Leonard Cohen – This is for keeps…

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Reprinting Editorial – The New Yorker

I have remained silent, in the politically correct manner that is expected of friends and relatives.  Now, in the name of honorable decency, I must say what is on my mind.  I do not believe that my words can ever frame what I feel inside at the election of Donald Trump to lead my country.  I might sound too “something” and might be taken too lightly – an individual with sour grapes in my heart.  So, here is an editorial written by the esteemed editor of the New Yorker Magazine.  His words eloquently say what is in my heart.  I hope he does not take umbrage with my copying the text to this blog.  I will not give this president-elect a clean slate to prove that he is something that he has consistently proved he is not.  I stand firm in my convictions that this is one of the greatest tests that has befallen our great nation and that I will hold fast to the truths that anchor my heart to liberty.
“The electorate has, in its plurality, decided to live in Trump’s world.

The election of Donald Trump to the Presidency is nothing less than a tragedy for the American republic, a tragedy for the Constitution, and a triumph for the forces, at home and abroad, of nativism, authoritarianism, misogyny, and racism. Trump’s shocking victory, his ascension to the Presidency, is a sickening event in the history of the United States and liberal democracy. On January 20, 2017, we will bid farewell to the first African-American President—a man of integrity, dignity, and generous spirit—and witness the inauguration of a con who did little to spurn endorsement by forces of xenophobia and white supremacy. It is impossible to react to this moment with anything less than revulsion and profound anxiety.

There are, inevitably, miseries to come: an increasingly reactionary Supreme Court; an emboldened right-wing Congress; a President whose disdain for women and minorities, civil liberties and scientific fact, to say nothing of simple decency, has been repeatedly demonstrated. Trump is vulgarity unbounded, a knowledge-free national leader who will not only set markets tumbling but will strike fear into the hearts of the vulnerable, the weak, and, above all, the many varieties of Other whom he has so deeply insulted. The African-American Other. The Hispanic Other. The female Other. The Jewish and Muslim Other. The most hopeful way to look at this grievous event—and it’s a stretch—is that this election and the years to follow will be a test of the strength, or the fragility, of American institutions. It will be a test of our seriousness and resolve.

Early on Election Day, the polls held out cause for concern, but they provided sufficiently promising news for Democrats in states like Pennsylvania, Michigan, North Carolina, and even Florida that there was every reason to think about celebrating the fulfillment of Seneca Falls, the election of the first woman to the White House. Potential victories in states like Georgia disappeared, little more than a week ago, with the F.B.I. director’s heedless and damaging letter to Congress about reopening his investigation and the reappearance of damaging buzzwords like “e-mails,” “Anthony Weiner,” and “fifteen-year-old girl.” But the odds were still with Hillary Clinton.

All along, Trump seemed like a twisted caricature of every rotten reflex of the radical right. That he has prevailed, that he has won this election, is a crushing blow to the spirit; it is an event that will likely cast the country into a period of economic, political, and social uncertainty that we cannot yet imagine. That the electorate has, in its plurality, decided to live in Trump’s world of vanity, hate, arrogance, untruth, and recklessness, his disdain for democratic norms, is a fact that will lead, inevitably, to all manner of national decline and suffering.

In the coming days, commentators will attempt to normalize this event. They will try to soothe their readers and viewers with thoughts about the “innate wisdom” and “essential decency” of the American people. They will downplay the virulence of the nationalism displayed, the cruel decision to elevate a man who rides in a gold-plated airliner but who has staked his claim with the populist rhetoric of blood and soil. George Orwell, the most fearless of commentators, was right to point out that public opinion is no more innately wise than humans are innately kind. People can behave foolishly, recklessly, self-destructively in the aggregate just as they can individually. Sometimes all they require is a leader of cunning, a demagogue who reads the waves of resentment and rides them to a popular victory. “The point is that the relative freedom which we enjoy depends of public opinion,” Orwell wrote in his essay “Freedom of the Park.” “The law is no protection. Governments make laws, but whether they are carried out, and how the police behave, depends on the general temper in the country. If large numbers of people are interested in freedom of speech, there will be freedom of speech, even if the law forbids it; if public opinion is sluggish, inconvenient minorities will be persecuted, even if laws exist to protect them.”

Trump ran his campaign sensing the feeling of dispossession and anxiety among millions of voters—white voters, in the main. And many of those voters—not all, but many—followed Trump because they saw that this slick performer, once a relative cipher when it came to politics, a marginal self-promoting buffoon in the joke-scape of eighties and nineties New York, was more than willing to assume their resentments, their fury, their sense of a new world that conspired against their interests. That he was a billionaire of low repute did not dissuade them any more than pro-Brexit voters in Britain were dissuaded by the cynicism of Boris Johnson and so many others. The Democratic electorate might have taken comfort in the fact that the nation had recovered substantially, if unevenly, from the Great Recession in many ways—unemployment is down to 4.9 per cent—but it led them, it led us, to grossly underestimate reality. The Democratic electorate also believed that, with the election of an African-American President and the rise of marriage equality and other such markers, the culture wars were coming to a close. Trump began his campaign declaring Mexican immigrants to be “rapists”; he closed it with an anti-Semitic ad evoking “The Protocols of the Elders of Zion”; his own behavior made a mockery of the dignity of women and women’s bodies. And, when criticized for any of it, he batted it all away as “political correctness.” Surely such a cruel and retrograde figure could succeed among some voters, but how could he win? Surely, Breitbart News, a site of vile conspiracies, could not become for millions a source of news and mainstream opinion. And yet Trump, who may have set out on his campaign merely as a branding exercise, sooner or later recognized that he could embody and manipulate these dark forces. The fact that “traditional” Republicans, from George H. W. Bush to Mitt Romney, announced their distaste for Trump only seemed to deepen his emotional support.

The commentators, in their attempt to normalize this tragedy, will also find ways to discount the bumbling and destructive behavior of the F.B.I., the malign interference of Russian intelligence, the free pass—the hours of uninterrupted, unmediated coverage of his rallies—provided to Trump by cable television, particularly in the early months of his campaign. We will be asked to count on the stability of American institutions, the tendency of even the most radical politicians to rein themselves in when admitted to office. Liberals will be admonished as smug, disconnected from suffering, as if so many Democratic voters were unacquainted with poverty, struggle, and misfortune. There is no reason to believe this palaver. There is no reason to believe that Trump and his band of associates—Chris Christie, Rudolph Giuliani, Mike Pence, and, yes, Paul Ryan—are in any mood to govern as Republicans within the traditional boundaries of decency. Trump was not elected on a platform of decency, fairness, moderation, compromise, and the rule of law; he was elected, in the main, on a platform of resentment. Fascism is not our future—it cannot be; we cannot allow it to be so—but this is surely the way fascism can begin.

Hillary Clinton was a flawed candidate but a resilient, intelligent, and competent leader, who never overcame her image among millions of voters as untrustworthy and entitled. Some of this was the result of her ingrown instinct for suspicion, developed over the years after one bogus “scandal” after another. And yet, somehow, no matter how long and committed her earnest public service, she was less trusted than Trump, a flim-flam man who cheated his customers, investors, and contractors; a hollow man whose countless statements and behavior reflect a human being of dismal qualities—greedy, mendacious, and bigoted. His level of egotism is rarely exhibited outside of a clinical environment.

For eight years, the country has lived with Barack Obama as its President. Too often, we tried to diminish the racism and resentment that bubbled under the cyber-surface. But the information loop had been shattered. On Facebook, articles in the traditional, fact-based press look the same as articles from the conspiratorial alt-right media. Spokesmen for the unspeakable now have access to huge audiences. This was the cauldron, with so much misogynistic language, that helped to demean and destroy Clinton. The alt-right press was the purveyor of constant lies, propaganda, and conspiracy theories that Trump used as the oxygen of his campaign. Steve Bannon, a pivotal figure at Breitbart, was his propagandist and campaign manager.

It is all a dismal picture. Late last night, as the results were coming in from the last states, a friend called me full of sadness, full of anxiety about conflict, about war. Why not leave the country? But despair is no answer. To combat authoritarianism, to call out lies, to struggle honorably and fiercely in the name of American ideals—that is what is left to do. That is all there is to do.”

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Mountains

I often write to prompts from various books that encourage daily writing.  (Love Natalie G.)  I usually scribble them in a book but it occurs to me that this blog was created for writing and so if I do not ever put my writing here… well.  So here I responded to a prompt that asked me to jot down words describing the landscape around me.  My word list:

sparse, scrubby, bold, pre-historic, morphing, rusty, reaching (for color, for heaven, for permanence, for a solid grip on Earth’s crust), gray, solitary, punctuated, lacy, transient, changeable, dusky, quiet, secret, broken, rigid, bound, crackling, cold, crystalline, sage, brilliant, cycle, wise

The prompt was to use this quickly generated list (whatever comes to mind and fast) to then generate a sense of place and, thence, into a story.  My first piece…  Later, I will try for a story.

Before I came to this place the mountains were one image to me – dull pewter silhouettes piercing the horizon.  Peaks stacked in a backdrop, marching against murky gray sky canopies or brilliantly bright expanses of blue.  Caps of white scattered over a multitude of monoliths proceeding as far as my view reached, marking the permanent backbone of a continent.  That image is visible from as far as the Kansas border.  Over there.  Mountains – over there.

Now I sleep each night in the arms of those mountains.  I walk in the rusty bowels of them.  I gaze on sage slopes and pry into their secret spaces.  Every day, every hour, the land morphs.  Colors are bold and broken, soft and subtle.  Aspen limbs glitter with crystals of snow or summer light.  Their leaves are iced lime, dripping with melted ice-lace, turning to deeper greens, and then to honey.  Their limbs shed color to fade into the same colorless taupe of the hills, waiting for snow.  Vast expanses of belly-high grasses lay down beneath blinding white that grows blue and glossy in the spring, like whipped meringue spread broadly across hills and valleys.  A week of spring sunshine bares the land.  Grass explodes from every pore as if this might be Ireland.  It makes me wonder at the capacity of life to linger under ice.  Grass, fish, rabbits and beetles.  Everywhere birds.  Winter puts a hold on visible life but every living thing unfolds and rises as the grip of cold releases it.

These mountains that seem so solid, so permanent, are really alive, moving, morphing in an eternal cycle.  Every moment a spruce is gaining a fraction of an inch.  Every granite scarp is losing a layer of its face and every peak, a minute measure of its height.  The ice on our lake dissolves into ripples of steel blue.  Dragonflies appear from nowhere.  I am constantly aware of the moments of my life, draining away.  Yet the grand scale of the mountains seems to expand the girth of my wisdom. The fabric of my love patterns itself after the mountains – an endless cycle of loss and rebirth, change and predictable permanence.

 

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Waking Alone

 

 

In the morning
Before light
The house whispers me awake.
The stream in a painting burbles silently.
The sky over mountains in another remembers dawn.
 ———-
When he’s gone
And I wake
Life wraps more closely around me.
The dogs move from the foot of the bed.
They press their weight against mine without asking.
 ———-
When he returns
And we wake
Life will relax to make room for us.
The paintings will frame our world.
I will feel his weight next to mine and hear him thinking.

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Winter Flirting with Fall in the Boat

When summer is over in the mountains a body can tell.  The wind careened into the Yampa Valley today, like an eagle after prey.  My deck chairs ran away to a corner of the yard, gathered around the feet of an Aspen, begging for shelter. The steeps and ledges of every mountainside bristled rusty and mustard gold.  Winter is on its way to the mountains, and none to stealthily, gaining on sunlight hours and the last of the green.

The weekend after this original post, a friend sent this picture from Steamboat Springs.  White on gold.  Such a great photograph!  Thanks, Paula!  It won’t be long now…

winter-meets-fall-in-the-boat

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A Short Story – Middle School Tales #1

Sometimes You Have to Blast a Tunnel

He counted 21 blank spaces; 12 on the front and nine on the back.

Mrs. Wink put her hands on her hips, projecting her voice with loving firmness.  It echoed against tidy shelves and seemed to move the crooked slats of Venetian blinds.  “Don’t forget to put your name on this.  No name – no credit!  You’re in 7th grade now.  You should know better than to turn in a paper without a name!  First and last, please.  It says NAME in the top right corner.  That means first AND last.”

He pressed the tip of his pencil into the middle of the line after the word NAME.  Creepy buzzing behind his eyes traveled down his neck, shoulder, arm, into the hand that held the pencil.  The lead snapped.  The buzzing fizzled for a minute, but he felt it again in his stomach.  He quickly looked around to see who had noticed, smiled a little bit, and shot his hand into the air.  “Mrs. Wink.  Mrs. Wink!” his voice released some more of the buzzing pressure.  “Can I sharpen my pencil?”

“I’m sure you can, Brandeis.  Are you asking permission?  May I sharpen my pencil?  Is that what you mean?  Yes, you may.”  Her arm, near the shoulder, looked upside down, like a muscle that might round when flexed, except that it reached down instead of up and it jiggled just a little when she waved him off.  Mrs. Wink shooed him toward the sharpener without ever looking at him.

Brand felt his teeth press together at the use of his longer name.  Just because his father had played baseball for the Judges, just because his mother had been a waitress at a Boston bar where Brandeis students hung out, had landed a jock majoring in investigative journalism, he got stuck with a weirdo name for life.  Not that the landing of Jordan Ball meant that the man would stay with his family.  His father had taken off to cover the war in Lebanon alongside Friedman and it seemed that one conflict after another kept him in a foreign land.  Brand never found out exactly when his parents divorced, officially.  There were always letters and little packages from his father, addressed to him.  Crazy stories.  Coins and strange candies.  Once, a pen-knife.

He got up without repeating the Mother-May-I thing that Mrs. Wink wanted to hear.  On the way across the classroom he counted touches.  Jared, toe on the heel; almost a kick but not.  Brushed against Cory’s pony tail.  Popped Austin on his ginger head.  Dustin’s fist met Brand’s in a bruising bump.  “Hey!” he turned to mad-dog Dustin.  The teacher was licking her right thumb to separate another worksheet from a clutch in her left hand, her loose arm flesh jiggling.  Sarah was watching him.  He pulled himself taller, glared at Dustin again, glanced covertly at Sarah, and then sauntered back to his seat.

Now, Barbara Wink began to notice the disruptive odyssey; she eyed the skinny boy from behind a pencil eraser, then flinched when she saw him catch her staring.  Right away she pretended he was looking at things on her desk and applied the pencil eraser to a stray mark on the margin of an essay that had Becky Fallon’s name in the top right corner.  Brandeis was no mystery to her.  7th grade boys could barely be held in place long enough to warm a chair and they burned attention like gasoline.  Still, there was a quality about this one that unnerved her.   She couldn’t name it exactly, but she was aware of it.  He was erasing something now, too.  Then he chewed his eraser, or at least put it in his mouth.  He had a way of working around requirements, looking busy, accomplishing little.  It was like a kid pushing peas around on his dinner plate, moving them doggedly but never ingesting one.  She began to pace up and down between rows of desks, checking progress.

Brand felt Ms. Wink looking over his shoulder.  “Brandeis,” she began patiently, “did you read the directions?”

“Yes.”  His one word response pushed the dialogue back to her.

“Why aren’t you further along?”  His dusty brown eyes connected with her sharp blue ones for a flicker of a second, then focused on the rims of her glasses.  He considered the question.  Did she want to know why?  Not really.  She was telling him to get going without telling him to get going.

“I don’t like worksheets.” His voice was soft.  All those blanks to fill in seemed like holes in a boat.  He couldn’t explain why, but he really wanted to do something else, to build a boat instead of constantly patching up holes.

“That’s enough out of you!”  Mrs. Wink marched over to her desk.  In minutes the boy was dragging down the hallway to the principal’s office, referral in hand.  Mr. Bertram asked him the usual questions.  He gave the usual answers.  He was not suspended.  He was not surprised.  The only down-side to this day materialized the next week with Monday grade checks.  His grade in Literacy had dropped to an F.  The first football game of the year was next weekend, and he was ineligible to play.

The Saturday game was not until 1:00.  Brand managed to rake leaves and finish his laundry before lunch.  His friends made fun of the laundry chore, but Brand secretly liked it.  He liked working with machines.  The old washer had been a pain.  When it flooded the kitchen, his mom had gotten a new one.  She’d had to.  The old one was dead.  The new one was outstanding.  It had LCD lights and dials everywhere.  Brand pretended that he was handling space ship controls.  Sometimes he took his phone, sat just at the edge of the closet where the washer and dryer were crammed in, and played video games.  He watched the cycles.  They were almost part of his game.  He was in a starship.  The sound effects of the washer spun him along with the clothes, into a private sort of orbit.

He made a sandwich for his mother.  She was asleep on the couch.  Carefully covered with plastic wrap to keep it from drying out, he left the plate and a half empty bag of chips on the coffee table next to her.  His own sandwich was safely stashed in a breast pocket, on the inside of his jacket.  A Dr. Pepper was crammed in the outside pocket.  He hoped it would not fall out while he biked to the school.  He did not want to bring a back pack.  Not today.  He was sorry enough that he had to sit out the game.  He didn’t want to bring attention to his spectator status.  Hence, dressed in uniform, baggy shoulders that a more muscular older guy would fill out, he would slip down near the bench, sit on his jacket, and chew gum.

By the time the last quarter was half over, Brand was almost glad he was not playing.  The Bears were getting slaughtered.  He knew, if he were out there what might work, but he wasn’t sure if Dustin could throw that far.  Or well enough, for that matter.  Coach Lundy was clearly frustrated.  Brand looked away every time Coach glanced at him.  His face flooded with heat.  He was letting the team down.  His teeth ground together.  It was that stupid Ms. Wink!  He just couldn’t stand her and the stupid worksheets.  Still, he felt like this game might be lost because he wasn’t strong enough to just do the stupid worksheets like she wanted.  She didn’t care if he knew the stuff already or if he didn’t understand the stuff at all.  She just wanted to grade them and make it all into a weekly grade that didn’t really show if he was learning or not.  He felt Coach Lundy’s eyes on him and his face grew warm again.

“How’s it goin’, Buddy?”

Now he was standing right in front of him.  Looking up, Brand tilted the brim of his Bronco’s ball cap up enough to make eye contact.  “I’m okay,” he offered.

“What do you think we should do?” Coach Lundy used a low conspiratorial voice.  Brand was confused.  He wasn’t sure if the coach was talking about the game or him.

“I guess…” he fingered loose fabric at the hem of his jersey, “I can ask her if she will let me do extra credit.  So I’ll be eligible to play next week.”

Coach Lundy looked confused.  “What do you think we should do on the field?  Right now.  I’m afraid we’re going to lose.”  Brand’s brain went into instant overdrive.  He thought about a play that he had practiced with the team.  He considered Dustin’s arm, his speed, his aim.  If he wanted to be a real quarterback, now was the time.  Destiny was calling.  All of the grand phrases that Brand got from stories flew in circles around his head, like hawks speeding toward the ground on a downwind.   He quickly summarized the play that he was imagining.  It warmed him in a different way to see the teacher’s intent look, his genuine attention.  Lundy was listening to a 7th grader who wasn’t even eligible to play.  It happened faster than the time it takes for an echo in Thorn Canyon to shout back at you.  Brand watched Coach Lundy stride out to the sideline to call a time-out.  Brand felt just like he was sitting by the new washing machine, playing for an unbelievable level.  He reached up to adjust his ball cap, every muscle tensed with purpose.

On Monday, in class, Dustin bragged every chance he got.  When Brand tried to get into the conversation, Mrs. Wink made like a torpedo to get close and shut him up.  “What do you think we should do?” she challenged him.  Brand thought about describing a perfect throw, the image of a football rushing in front of his eyes like a spit wad headed for Austin’s ear.

“I would do some extra credit if you wanted me to,” he ventured.  “What if I write an article about the game on Saturday?  I could use a lot of compound words to show you that I understand how to use them?  Or I could put vocabulary into the story if you gave me a list of the ones you want me to learn.”  Mrs. Wink pulled the old assignment off of her stack – the one that Brand didn’t finish last week.  She put it on the desk in front of Brand and walked away.  He felt mad at her again.  The worksheet hollered at him, empty nothing words, but not nice.  He pushed it off the desk and then walked out of the room.

Mr. Bertram found him at the drinking fountain.  “What’s up, Buddy?” he sounded like Coach.  Brand found it hard to talk.  He followed the principal back to his office.  He sat there until lunch time, quiet, thinking.  When he couldn’t think about Mrs. Wink or worksheets anymore he took out his binder and began drawing a map of town.  He drew various routes from school to home and began estimating the steps that each would require.  It was something to do.  At last, Mr. Bertram turned from his paperwork to face him.  Brand told him about worksheets.  He told him about missing the game.  He did not tell him about how he helped to win the game.

“Here’s what I want you to do.  I want you to think about asking permission to leave a class.  I want you to think about asking permission for anything that you need from Mrs. Wink.  If you need to do something different, something besides what she is asking you to do, I want you to ask.  I think she’ll listen.”  Mr. Bertram seemed serious but Brand could tell that he understood; that he wanted to help.  “What would you like to do to make up for today?”

“Can I write a story?  Well, may I write a story?”  Brand could not help but think about his father.  He hoped that his liking to write was from his father but he also hoped that his standing by his mother, helping her, would not be something he would one day forget to do, like his father had.

Mr. Bertram nodded solemnly.  “I think that’s a great idea.  Write a story about people asking for permission.  I want to see it tomorrow.  You can read it to Mrs. Wink and I together, in my office.  Deal?”  Brand nodded.  “Miss Sandy will call your mother to have her pick you up after lunch because I am going to suspend you for the afternoon.  You must understand that following basic teacher directions is a safety issue.  I can’t have you doing this ever again.”

His mother couldn’t come pick him up.  She talked to Mr. Bertram about the suspension and authorized the school to let Brand walk home.  When he left the school, Brand was thinking about the story.  Inside, he was starting to feel better.  He counted the steps home on his typical walking route.  When he got home the first thing he did was eat a triple scoop dish of Oreo Cookie Crumble ice cream.  Then he changed his clothes to his home jeans – the ones he was not allowed to wear to school because of the cannabis leaf that he had drawn with a permanent purple marker on one thigh.  He set out for school by the regular Baker Street way.

From the front door of the middle school he turned and began counting steps again.  The alternative route, he figured, was a third shorter.  But, it meant going through Chin’s back lot.  Chin owned the Chinese Grocery on Front Street.  He’s never been in the store, but it looked interesting.  There was always a chicken hanging in the window by its feet.  He wondered if it was the same chicken, just fixed like the buffalo head on the wall at Pete’s Pizza, or if it was a new one, freshly hung every day.  Who would eat a chicken that wasn’t refrigerated, anyway?

He approached the small grocery with the chicken and, he noticed now, a leaning stack of red and gold boxed cookies in the window, still counting steps.  The small neon sign was glowing faintly, spelling out Chin’s Grocery, in the middle of the day.  Mr. Chin, at least Brand thought that must be his name, stood in the doorway.  His smile attached to his ears on each side, stretching straight and level, like a shelf.  Brand felt like he had nothing to lose; he was already suspended.  “Mr.” he started loudly, and then remembered that just because someone was foreign didn’t mean that they were hard of hearing.  “I was wondering if I can cut across your back lot.”  The man put a hand to his trailing white beard.  His eyes reflected the sun like black marbles.  “I’m going home.  It’s shorter that way.”  Brand watched him for a response.  Chin’s gray and powder blue plaid flannel shirt hung loose at the waist, and then flapped aside with a breeze from nowhere.  Under the shirt, his jeans looked brand new.  He held a finger to his temple, as if in deep thought.

“The gate is not locked,” he stated in a twinkling tone.

“So it’s okay?”

“Try it.  Let me know how many steps you save.”

“How did you know I was counting steps?”  Brand was shocked.

“Got an iPhone?” the man chuckled.  “Steps.  I do it every day.  You are looking for a shorter way.  I look for longer ways because I want my legs to stay strong.  I am old, but my legs are young when I take the long way.”  Brand laughed out loud.  He decided to ask about the chicken when he came back to report the number of steps.

The gate opened without a sound.  He turned to Mr. Chin.  “Thank you,” he said.

“Thank you for asking permission,” Mr. Chin bowed to the boy.

The story Brand wrote was about the game.  He did not praise Dustin for the pass, or the receiver, or himself for giving that play to Coach Lundy.  He just told the story.  That is what journalists do.  They tell the story.  It doesn’t matter what they like about it, if the story makes you think you were there.  That’s what his father had written in a letter.  But he had to write about asking permission.  That’s what Mr. Bertram wanted.  At the beginning of the story he added a bit about a boy who was not eligible to play.  The boy asked a teacher, not Mrs. Wink, but just a teacher, if he could do something different to bring his grade up.  Something besides a worksheet.  Something for extra credit so that he would be eligible to play.  The teacher said no.  She said he would need to complete the worksheets that all of the other students had completed.  In his story, Brand had the boy go to the principal then, before he had a chance to get really mad.  The boy asked if he could write a story and the principal said yes.  The teacher was not happy, but the principal told her to let the boy write a story.

The rest of Brand’s story was about the game.  He imagined he was his father, writing about a very important event, but he worried that there wouldn’t be enough about asking for permission, just because the boy in the story had done that once.  He knew that good stories have a theme – an idea to share.  He knew that he needed a good hook and a good conclusion.  He was a pretty good writer.  He went back to the beginning of his story to add a few sentences.  It went like this: Boulders are huge rocks and they can be hard to move.  The team had a tough job ahead of them, playing without their regular quarterback.  It felt like needing to move a huge boulder.  Then Brand went to the end of the story to add some ending sentences that would link back to the beginning to explain his theme.  He wrote: The team made a bold move, pushing right through the defense, even though it was a little scary.  Sometimes it’s better not to expect boulders to move.  Sometimes you have to blast a tunnel right through the big ones.

The next morning he read his story to Mrs. Wink and Mr. Bertram.  The principal’s lip curled into a very slow thin smile.  Mrs. Wink sat like a stone.  She thanked him for writing a story with a good hook and a good conclusion and then she questioned whether the details of the game were really connected to the topic sentence and the conclusion.  As Mrs. Wink and Brand walked down the hallway back to her room, the teacher put her arm around Brand’s shoulder and told him that his writing showed promise.  She reassured him that this whole thing would be forgotten if he came back to class and got to work.  He felt his lip buzz.

Mrs. Wink took attendance.  She asked if Becky Fallon would hand out the worksheets for class.  Brand stared at his desk.  A worksheet floated onto its surface innocently.  He immediately penned his longer name, Brandeis Ball, in the upper right hand corner and he added the date.  Mrs. Wink flashed a broad smile at him.  She started walking up and down the rows, checking progress.  Brand wrote quickly, very legibly, in every blank, idk  idk  idk  idk.  He got to the bottom of the page just as Mrs. Wink approached.   He turned it over and poised his pencil to begin the second half of the worksheet.  “May I sharpen my pencil, Mrs. Wink?” Brand asked.  She waved him toward the pencil sharpener without a word and moved to the next student.

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New Mexico Summer

This summer I took a road trip from Steamboat Springs to Rio Rancho New Mexico. I have a dear friend who owns a little George Jetson house circa 1960. It belonged to her husband’s parents. It’s a snug little flat-roofed place with a Mexican fireplace in the corner of the living room and literally tons of memorabilia, left for the adventurous explorer to sort through. I have discovered many treasures there. Books, mostly, and art supplies. My friend has generously lent the place to my husband and me to spend a unique holiday. This time, my friend and I staged a meeting. She flew from Canada with another friend. I drove through the mountains, past the Great Sand Dunes, and into the high desert of Georgia O’Keefe. Rio Rancho is about an hour from Santa Fe, heading south toward the mesa-top pueblos.

While I was there I came to appreciate, once again, the pleasures of simple warm life on the desert. I spent time on this patio, sketched with chalk pastels on my last visit. I’m sharing it because I think I need to remind myself that I can do this thing – draw. I need to do more of this. It’s a terrific way to let go of time and space. Creating art puts one in another world. That can be a good thing.

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Filed under New Mexico, Pastel