Milk – Ron Carlson

As often as I can, I take W out for walks. Walking with him is something special for me and something that I started with him at a very young age. The weather is starting to warm up and this allows for pleasant times for walking after work together – I believe W was only a couple weeks old on our first walk. M has the exact date down for sure in her calendar. The warm climate here in VA allowed me to take him out well into November of his first year, and then there was a brief pause during the cooler winter months. I would carry him in one of those European front carriers, first with him facing my chest, snuggled up keeping warm, and then, as he grew older, facing away from me – .

W is old enough to walk now. Most of our walks last well over 30 minutes but we manage only to cover a few blocks. He’s into picking up and throwing rocks and sticks. He’ll walk about 10 feet, find a rock or stick, and attempt to carry it along with the others he has already gathered drop a couple rocks in the process of picked up a new rock, leave them, find others carry them for a while and this is repeated numerous times through the entire walk.

I stay very close to W as he walks- too much crap for him to pick up besides the rocks and sticks. Sometimes, I’ll test him to see how far he will walk on his own away from me before feeling uncomfortable and running back–.

Last week, we were finishing up a walk and W had a large stone in each hand. The weather was cool, and the sun was down behind the buildings and it was moving from cool to cold. I could see that his hands were red due to the temperature and the intense grip he had on the rocks.

I knew that it would eventually happen, so when it did, perhaps I wasn’t as surprised as even I thought I should be.

His foot caught on a raised portion of the sidewalk and he fell forward. He only had about 14 or 15 inches to fall, but instinctually, his hands went down in front of him to brace for impact. Unfortunately, he didn’t release his grip on the rocks, and his knuckles went right into the concrete sidewalk. The tight red skin didn’t fare well against the concrete.

I lifted him as his face turned scarlet and the silent cry sequence began.

A quick once over of his face assured me that he hadn’t kissed-the-crete, but as I brushed him off, blood from his knuckles appeared in the palms of my hand.

It was the first time he bled on me.

I was too concerned with comforting him and holding him close to think about the few specks of blood on my hand. That blood didn’t mean as much then as it does as I write this.

It would have been around 1979.

Spring. There was still a morning chill.

I could hear his steps in the hallway, the old hardwood floors creaking. His figure would appear in the door and a smile would come to his face as he saw that I was awake – the sun already shining through my window.

“Hey Bud”

“You ready?”

I would spring out of bed as fast as my 7 year old body could move. Dress as fast as I could and run as fast as my legs could carry me down the stairs to find him waiting for me.

We’d set out on our Saturday morning walk.

Just the two of us. No mom, no sister. Just a dad and son.

We’d talk. About what, I can’t remember.

I was so happy walking next to him, holding his hand, leaning over the seawall to pick up floating tennis balls from the black oily cold river water.

1979.

Today, I know that he knew that the walks were going to end.

In a few weeks, there would be no more Saturday walks.

No more early morning creaking floors.

No more morning chills.

No more hand to hold.

Just me awakened by the sunlight, looking at my door into an empty hall.

I never want my son to look into that empty hall.

And yes dad, I will always hold this pain against you.

The Interpretation of Dreams by Sigmund Freud: A Story – Daniel Stern

I still dream – problem is I don’t remember them as I once did. My mind is doing a fine job sorting itself out without using space to allow recording to happen and having me remember.

M dreams quite often, and when she does, she’ll tell me about them. She skips filling me in on the sexual dreams –she has them – we all do (right?) and as expected, she has mother dreams all leading back to anxiety, and she has dreams of her parents – which weigh heavily on her mind because of her distance from them and the guilt associated with that distance.

I wonder what I dream of.

Lady of Spain – Robert Taylor Jr.

One of the myriad of worries that causes a few sleepless moments is the thought of mental illness striking down on a loved one. I have this vision of a dark cloud descending down on them and their whole mental being is altered from what was the person I loved into a being that is completely unrecognizable. I leave for work in the morning and come home to a stranger occupying my wife’s mind.


I would be fortunate to see it hit them like that because I feel that if it were to happen, it seems that the pattern it follows is that it will sneak up slowly and I will miss early signs – either through the blindness of my unconditional love or because as that time can hide mounting trouble.


My failure to recognize it in them…but what if it hits me, and I don’t see it? Can one see it alone or does it have to be pointed out to them?


It took some time before my father accepted what we were telling him concerning his failing memory.


He did what I will probably do. Deny it, fight it – until…there it is, right in your face.


Yes, I am becoming more concerned about what lies ahead for me and what could be my descent into lost memories.


I suppose that it’s good to create the memories while I can remember them. I can enjoy them while I have that ability. To share with M and W in a few years when I can say: “Hey man…when you were 16 months old do you know what you did?” When and if the disease hits me, perhaps I won’t notice that there was a certain memory I once had about something. It’ll just be wiped clean. No fragmentary parts of a scene distorted and jumbled. If I can’t remember the memory then it’ll be like it never happened…right?

The Other Miller – Tobias Wolff

I’ve written here several times about my struggles in identifying whether or not I consider myself a writer – will ever consider myself a writer or if I will ever even write – at least something more than what I push out here.

I picked up a great little book from work (Steal Like an Artist by Austin Kleon) that has given me some great tips for improving this space as well as possibly helping me decide on the whole “writer” thing above.

In addition to the many purposes that this project is serving, one that I didn’t readily pick up upon until reading Kleon is that I believe that this space provides a nice platform to study my favorite authors. If one were to analyze post length on an author or a particular story, you would see that Gardner, Oates, Updike, Carver and Wolff all receive much more attention than others. If I were to narrow that list even further, I’d say that Oates, Gardner and Updike are my top three.

A writer that I have included in my top five that I intend to apply my microscope to is Tobias Wolff. There are a couple collections of his shorts that look well worth purchasing.

My attraction to him? Not sure yet. Just one of those writers I really enjoy. I enjoy listening to him talk as well. I suppose I can say that about all five of my favorite authors. Carver’s smoke battered throat, Updike’s excess spittle slipping through the small spaces in his teeth, Oates’ sing-songy sentences and Gardner…well, his voice surprised me – it was nasally and higher pitched than I imagined.

Perhaps I am reaching out to Wolff through some of our shared education. Military school during developmental years leaves a lasting impression that colors and enormous parts of your life years after leaving it.

So – The Other Miller.

A decent little story. I don’t know if I’d call the ending contrived but…yeah, it wasn’t hard to see it coming.

There is a scene towards the end of the story where Miller is waiting for two other soldiers as they have their fortune told by a gypsy. It’s a period where Miller has the chance to think back on his life – specific points and how they solidify his view of the future – his future. It’s a space where he is alone and with his thoughts. He is moving forward in time in silence – something that is lacking in this world.

Quiet thinking. Doing nothing. I need to do more of that. My head is too full of noise; I always feel the need to have something being fed into it. Simple quiet pondering is missing.

So, in a way nothing is what is missing.

How I Found My Brother - Charles Baxter

This is my third encounter with Baxter. First was in March of 2010 with “Harmony of the World”, then in April of 2011, with “Gryphon”.

This story didn’t really hit me as the other two did. I’m fine with that; I can’t expect to enjoy every single story.

This story is one of those that allowed me to venture into the “what if” of my life. Specifically, what if I had another sibling out there in the world.

If the brother or sister ever made contact with me, how would I feel? What would I do?

On first thought, from this chair, I think that upon discovering this new sibling, I’d be pretty pissed. I doubt that it’d matter if the parent of this sibling was my mother or father, I’d be equally upset with both of them.

Then, I think that some of the anger might be tempered with discovering what this sibling was like. It wouldn’t be fair to be upset with them. They were born…they didn’t have a choice in the matter.

Which brings me to my next set of thoughts stirred by thinking about this story.

Choice, fault, patience, pace and priority.

It’s funny where these stories can lead you. Honestly, I was a bit worried a few posts ago about running out of commentary or thoughts after reading. I think I was just out of practice.

Work has been keeping me pretty busy lately and I feel that I haven’t been firing on all cylinders 100% of the time.

There has been a cloud in my head…a fog that I’ve had trouble seeing though – not hazy enough to cause too much concern but noticeable enough that I can remark on it. Noticeable enough that I feel conscious actions could be taken to clear it away.

I believe I need to create a bit of a better pace in my life…slow down a bit, have more patience with myself and family, assign priorities in both my work and home life, choose what is really important and finally, stop looking for fault in others and myself.

And the first step of that is to be aware of my consciousness throughout my waking hours. I need to be in the moment. Not in the past, not consumed by the future. I need to settle down with the time that I am living in at that instant.

Easier said than done.

The awareness of this lack of awareness is a step in the right direction and I believe that it will allow me to work on the five points outlined above.

Private Debts/Public Holdings – Kent Haruf



Each week when I settle down to read another story or two (yup that’s all I’ve managed to get up to now) I tell myself that I’ll really buckle down and get this project rolling again.



And then, here we are. One week later…and one story later.


I was out on a run yesterday – 10k, and through the run I thought about how I need to get more miles under my belt each week. I’m starting to feel…unfit, and I don’t like it. It’s nice to know that I’m able to jump out of the house and hit the streets for a 10k run and be back home in less than an hour without the negative residual effects of a run. I haven’t degraded that far yet.


Yet.


So, if a little run like this is something I can manage, then I am more than sure that I can train myself in this project.


I just have to keep telling myself this.


I’ve considered that it’s the writing that is presenting a problem. I’ve wondered if my inability to produce is due to a creative slowdown. The stories are good – just fine – is it just too taxing to produce something “meaningful” for each story?


Sure, it’s been over a year since the boy arrived and I think that I am still attempting to get used to the new normal. New normal including the insane work schedule I’ve picked up since October as well as the increased demands at my day job.


There have been a couple of moments over the past week that have nudged me towards really getting things under control. More on that in another post perhaps.


O.K. Let’s get down to business.


Of the many things that I have noticed about this project is that I have seemed to have strayed away from my format of discussing the stories. Perhaps I need to fall back on my initial model as it seemed to have worked. I would discuss the author, their work, perhaps a bit about their writing, what I thought about it and then I would dive into the story. A photo of the author would appear at the top as well as a shifty looking picture of me holding the book up turned to the selected story in the post.


It’s a funny coincidence that I would happen to apply this old method of posting with this story.


First, and admission. I have never read anything by Haruf, and I started this story as I did with the others…open and ready for anything.


Looking up Haruf’s bio, I found a Facebook page and it seems that he is a pretty active participant. A bit down his timeline, I discovered that he was featured on a webpage as a “famous” (famous fits I believe) former volunteer. (Turkey 66-68).


Take a peep up at this blog’s description and you’ll figure out that I did my 2.5 years in Romania.


Discovering that Haruf was a former volunteer was a nice surprise and added an extra bit of something special to this already wonderful…but mildly disturbing (in a very good way) little story.


Here’s a bit of what Haruf wrote about Private Debts/Public Holdings:


“…about this story I can only say that I don’t know how it came to be written or why I wanted to write it. There is nothing mysterious in this admission and I don’t mean to suggest that there is. I suppose it is merely the result of a fascination I have for people who are caught in the ways that Jessie Burdette is caught. I am interested in what people do in such circumstances. Perhaps it is a kind of test of character. Occasionally people act in astonishing (and even courageous and beautiful) ways when they are tested.”


I enjoyed that Haruf shared that with the reader. It’s nice to read that a story just popped out of thin air…


Again, as I have mentioned in other recent posts, this is a story that probably would not have had the same impact on me back in 2008 when I started reading this anthology. This one came along after I took on the role of a parent…which makes its impact heavier. I got that weird sickly feeling knowing what the main character was setting out to accomplish that I doubt I would have had some time ago.




This was a dense meaty emotionally heavy story where Haruf was able to really cram a ton of emotion into a tight package. It’s one of those stories that I’ll carry around for quite some time – if not forever.


I too am fascinated with how people act/ react in certain circumstances and I often make extended forays into poking around and attempting to discover the forces that drive people to behaviors that my fall outside of their “normal”.


I’ll take it one step further by placing myself under that scope and admit that I have a common almost out of body experience, when I step back to look at my behaviors.


This project is a nice way for me to look inward, to think about my past and have the stories motivate me to delve deeper into notable instances of my life.


Most of us have plenty of Private Debts. I have far too many and the reminder through stories like this keep me in check…because my debts are not as nearly as bad or as heavy as what others carry around their necks.

The Blue Men – Joy Williams

I am surprised that I still have Blue Men wandering into my life.


I am a fairly private anti-social person but from time-to-time a person who should not cross my path does, and that they have an impact upon my life, really should come as no surprise.


We all have these encounters with Blue Men and it’s up to us as to what we do when we meet them.


Sometimes I think that these stories are my Blue Men. I read them; ponder them for days, weeks and months sometimes attempting to figure out what they could be telling me. What message they are trying to impart. Perhaps some of the instability in my psyche lately has to do with the lack of exposure to these stories. I need to find the time at work to unplug and to enjoy my lunch with a story. But, that will take a lot of convincing…I seem to have trouble operating that way.

Sorry about the wording of the above couple of paragraphs – it’s late and my mind is a little slow.