“We write to taste life twice; in the moment and in retrospection.” Anais Nin
Stories and poems written in Guided Autobiography class
It's Saturday morning. I'm sitting at the dining room table; the flame of the gas wall heater next to me is making familiar purring sounds. It’s warm and cozy here. I'm using the clustering method and I have so many ideas written down. I feel somewhat proud.
I'm reminded of my voice. I'm ten. I'm belting out "Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer" while lying on the backseat of my parents yellow 1958 hardtop Thunderbird. My brother is driving; mom's in the front seat. We're driving to Lakewood, Ohio from Pompano Beach, Florida, mostly on two lane US highways. It's a very long trip.
Jeff only has his permit but Mom lets him drive. Once he stops too suddenly and I land on the floor. I sing the verses, "Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer", over and over again the whole trip, except for an occasional nap or when my voice becomes hoarse. I'm an annoying ten year old according to my brother. But boy, can I sing.
My 4 year old Granddaughter, Ryn, loves to sing. No one can stop her from singing, just like her grandma as a young girl. Once she's buckled in her car seat, she'll ask for one of her favorite CD's to be played. She sings along with feeling and enthusiasm. She knows the words of Frozen, Let it Go, Jonah and Whale songs. My daughter sent me a video of Ryn singing Adele's Hello. I love listening to her powerful little voice.
I started driving a school bus this year, a short one, an EC bus. EC means exceptional children. I like saying that instead of handicap bus. The afternoon route of my first day, the adult rider/helper said, “You're going to love the last stop”. I thought for a second and said, “You mean, I won't like it?" He said with a little laugh, "Right". He didn't tell me why.
It's the very last stop and I have to back down a narrow, steep one lane road, passing two front yards to get to where I stop, all the while missing two mailboxes and a ditch on either side. Did I sign up for this? I remember when I took the school bus driving course 30 years ago. I was taught you never back up more than a few yards. When the bus is in reverse a backup alarm makes a continuous beeping, a strobe light and caution lights are blinking so you can't miss seeing the bus.
I have the bus ready to back up. I'm stressed. I've never backed up this far. I know this isn't safe or appropriate. The driver before me put the bus in neutral and would coast. That sounded totally crazy to me. Using my side mirrors for guidance, my rider gives me assistance. I back up very slowly until the bus door lines up with the driveway. I'm relieved. the boy exits and I drive away.
When we return to school, I'm anxious to make a change to this situation. I speak to the principal. He understands. My principal said he'd contact the bus garage in the morning as changes can't be made without their approval. My voice was heard. Turns out it was an unofficial stop. I only had to back up two more afternoons while the parents made other arrangements.
I remember being confused about God being my father as my father worked at Eddie Webb’s Shoe Store on Middle Street and he didn’t look anything like the man in the clouds. And besides that, I didn’t plan on dying any time soon. After the lesson we pulled our chairs up to little tables, took crayons out of a cigar box and colored pictures of angels who also lived in heaven with God our father.
Not all jugs are created equal – jugs of “apple pie” that is. This little jewel
happened in the woods of North Georgia just after the comet hit that killed all
the dinosaurs! “Apple pie” is an adult drink made from real apple cider, rum,
spices, butter and usually rum!
I’d guess there were about a dozen of us sitting around the fire that evening
and six or so jugs of pie being passed around. There was one jug that was
GOOD, real good. It got late and I guess we were all feeling the effect of the
“ground softener.” For sure I was. I quit passing the good jug – kept it for
myself. That’s where my memory failed. The next morning, I came-to finding
myself tied to a pine tree, as if an atomic hangover wasn’t enough.
After a bit, the burly Georgia boy who supplied the “good” jug came over
and untied me. He said, “Hell, you kept getting up and falling in the fire. I
tied you up to keep ya from being burned alive.” He went on to explain that
jug was made with shine – high gravity shine at that.
A published piece by Karen Jackson
hair? Lost in the woods or lured
into the forest? Whichever
version of the tale you choose,
the chair breaks, the broth spills
and the bed is filled with a babe
who does not belong
there, in that room,
with those bears
and no matter how many homes
one peers into, none are justrightand many a mother
has told a daughter, it doesn’t matter
if your bed is too soft or too hard,
“If you make it, you have to lie in it.”
And lie in it Goldilocks did,
through two centuries
as bards altered her from
hag into naughty child with silver
then golden hair, and then into a lass
eating porridge, plumping pillows
because too many stories featured
nasty old crones, and the once
frightful tale of a mother
rescuing her daughter from grizzlies
became a damsel longing for hearth,
dating one man, too hot, another too cold,
a third just right, until she wakes in his bed,
jumps from the story, and exits through
a window that has always been open.
CONSIDER THE SEMICOLON
Did you happen to catch the view of the Moon and Venus in the western sky earlier this month? They were aligned like a semicolon. Astronomers call it a conjunction when that happens. It isn’t rare, but it is somewhat ironic considering grammar dictates a semicolon is never used with a conjunction.
What is rare is that anyone actually uses the semicolon. Most people don’t understand it, despite the fact that it is deceivingly simple. A semicolon connects two sentences that are related but grammatically independent. It also links lists of items. I would venture to say the semicolon is more popularly used today as a sly wink emoticon rather than as a mark of punctuation.
I don’t use it very often myself, given my predilection towards em-dashes and ellipses. The formal semicolon doesn’t fit the loosey-goosey rhythm I aspire to in my writing. I don’t dislike the semicolon; I just don’t think much about it.
Many writers, surprisingly, have purposefully turned their back on the semicolon. Gertrude Stein felt it nothing more than a pretentious comma. George Orwell claimed it was an unnecessary pause. The late Kurt Vonnegut went so far as to label the semicolon a transvestite hermaphrodite that stands for absolutely nothing. All a semicolon does, he said, is show you’ve been to college.
It wasn’t always that way. The semicolon was innovative back in 1494 when a Venetian by the name of Aldus Manutius added it to a font set he developed. Venice at that time was the “Silicon Valley” of the printing world, full of new ideas and commercial competition, mainly because the city recognized and encouraged freedom of the press. Punctuation was used to guide oratorical pauses while reading books. The comma meant pause and count one. A semicolon meant pause and count two. The colon meant pause and count three. A period meant pause and count four.
The semicolon became chic when English writers took it up in the 16th and 17th centuries, but later, grammar historians – yes, they exist – noted that these English writers just couldn’t resist burdening the written word with too much punctuation. Think Shakespeare with all the breaths and pauses from commas and semicolons.
By the mid-1800s, the purpose of the semicolon evolved to reflect the joining together of contrary thoughts. Expressive Romantic writers and poets of the period were experimenting with a new type of prose. They used dashes, for example, to add some pizazz and create a way for their thoughts and words to jump off the page. Technology in the form of the telegraph also encouraged people to change how they used punctuation quite simply because each mark cost the same as a full word.
By the early 20th century, American schoolbooks had begun to encourage boys and girls to use a period between two independent clauses rather than joining them with a semicolon. The semicolon had become “dowdy.”
With today’s decreased attention to detail and the rise of text messaging and Twitter, I can see why many report the death of the semicolon by irrelevance. If you think about it, all punctuation has been relegated to second screen status on our mobile devices.
Does this mean all punctuation is doomed to the same fate as the semicolon? I’m not ready to make such a bold prediction because I see so much of our communication moving towards writing, albeit in smaller electronic bites. Seriously, does anyone talk on the phone anymore? All I hear anymore is the insect-like patter of typing.
We’re living in an era of great change where everyone texts, tweets, and emails in real time because that’s what’s expected. The irony is that in such a world, digital punctuation becomes increasingly important, conveying much about the sender’s tone and intent. Yet all the rules of grammar are off the table.
I see the astrological alignment of the Moon and Venus as a sign to reconsider the semicolon, i.e. a call to slow down and truly communicate with people. If a particularly bright star could awaken the world to the birth of a new religion, who knows what using semicolon might do for our relationships.
“I have a few things in the works”, he says, meaning friends who might be able to take him in during the storm. I tell him about the 7thAvenue Shelter.
PARADOX by Nancy K
The Stranger in the Backyard by Diane Rhoades
Paul and I pedal through waves of honeysuckle and wild rose scented air.
Heading to town for Japanese food, we ride our bikes past a man sitting crossed
legged on the grass. He is barefoot and draped in a white cloth. He sits on what
would have been the front lawn of an elegant ruin of a house that burned down
years ago. The concrete stairs are all that remain. They look like a small stage.
The dark skinned man sits there reading in the shade.
Getting off our bikes like aging cowboys, Paul says, “That was amazing, seeing
that man back there.” “I know”, I agree, “beautiful... like human art,” We head
inside to eat sushi and drink Sapporo beer. Paul tells me that the Sapporo can is
exhibited in the Guggenheim. He points out that the shiny grooved Sapporo beer
can is considered art. I don’t think so.
We chat with the sushi chef, who is from Burma; and he calls it Burma, not
Myanmar. His smile engages his whole face. We invite him to play table tennis
with us but he works most every night. I wonder where his joy comes from.
It is almost dark as we get back on our bikes and head home. We glance in the
direction where we’d seen the dark skinned stranger. We barely make him out in
the fading light. I see the white of his cloth lying flat on the ground. He is
sleeping on the grass? Paul and I pull over, get off our bikes, and lean them
against a tree.
I whisper to Paul, “I think he is asleep.” Paul says, “If the police see him, they
won’t let him spend the night here. Each sentence is almost a question. Paul
gently touches the man’s shoulder and wakes him. The stranger calmly opens
his eyes. I wonder where his calm comes from.
His face is elegant and timeless. I have no idea how old he might be. He
searches our faces and says something in another language, maybe some African
language. We tell him that he should not sleep here. He doesn’t understand. We
mimic authority telling him to go away.
We invite him to come with us. Paul and I, without talking it over, just know to
do this. It feels somewhat risky, but if feels right.
The man has been listening closely but doesn’t say anything. Paul and I don’t
know how much he understands so we say the same thing again, slowly. He says
something but we don’t understand. We start again. We tell him our names.
Paul and I make it clear that we want him to come with us. The stranger smiles
so we think he agrees.
I race my bike home to get our car while Paul stays with the man. We live less
than a mile away. I tell Casey, my daughter, what we are up to, and quickly drive
back. The men are sitting together in what looks like silence. I pull up and they
get in.
We drive home with few words, just enough to affirm a plan. I feel like we have
an astronaut in the car, or Gandhi. I have the feeling of a Holy Experiment.
Standing together in our backyard, I invite the man, in what I imagine is fluent
sign language, to shower, have some food or tea.
He smiles wide, shakes his head no, and stands there, poised and attentive. I go
inside and get him a jar of water. He smiles, gleaming white teeth and peaceful
eyes. We say our versions of “Goodnight”. The stranger wrapped in white cloth
and probably nothing else, heads toward the tent that Paul has just finished
setting up.
“Mom, are you crazy!” Casey, a senior in high school, is in the kitchen waiting
for us as we come in. She’s been watching from the window. I vouch for her
safety and dramatically lock the back door.
It’s late. I go upstairs and look out my bedroom window. The man is wrapped in
the white cloth right outside the tent on the tarp.
I am startled by the grace and mystery I feel as I watch the man curled up in the
moonlight. I feel a peace, a grace in this man’s presence. Sheltering him in our
backyard feels like we are sheltering Jesus.
Just before sunrise I wake, get out of bed, and look out the window.
He is gone.
Would the child have scrambled back onto his bike and ridden away as if he had done something wrong? Would he have allowed himself a moment to recover - anticipated that the man who hit him would want to make sure that he was OK?
It feels like a crime now; not an accident. I walk to my car dazed; the only witness.
Wow. I didn’t see that coming.