Saturday, March 31, 2012

Tomorrow's short story

Tatoosh Island

     I wrote this story this afternoon, but I've been thinking about some of its pieces over the course of the last week. Last weekend, my good life-long friends, Darren and Tonja, hosted my daughter Carly and I for a photography weekend. On a hike out to the very tip of Washington State, Cape Flattery, I took this picture of Tatoosh Island.  My father was stationed there about 60 years ago.  He told me the story of a dog, like Shaker, that had broken its back and then learned to walk on its front paws.  Like Shaker, it had recovered the use of its back legs but continued to walk on the the front two a good deal of the time.

I really can't remember if my dad was still in the Coast Guard while he was on the Island, or if he was part of the National Weather service, at the time, nor what year that may have been.  I also don't recall whether the real life dog from his story was from his stay on Tatoosh, or at some other place or time in his life.  I also don't have any clue as to the actual ownership of Tatoosh Island, but chose to leave it in the capable hands of the local tribe for the purposes of this story and for the sake of my character Derek.

I also went with this story, as it seems like it could hook up with the last story and breed a longer tale.  Though, I've been pondering (though not ruminating, mulling or dwelling upon) whether too many damaged main characters might be a little overwhelming.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

First Step

“I hate it.” Willy screamed at his mother.
            “Honey, Uncle John got it for you.  He knew you wanted a puppy.  He was just trying to help. “
            “It’s a freak.  I don’t want it.”  Willy pushed up against his headboard, kicking his blanket covered leg at the black lab puppy. 
            “Sweety..”
            “I don’t want it.  It’s a freak like me.  Get it away.”
            “I’ll just put it in its bed in the corner, here.”  Jane MacArthur carefully picked up the struggling bundle of happy black fur and chubby folds of skin and tucked it into the dog bed in the corner.
            “Get it out.”
            “I’ll just leave him here while I get you some soup,” Willy’s mom said and quickly exited the room. 
            “No!”
            Willy fixed a malevolent stare at the squirming puppy.  “Stay,” he grumped at it.  At the sound of his voice, the puppy looked up and noticed him.  Big round eyes fixed Willy with a joyous gleam, a pink tongue popped out between smiling lips and the little mass of fur and folds came to life.  “No!  Stay!” Willy yelled as the pup started into motion.  The pup staggered to get out of its bed and fell tumbling out onto the hard, cold oak floor.  Three legs scrabbled on the slick surface as the young lab labored to reach the human.  He could feel the hurt and wanted to make it better.  Try as he might, the pup couldn’t stand on the slippery floor, so he dragged himself.  He had to reach the boy. 
            The long struggle ended at the side of the bed.  Willy’s protests grew less and less as he watched the puppy’s determination.  Willy looked down over the edge of the bed at watery adoring eyes.  He didn’t move.  He just stared quietly.  Eventually, the puppy whined, and again tried to stand, to reach the boy. 
            “I don’t know what you’re whining about.  You got two more legs than I do,” Willy said.  He continued to stare down.  “Oh, fine,” he said reaching down and grabbing the puppy.  His fingers sank into the warm soft wrinkles, which seemed all the puppy was made of.  He could feel the wriggling excitement travel all the way up his arms. 
            “Here’s…” Willy’s mom froze at the doorway.  A tear dripped down her cheek.  There could be so many reasons why.  For now, relief seemed the most likely cause as she looked at her poor damaged son, asleep with a ball of black fur nestled up under his chin.  She didn’t know how long she stood there, but she finally left the room with the lukewarm bowl of soup.  She had seen the puppy’s nose twitch at the smell of the soup and worried that it would break the magical scene she was looked on.
            “John, it’s Jane, “ she spoke into the phone.
            “Ya, what’s up.”
            “We’ll keep the puppy.”
            “Oh, so you don’t think I’m an asshole anymore?  You decided this isn’t a sick joke?”
            “John, I’m sorry.  I didn’t understand.  You should see them.  They’re so beautiful.”
            “I can imagine.”
            “Thank you, John.”
            “I did it for the boy.”
            “I know, but thank you anyway.”
            “You gonna be all right?”
            “Yes.  Yes, I think we will be.”
            “You want to talk about Bill sometime, you let me know. “
            “I will, but not yet.  I’m not ready for that.  I just want to look at Willy and the puppy for now.  I better go,“ Jane choked.
            “You got it, Sis.  You need me, I’m here.”
            Jane hung up the phone, and shaking, slipped down the wall to the cold linoleum floor.  All of her grief and pain, everything she had held in since the accident, came spilling out as she held her palms to her face.

Friday, March 2, 2012

Thank you, Katie Johnson

A big thank you to Katie Johnson, for her editing and revision suggestions for this last story, Anastasia.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Anastasia


            Long ago, I began my second career, teaching.  There was so much I needed to learn.  I got the job by having developed the reputation in my old job of being able to turn around difficult groups of kids.  Note to self:  When you are hired specifically for your ability to work with difficult students, “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”
            The memories of that first group of kids, the first that I could truly call “my kids,” are still vivid within my aging skull.  One of these young beings, Anastasia, brings a smile to my face every time I think of her.  Well, now I smile; back then I’m sure I walked around with a constantly surprised and frustrated look on my face.  
            Annie was an exceptionally brilliant young lady, and because of this I held her to a higher standard than the rest of the class.  She was also more mature than the average sixth grade student, particularly in the way she liked to dress.  
            From the first writing assignment, I knew Annie had a gift with words.  She was clear, precise and could unveil “her” world to her audience.  That is where the trouble began.  Once I saw what Annie could do, I wouldn’t accept second best.  Most of the rest of the class was starting the year with average, to sub-average writing ability and I expected them to do their best and progress.  I wanted the same from Annie, but that meant more effort than she was willing to give.  She felt the higher expectation was unfair, especially when I handed work back for her to redo.    
            Our relationship was punctuated with misunderstandings.  The first thing I misunderstood was Annie’s morning behavior.  I knew that she was on the swim team, and when I was a kid swim teams worked out in the morning.  When Annie would walk in at the beginning of the day with wet hair, I assumed that she had just finished practice.  
            I am an extremely energetic morning person, and Annie was extremely not.  Each wet-haired morning, at 9:00am, Annie would trudge into the classroom, shoes scraping along the tight-knit carpet, hunched over, head down, her wet, dark-brown hair pinned back except for one long, beautiful, corkscrew curl dangling over her left eye. I would assume that she had been up exercising for hours and that her entry behavior was simply her way of expressing a bad attitude.
            I would greet Anastasia loudly and enthusiastically, trying to get her energized for the day. 
            “Good morning!” I would boom to Annie each morning, trying to get her energized for the day.  “Aren’t you excited to be alive?”  I had no idea that my enthusiasm was considered borderline torture by my 12-year-old zombie. 
            “Unnngh.”
            “Come on Annie, it’s a great day!”
            “Unnngh.”
            “Annie, before you start your morning work, look over your exposition paper.  I put it back on your desk. There are a few things you need to give a little more attention to.”
            “What, again?  You have to be kidding,” Annie bellowed with her first real words of the morning, her long curl whipping over as her head snapped up.  
            “Nope, not kidding.  Give it a look over.  You’ll be able to find the problems pretty easily.”
            I agreed to wait until well after 10:00am to focus my peppiness on Annie.  At her conference, I also brought up the lack of modesty in the way Annie dressed for school.  Her mom suggested that I let her express her individuality through her wardrobe choices.  I suggested that I would hold Annie accountable to the school dress code, which would mean she would either be sent home or have to cover up with ugly old sweats from the nurse’s office if her wardrobe choices did not begin to cover more skin.  That did not improve my popularity with the family.  Annie tested me on that policy throughout the year, always choosing the ugly sweat option over the calling for a ride home option.  
            In the springtime, we had the Drug Abuse Resistance Education (DARE) program in our school.  The culmination of the program was the “DARE Essay Contest,” which was an expository piece stating the student’s resolve and plan to resist drugs and alcohol.  No matter what I did to inspire Annie to do her best, she continued to turn in work far below her ability.  I think the essay contest was where she had decided to “make her stand” against higher expectations. I handed Anastasia’s work back to her time after time; close to 20 rewrites.  Eventually, someone must have convinced her that she might want to go outside with the rest of the girls instead of rewriting an essay over and over during her recess.  The final product was outstanding.  
            Annie won the essay contest.  There were no other papers near the quality that she had created.  The DARE officer then sent the essay off to the National Headquarters, where it was recognized as exceptional. 
            In the years since, Annie has continued to send Christmas cards and presents.  When she graduated from high school she had to submit an essay as part of the application process for a college scholarship.  The paper was to be an exposition about someone that was influential in her life, and that person was me.  
            Annie wrote, “I wish I had realized he was helping me.  I thought he was hard on me because he didn’t like me.”  Annie candidly talked about the rough times we had together, and thanked me for not giving up on her or letting her do less than her best.  She said she knew how that had made a positive impact on her life and character.  
            I believe I taught Anastasia to be her best.  I know she taught me to be a better teacher.