A Lingering Death – Silvia Tennenbaum

Silvia Tennenbaum March 10, 1928

This story started off a bit slow for me and as a consequence, I quickly lost interest. I then had to remind myself that what I was attempting to do was to educate myself in life through the reading of these stories and it was my duty to look and approach each of these stories with an open mind willing to accept their message.

I don’t think that the lesson fully appeared until I read the beauty of the last few lines of the story.

“Where the meadow had been, there hung only a white sheet. Amalie wanted to vomit; the words would not come. In the bathroom her head struck the edge of the basin. The pain was new, a blessing. A song of praise escaped from her mouth. Black paint welled over the sheet.”

I think this story is another fine example of Joyce Carol Oates using her position as the volume editor to provide the reader with a selection that they may find somewhat unsettling.

She feels that it is her duty in her writing to bring forth the subjects that many may shy away from, and this selection, she recruits Tennenbaum to help us face a cause of death that is pretty common, and as such, one that may take us.

–Cancer- a stroke?

Either of these could come at a moment...A stroke like an 18 wheeler smashing through our brain. Cancer sneaking through our cells-a hungry worm.

I don’t think I have an abnormal fascination with my own death, but it is something that I consider and contemplate quite a bit. I wonder when it will come and how it will happen. Quick and painless (preferred) or slow and filled with searing pain (uh...no please).

I also have it in my mind that I will live to a ripe old age. I would really enjoy that. A ripe old age with my mind intact. I am doing my best to prevent any degeneration in my mental facilities and am keeping close watch seeing that I may be predisposed to what “the old man” is suffering through.

Will I shun treatments like the character in this story? Live life? No on the first and yes on the second.

Score 8 out of 10.

Finisterre – Louis D. Rubin Jr.

Louis D. Rubin Jr. b. 1923

I settled into this story and found myself flipping a few pages ahead in an attept to discover how much longer I would be reading this particular story. I found that there were quite a few more pages and this left me a bit disappointed because I felt the story to be dragging a bit. I was southern writing...so what should I expect.

I found after a few more minutes of reading that the story developed some legs and pulled me into it.

The pursuit of a desired object and the lengths and risks that come with obtaining that “thing”. The adventures of a young boy as he pushed his own limits to discover his being.

Tests that are necessary in life. Tests that too many are afraid to subject themselves to these days.

I too had a rowboat as a young boy. It was left to me by my father after he left the family. It was several years before I had the courage to take it out with a friend. We didn’t do too much in it. paddled around, fished, but nothing too daring.

These devices give a young boy freedom. My real rowboat was actually my bike. I rode it all over the neighborhood and as I grew older further distances were covered.

Flashing forward to my time after college, without a car and living under my father’s roof, I found that the bike(rowboat) gave some freedom that I required once more. It allowed me to escape the house. To ride through neighborhoods and stare in envy at the massive houses sitting on perfectly manicured lawns. It allowed me to digest what the last 4 years of my life had encompassed. I would wake in the mornings without direction. Drink coffee...eat something, watch TV and wonder where my life was going. After several months of this I decided to add a bit of 80 proof pain killer to my rides. That liquid made my rides a bit more interesting and allowed me to wallow in my misery several more months. The bike remained by my side as I finally gained employment and it ferried me to and from the restaurant. It traveled with me back to Virginia and put in countless miles between work and my apartment. On nights when I had a few too many, it shuttled me between destinations making sure that if anyone were to be killed by my drinking and driving (a bike) it would be me.

Now, my rowboat is a pair of running shoes and my two legs. I venture down paths and roads drunk on thoughts brought on by too much endorphin being splashed into my brain. I run the same risks as the boy in this story does by pushing the limits of my body as he pushed his boat close to the river.

I would like to think that it is a good thing to push that boat close to the river as often as possible. It makes us human and keeps us teetering on the edge of sanity which is a good thing.

A little bit about Rubin and the series editor of BASS.

In 1982 Rubin and Shannon Ravenel, a Hollins graduate, founded Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, one of the most successful commercial trade publishers outside of New York.

Ravenel had been a student of Rubin's at Hollins College, and she and Rubin had remained in touch over the years. Ravenel, series editor of Houghton Mifflin's annual "The Best American Short Stories" collection, eagerly agreed when Rubin asked her to join forces with him to form Algonquin.

Score 9 out of 10.

The Missing Person – Maxine Kumin

Maxine Kumin - Born 6 June 1925

I think it took me a bit longer than usual for me to pick up on what was actually happening in this short. I will give full praise to the author and her editor and the knowledge that the readers of 1970’s didn’t have to be spoon fed to them like so many stories do today. I feel good reading a story like this and not really “getting it” until the last moments.

I mentioned how much I enjoyed the psychological twists and turns with an emphasis on psychosis that stumble across.

I’m sure that this attraction has something to do with my own fear of descending into an altered psychological state. I think what scares me the most is the event that would lead me down that path. There is the very real likelihood the ALZ my father has could make its way to me. Will I know that I am sinking into that state? Will I see the pain and realize the suffering my loved ones will be put through? All of this really fascinates me though.

I noticed after researcher Maxine that the is primarily a poet. It seems that Oates has compiled a collection of authors who have their feet in both rivers of creativity. It really shows in their writing. And how could I not pass on another dig at Solotaroff...his selections were deeply inferior to those by Oates.

Score 9 out of 10.

Paper Covers Rock – Jean Thompson

Jean Thompson b. 1950

I really enjoy story rich in details. It has to be the reason why Oates dropped this story in. The story was like eating a nice ripe juicy slice of watermelon in August.

I could hear the conversations; feel the touches between the characters, the glances, the inner thoughts and the shallow breaths exhaled by the main character as she struggled against her lover and herself. I could feel the tension as characters met and dueled silently with sharp eyes.

I reflected back on old relationships as a result of this story. Both relationships I have had with girls (romantic) and the friendships I have had (male and female).

I had a nice circle of friends growing up and continue to have a small but close circle today. I am quite satisfied.

Girlfriends. I didn’t play the field, but through high school I had a steady stream of relationships and 2 years of college (last two) allowed me the time to deal with the opposite sex. I think that all the past relationships I have had have allowed we to be an effective husband. I have been able to take the good from the bad and apply it today. I’ve done pretty well at not making the same mistake twice.

Jean Thompson seems to have done well for herself as a writer.

Score 8 out of 10.