Challenge #350: There is no random word or twist today
Photo by the author of El Jardin Plaza and Parroquia de San Miguel Arcángel Catholic Cathedral in San Miguel, Mexico
This story was written for Fiction Shorts.
We’re free— no random word and no twist, except today’s story will be a Drabble n’ a half — 150 words.
Freedom’s just another word for…
*
Setting: Church Bar, Baltimore
John: “Bill, you look a little down tonight.”
Bill: “Today’s my birthday, 75.”
“We’ve known each other for, what, ten years. You don’t look your age. Your two Bobby Burns are on the house. Why so down on your birthday?”
“John, do you believe in something more than us?
“If you mean a god, no. After all, I’m fixing drinks in a former church.”
“But humans have always created gods, something around 18,000. Doesn’t that mean something?”
“Maybe we’re afraid of being alone. If there’s no God, it’s up to us.”
“That’s what scares me, John. Have I lived all these years never really taking freedom seriously? I’ve always looked up and taken directives from someone, starting with the god of my childhood. Now that I’m nearing the end, I wonder, what if we really are alone?”
Note: The idea for the setting for this story came from an article on churches that have been turned into bars. The idea for the title and theme came from my life-long spiritual quest and this article on spirituality.
Desperate, I read Charles Dicken’s A Christmas Carol for the first time in December 1972. I had just replaced — I’ll call her Mrs. Cratchit because I don’t remember her name — who had been driven into early retirement by the 44 6th graders sitting before me.
That’s right, 44. It was a Catholic school. My Catholic first-grade class had 60.
I say sitting, although that sounds like a regular classroom with a teacher in control. It was nothing like that.
Sister Nancy, the Principal who hired me, was also desperate. Mrs. Cratchit, to save her sanity, had decided not to return after Thanksgiving break. I would learn later that this group was the subject of several evening meetings with parents. Sister thought a man might bring order to the chaos.
I was 23 and had just earned a teaching certificate. With a few education classes, a student teaching semester, and a few months monitoring study halls at a local high school under my belt, I was a babe in the woods.
With a penis.
About to be thrown into the fire.
*
The penis part was relevant not only to Sister Nancy but to that young man. I quit every night, and I mean EVERY night, for the rest of that school year because I thought I was in over my head with no hope.
It wasn’t just the unruly kids. My academic major was Sociology — wasn’t it everyone’s in the early 1970s? But I had a self-contained class, meaning I taught everything.
I’ll leave math for another day. English was hard enough — there’s a reason I’ve hired Grammarly! Rooting around my classroom closet, I found copies of The Christmas Carol.
I bet you didn’t know there are exactly 44 characters in this Dickens classic. Of course not, but we read it out loud and acted out a few scenes. I also ordered the 1938 Alistair version from the local Education Agency, which is still my favorite.
*
Only in hindsight do I see that I was slowly figuring out this teaching gig. I’ve linked below a story about another nun who helped me figure things out.
At the moment, it mainly was chaos. And what it means to stick with something very hard without knowing exactly how it will end.
In May 1973, I handed out 44 report cards. Then, I went to Sister Nancy’s office and signed a contract for the following year.
I had become a teacher.
And had taken a step toward becoming a man.
To that kid, the experience suggested the possibility of redemption — an internal resource he has carried with him for fifty years.
This story was published in Medium’s Fiction Shorts.
A Drabble is a concise 100-word story that respects your busy schedule. Your presence here matters. Please stay on the page for thirty seconds so you will count as a reader. Thank you.
The story will begin with “as gray as the day was…”
As gray as the day was long, he thought.
He urged the minute hand tick in Geometry 65 years ago: five minutes and the bell. Are these those lost moments?
He thinks of her every time he sees a birch tree. Somewhere, he learned dead trees sustain life in a forest.
She often recited the day’s poem to him. Today’s shared “the quiet diminishment of daily life” just before the first sharppain.
Thank goodness for this bench. She liked sitting here; he was restless, anticipating the next tock.
He memorized it for this final moment: “Celebrate the meager light.”
The poem in the story is “A Gray Day” by Elena Shvarts.
Both were over there in the corner of my writing room with their arms folded in condemnation as I wrote another story this morning. I thought, they’re right, I really should be writing about this judgmentalism deal.
But to finish THAT story I imagined aiming my tongue at them. You know, what we did when were eight years old.
Even Emmy Lou wonders when I was going to get around to this story.
Photo by the author
Of course, astute reader, you know I’m projecting my critical assessment about what I should be doing onto Deanna, Rodrigo and Emmy Lou.
And playing it lightly with a tongue-in-cheek approach.
Judging is forming an opinion about something. Who wants to give that up? Who could give that up?
What do you think about Donald Trump?
Was slavery a good thing?
Is Global warming caused by human behavior?
Do you like Grammarly?
I’m guessing you have an opinion about each.
However, judgmentalism is something else. It’s having an overly critical point of view. That’s where I struggle, have always struggled.
So much so that my deluxe writing assistant has, much to my confusion, refused to render judgments on this story, other than “nice job, you made that look easy.”
I’ve tried everything including misspelling words and, the ultimate test, typing old man. Old man usually brings the politically correct god down, as in “The term old man might be considered disrespectful.”
Nothing works. The G stays green even after the yellow frowny face.
I’ve shut down Medium, Grammarly, and my MacBook Pro. I’ve even copied the story and added it as a new story — the Green G mocks me.
Grammarly eagerly flashes purple for my email, Facebook, and Medium comments’ transgressions. For six Medium drafts as well.
I feel like the narrator in Edgar Allen Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart,
Am I mad?
Or, perhaps, Grammarly is teaching me a lesson, by momentarily dying for my sins.
Judgment is fine, it’s saying, but judgmentalism — having an overly critical point of view — is going too far. It’s a lousy way to go through life.
For example, this morning I went out at 7:15 AM to get us coffee and pastries at a new shop downtown. As I manuevered into the empty parking lot bordering the darkened store, I squinted at the tiny hours sign: 8 am — 2 pm M — S.
All the way home I muttered over and over, what coffee shop opens so late, particularly one just getting started. Why aren’t the hours BOLDENED AND IN CAPS.
And why have I let my car’s dashboard get so dusty?
Medium, taking control and channeling 2001 Space Odyssey’s Hal, seems to be saying “Who wants to go through life this way?”
Instead, why not, as a default perspective,
Take the advice of the Christmas hymn, “All Is Well.”
I’ll give it a go.
I hope you do as well especially after you’ve counted the cumulative grammar mistakes in this story.
A Drabble is a concise 100-word story that respects your busy schedule. Your presence here matters. Please stay on the page for thirty seconds so you will count as a reader. Thank you.
*
Irene: “Can we sit next to him, Gramps?”
Gramps: “OK. But let’s not bother him.”
“Maybe he wants to be bothered.”
Old man: “How old are you?”
“Eight. How old are you?”
“Do you know what a century is?”
“One hundred. What’s it like to be 100?”
“I’m not sure. Today is my birthday.”
“Did you get a present?”
“Not until now.”
“What about a cake? Can you blow out 100 candles?”
I will attempt it. I live around the corner with other old people. Would you join us for cake and ice cream?
This story was published in Medium’s Fiction Shorts.
A Drabble is a concise 100-word story that respects your busy schedule. Your presence here matters. Please stay on the page for thirty seconds so you will count as a reader. Thank you.
The first sentence will be, “My dogs keep barking at the closet.”
Bill: “My dogs keep barking at the closet.”
Mary: “Did you get us another dog? And we don’t let her in the bedroom. I swear, John…”
“Hold on. I meant my feet, Mary. Last night? Trains, Planes, and Automobiles. We’ve felt so gloomy since the election, and John Candy always lifts the darkness.”
“I have felt lighter — no thoughts of the orange man all morning. And last night, after the movie, was lovely, Bill. It’s been a while.”
“When you said…”
“Those aren’t pillows. Thank you, John Candy.”
“Now, about that closet.”
“I know — new shoes for Christmas.”
“Meow.”
“No”
Note: Feeling down? Take two and call me in the morning.
John Candy’s “My dogs are barking” scene from Trains, Planes and Automobiles.
The random word challenge #339: Single and Heinous
Photo by the author
This Drabble was published in Medium’s Fiction Shorts.
A Drabble is a concise 100-word story that respects your busy schedule. Your presence here matters. Please stay on the page for thirty seconds so you will count as a reader. Thank you.
*
Inspector Clouseau: “I didn’t know you had a twin brother. Tell me what you saw.”
Santa: “I’d just put Jimmy’s train set under the tree when I looked out this window. Are we in France, Inspector?
“Iowa, USA. Please, I know it’s hard. What did you see?”
“It was horrible. They didn’t have a chance. By the time I got outside, Krampus stood over Dasher, laughing. Are they all — even Rudolph?
“Every single one. Heinous. Why Frosty?”
“He was always jealous. And with Global Warming, bitter.”
My father, who knew little about baseball, coached my Dad’s League team at the expense of a broken nose he earned while umpiring.
My mom managed my Cub Scout Den in our basement. She only lost one scout, and that was for an hour as she hopped in the car and found runaway Pat a few blocks away. He had gotten into a fight with his brother Mike.
I’m guessing you also have a family and personal history of volunteering.
If you’re an American, offering your time and skills for free seems in our DNA. Someone‘s counting, and about 40% of us provide the energy for 1000s of organizations. (source).
Of course, it’s not only us. My Romanian friend Alex, who lives in Reșița, Romania, rescues stray dogs and works to protect the pigeons that gather in the city center.
Yesterday, November 5th, was International Volunteer Day. Carole Olsen asks what kind of volunteering you do.
*
Every Tuesday, from 8 am to 10 am, I join this crew at the Decorah Food Pantry.
Photo by the author
Four days ago, fifteen of us unloaded, carried, opened, stocked, and recycled boxes for 6000 pounds of new and rescued food.
The new food arrives in this truck.
Photo by the author
Mike and Steve deliver the rescued food from local grocery retailers in their pick-ups.
This is the black-and-white of volunteer work in our northeast Iowa community of 8000.
The orange arrow indicates the number of family members served, and the red arrow shows the weight of the food provided.
Matt, the Director, shared this story from a pantry client on Tuesday: “Until we found the Community Food Pantry, our last week and a half of each month, we were surviving on pasta and butter.”
Matt added that this couple are both employed.
*
The Pantry runs on two paid workers, one full and one half-time, and 150 volunteers.
In other words, without volunteers, there would be no Pantry, just as I, growing up, would have had no organized baseball or scouting without my dad or mom.
The complicated stages of grieving over the re-election of Donald Trump
Photo by the author
This story was published in Medium’s Entertain, Enlighten, Empower. Everyone’s grieving is unique; not all are sad about this outcome. This is my story.
*
I loved our NOPE sign and was convinced it spoke the TRUTH.
It sat on our lawn for three months. Every day, I thought, It won’t happen again. America, my country, with all its tragic flaws, was better than him. Over his first term, it saw the self-aggrandizement, the deadly politicization of the COVID-19 vaccine, and THIS, January 6, 2021.
After the unexpected happened, I kept NOPE up for a day because I couldn’t accept that millions of Americans, including family and friends, voted for a convicted felon, adjudicated rapist, and someone who had incited this mob on January 6th. Nope became
DENIAL
Then, on America’s Thanksgiving Day last Thursday, I received a series of texts from a group of friends. Two texts referred to what a great year it had been and what a great country America is, followed with “Praise the Lord.”
There was no need to read between the lines.
Without a thought, I felt a familiar friend that hadn’t gone away: ANGER.
Photo by the author
The vitriol toward my Praise the Lord friends surprised me because I thought I had moved through anger and denial. But feelings are never simple.
The categories of grief — denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance — are labels that name feelings. They help us anticipate what we will likely experience when something terrible happens. However, feelings have a mind of their own. They don’t know they’re supposed to be bit players in our drama. They move off stage, like my anger, and then burst back when triggered.
Now, I need to say something that’s probably obvious to you. The other side feels grief, too. The Praise the Lord crowd, I suspect, would not have their hands raised in adoration if Kamala Harris had won. Perhaps their Thanksgiving greeting might have nixed the Great Country stuff.
*
Ye gads! I might have sent the same message if our side had won, but not Praise the Lord, as it doesn’t sound Catholic. But — Great Country — if two of our last four presidents were named Barack and Kamala, you bet.
Might I, too, have rubbed it on Turkey Day? Is the Pope Catholic? Of course, many American Catholics who supported Donald Trump think Pope Francis isn’t Catholic enough. And are probably okay with Praise the Lord.
You see what’s happening, don’t you? Even as I construct this story, I’m transitioning to BARGAINING.
And losing my anger. Dammit!
I’ve become distracted. Once I lifted my head from my biases — dressed up as judgment and truth — I saw the other side. I still believe they’re wrong in a way that may be disastrous for America and the world. And that my side is right. But the Praise the Lord crowd is part of the 76 million, nearly half the electorate, that voted against my side.
So, who or what am I bargaining with that dilutes my anger?
God?
I don’t believe in that kind of God, the type that can be lobbied to favor my candidate, my country, or my tribe. If there is a Creator behind all this worldwide diversity, why would it single out a favorite that also happens to be MY choice? Or YOURS?
No, I’m bargaining with Democracy or, more precisely, my vision of Democracy. How do 330 million people with different self-interests live together peacefully? Respecting differences within a system of regular elections where losers can win next time.
I know what many of you are thinking. That’s the very thing the election was about. One of my other yard signs read, “Save Democracy, Vote Blue.” We believe the other side is following a leader who refused to play by Democratic rules, as in the insurrection of January 6.
As I type, ANGER is shouldering aside BARGAINING in the same way Trump bullied past the Prime Minister of Montenegro for center stage at a NATO meeting in 2017. (source)
*
Mr Trump will become the 47th President of the United States. I can’t deny or bargain away my anger at this fact.
It will be a constant companion, as will DEPRESSION. I am not speaking of depression here as a diagnosable mental condition but as a lowering of mood as a result of external conditions. From my perspective, it is a rational response. He will do and say things I despise. His need to be center stage means I can’t escape him. Plus, he’s the kind of human who thrives on making enemies. There’s something about this moment in history that rewards politicians like him.
I feel down for a day or two when my favorite team loses. What if my team lost every day or almost every day? How would I cope? A few days ago, I ordered Jimmy Breslin’s Can’t Anybody Here Play This Game?, a book about the 1962 Mets who lost 120 games. I’ve wanted to read this book for years.
Misery does love company.
*
In The Happiness Hypothesis, Jonathan Haidt argued that it makes evolutionary sense for humans to adapt even to the worst events. He calls this habituation, which in grief language is ACCEPTANCE.
What does it mean to accept something? Acknowledging the fact of it, as in, my mother is dead. Or Trump did win the election.
Donald Trump’s utter incapacity to grieve helps explain his personality. It is both a cunning power and a vulnerability, as he will keep the 74 million of us in the opposition angry for four years.
However, each successive day since November 6 weighs less heavily on my shoulders. I can see it in the mirror. That’s what I mean by the title. I’ve gotten distance from denial and anger, especially.
What’s helped is, I believe, a form of bargaining. It comes partly from my former profession. I taught Politics to college students for 40 years. I want to know where Trump came from and why he won again. This distances the fact of who he is and his MAGA movement from my emotions.
However, there are still too many days when I want to
Photo by the author of a reproduction of Edvard Munch’s Scream
A Drabble is a concise 100-word story that respects your busy schedule. Your presence here matters. Please stay on the page for thirty seconds so you will count as a reader. Thank you.
The story is based on this image.
Friday, November 28, 2024
To Laura, my Granddaughter:
Some Day!
Not someday, as in someday there will be peace in Israel/Palestine.
No. Some Day a woman will be elected President of the United States. I know this fact but not the date.
I realize this for two reasons.
First, the world is full of mysterious motion,beyond our immediate comprehension. When I was born, my mother could not have her own bank account. Unimaginable, isn’t it?
Second, Laura, the world will soon be yours. The road is long and hard. Begin to imagine what isn’t to make its absence unimaginable.
