What I’m Blogging

The November issue of Wired has an interesting article about stories written in only six words. Count ‘em, six. November is also the month of the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), better known as 1600 odd words a day in linguistic hell to complete a 50K plus word something or other.

…so what’s yours?…

This year I’m taking a break… I just can’t do the 50K thing. But I might be able to do six. So consider it a Meme…. come up with your best six word short story and we can make November a ShoStoSixWorMo instead.

Some examples;

For sale: baby shoes, never worn. – Ernest Hemingway

Longed for him. Got him. Shit. – Margaret Atwood

It’s behind you! Hurry before it – Rockne S. O’Bannon

And mine, you ask?

Birth, stuggle, death. Rinse and repeat. – Ric Knight

So what’s yours?

The ramp to the upper barn door was steep. The dirt was packed hard and even. The ramp had been there forever, at least as long as I could remember. It stood high and menacing, rising into the massive storage barn. Mom was clear that I should stay away from the place or I’d be sorry. "Jonathan Franklin Smith, you don’t go near that place. It’s dangerous. I forbid it. Are you listening to me?"

… a small boy with an appetite for adventure and a small wagon…

"Yes ma’am," I hated when she used my full name. I didn’t like people calling me "John" either, and the worst of all was when people used "Johnny". They always sounded like they were saying "John-nee" which to my mind sounded too much like baby. And that’s how I felt everyone was treating me all the time; like a little baby who couldn’t do anything.

Dad was more to the point. On the subject of the barn’s loading ramp his chief contribution to the discussion was, "Don’t."

The loading ramp however, had a more magnetic attraction. It loomed large in the physical world and likewise figured large in the imagination of a small boy with an appetite for adventure and a small wagon. The older boys on the farm were of no assistance in curbing my enthusiasm. Quite the opposite really. They told stories of their daring adventures on it’s slopes. Making the hard climb during the hot summer mornings pushing their bikes or pulling their wagons behind them. Careening down the near forty-five degree angle incline at break neck speeds. Wind in their hair, sun on their face, fear and exhilaration married as one. They made it sound as though heaven and earth held no meaning unless you made the trip yourself. I would have been fine. Satisfied with my lot. Happy to remain a spectator. That is until the taunting started.

Read more…

The room was shrouded in an institutional lime green. Scant light shone through the small window, highlighting the cracks between the cinder blocks. It was just before dawn and time seemed frozen in an odd gray half-light. On the wall a multitude of tubes and cables protruded, snaking their way down the headboard. In this space, time was not measured by the tick of the clock. That would have been too regular, too exact, too sure. Here, time was measured by the torturous flow of dripping saline and the uneven skip of a heartbeat and each moment was an epoch of unrelenting agony.

More…

Poppy Field

Word Count=1659

In Flanders Fields
by: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Any Canadian who attended school from 1918 up until just recently, will, no doubt, be aware of the poem by John McCrae, which forms the basis for the Canadian tradition of wearing a poppy during the start of November up until Remembrance Day on November 11th. We call it Remembrance Day because we remember, and we remember because it is our duty so to do. To pay homage and tribute to all those brave Canadians who have given their lives in the defence of our way of life. November, however, is not the only time to remember, nor is it the only time that the poppy graces a lapel. For some of us the poppy is for all seasons.

…Remembrance is a small price to pay…

We met in a dorm room at Wilfred Laurier University. Doug was the boyfriend of my girlfriend’s roommate. Hardly an auspicious introduction, we shook hands, he smiled in warm and charming way and after the formalities were over we went and drank some beer. We didn’t have a lot in common, he was hockey and football, and I was history and literature. We were dating roommates, women who would subsequently become our respective wives, so we had at least some common ground. We talked about all kinds of things in our beer inspired camaraderie. It was the eighties, we were young and invincible, and we were going to live forever.

Doug married his girlfriend I married mine. They had been friends since high school and their friendship insured that Doug and I would continue ours. I distinctly remember singing a particularly silly song at their wedding reception, much to the delight of all assembled, or so I’m told as my intake of alcohol prevents accurate recall of the event. I was even less sober at my own wedding so any recall of reciprocal action by Doug has long since vanished from my memory. We were happy, we were married, and our lives were just beginning.

Doug was from an old Army family and he signed up right out of school. He was going to be an officer and he joked that his dad, the sergeant, would finally have to call him “sir”. I had thought briefly about joining the Army but there didn’t seem to be any call for the historical literary types on the field of battle so I thought more realistically about research and other pursuits. Doug was risk and adventure, while I was quiet and safety.

We didn’t see each other very much, although our lives, through our wives were intertwined. Our families visited each other on a semi frequent basis, and we caught up on each others lives. He was doing basic training; I was researching dead Canadians for a biographical dictionary, or more accurately I was filling out three by five index cards with information that would never be published. Doug’s tales of officers and drill sergeants were exciting and in a small quiet way, I envied him.

Doug finished basic and went on several assignments. He was posted to Germany, the Golan Heights and during the aftermath of the first Gulf War, he was stationed in Turkey helping to organise supplies to the Kurds in northern Iraq. During his tour in Germany my wife and I visited and our families took a whirlwind rally from Lahr to Vienna in a Chevy station wagon, four adults and two children. Doug and I joked often over two large beers that the trip could be the basis for a National Lampoon movie. In the city of Munich we stayed the General George Patton Hotel, which was rather unremarkable except that for servicemen it cost a mere ten dollars a night for a room, and that in the main dining room was a huge mural of the general leading a host of Sherman tanks across France. Doug and I both spit our coffee through our noses when one of the wives innocently asked “Why would they have a picture of George C. Scott on the wall?”

It was in Germany, trapped in the confines of that Chevy wagon where Doug and I became friends in our own right. Both being insomniacs, we spent long hours talking in the front seat of the car as we raced through the Swiss Alps while our families slept in peace behind us. Near death experiences always bring people closer. We were travelling in a thick fog near the city of Zerl. We were looking for a place to stay for the evening and we exited the highway. The off ramp ended abruptly with signs pointed left and right that both spelled out in light reflecting paint Zerl. Immediately past that was a rather solid mountain side that would not be forgiving if we met it at the speed Doug was driving. Bedlam ensued. We screamed as one, the wheel turned, tires skidded, and screeched as we traversed the impossible corner. When we came to a stop. We discovered that we hadn’t died, and that we were still on the road. Doug and I started laughing in that nervous just cheated death sort of way, and from the back of the car we heard a groggy “Will you guys keep it down! we’re sleeping back here.” Doug and I laughed harder. When we got to the bar latter that day we toasted the “Whirl from Zerl” and our apparent good luck. It was the nineties, we were young and invincible and we were going to live forever.

In Germany we formed a friendship that was beyond our wives being friends. I talked about wanting to be a writer, he talked about wanting to go into radio after he finished his tour in the Army. Oh We knew that we’d never just call each other up to go to a game, or hang out. But when our families got together, Doug and I had more than two guys being awkward and trying to force out a conversation.

Our families grew. Children were born. Doug came back Canada and was stationed in Ontario and finally in British Columbia. A country stood between us but still we had the time to trade pleasantries and jokes over the phone or through email. Doug and his family seemed to be prospering, my family was going through troubles that eventually led to turmoil and divorce. The thing I remember most plainly about that time was the great disruption in my life and friends who ran hot or cold about whether I should leave my wife or stick it out it what had become a hard marriage. I won’t go into the details, that’s private. It is a tale for another time. What I do remember however, is Doug calling me up on the phone to tell me that he know that I was going through a tough time. He knew I was hurting, and while he didn’t understand all the reasons, he told me that I would always be welcome in his house as a friend. Doug didn’t tell me what I should be doing, he just offered an ear to listen should I choose to make use of it. It was a heart felt gesture that I cherished and was grateful for.

I never got the chance make use of it. Late in the day, in the last twilight of March, I received a phone call, from a mutual friend of mine and Doug’s. Doug had been on exercise with his regiment just outside of Victoria. They had marched all weekend and Doug came home tired. On the Monday morning he complained to his wife of a sight pain in his chest, but thought nothing of it. The Army doctor had recently given him a physical and Doug had passed it with flying colours. He was a robust man, a healthy man, in the prime of his life with two wonderful children and a fabulous wife who loved him dearly. Doug had everything. Doug also had a heart condition that the Army doctors had completely overlooked. By mid afternoon the pain from the morning had developed into a full blown heart attack. Doug collapsed in his office, and by the time he was rushed to the hospital, he was dead. I stared dumb founded holding the phone as the story was related to me.

The next time I saw Doug he was in his uniform laying in a casket. All of his hopes and dreams extinguished in a spit second. His loss devastated, a family, a community, a people. The funeral was a celebration of his life. A statement about the relentlessly pursuit of the things he loved most; Family, country, honour, and a life of purpose. I was asked to read the prayers of the faithful, asked to recite pleas of understanding from a distant god to hear our prayers and grant us some kind of reasoning for why Doug was no longer with us. When I came to the part where I had to actually say his name, I broke down and sobbed openly. I don’t think I ever have really recovered.

When Doug died, something in me died. Doug was action and adventure and the essence of life, now he was rest eternal. I was quiet and safety, but Doug’s death made me see that quiet and safety could end at any time without warning. We were no longer young, we were not invincible, and forever was an illusion. Doug’s death was senseless, but it gave me the sense to begin living a life and not be content to be an observer. In some ways Doug’s life gave new meaning to mine.

So while we remember the soldiers who died to defend our freedoms on Remembrance Day each November 11th, at the eleventh hour, at the end of March I wear a poppy to remember one soldier whose life gave new meaning and new life to me. Remembrance is a small price to pay.

Word Count: 911

The mid morning sun raditated blistering heat on the dirt road from La Paz to San Miguel. The kerchief hung around my neck Gringo style, soaked in a river of sweat. I wiped my mouth dry and took a long draught from my canteen. The water was stale and warm but any refreshment in this heat was a blessing. I capped the canteen and leaned out the side of the jeep. The wind rushed by, evaporating the moisture on my face and gave some small cooling comfort. I had always thought that dogs were stupid creatures for doing this same act, but now I had more appreciation for their apparent wisdom.

…I’d like to eat my shoe wrapped in a tortilla with lots of salsa…

“She’s a some hot eh?” the driver said nudging me with his elbow.

“Si Juan. She’s a hot.” I replied, “If it ain’t the heat it’s the humidity.”

“Que?” Jaun’s face was blank.

I made a mental note to add silly heat clichés to the list of useless English phrases I was teaching Juan.

“She’s a mucho hot,” I corrected. Juan grinned in comprehension.

I asked Juan in my mangled Spanish how long it would take to get to San Miguel. At least I think that’s what I asked him. For all I know I could have said something like “How long is San Miguel?” or “Is San Miguel short?” From the expression of mirth on his face, however, I believe it was closer to Juan, when we get to San Miguel I’d like to eat my shoe wrapped in a tortilla with lots of salsa. Other than communicating the fact that I no hablez Español, I am at a complete loss when it comes to speaking Spanish.

“Two hour we there,” he smiled.

Juan’s English was no better than my Spanish. Communication between us has been mostly through use of clichés, in either language, or shared cultural phenomena. Juan is a great lover of American films and if I want to indicate that I like something a lot, for example, the phrase Siskel and Ebert say two thumbs up, with proper inflection and accompanied by the required hand gestures, produces exuberant laughter and understanding in Juan. The words themselves are meaningless but, between two linguistically challenged individuals, a communion of thought was formed.

The jeep drove on, kicking up a trail of dust as it went. Overhead the sky was a sea of bright blue cloudlessness. Back home such a day would be appreciated, desired, even sought after. On the road to San Miguel, in the heart of the equatorial pressure cooker, I found myself offering novenas for just a few clouds to filter the heat of the relentless sun.

The road crested over a small hill and flattened out again on a plateau clearing. The dirt road gave way to pavement for about a thousand yards. The pavement was black and hot and unusually wide for the middle of nowhere. It was four lanes across and the centre divide marker was at least as thick as our jeep. I had seen this before when I arrived at La Paz. The government had built air strips on top of jungle roads making it convenient to land troop transports at strategic sites. Up until now, the drive had been pleasant, if you could ignore the heat, and I had almost forgotten about the war.

At the end of the runway a squad of government troops was marching. Their officer positioned himself out and to the side of the formation, calling cadence. As we passed by he brought his arm up quickley in a salute. Juan looked frightened and he kept his gaze forward along the road. I nodded back as it seemed the most polite thing to do, and I wished to avoid anything that might anger the officer. My common sense told me that angry military types and flashy automatic weapons did not equal longevity for the subject of that anger. We passed by the troops none too quickly for my tastes.

With a clunk of the jeep’s suspension, the runway ended and the calm sanity of the dirt road returned. I looked at Juan with a questioning expression, and for good measure pointed my thumb, discretely, in the direction of the officer.

“You look John Wayne!” he said with a nervous grin.

I looked at him with some puzzlement but then examined the clothing I was wearing. Khaki shirt, with epaulets, khaki pants with lots of pockets, black hiking boots, dark aviator sunglasses, and a New York Mets baseball cap. Upon quick reflection I concurred with Juan. I did look like John Wayne and most definately like many of the unofficial American advisors in country. I took my cap and glasses off and tossed them in the back of the jeep and put on a straw hat I had picked up in La Paz. For good measure I rubbed some dust from the floor of the jeep on my shirt.

“Now I look Juan,” I said, indicating hat and dust with hand movements.

“Siskel and Ebert say two thumbs up,” came Juan’s reply with a wry smile.

I made another mental note to not wear so much ‘Tilley Endurable’ safari gear in the future. I didn’t want to be mistaken again, by either side. Juan and I laughed heartily as our jeep sped down the road to San Miguel.

Word Count: 325

“We’ve been through this before,” she said to him in a loud whisper. Her eyes flared, betraying an anger which was not expressed in her controlled voice. He, oblivious to her mood, or purposely thick, sat calmly reading a newspaper and taking a long drink from his steaming coffie mug. After a pause he folded his paper and placed it off to one side of the cafe table.

“Perhaps we should go over it again,” he said “for my benefit,” he added in an equally loud whisper.

She took a deep breath, maitained her composure and politely offered, “ I’m not going to discuss it with you here, can’t it wait til we’re alone?”

“We’re never alone,” he pounced almost befire she was finished. “We had to come here for some privacy, and this is as private as it gets.” He made a sweeping motion with his hand indicating the rest of the cafe. Other than myself, and a disinterested teenager behind the couter, the couple was alone.

“You know what Mom and Dad’s was like before we moved in,” she said. Her face was becoming distressed and she was clenching her hands on the table.

“I thought we were going to have our own space,” he retorted. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your folks putting us up, but I didn’t thing that we’d still be dating three months after our wedding!”

The woman looked agast. Her eyes, moistened with that blow, looked around the cafe and she realized that the teenager’s inattention had evaporated and my pretense of polite eavesdropping had become a stare.

“You shithead!” she hissed at him as she gathered her indignation and her purse and left the cafe. He slowly took another drink from his mug and picked up his paper, turning the pages until he came to the classified section.

Word Count: 1612

Pathetic Fallacy. Incorrectly projecting (attributing) human emotions, feeling, intentions, thoughts, and traits upon events or objects, which do not possess the capacity for such qualities. A term coined by John Ruskin (1819-1900). In literature, you often find it when nature mimics the emotions of a main character by changing the weather patterns. King Lear is a prime example, Shakespeare being particularly fallacious in the pathetic vein, and is reflected in the scene where a great storm rages around the mad King and his fool. We see his insanity in the insanity of the tempest. [Of course I’m being needlessly pedantic here, probably more information than you need to know, but I’m trying to set a tone here and if I’ve bored you with too many details, I’m sorry. If, however, you’re impressed by my erudite intellectualism - well OK then!] Pathetic fallacy works very well in literature but rarely in “real” life, and seemingly never in mine. The universe travels its course. I travel mine.

…What next? Famine? War? Pestilence? And whatever they call that other apocalyptic horse guy?…

I know this to be true, for the considerable amount of empirical evidence I’ve collected over the years attests to the fact and shows me categorically, that pathetic fallacy in nature works only in books. Two cases in point will illustrate what I mean. Firstly, the day my dog was hit by a car and died the sun was shining brightly, warmly and did not have the decency to go completely black at the moment of my most terrible shock and horror. I was four at the time and the dog pushed me out of the way of an oncoming truck but didn’t manage to get clear himself. The dog and I were inseparable companions and suddenly we were no longer. I cried and was incredulous that all of creation was not crying too.

Now I realize that this first example is not the most pleasant one to contemplate and the fact that I’ve come right out and hit you over the head with it might probably make you reconsider reading on. You’re probably thinking, “OK dead dog, little kid crying - that’s just great! What next? Famine? War? Pestilence? And whatever they call that other apocalyptic horse guy?” I simply needed to illustrate my point strongly. I’ll refrain from pushing any more emotional downer buttons, but the essential fact remains, the universe went along its merry way.

The second example I will present as evidence is less intense and more mundane, yet valid proof nonetheless. The day I received my first real kiss, yes I know what you’re thinking, I said less intense and more mundane - bear with me. The day I received my first real kiss was on the steps of the Church one Sunday morning. I had loved this particular woman all my life and we were both just sitting on the steps talking. I was wearing a dark suit and a bow tie, she was wearing a blue dress that highlighted her wonderfully sky blue eyes and long flowing blonde hair. It was a magical moment for me, but it was raining like cats and dogs. It was dark, gloomy, and cold - good thing for that too as it gave me an excuse to put my arm around her. We looked in each other’s eyes for a while and then I leaned in and kissed her. I thought that nature should at least of allowed a tiny ray of sun to shine at that moment but the universe provided nothing in the way of mood lighting or music. I sort of fault the universe for not helping my romantic endeavor as the relationship lasted a brief passionate week and then this woman whom I had worshipped forever, left me for another man, and as I recall the day I saw them together the sun was also shining very brightly and warmly. I was five and so was she and the other man had a bike without training wheels and he was six.

I learned at an early age that I could expect no assistance from the universe to provide backup to my emotional states, whatever they were. This was an unfortunate discovery for me as I had been raised in a society and culture where everything has a soundtrack. Every movie or TV show has a soundtrack (and a lot of pathetic fallacy too! Especially the horror flicks I liked as a teenager, with angry lightning flashes et al.), every shopping experience is associated with planned happy Muzak sounds to encourage us to feel good and consume. I eschewed these obvious ploys of man-made environment to influence or reflect my moods. Manufactured pathetic fallacy is just pathetic. I wanted the “real McCoy”, wanted the universe to wake up and notice me, to reflect, and thereby reinforce, the make up of my mood.

Take this morning for an example. This morning I was in a miserable mood. I’ve not seen my love for an eternally endless epoch. For those of you who require more details than provided by literary alliteration I can be more precise to say approximately 18 hours. For sure the more jaded types will scoff at my plight, but they are not walking in my shoes and one man’s sixty-four thousand eight hundred seconds is another man’s epoch. I woke up with the expectation of meeting her for breakfast at a little café we frequent. I then remembered that no such meeting was going to take place. Schedule’s being what they are on this particular day a rendezvous was unable to be penciled in. I was aghast at the thought of it! I knew she would not be there because we talked about it at our last meeting and I was paying attention. I was. Look, stop rolling your eyes and saying “Ya right”. Who’s telling this story anyway? I simply had fallen into a pattern of seeing this woman for breakfast frequently and in the daze and haze of morning I didn’t remember that it just wasn’t going to happen today. If there were ever a time for the universe to kick in with some unadulterated pathetic fallacy today would have been it. It would have been a great day for a drizzly rain, complete with a cold north breeze, dark gray clouds, and I could sit in my bay window, listen to some sad music, sip my morning cup of coffee alone, and wallow in my own melancholia. The universe, as usual, didn’t play ball. I opened the curtains and was assailed by a glorious summer day. The sky was a bright blue with no cloud in sight.

I got dressed, made it to my car, cursed the universe silently to my self and drove off to our café to wallow in self-pity and loneliness over a cup of hot java. The drive was uneventful and morose. I was feeling the pains of a love lost with no hope of seeing her again for maybe another eight hours or so. The utter inhumanity of it all - my sorry state reflected back at me by bright, warm, pathetically cheery sunshine. I don’t quite think that things could have gotten any worse. I was, however, as I often am, wrong. When I got to the café, another couple was sitting in our booth, and injury of injuries to my heart and soul, they were holding hands and laughing and smiling and.. it’s too much to bear and I can describe it no more. I had hoped to at least be able to drink a cup in my solitude and sit in our seat and search with faint hope for some imprint of her there, a whisper of her voice perhaps still echoed there for my ears to hear. Instead, lovers unfamiliar to me enjoying what I desired most, and what I was deprived of, confront me. The gray drizzle of my mood became a cloudburst of despair. I purchased a coffee “to go”, retreated to the fortress of solitude that was my car and drove to my office. I thought that I could hear faint otherworldly laughter as I put my sunglasses on to shield me from a cheerful day.

By the time I arrived at my office I was in a foul mood. I wasted no time and I threw myself into my work determined that I was going to milk as much productivity from this frustration as possible. I turned on my computer and started to read through the day’s notices and electronic mail. I was startled for a moment when a single note arrived. It was from her. I felt my heart beat a little faster as I opened it, and as I read the words, my gloomy rain soaked existence, brightened immediately. The few short lines read:

I missed you too but it’ll just make seeing you tomorrow and Friday that much better. I’ll call you later on.
Love
(*)

I was a fiery sun beaming on a sandy beach and a sparkling ocean. My heart soared. The phone rang and the call display boldly announced her name and number and the joy I was experiencing at that moment was multiplied a hundred fold! I picked up the phone and said hello and as I leaned back in my chair to savor the sweet sound of her voice and loose myself in her words I glanced out the window. A light rain had started to fall, and the sunny sky had become overcast. I chuckled a little to myself. Typical. The Universe goes its way I go mine.