fish were biting. Like he wanted to be with us hunting ducks, pheasants at my Uncle’s slough. I would show him how to rig up light blue monofilament, with an eight inch leader; it had to have a one half inch spinner; and at least 3 little red dots. Hook the minnow through the gills to keep it alive as long as possible; the catch depended on fashioning the exact crappie snell. I had learned the method from Dad when we used to fish Big Stone off Morley McPherson’s dock (a lefty first baseman, he used to pitch for the White Sox until he blew out his arm; he hunted with us). I had a Johnson Centennial mounted on a seven foot fiber glass rod; once that tackle rig was in the water; if you kept it moving into the current was deadly; sometimes a 2 pound silver bass would grab it and tear off against the drag like a small pike, sometimes snapping the line. It was great fun when they were running. I caught eight pound and a half diamond flanked blacks on a similar day lone day the year before

We were three miles from home. There was a problem with time; I had to be back in town delivering the StarTribune by at least 4:45. I usually fished early so there was no problem; in the afternoon when I was running a tight schedule I would ‘borrow’ Dad’s gold Bulova : not wear it, the band was too large I would just stuff it in my jeans, checking it from time to time.

The fishing was not remarkable; seldom had I seen the inch and a half red and white bobber descend six inches below the swirling surface as a crappie or two nibbled it. My brother had no luck with his cane pole. I remember checking the watch at 3:50; we started packing up our gear for the trek home. We had a few fish on our stringer. We grabbed our tackle box inherited from Grandpa Tom Sr.; and walked back down the dirt path to our bikes parked at the outlet; we pedaled three miles; and were home by…

To my absolute horror, when I reached in my pocket the watch was gone; what a sickening feeling: that watch had more history than me. Gramps had given it to Dad as he entered the Marines: it kept perfect time 30, 40, fifty years later. Dad would be crushed if something happened to that precious time piece. It might have killed him earlier than all the Lucky Strikes he smoked on Okinawa; he loved his parents that much. A dull gold color with matching band. He would wear it only on special occasions, church, holidays, playing cribbage with his Dad. His greatest treasure; a level above his Wilson Staff Arnold Palmer matched set. And I still have to deliver these damn papers. A horrible angst grabbed me like a vice settling in my abdomen. Nowhere to run to. In torment I raced around my route on my bike; trying to figure out what to do. I did a lot of praying to the Catholic trinity: there would be no problem with confession on this one. It was an accident.. none of the rationalizations worked: I felt a form of death at an young age; I couldn’t escape the horrible feeling of loss; it just got worse.

Dad wouldn’t notice the watch missing right away. It was always somewhere in his top dresser drawer I treated like mine. He might not even open it up…until Sunday. I could pretend I know nothing bury the memory. My brother knew I had the watch at the dam: that was a problem. He didn’t know I had lost it though. I couldn’t tell him what happened. It wouldn’t do any good to mention it: because the watch was hopelessly lost in the tall buffalo grass. Maybe it fell in the river. We would never find it in the thick weeds. I had this horrible dialogue going on in my mind even as we were sitting at the supper table about 6:40. Dad was quiet; it was another tough day at the office for him as usual; he was distracted with something about one of his customers as usual; not reading the tea leaves tonight; distracted thinking about something else. Suddenly I blurted out in front of the family:

“ I lost your watch at the dam this afternoon!”

He gave me a look that could kill; I was waiting for an explosion and knew it was inevitable: ‘__ "What were you doing with my watch" he shouted at the dinner table. Jumping up “I needed it to get back to my route on time…” (serve my customers you know) I thought he was going to smack me for sure. But no..He sprang into action; out of his chair and mobilizing forces in seconds. Within five minutes the four brothers were out of the kitchen; Dad and I sat silent for ten minutes in the front seat, my three brothers in the back seat of the blue and white Ambassador station wagon: racing to the dam and the crooked river junction. We got there by 7:30 there was plenty sunlight ; it was just starting to be dim in the shade of the dense cottonwoods as the sun went down in the West.

“Where did you check the watch last?” Dad ordered. I think it was right around here where the grass is trampled down”: For and hour and a half we culled through the weeds: my other two brothers were really pissed at me for ruining their evening, losing Dad’s most prized possession; complaining quietly it was a waste of time; except Will who somehow felt responsible, separating the tall weeds one by one... Dad searched the edges of the perimeter. I was on my hands and knees slipping in the mud of the bank. If the ancient Bulova was waterproof this might be the ultimate test. Dad’s spirit for this hopeless venture was remarkable. His dark image patrolling in the shade a bit west of us, hoping to catch a glint of gold on the ground as dusk approached and the sun dipped below the dense leaves for one last burst of light before it went down. We had searched at an hour and a half as it was getting darker and darker in the shade as the sun dipped into the Dakota hills. I was praying to the Blessed Virgin. But I knew it t was absolutely hopeless: like finding a needle in the galaxy; my dad would have a grudge against me forever for this faux pas, and rightfully so. I knew what it was like to be in Hell finally: I was there.

Suddenly Will screamed: “I found it!” He was jumping up and down holding the treasure high as he could. I can still see a glint of the crystal as he waved the watch above his head. We charged over and huddled up as he handed it to Dad: he had a the stern look of the Marine sergeant we all knew but I could tell he was terribly relieved. It was dark by the time we got home. The incident at the dam was never mentioned again. The thrill of fishing at the dam was gone. Eventually I handed my rod and reel purchased with my paper route profits, over to Will. That year I received a Timex: [T]hey take a licking and keep on ticking] for my major Christmas present. Will inherited that Bulova from Dad and to this day: it still keeps perfect time.