Dec 19 2008
Uncle Oscar’s Journal
I just returned from the funeral of my wife’s uncle Oscar. He died at the age of 86 and was one of the most well-loved men I have ever known. Hundreds of friends and family members braved a frigid, stormy day (in many cases traveling great distances) to pay their respects. He and his wife had seven children and over 50 grandchildren. Many of them told stories about Oscar, like the one, just last year, when he feigned death in the dentist’s chair to play a trick on the dental hygienist.
Oscar was a farmer – a rough-edged but tender-hearted man of the earth who loved hunting, fishing, hiking and anything else that took him out of doors. He wasn’t eloquent of speech. In fact, he probably used the word “scrud” about as much as he used “and” and “the.”
So it came as a surprise to me when his son – one of the speakers at the funeral service – read a few excerpts from the journals the old farmer had written over the past 60 or so years. As he read these passages, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who wondered if the words could have been penned by the same Oscar we all knew and loved.
What he wrote was simple yet eloquent, lucid and expressive. I was caught up in his words; captured by the lyrical cadence of his sentences. What he was trying to express came through clearly, simply and sincerely.
Afterwards, I thought, “How many Oscars do we rub shoulders with day after day? How many wonderful writers keep their talents as hidden as their dusty old journals and notebooks – treasures that may never be seen by other human eyes?
Granted, some of us write personal journals that we do not want to be read by anyone, ever. But what about those passages, pages, stories or poems we write that we would love to share with others?
Why don’t we share them? Perhaps because we fear what others will think. Maybe because we lack the means of getting them in front of other eyes. Perhaps we’re just shy, or we don’t think anyone else would want to waste time reading what we’ve written.
So here’s my suggestion: If you have a piece of writing you want others to read, I invite you to submit it as a comment to this post. People around the world who follow this blog – individuals who, like you, are interested in writing – can then read what you have written.
I, too, will read what everyone submits, and will feature some of the submissions that I find to be particularly interesting or notable in one of my regular blog posts in the coming week or two. I plan to make this a regular feature at TheWritersBag.com.
This is your chance to be published and have your work read by thousands of people. I hope you’ll take advantage of it.
We didn’t find out about Oscar’s talent until he was dead. I hope we don’t have to wait that long to learn about yours.
PS. Speaking of sharing your writing talents, I’d like to pass along a message from one of TheWritersBag.com’s regular readers. Melissa Malka writes: “I wanted to share with you a "contest" I am hosting on my blog. Anybody is invited to submit a short story in any form, even anonymously, and I’ll post it for others to read. The contest is open until Jan 31st and the prize will likely be a book from Amazon (recommendations appreciated!) but mainly, its to incite people to share their stories. The link to the info is: http://melissamalka.com/?page_id=85.”
What I would bring if I had ten minutes to leave my house before it burned down. November 17th 08
Class; Creative Writing with Karen Grant
Wrapped in paper and ink-scraps of unwritten intellect. Strange, can actions and manifestations be burned? To be practical-with the recession and need to function and all–the coffee grinder, some cups, filters. I’m young and my feet are in the computer, the black notebooks, the archives of specific subjects that prove whatever is crazy from my mouth, prove, like a muppet proves the strings she’s on. Who knows the next time I’d have the heart to re-goggle. I don’t think I could just walk away. We’re in a recession and too much paper is already burning. Can I reference Fahrenheit 451? Its all of it in our heads, the intellectual scraps, but what a waste of trees (sarcasm and sound bite) what a censure of my life–soiled margins and flaps, pages with window frames as covers. I know inside that the whole world is not burning, that the shut pages of Fitzgerald, Nietsche, Nabakov and Mamreov are not all burning, but haven’t they before?
Think–why the substances of our stuff and our minds had to be made more insubstantial, its destruction linkable to the virus of a hackers mind. We’ve learned; through Alexandria burning, like a pyramid on fire, and the people burning if they had scrolls, and worse, charcoal, stuffed in them like noisy words, Jesus bleeding words on his cross, bodies written to the ground, a ground with the sound of stone over the silent dust an dashes–two completely alternate things, dust and ashes. One plastic, one smoldering; both ending at the long slops of the sea, while engraving , a white grave stone long and ever rising, the softest deepest desert.
Hidalgo: The Beginning, or I Am Born
PREFACE
Hello. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the second best known writer from Hidalgo, Illinois (POP. 100). which means you won’t be seeing me hawking my book on the Today Show any time soon. (My “book” is incomplete, similar to my high school geometry grade.)
And who is Hidalgo’s best-known writer? It’s probably on the tip of your tongue, isn’t it? No? Give up? His name was Winfred (or “Winnie”, as I like to call him) Van Atta, author of Shock Treatment, which was made into a movie that Mr. Van Atta later sniffed at: “It ran the gamut of emotion from A to B”. This line was stolen from Dorothy Parker of course.
Incidentally, Van Atta’s family name was Vanatta. He thought this was too plain for an Author so he changed it to Van Atta. And of course he became world famous. You have heard of him, haven’t you?
What say we have a little quiz? Class, name three of his other novels. How about just one? I’m sure Van Atta won some prizes. He made a famous Oscar speech; he got the nod for his screenplay (category: based on work from another source which means only the title was used) of his novel, Shock Treatment. He gave an emotional speech: “You really, really like me!”
Come to think of it that was Sally Field. I’m sure Van Atta won some awards, probably the William Faulkner Ole Miss Award for Best Regional Novel Featuring Weird People That In Real Life You Would Drive Hundreds of Miles Just to Avoid Running into Them.
Actually, I think one of his books was nominated for The Edgar Award, which is named for Edgar Allan Poe who wrote all those very popular Vincent Price movies (The Pit and the Pendulum, The House of the Seven Gables, and Lassie, Come Home.) Poe’s Oscar speech was also a humdinger. I’m sorry I don’t have the space to quote it, but it was for the best murder mystery based on material (calico) stolen from another source.
As soon as my book is finished (working title: My Life on the Prairie: The Early Years, 1910-1950), I plan to write the movie version. I’m sure it will fit the best screenplay or story or long-winded tale adapted from another source category. It will probably be a shoo-in for the Oscar. My speech will begin: “I’m proud to represent Hidalgo; I’m only sorry my old friend, Winfred Van Atta, another Hidalgo boy, is not able to be here. I know he would have been proud…” I’m sure there won’t be a dry eye in Hidalgo.
It is now time to move on to:
CHAPTER ONE (in which the hero manages to get born without going to a hospital, or calling anybody on a cell phone)
“Who said we were going to call him Denny”? Dad said about 4:42 AM, local time.
It was a very cold morning when Dad inquired about the baby’s name. It had been the coldest winter since records were first kept by the folks who invented handwriting (the Good Sumerians). This was odd as the date was March 25, when it was technically spring, on that day in 1945 when I was born. I don’t remember much about it. I’m the baby of the family, if a sixty -year old person can be called a baby.
Although all of us seven children-I have four brothers and two sisters– are still at large, it is unclear to us exactly what happened that night .The mystery of the baby’s name was solved, eventually, but it was still a long day’s journey into the night and the predawn hours before things broke loose.
It had not been an easy birth. The baby didn’t come out right; he had to be assisted into the world with the doctor’s tools. (Many years later when the baby was supposedly grown up he heard on TV that the sort of birth he had experienced was traumatic; that a child never got over it, that it marked him for life, etc. “It was almost enough to make you give up TV”, he said.) And the birth was at home, like that of the other six children born to this family. Still everything was all right with mother and child except for the confusion over the baby’s name.
Brothers Jack and Jim were the only children still living at home at the time. Jack was nearly ten; Jim had just turned twelve. When the boys heard that a baby was coming, they decided to continue living at home, at least until they had jobs. Jim’s birthday in fact had occurred only five days before the birth of the boy whose name, according to Dad was not Denny, “for crying out loud”.
Jack, who is our star witness and principal supporting player in this drama, says that they (the Brothers Dunne) were sent to town just when the situation was getting interesting. . Being sent to town meant going to Hidalgo, a place where things tended to fold up early. So we’ll assume this was early in the evening, well before bedtime. This was in the dark ages, 1945, B. T (Before Television).
What did the boys do to occupy themselves until it was time to go home? I had thought about making this story into a reality show and having Jack and Jim return to Hidalgo to reconstruct the scene for us. They could have easily played themselves, although their appearance has changed somewhat after sixty years (they are a little taller).
I thought maybe the three of us might work up a little video to go with the script, which would show how things went on that important day. But I decided to go with my usual method of research, which shuns legwork in favor of making stuff up.
As to what the boys did, there weren’t that many options available; the nightlife of Hidalgo consisted of three or four grocery stores. They probably dropped in at Reba’s (sometimes pronounced “Reebie’s”) Meeker’s Grocery. Reba’s sign also said “Home Cooked Meals”, but not many people took her up on that as they could, well, get that kind of grub at home.
I like to think the boys each had the Pepsi and Planter’s Peanuts combo. The peanuts were not necessarily eaten on the side; the preferred method was to pour a few peanuts into the Pepsi bottle and then drink a little pop and chomp on a few peanuts at the same time. Very tasty.
You say you’ve never heard of Pepsi-soaked peanuts? Try them sometime—they’re delicious. Still with Pepsi at a nickel a bottle, the boys wouldn’t have gone overboard by drinking themselves into a sugar-salt coma.
Clarence’s Pool Hall may have been open, but the boys were a little young for billiards. So they probably drank pop and discussed why they were went sent to town.
“Mom’s having a baby, that’s why”, Jack said.
Jim responded: “There’s more to it than that. You’re just too young to know about it, that’s all.”
This remark infuriated Jack who was already wound up; he had been waiting for weeks for Mom to have this baby, which was supposed to be a girl named Judy Kay. That a girl’s name had been chosen led to unforeseen consequences. Namely, that there was way too much time spent on girl rather than boy names. (This is just speculation on my part, though I was considered to be a remarkable child, I took no notes at the time, preferring to spend my early hours mastering the art of burping.)
After an exciting evening in Hidalgo the Brothers Dunne walked home—a two-block journey– in silence, as Jack instructed Jim to never speak to him again. (Jim was not necessarily crushed by this idea: “Fine with me, Buddy!”) The brothers early on practically invented sibling rivalry, but they both were very kind to me even beyond my “cute period”, which only lasted about two weeks.
I doubt that they called Dad for a ride home. I almost wish they had; I’m sure his response would have been interesting, but not necessarily suitable for home viewing. Although he normally used phrases that sounded like he was swearing, they were really harmless. A favorite exclamation was something that sounded like “Galnt dang it!” short for maybe, Gal Dang It. Anyway on his particular evening, I’m sure he was not in a mood to be bothered. Besides, kids weren’t carted here and there in 1945, not in Hidalgo, particularly.
At the same time the family was waiting for the birth of a child, another drama was taking place. Sister Betty was making plans to be married, which she did the day after I was born. Years later I congratulated Betty on her excellent timing in getting out of the house before it was time to take care of Baby. It was just a coincidence, but it makes a better story to say that Betty knew when to light out for the territory.
So it wasn’t a restful night for anybody, particularly for Jack who woke up every hour wondering if his sibling had been born. The event finally occurred around 4:00 AM. Jack was so excited he burst out into the streets of Hidalgo and began knocking on people’s doors to let them know about his baby brother. This was much appreciated of course.
Jack caused such a commotion that lights came on all over town, which led some people to believe that the War had ended. One neighbor lady explained it to her spouse, who was modeling his red flannel underwear on the street in downtown Hidalgo. “Oh, it’s only the little Dunne boy gone crazy telling everybody about his new baby brother.”
Her husband was disappointed: “Damn! I was hoping Hitler had been shot, or something”. Eventually, everyone went back to bed.
After Jack’s early morning excursion to take the good news to Hidalgo, he somehow managed to have a chat with Dr. Massie, who had a few questions for him. Why Dr. Massie decided to interview a not quite ten year old boy in the early morning hours has never been satisfactorily explained. Apparently no adults were around to grill. Mom and Dad were with the baby, no doubt stunned after having six children already; they were probably wondering if they would ever get all their offspring raised. (They were quite right to be concerned, as I lived with them for over thirty years.)
Dr. Massie was a fairly young man who was somewhat excited himself. He got a shock after the birth when Dad asked him how much he owed him. The fee was $45, a considerable amount of change at the time. For Dad, the hard times of the Depression and World War II had eased somewhat, so he quickly pulled out his billfold and handed over the cash. Dr. Massie was so overcome—he was used to people paying him in produce and promises—he said, “You mean you’re going to pay it all now?”
It is my theory that Dr. Massie was so stunned by collecting $45 in cash that he plain forgot to ask the parents a few questions including the name of the just born.
On his way out of the house he realized that his work was not quite finished; he stopped in the kitchen where Jack was fixing himself a little breakfast, a fried egg sandwich. (It had been a long time since the Pepsi-Planters snack of the previous night.)
Jack was happy to accommodate the good doctor. He was proud to have his baby brother; it made him feel kind of important to be finally included in the process. Jack was the youngest, and was always getting left out—he was sick and tired of it.
The only problem was he didn’t quite have his facts straight. He proudly (and innocently) reeled off the baby’s name as “Denny Kenneth”: Jack was close, according to the authorities (Mom and Dad); the name was Danny Kenneth, or Danny K., which Mom later said was her choice.
The birth certificate managed to get all three names wrong, even the last name by omitting the “e” in Dunne. Thus it read “Denny Kenneth Dunn”. Still no harm was done.
No harm except Dad wanted to know, “Who said we were going to call him Denny”? When this storm broke, Jack was in another part of the forest (under his bed upstairs), and Jim wisely played innocent. It all blew over.
Sixty years later, though, some family members still call me Denny, or Den. I kind of like it, actually.[1]
[1] No wonder the boy became a writer: he was plagued with an identity crisis from the beginning. This has probably accounted for his tendency to try on different hats. In his cowboy days, which lasted until about age fourteen, he pretended to be Roy Rogers. Later in his so-called maturity he liked to pretend to be somebody else for a day. Currently he is Hidalgo’s second best known writer.
While I am a late bloomer in the writing department, I find that age gives you the chance to have lots of great memories. Some that when they happened made you want to cry, scream or pull out your hair. Now as I watch the grandkids have kids I can use those events to torment my children by telling them as stories to their children. So we begin.
Boys Are Easy?
To all you parents and especially non-parents who believe that raising boys is easier than raising girls. Get real.
Did your sixteen-year old son ever tell you he was spending the weekend with a buddy and then ride his bicycle from Tennessee to Kentucky to visit another friend? Mine did. Not only did he do the deed, he was aided and abetted by his friend and his friend’s father. They thought it was a cool thing to do. I, on the other hand, did not think it cool to send police from three states on a kid hunt. None of them found the bicycling dervish because someone stole the bike on his way back and he finished the trip in the comfort of a limo transporting a record producer who found his spirit interesting. He was delivered, in style, to the edge of town.
Was your son escorted to the principal’s office by a teacher who couldn’t stop laughing long enough to explain to her boss that the boy had run screaming across the classroom and dove out an open window during a period when the school air conditioners broke down? My son’s explanation was that he was overcome by the heat and temporarily insane. (Temporarily?)
Did that selfsame boy get delivered to his home by a grinning idiot who called himself a coach, and who had apprehended said son running track in his sister’s bra and mini skirt? His sister was not amused. Nor for that matter, was his mother who shall remain nameless.
Did your son, who at a supposedly responsible eighteen years old and … who was instructed to watch out for his sister while you were on a business trip; decide to skateboard downhill while being towed by his buddy’s pickup truck? Needless to say I was somewhat taken aback when I viewed his scraped and scabbed countenance upon my return. He was grinning by the way.
How often did you get in from work to discover that your darling son had taunted his poor sister to the point of madness? Was he sitting atop the refrigerator laughing like a hyena while his small, angry sister attempted to jump high enough to do him bodily harm with a potato peeler?
How this madcap grew into a responsible( well almost, he still forgets to let go of the tow rope when being pulled at sixty miles an hour behind a speed boat while riding and inner-tube) adult who has a good job and children of his own, is beyond my comprehension.
Why I began dyeing my hair at thirty-five is self explanatory.
An entry from the journal of a homeschool mom who likes to run.
Homeschool is like running.
If you’ve never ran a step in your life, you’re probably thinking along these lines: “It’s difficult…”, “It’s tiring…”, “It’s not for me…”, “I have no time for it…”, “I’m not trained for it…”, “I have better things to do…”, “My spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak…”. I could go on but please feel free to add your own reason or valid excuse.
Now, if you’ve heard about homeschool, and for some reason or another became interested in it but are not actually doing it, you’re probably thinking along these lines: (Please re-read sentences above in quotation marks).
Well, that’s really how it is. When I get into a conversation with people who would like to know about home school , I usually get those remarks in a form of a question: “Isn’t it difficult?…”, “Isn’t it tiring?…”, “Are you trained for it?…”. Oh, you get the picture.
Let me put it this way, homeschool is like running.
It is intentional.
I don’t just happen to find myself running (unless I’m being chased by a dog). I prepare for it. I psyche myself up, plan my route, what I’ll wear, how long I’ll run, I check the weather, brush my teeth. I do whatever I need to do, and then I run. One foot in front of the other, I repeat as many times needed to finish my mileage for the day.
Homeschool is pretty much like that. My husband and I decided that we wanted to homeschool our children (why we want to is a different entry altogether). We purposefully researched about it. I visited homeschool families to see how they do it. I read a lot of books and magazines about homeschool. I read about children who were homeschooled. Most importantly, Reggie and I prayed about it. We asked God to bless our plans a year before we even began. We did what we had to do, and then, by faith, we started homeschool .
It takes commitment.
I like to run and I enjoy it. However, I run so regularly, it’s almost boring. I run even on days when I don’t feel like it (especially when I’m training for a race), because I know what it does for me. I run because it keeps me fit, it clears my mind and it always makes me feel good afterward. It is my time to be alone, to regroup and to reflect on how God is working in and through my life.
Homeschool calls for the same level of commitment. I (with my husband’s help) have taken on the responsibility to teach and motivate my children to learn. I like teaching my children and we enjoy doing all the fun stuff: field trips, science experiments, drawing, baking, etc. But then there is the tedious stuff like Math (my sons find their worksheets dreary) that we have to do even when the boys don’t feel like it. Nevertheless, it is through the mundane and everyday things where we learn most about self-control, perseverance and discipline.
It is a lifestyle.
My husband, the kids and I have a daily schedule for lectures, workbooks and drills, but learning is 24/7 in our household. We all love to read. We watch movies together. We play board games for hours. We tell stories during mealtimes. We stay healthy by eating right. We play sports–soccer, bowling, Frisbee and of course, we run! We go to different places and meet different people. We read the Bible as a family every night and talk about how amazing God is!
Home school just like running is our lifestyle, we don’t just preach it, we live it.