The Quarterback Speaks to His God – Herbert Wilner

I started this story and soon realized that it had a sports theme. My automatic switch to dislike stories with sports themes tripped, and I sighed and felt myself sink into the couch and began reading with the thought that I am about to waste more of my life.

I’d say about half way into the book, I came to the realization that this story was starting to grow on me and that I might actually like it. I began to draw parallels with the main character – which is what I am attempting to do in all of these stories – and I saw that one end of the line was pointing at me.

The competitiveness of character, the desire to succeed in the face of physical breakdown, the denial of weakness in a once great athlete. The failure to see that the once high performance body is starting to fail in its deliverance.

In my running, I really push myself. I run far and for long periods of time. In doing so, I feel that my body is getting stronger...parts of my body...the muscles, including the heart, lungs and tendons. But my joints are taking a beating. The cement sidewalks and asphalt roads are just crushing me. I have a difficult time admitting that I may need to take a break. I don’t want to stop, to cut the distance. If anything, I want to run further and longer.

As humans, we have limits to what our bodies can handle. I want to push mine to the edge and further. I force my mind to conquer my body and push it further. I use my mind to heal my sore muscles and stiff joints. I use my mind to convince my body that there is no distance that it cannot run.

I love this daily challenge. It strengthens me. It forces me to see myself as something more than just an average human. I can create a superior specimen.

But in this knowledge, I know that this ability to create exists in all of us. We can all push further, be stronger physically and mentally. The spite and anger that I feel towards humans who let their lives waste away at times feels as if it will overcome me and cause me to say nasty things to those who don’t share my outlook.

Harder, Stronger, Faster and Smarter!

Score 9 out of 10.

The Middle Place – Mary Hedin

Mary Hedin –

We struggle in life to find that “Middle Place”. I think that the movement for me to my “Middle Place” started about 5 years ago. I had settled into work, adjusted well to married life, and found that the life I was and am currently living will be just fine.

Now in order to gain perfect balance in our” Middle Place”, we need to incorporate the lives of our family into the equation. M is still going through the discovery of her “Middle Place”, and I am pretty hands off and am allowing her to make the discoveries herself. I am a big fan of allowing others to experiment, try, succeed or fail. I have complete faith in what she can and will do with her life, and ultimately our lives together.

I take pride in my flexibility. Sure, I seem rigid at times but I think upon closer examination, I am pretty liberal. I understand the need for practicality and the need not to waste the opportunities or resources that we currently have, but if the opportunity is right, and the legs of a situation are strong, I see no reason why we couldn’t jump into a new stream of living, and in doing so, finding our “Middle Place” together. I love the daily discovery of my attempts to find my place and our place in this world.

Here are the final few sentences from the short. They are all at once perfect!

“Oh certainly the center is beautiful and mat seem secure, but that is, of course, only illusion. There is no stasis ever. There is never that. She turns to Aaron, holds his warm body close to her own, wanting now to comfort him as well as herself for what he does not confess he knows.”

Other than reading short stories, I enjoy reading about authors, what inspires them, their personal views of writing and their philosophies of life. I found two quotes from Hedin that dovetail well with the story as well as with my personal view of the craft and world.

Of her writing, she says, “For me it is a central need, a basic drive. I can exist only so long before I must sift through the mysteries of human behavior and clarify my experiences.”

Hedin told CA: "Some children know from their earliest exposure to music that they will become musicians, and some children know from the time they first listen to stories or hear poems that they will be writers. I made up my mind very early that I would be a writer.”

Score 9 out of 10.

Living Alone – Robley Wilson Jr.

Robley Wilson Jr.

Born 1930 -

I really enjoyed this brief story. I was also happy to research Wilson and discover a bit about him. He had, and it seems that he continues to have, a wonderful writing life.

Wilson attended the 7^th Annual Literary Festival at ODU back in 1984. Well, I was 12 then. I suppose I could have read some of his work when I was 12 and attended the festival as a devoted fan, but I doubt that I would have taken away much.

He was the editor for The North American Review for 31 years. What a life that must have been. How I envy those who are able to live on reading and writing.

“Living Alone” and what it gave me.

I’ll line it up to what I was going through in 1979 and perhaps through this you will see why the story touched me and what it allowed me to reflect upon.

In 1979, I was 7 years old. Things in my little world were going quite well. I was in school, 2^nd, grade, my sister and I just survived a horrific bicycle accident and most of my memories from my life forward are starting to solidify themselves in my brain.

Concerning the accident.

My sister and I were sitting in a contraption called a “bugger”. It is a seat that attached to an adult bicycle that had 2 wheels and allowed the adult to pull the children. (Think Asian cart contraption) We were facing backwards...and without helmets...and the center of gravity was pretty high. This was a new offer to those aging hippies who loved to scoot around on their bikes - and despite the safety precautions my father took, it wasn’t safe enough. At a high rate of speed, he hit a speed bump exiting a parking lot and he flipped the bugger.

My sister and I were buckled in with a flimsy canvas strap and drug a nice distance on our heads. I think my sister got it worse than I did. Blood, crying, screaming...general chaos all around.

Writing about this at this age, has allowed me to reflect on how my parents must have felt, especially my father. He must have been terrified.

But, this story did not cause me to think about this accident, only the mention above caused the reflection which in turn lead to the need to write a bit more at length about it.

On to what the story did for me. Unknown to my sister and I, during this time 1979, my parents were quietly laying their plans for the divorce. It would be a few short months later that my folks would sit us down and explain to us that mommy and daddy still loved us, but not each other. Daddy would be leaving. Daddy would be living alone in Philadelphia.

– And there you have the connection.

I often wondered about my father and his life alone. This story shed some light into what it must have been like for him. He had no cat as did the main character of this story but a pair of birds. He lived in a small apartment in Chestnut Hill, commuted to Philly daily – even weekends- spent hours at his work, and did god knows what else.

I wondered who he spoke to alone in his little apartment. He didn’t have 2 kids there to entertain, a wife to nag him or to love him. He was alone.

As an innocent child, I felt sorry for this man, my father living alone. I don’t feel sorry for him now. I still have a lingering anger. An anger that emerged recently, as in the last couple of years, as the thought of a man leaving his two young children...for work.

And you know what, shit on them...all of them, those hippies...unable to work it out. Divorce was the “in” thing to do in the late 70’s early 80’s. Thanks a lot guys. You did a nice job on a good section of my generation.

I suppose I should be thankful for these stories, as they allow me to stumble through my history and face old ghosts. To be angry at my father. To see that I am a stronger and more compassionate man than he is. To love my wife and to stick by her come what may. To face the world and to accept the challenges.

Score 9 out of 10.

Seasons – Ruth McLaughlin

Born- unknown

Humm. Well, “Seasons” was Ruth McLaughlin’s first published story, and it looks as if she is one of those writers who chose to fly low and slow. Google Books turned up another story of hers that was published in a collection of women writers from Montana. There was also mention of her in another journal where “Seasons” was referenced.

“Seasons” was a pleasant read. Oates in her introduction describes the story as “delicate” and then “finally disturbing”. I don’t know if I would describe it as “disturbing” but there seemed to be something haunted about it. Perhaps I rushed through or was not in the right frame of mind during the reading...distracted.

There were a couple of scenes in the story that lent them to be interpreted as alluding to some sort of mental issues with the characters. I tend to enjoy stories that have to do with mental illness or if a character has “something” just not right in their mind.

When an author exposes a character that seems to be perfect and normal with subtle hints of something being off kilter psychologically – I enjoy that.

We’re all crazy anyway- right?

Score 7 out of 10.