Happy Birthday to Years of Bass!

Officially 4 years old.  Passed that milestone yesterday.

 Here is a link to my first post made on May 29^th 2008.

Some numbers: 268 posts (269) counting this one with 26504 page views and 8 followers.  I’m not really sure what to make of these statistics.

Honestly, I can’t believe that I am still writing here.  When I started this project I was sure that it would only take a couple of years to complete.  I had a rough count of the number of stories, an estimate of how long it took me to read each volume and I think I calculated just over 2 years.

I’m so far behind.  I’ve discovered that this is a difficult endeavor.  Reading these stories, learning about the author, attempting to find a lesson from the story or somehow relate the story to my life (past present or future).

 There have been so many changes in my life in the past four years (wonderful positive changes).  The last two years have been the busiest and the most emotional of my life and there were times where this space was ignored for weeks at a time – when the last thing on my mind was reading…and there was no way in hell that I could write.

It’s funny that as I write this, there is again a current in the air that points towards some major changes in my life.  Noooo….not another little one. 

Not yet .

Just life changes.  Perhaps I am finding some comfort in returning to these stories and seeking their direction. 

Onward!    

Cats and Students, Bubbles and Abysses - Rick Bass

Not sure if I would consider this piece experimental – or of the minimalist bend that Helprin wrote against in his introduction - but as much as I do not necessarily like experimental literature, if this is that, then a level of dislike has been removed.

The sentences are short, compact, each worthy of their placement and each carries the story along at a comfortable pace without breaking the reader’s stride.

Bass writes in his contributor’s notes that the story was originally written straight through without pause or punctuation and got him through a difficult week. A rough edge does exist in the feeling…I like that. The finished product carries the same feeling of tension and angst but with a refined edge. The healing properties of writing for Bass benefited us, the reader, through a great story.

I’ve mentioned before that if I were a writer, there were several writers whose stories that I would model my writing after. I’d add Bass to that list now.

In one of my lives (#2 – University student) I was a couple of the characters that Bass created. I neglected my studies and passed time in activities not conducive to learning.

I carry the result of that slacking in my heart and mind daily and as I know, and preach, there is no use in crying over the past – if I only knew then what I know now…

I write and complain about bettering myself though self-education and I do work at it from time to time but I find myself living with the shame of not doing enough…and wondering if that shame is the existence that I essentially want and seek out. I know I have a problem with guilt –

And I need to work on it.

Daily I look at my little boy and stand in amazement at his growth. This past week, he started climbing. He’s mastered both walking and running and has now, he’s becoming pretty skilled in scaling the living room furniture.

We have a large leather recliner that I plant my ass in most evenings. For some reason, W decided that this chair would be the first obstacle that he would scale. I suppose he picked the chair because it’s the one we sit in while reading – at least that’s what I’d like to think.

He strains, whines, whimpers, slobbers, grunts and pants while attempting to pull his little body onto the seat. He looks over at me for help whining and pleading for help.

I find it so hard to resist helping him onto the chair – I encourage him coaching him to keep trying. His little arms and legs, shaking with muscle fatigue, slobber forming pools creating a slippery surface, his little hands smearing it into wider pools making the climb more difficult.

The whole exercise lasts at most 30 seconds – it feels like minutes. Of course he eventually makes it into the chair. He turns, looks at me and claps – and I show him how pleased I am by clapping along with him.

I know that he is too young to remember this-his struggle of climbing the chair and my refusal to assist him and the lesson I am imparting.

I know I’ll have plenty of more opportunities to provide him with tough life lessons – lessons where whining and pleading will take the form of words that will hurt my heart.

Banana Boats - Mary Ann Taylor-Hall

There are beautiful things in this world. Why is it just now, the year that I turn 40, that I am able to write this? I’ve always recognized beauty, and I think it’s something that my father taught me to appreciate, but why is it now that I feel I am truly appreciating beauty in this world? Why do I feel that I am suddenly more aware?

I see beauty in the color of grass, a collection of books, the written word, and the cast of light, the sound of M singing to W, W laughing uncontrollably, and the sight of a woman walking down the street…

Have I reached that awakened point in my life where the years of stimuli that has passed into my head has created some sort of realigned state?

Mind you…I am still quite aware of all the ugliness in this world…you can’t take that away from me just yet.

The hyper sensitivity I now feel towards beauty recently is such that it has caused me to take note.

Banana Boats

Before I set out on reading this volume, I scanned a few reviews. Expectedly, the reviewers commented on the introduction, but I do remember that it was said that one of the best stories was Banana Boats.

It took me two sessions of reading to make it through the story. It started a bit slow for me (troubling because I have been thinking a lot lately about my diminishing attention span) but in my defense, the story is longer than the usual. Once into it, the story took hold of me and yes, it is a story that deserved to be in this collection and placed right in the lead spot.

You see, I have served on a Banana Boat (not a real one but as it is used in this story) and I am still serving on this boat. It’s only a matter of time before those around me discover my place on that boat and my inability to get off this boat for all the years that I have been imprisoned.

I’ve written about this struggle in past posts and I am sure that I’ll write about it further until one day, I step off this boat.

I want off so bad…I just don’t know what it’ll do to the life I have now.

The Best American Stories 1988 – Edited by Mark Helprin

One of the first things I do upon beginning one of these volumes is to flip to the table of contents, glance over the titles and authors, then jump into the introduction written by the editor. It’s usually a task which takes up all of 15 minutes.


Nothing was different with BASS ’88, I glanced over the TOC, saw a few familiar faces, Rick Bass, Richard Bausch, Mavis Gallant, Louise Erdrich, Raymond Carver and Tobias Wolff. I then started in on the introduction and after the third page, I could tell that Helprin was about to take me on a long ride.


I slowly flipped the pages in the introduction and flipped the pages and flipped the pages. –Wow- this was some “introduction”. I immediately was put off by the length of the intro and became upset with Helprin for using the space to spout off. I let the book rest for a bit, went back to it, read some more, thought about the intro and then let it rest some more.


If I was given the space in front of a collection like the BASS I believe that I too would write whatever I damned well pleased. I commend Helprin for his introduction. Unlike some of the other introductions in previous editions which simply gave the editor’s impressions on the state of the short story, or the art of writing a short story, followed by a brief summary of the stories contained and a mild opinion of each. Helprin spins off on a massive essay opinion on everything from minimalist writers to women authors, classic literature, writing programs and left-wing politics.


He certainly provided me with plenty to consider and I had to place my mind in the late 1980’s to fully appreciate when he was coming from.


As much as I may have agreed or disagreed with what he wrote, weighing out his thoughts was worth the time spent.


At this point in my introduction, I like to reflect back to where I was when these stories were collected and published.






In 1988, I turned 16.


I was driving a car on my own, I was a sophomore in high school and I had a solid set of friends and even a girlfriend that I thought I would marry (don’t most of us at that age?). I was doing just enough academically in school to remain “average” and mostly, I would hover just above “below average” and this would set itself into my pattern of achievement throughout my time in organized education. I hadn’t discovered the riches that literature could fully provide at this point. I was much more interested in music, girls and goofing off. My family life was solid. Mom was working hard as a teacher and my step-father who was fully retired at this point was holding down the fort. We always had a hot dinner. I delivered newspapers after school and woke early on the weekends to deliver the weekend editions. This kept money in my pocket for gas and helping out with car insurance. I could also buy a cassette tape every few weeks. I didn’t have my own car but shared my mother’s 1981 Chevette. My sister and I were still visiting my dad up in PA on holidays and during the summer.


Overall, life was really good.


Much as it is now.

I've come across Mr. Helprin before...and we had a wonderful first encounter.

It was over “The Schreuderspitze” which I absolutly loved.


And with that, let’s get to reading.

The Best American Short Stories 1987 Completed!

A few things about this volume.



Overall, I enjoyed the selections Beattie placed in this volume. I think if I had read them closer together as a larger bunch, I may have appreciated the flow of one story to the next as she intended the reader to experience. Beattie decided to present the stories in an order outside of the normal alphabetical by author which should be appreciated because she took the time to think outside of the individual stories and more towards the whole volume. I enjoyed the selected author’s notes at the end of the volume which shed some light into the sparks that ignited their stories or gave us a glimpse into their style of developing their composition.


There were 13 male authors and 7 female authors.


5 stories from The New Yorker – 3 from Esquire and two from The Atlantic. The remaining stories were drawn from known/established literary journals.


A little breakdown of my reading.


I began this volume on the date of the introduction post November 7, 2011 which was


4 months 12 days
or
19 weeks
or
133 days
or
95 weekdays
or
.36 years


Another record breaking time span for a single volume. Although I don’t think it’s the longest, (pretty sure 1978 was the longest), but it’s right up there.


I’m finishing the volume with this post – today March 19, 2012.


That works out to (including the introduction – 20 stories +1) a post and story every 6.33 days.


Let’s move on.

The Things They Carried – Tim O’Brien

Here it is, the last story of this edition. I wonder if Beattie had a reason for the placement of her stories. I’ll have to re-read her intro. It’s been months since I’ve read it and perhaps she mentioned a reason.

The Things They Carried. Was it as good as “they” all say?

Yes it was.

Three years ago, a co-worker was shuffling through stacks of books that publishing houses sent to be reviewed. She created yet another stack of teetering bound pages and muttered something under her breath about a profile and having to read “it” again to reacquaint herself with “it”.

I decided to bite and engage her in conversation – “What?!” she exclaimed – “You’ve never read The Things They Carried?”

-Noooo…

Admittedly, I had heard of it…but c’mon, another Vietnam novel?

Back in2009 I was chomping at the bit for novels coming out of Iraq and Afghanistan.

Vietnam was just so – 1975.

In Feb. of 2010, I made a mass purchase of BASS volumes.

Here’s a shot of the group along with their contents. The volumes fall outside of my reading list for this project (1978 – current year) but I figured that since I had started the collection and reached an endpoint in one direction…I might as well go in the opposite direction.

The 1977 edition contained Going After Cacciato by Tim O’Brien from Ploughshares Spr ’76 and since I was still feeling the guilty sting of not having read The Things They Carried, I thought I’d dip my toe in.

As I remember, I enjoyed the story. I didn’t dwell on it nor did I consider it as I do these stories.

When I came to Carried the other evening, I felt the memory of Cacciato tapping at my brain. The writing style was familiar and I fell into the rhythm rather easily.

I can understand the draw of this story for so many from my parent’s generation, and I can see why so many courses may have taught with this story, and traffic to this post over time will bear out if it’s still being taught (I mentioned the tile and author enough to have the Google-bot index it).

But what does this story do for me?

We all carry things through our days. Some of us are in Iraq, Afghanistan…Vietnam or maybe we are in New York, Des Moines or Oakland.

We carry our friends, family and memories on smart phones, in notebooks and in the deep pockets of our minds.

We read a story or email, hear a song or a smell is carried in on a breeze and a memory of a person or a time long past comes flooding back.

O’Brien wrote his story and educated me as to what a grunt carried on his person while humping through ‘Nam.

Now, in 2012, I can see what “Anna-Bee” from San-Fran carries in her messenger bag to campus each day.

In this time we live in of over sharing, there is a Flickr group pool with over 22,000 members and over 14,000 photos of what people allegedly carry with them on a regular basis.

http://www.flickr.com/groups/whats_in_your_bag/pool/

and then, to make a little link to this story, there’s even the below Flickr pool with over 3,000 members and just as many photos.

The Items We Carry - and according to the group administrator, these photos will be of “the essentials we need to function daily at a basic level.”

http://www.flickr.com/groups/theitemswecarry/

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.

The Tenant - Bharati Mukherjee




When I did my time in the Peace Corps, there was always the knowledge that I could push the eject button and find myself on an airplane headed home to the ‘ol USA.


Now was this knowledge a safety net for me or a hindrance in my development?


I went to Romania by choice. I came back to America by choice.


Did M come back to America by choice, or was it an opportunity too great for her to pass up?


A future in America? A life outside of the crushing existence she could have faced in her hometown. I don’t think I’ll every truly know. The answers to those questions have been buried by our time together here and the life we have made.


I often wonder what life was like for her in those first few months. As open as we were with each other during that period of transition, I’ll never fully know what she went through. What did she think about each morning as she readied herself for work? What thoughts passed as she walked to work, when she had a few moments alone to think?


I believe that most of her time thinking is now dominated by concerns for the boy.


And concerns for our future. How to get me into a job that will propel our lives forward. We are, as most people nowadays, just treading water in our lives. Waiting for the country to get better… and in turn waiting for the chance to move on.


She shares plenty with me and I don’t feel the need to extract any more of her thoughts from her…she is entitled to her private thoughts…but I can’t help but wonder if she still feels like a stranger in this country. She has told me on more than one occasion that she no longer feels any sort of bond with Romania. She has left that country for good. The only tie she has to it is of course through her family.


Through Facebook, I am able to see how some of my former students have fared in their lives. A good number of them have also left Romania and have made their lives abroad. I have placed M’s face over their lives several times and wondered where she would have landed. I’m sure she would have graduated college…but then what? Life as an English teacher? A mother, a wife? Chances are it would have happened at an earlier point in her life than we decided upon. I can find myself building alternative lives for her…for me even. Whole worlds of “what ifs”.


As we have discussed our future recently, one thing that I find myself repeating is the simple thought that the decisions I have made in the past are in fact “in the past” and there isn’t much I can do about it now. We have to live and a opportunities for a simple “but’ and “yet” to slip into our world.


And we need that.

Boxes - Raymond Carver

Raymond Carver – Boxes

Very happy to see this story by Carver included in this volume. The story came along at the right time.

A time for me to recognize my mother a bit more.

As a parent now, I can appreciate the feelings she must have had when I left home. Sure, the feelings I have about the boy are much different than the feelings she had for an 18 year old going off to college.

When I left, It was natural for me to go. I haven’t transitioned, or needed to develop the capacity to have those feelings yet. And furthermore, I am a father and she is a mother. The feelings a mother has for a child are so different than the feelings that a father has for their son or daughter. I’m not saying that one parent loves the child more than the other…they just have different connections. I wrote about that before and I needn’t get into it again.



I can’t imagine how difficult it was for her to see me leave for school. She did have the comfort of knowing that I’d be in a pretty controlled environment.

After college, and not quite knowing about the life I was leading probably caused her to worry a bit more. Sure I was with my father at that point, but I was an adult with the capacity to do adult things…which I naturally did.

And then when I left the country for 2.5 years…well…she just had to accept that I was going to survive off everything that I had learned up to that point. She really had to let go.

Not of her worries of course…she can always worry…but she had to let go of something. What it was, I’m not sure. She did, and she survived my time away. When the decision to return to the States was made, and the decision to return to our city, and to live with her for several months was made, well, she couldn’t have been happier.

We still live in the city I was raised in, and the city where she lives. We are just about one mile apart. I can drive to her house in less than 5 minutes (depending on the sequence of traffic lights) and run there in about 8.

We take the boy over there quite often and she makes every effort she can to be involved in his life. She has bought him countless outfits, toys and more importantly…diapers. Her help is beyond measurement. A few weeks ago when M and I were crippled by a stomach virus, she stepped up to the plate and hit a home run. She was over at our place in minutes ready to take care of the boy while we struggled to survive.

Mom is getting old. She is in a decent house taking care of her husband and attempting to keep the house in order. Bills…maintenance… squirrels in the garage…etc.

The question of what will happen to my mother and the house once my step father passes away has come up with a bit more frequency in the last few years. Will she sell the house? Remain in it alone?

The thought of our little family moving in with her at that point has been floated on more than one occasion by M and I. Even other members of the family have mentioned it as an idea once the time comes.



A decision such as that is a pretty heavy one. One that would involve quite a few gives and takes. Careful consideration of the advantages and disadvantages. Thoughts without letting certain emotions enter into the decision making process, and careful negotiations and explanations once the final decision is made. Of course, that’s how I would prefer it to happen. In reality…

Boxes.

Whatever decision is made, someplace within the process, there will be many boxes involved. The physical boxes marked “kitchen”, “bedroom” and “bathroom”. And of course, the boxes of emotion, some with tell-tale markings and some with markings that take a bit of deciphering. The boxes that we have been carrying around our whole lives from one place to another, from one relationship to another.



The attic in my mother’s house has a shit-load of boxes. About 25% of those boxes are mine. 5% of those boxes are pre-marriage…and contain articles from another life. When I was another person. Some date as far back as college. The other boxes were moved there only a couple of years ago. They were placed there in a weekend filled with a flurry of movement as I tried to get the boy’s room ready. Most contain books, papers, the general shit that one accumulates as a married couple and soon loses all importance once a child enters the house. No doubt, I crack open those boxes in a few years. What I’ll do with the contents is unknown. No doubt, I’ll need to crack open the boxes of emotion I hold and what I’ll do with those contents are probably going to cause me to sit a bit…and really think.

Men Under Water – Ralph Lombreglia

Is it better to have dreams and not see them fulfilled... or to not have dreams at all?


I’d like to think that most of us have dreams, but it’s realistic, to accept that there are quite a few living without them.


I consider myself lucky to have dreams but it’s sad as I grow older to see that some of the dreams I had at a younger age are now out of reach. Time simply ran out on me. Or I ran out on my dreams. I have to accept that I simply didn’t work hard enough to achieve that dream and now, it’s too late to call it back. The problem that I face today is that I still have dreams and I am having trouble working towards fulfilling them and I am letting them slip away. I am aware of my mistakes but I’m not doing anything to correct my course. And that’s what is so frustrating about the person that I am. It’s a character flaw that I wish I could correct but…I take no action.


I also need a little realignment because are my dreams really what is important now? I mean…I had my time. I had years. Now I have the boy. It’s all about him. His future. I have dreams for him.


Yes, I know…it’s important not to let my dreams for /of him override his personal dreams. I have to let him be what he’s going to be…through his own doing and pursuit of his dreams. But it will be my duty to assist him in achieving those lofty dreams…and I hope they are just that, lofty.


M, the boy and I were walking the other day and we spotted a former classmate of hers. The classmate was working in a health food store, the same store that he has always worked…at least as long as we have known him…and that’s about 8 years. M said that she felt sad for him and the fact that there he was, years after graduation, still working behind that counter. She knew that he had these dreams of living and teaching in Europe…but nope, still there. And then she turned the light on her and asked herself out loud…”Here I am, who am I to talk”…and when she said this, I think she realized that she was pushing the boy in the stroller and corrected her reality with the acknowledgement that she “had the boy” and she was in a much better “reality” than her classmate.


I’ve often wondered about M’s dreams. I’ve seen he grow through some very developmental stages in her life whereas she missed all of that in me. It hurts me to think that she has wished and dreamed of something that has passed her by…and that she feels she could never again achieve.


We’ve been Under Water on a few occasions but the pool that we shared oxygen in (I am of course referring to a scene in the story) hasn’t been deep enough…or the altered reality hasn’t impressed the change that perhaps we should have recognized.


Personally, I’m at the bottom of a pool right now with that mouth piece firmly between my teeth and I’m sucking down that air as fast as possible. The shift in reality that I have been anticipating is approaching. It’s going to be tough.

Dreams of Distant Lives – Lee K. Abbott

I don’t have the ability to articulate exactly what it is about an author’s writing style which causes me to be attracted to them.


I wonder if it is the subtle foundations they build their story upon. The length of their sentences, the breaths between thoughts - paragraph breaks. These three “things” come immediately to mind. Does that even make sense? Are they really “things”? I don’t even know the right word to describe what they are!


This story made my heart hurt.


It touched nerves in me…perhaps a few raw nerves that I didn’t even know were exposed. This frightens me.


I felt stillness and chaos. This frightened me.


I felt as if I was standing on the edge of my reality, just ready to slip into an altered state…which would become my new normal state…and this frightened me.


This story pulled me into my dreams – my awful dreams – not the dreams that appear at night as I sleep – those are actually very pleasant. The dreams I have during my waking hours are the dreams I am the most afraid of. They are rooted firmly in some aspects of my reality and because of this…they are they most scary. And this is why as I read Abbott’s words, I had a heart ache.


And to push me even further – the narrator of this little short is …39. Yup. How old am I again? Yup. 39.


“My inner life, the world constructed from what I’d been and done, was speaking to me, patiently and calmly. I would hear what it had to say, and I would understand. And so I came to myself, observed the man I am now walk forward to the man I was then and take him, as a father takes his children, into his arms. The one held the other – the future cradling the present- and the one who had been left, the one whose interior hooks and hasps and snaps had come undone, gave himself up utterly. They were both there, in dreamland, under heaven and over hell, two versions of the same man, clasped in an embrace that would end when the world came up again.”


That’s so beautiful…and perfect – for me.

Circle of Prayer – Alice Munro

This was an unfortunate story to have to read over several sittings. I tried…I really did. I looked for assistance online – and I even made efforts to really slow down the pace of my reading in an attempt to digest this story a bit better. I found it difficult to follow and there was nothing that I could really pull from it.


There it is.

The Lie Detector – Madison Smartt Bell

Standing in the shower on morning back in 2008, the idea came to me to start this blog/project. One of many the reasons why I decided to take on this project was that I felt through the stories contained within these anthologies a jumping point for reflection and problem solving. A sentence, a character a theme of a story could send me down paths of exploration that would help me understand my past…or help me with problems I may be going through. The stories could be tools to open my thoughts and feelings. As an added benefit, I’d get a bit of an education - along the way, I’d be exposed some really cool authors. It’s 2012 and in a few months I’ll be into my fourth year in this space. I’m sure I’ll have plenty to say about my progress at that anniversary date.


Now let’s push forward and see what this next batch of stories brings.


I wrote the above because this particular story triggered a memory of mine dealing with apartments, shady landlords, lack of money and a lack of direction in my life.


I think it was the spring of 1996…or was it early summer? Thankfully, my mind has done a pretty decent job of erasing some unpleasant memories from that time in my life. I quit my job as a chef in a pretty popular restaurant in New Jersey due to the drug habits of a fellow chef. I wasn’t comfortable being associated with his lifestyle. I was living on a futon mattress in the house that my father and step-mother had just moved out of. The place was empty…except for my toiletries and some food in the fridge. Things like kitchen appliances, sofas, all the usual domestic features had been taken out by the movers a few days earlier. It was like I was living in an upscale crack house. Really upscale. So there I was, having just quit my job, needing to find a place to live. For the life of me I can’t remember how I even conducted my apartment hunting.


“So you don’t have a job?”


“No sir.”


“How do you expect to pay rent?”


‘Well, I’m pretty sure I’ll find a job soon and I’ll be able to pay you.”


“Look kid – I don’t think I feel comfortable renting out my place to someone without a job.”


--yeah, no shit – I wouldn’t have rented a place to me either.




The last part of my memory of that period of my life is me on the phone with my sister crying. I was lost. I had no place to go. She begged me to move back to Virginia. I resisted…I couldn’t return home. She offered to come up the next day to get me and my crap. I declined her offer. I was too proud.


Memory cuts to me loading my belongings into a U-Haul.


Something happened. Something right, something good.


I kicked my pride aside and moved back to Virginia. My sister saved me from…I suppose I’ll never know.


I was on the edge, and she pulled me back.


Finally, a sentence at the end of the story really wraps things up for me. It draws the painful past into the present day and forces me to face once again my very uncomfortable situation. One that plagues my thoughts every day of my existence.


“So maybe the lie was out there too, I thought, even if I couldn’t see it. It was just there, floating around with the other particles of the atmosphere, and everybody got a little piece of it, and it didn’t belong to anyone.”


And so here I am today. With these memories – stirred by a short story in The Best American Short Stories 1987. Thanks Madison Smartt Bell. You’re keeping me on my toes.