Personal story, or stories

[Grandpa]

I put together the previous story and this one last night. I was going to go over this one and post it tonight, but I'm not sure I'll have the time. So let me burden you with this now.


The blonde and I hadn't been dating too long when I asked her to my senior prom. We went to different schools. She was a sophomore, and as it turned out, this apparently was a Big Deal, a sophomore going to a senior prom. She got excited about it all out of proportion. For me, it merely promised to be another dreary school activity with classmates whom I didn't get along with all that much, but I was somehow drawn to keep attending those activities.

We went, and we had an okay, just okay, time because she didn't know anyone at my school, whereas I knew all of them but had no urge to mingle. That's not a casual hyperbole. Literally, no urge to mingle. But it turned out suddenly that they wanted to talk to me. In fact, the guys were unusually friendly. They were coming up and saying hi and introducing themselves to my date, and some staying behind to ask me, "Who's your date? Where's she from?" which I answered factually, until it finally occurred to me that they were really saying, "How did such a bedraggled loner like you get such a wondrous sight hanging on to your arm?" Or to be less charitable, maybe they were saying, "We didn't think you'd ever get a date."

Curt and I did some double-dating, too, me with the blonde and him with his petite amie du jour. On such occasions, I drove my parents' '67 Barracuda, which was one very cool car with a huge big glass window in the fastback and a partitioned trunk. Curt practiced and practiced (and we'd been known for practicing) until he could perch back in the trunk and then worm his way to the passenger compartment without having to get out of the car, and this was all so he could get through the drive-in ticket booth without paying for it. Given the time he practiced and the price of the ticket that he saved, he was probably making about 19 cents an hour.

And he earned those pennies. He and I had a phrase at the time, "Awright, bay-BEEE!" for profound triumphs, and the guy at the ticket booth probably heard the phrase emanating from the trunk as we drove through, one fare short, and Curt knowing he could sneak back up to the front without getting caught. (And weirdly enough, even when we dated or double-dated to the drive-in, we went to actually see the movie. Hey, if you wanted to make out in the car, that's what country roads were for.)

High school passed. I went to college about 60 miles away, driving the Honda there on a memorable trip with such a small bike, and reconnected with a guy in that town that I'd known in first and second grade. It turned out that he had a small motorcycle too, a Yamaha Enduro 125, or something like that. We went out on a few weekends to hit the dirt. He was better off with that than I was, because I had a lower-powered bike with street tires, and his had more oomph and dual-purpose rubber on his wheels. But I kept up reasonably well.

One weekend, he had other motorcycling friends along, so four of us ventured out to the country, and went riding around a field with little hillocks. It was wonderful. We would power up one of the hillocks, pull a wheelie at the top, and float gently down the other side on our rear wheel, our front wheel in the air. Hard to describe. It felt weightless, so graceful, so exhilarating.

After a while, we rode off from there and came to a steep bluff that led up to a fire road we wanted to travel down. We theorized whether we could make it up the bluff. Since I had the underpowered bike of the lot, I played the Judas goat and went first. I didn’t apply full power because I wanted to stay in control, and stay in control I did, right up to the time that the bike sputtered to a stop just a few feet short of the goal. Crestfallen, I brought it back down and rejoined the pack, embarrassed.

The next guy went, and he just missed it too. As did the next guy. I started to feel a little better. Then my buddy went, and he gunned it up and made it. That got the others fired up. The one who’d previously gone after me charged forward, and made it. Then the third one said to me, “If you can’t make it, I’m sure there’s another way to get to the road.”

Gosh, that was nice of him.

He took off and made it up the bluff as well. They rolled their bikes off a few feet down the road to kibitz and watch for me, just in case the seemingly impossible happened and I would actually make it up to the road.

I charged the bluff like the Light Brigade so mistakenly charged the guns. The Honda redlined at 11,500 rpm, and I was threatening that. I screamed up the bluff at full power, and I had a sudden thrill because, hey! I was going to make it just like they did!

Or even better. I hit the top of the bluff with plenty power to spare, and my determination had driven the thought of “brakes” right out of my consciousness. I hit the top, still going at a pretty good rate, and flew in a graceful if shallow and fully unintended arc clear over the fire road, aware of the boys watching me, and the seemingly impenetrable wall of brush immediately ahead of me on the far side of the road getting rapidly bigger. It turned out, though, that the brush was not impenetrable, because I crashed right on through it, branches and brambles flailing to slow me down, and they finally did, a few feet down the other side.

I climbed from the wreck, back through the brush-tunnel that I’d so inartfully carved with my motorcycle, and crawled up to the road. The boys were pretty much off their bikes, rolling around, grabbing their stomachs, gasping for enough air to laugh, the sounds of mirth clearly audible even through their helmets. I had no choice. I could only start laughing, too, as I imagined their view, Dorkus Maximus on Bikus Minimus, doing the Superman impression and sailing over the road.

We finally made it back to my buddy's neighborhood, and whaddya know. There was a big field behind his house, barren of useful vegetation and kinda muddy. We did curlicues and doughnuts on that field, spraying mud on each other, tires spinning, engines screaming, dirt flying, until darkness started falling.

One of the best days on a motorcycle ever. In fact, one of the very best days ever, period. The next memorable day on the bike was as devastating as this one was glorious. But this one still stands out as a time when life was humming along in high gear.

 

[kingzeppelin]

I put together the previous story and this one last night. I was going to go over this one and post it tonight, but I'm not sure I'll have the time. So let me burden you with this now.


The blonde and I hadn't been dating too long when I asked her to my senior prom. We went to different schools. She was a sophomore, and as it turned out, this apparently was a Big Deal, a sophomore going to a senior prom. She got excited about it all out of proportion. For me, it merely promised to be another dreary school activity with classmates whom I didn't get along with all that much, but I was somehow drawn to keep attending those activities.

We went, and we had an okay, just okay, time because she didn't know anyone at my school, whereas I knew all of them but had no urge to mingle. That's not a casual hyperbole. Literally, no urge to mingle. But it turned out suddenly that they wanted to talk to me. In fact, the guys were unusually friendly. They were coming up and saying hi and introducing themselves to my date, and some staying behind to ask me, "Who's your date? Where's she from?" which I answered factually, until it finally occurred to me that they were really saying, "How did such a bedraggled loner like you get such a wondrous sight hanging on to your arm?" Or to be less charitable, maybe they were saying, "We didn't think you'd ever get a date."

Curt and I did some double-dating, too, me with the blonde and him with his petite amie du jour. On such occasions, I drove my parents' '67 Barracuda, which was one very cool car with a huge big glass window in the fastback and a partitioned trunk. Curt practiced and practiced (and we'd been known for practicing) until he could perch back in the trunk and then worm his way to the passenger compartment without having to get out of the car, and this was all so he could get through the drive-in ticket booth without paying for it. Given the time he practiced and the price of the ticket that he saved, he was probably making about 19 cents an hour.

And he earned those pennies. He and I had a phrase at the time, "Awright, bay-BEEE!" for profound triumphs, and the guy at the ticket booth probably heard the phrase emanating from the trunk as we drove through, one fare short, and Curt knowing he could sneak back up to the front without getting caught. (And weirdly enough, even when we dated or double-dated to the drive-in, we went to actually see the movie. Hey, if you wanted to make out in the car, that's what country roads were for.)

High school passed. I went to college about 60 miles away, driving the Honda there on a memorable trip with such a small bike, and reconnected with a guy in that town that I'd known in first and second grade. It turned out that he had a small motorcycle too, a Yamaha Enduro 125, or something like that. We went out on a few weekends to hit the dirt. He was better off with that than I was, because I had a lower-powered bike with street tires, and his had more oomph and dual-purpose rubber on his wheels. But I kept up reasonably well.

One weekend, he had other motorcycling friends along, so four of us ventured out to the country, and went riding around a field with little hillocks. It was wonderful. We would power up one of the hillocks, pull a wheelie at the top, and float gently down the other side on our rear wheel, our front wheel in the air. Hard to describe. It felt weightless, so graceful, so exhilarating.

After a while, we rode off from there and came to a steep bluff that led up to a fire road we wanted to travel down. We theorized whether we could make it up the bluff. Since I had the underpowered bike of the lot, I played the Judas goat and went first. I didn’t apply full power because I wanted to stay in control, and stay in control I did, right up to the time that the bike sputtered to a stop just a few feet short of the goal. Crestfallen, I brought it back down and rejoined the pack, embarrassed.

The next guy went, and he just missed it too. As did the next guy. I started to feel a little better. Then my buddy went, and he gunned it up and made it. That got the others fired up. The one who’d previously gone after me charged forward, and made it. Then the third one said to me, “If you can’t make it, I’m sure there’s another way to get to the road.”

Gosh, that was nice of him.

He took off and made it up the bluff as well. They rolled their bikes off a few feet down the road to kibitz and watch for me, just in case the seemingly impossible happened and I would actually make it up to the road.

I charged the bluff like the Light Brigade so mistakenly charged the guns. The Honda redlined at 11,500 rpm, and I was threatening that. I screamed up the bluff at full power, and I had a sudden thrill because, hey! I was going to make it just like they did!

Or even better. I hit the top of the bluff with plenty power to spare, and my determination had driven the thought of “brakes” right out of my consciousness. I hit the top, still going at a pretty good rate, and flew in a graceful if shallow and fully unintended arc clear over the fire road, aware of the boys watching me, and the seemingly impenetrable wall of brush immediately ahead of me on the far side of the road getting rapidly bigger. It turned out, though, that the brush was not impenetrable, because I crashed right on through it, branches and brambles flailing to slow me down, and they finally did, a few feet down the other side.

I climbed from the wreck, back through the brush-tunnel that I’d so inartfully carved with my motorcycle, and crawled up to the road. The boys were pretty much off their bikes, rolling around, grabbing their stomachs, gasping for enough air to laugh, the sounds of mirth clearly audible even through their helmets. I had no choice. I could only start laughing, too, as I imagined their view, Dorkus Maximus on Bikus Minimus, doing the Superman impression and sailing over the road.

We finally made it back to my buddy's neighborhood, and whaddya know. There was a big field behind his house, barren of useful vegetation and kinda muddy. We did curlicues and doughnuts on that field, spraying mud on each other, tires spinning, engines screaming, dirt flying, until darkness started falling.

One of the best days on a motorcycle ever. In fact, one of the very best days ever, period. The next memorable day on the bike was as devastating as this one was glorious. But this one still stands out as a time when life was humming along in high gear.

A great story and very interesting thread, thanks for sharing Grandpa....

 

[Neesy]

A great story and very interesting thread, thanks for sharing Grandpa....

Hi kingzeppelin!

 

[VultureLvr45]

I started motorcycling when I was 16.

I was working for a department store at the time, which was also the local Honda and BSA (defunct motorcycle company) dealership. You can't work part-time and on weekends at minimum wage and make enough to buy a car. The motorcycles started to look inviting.

I brought the idea home. My mom shrugged and said, "We're not helping you. If you can buy it, register it, insure it, keep it maintained and gassed up all on your own money, go ahead." She was sure that she had me thwarted.

As an employee for the dealership, I got a 25% discount on the motorcycles. I bought a used Honda Trail 90 for $125. The dealership also had forms for insurance, and I got minimum coverage for $12. For six months. I don't remember how much registration was, but it was cheap. When I'd gas it up, gas was about 30 cents a gallon at the time, and the little thing got over 100 miles per gallon.

After buying it and practicing out back of the store, and only taking out one drainpipe, I pushed the bike to the vehicle registration office a block away and took the test for a motorcycle endorsement on my license. The guy told me to circle the block. He watched me leave, then watched me come back, and gave me the endorsement.

So within a week of Mom giving her conditional approval, I rode the bike home. Mom was both appalled that I had a motorcycle and weirdly proud that I'd taken such initiative. She hid her reactions, but not very well.

One thing leads to another, and that bike soon led to an upgrade, a Honda 100 that was actually street-worthy, if still pretty small, with room on the seat for a passenger. And when I couldn't get the family car, or when we just felt like it, that was the chariot for Curt and me, buzzing around town.

Curt started hitching a ride with me to parties and other social events of his, and that served two purposes: 1) He had a ride that wasn't his parents and 2) he was getting his morose friend (i.e., me) socializing. So although we went to two different high schools, my social orbit revolved around the sun of Curt and his school friends.

It was at a party in Nina's (don't worry about the name; I won't use it again, and I wouldn't recognize her now) basement when I first saw this enchanting blonde, back to the wall, smiling at her conversation partner. I wondered how a pretty creature like that could have wandered into a place that would have someone like me. With my pathological shyness I didn't talk to her that night, but now I had extra motivation to go to the next party.

Curt urged me to the next party, too, so you could say I was the ride, but it was effectively Curt towing me along. The blonde was at that party too. I still didn't talk to her. She was simply out of my league. I sat on the bottom step to the party room, staying quiet, listening to the music, watching the partygoers dance, until finally a gregarious redhead came up and engaged me. She was cute, but terribly annoying because she kept talking, and I was working up my courage to ask her to dance just to scare her off, if nothing else, and the blonde girl kept walking back and forth in front of us.

I was just opening my mouth to say the magic words, assuming I could get them out, which was no sure bet, when the redhead pointed to the blonde and said, "I think she wants you to ask her to dance." I was dumbfounded. Here I was, on the brink of asking Red to dance, and Red was diverting me to the Unattainable. The blonde came back around, and the redhead said to her, "Hey, he wants to ask you to dance," pushed us together, and we danced.

So it was a good night. One night in the following week found Curt and me in his basement, a favored hangout. I told Curt I wanted to ask the blonde out. He had her phone number. I paced, went to pick up the phone, left it alone, paced again, went to the phone, walked away, and paced. Curt talked me through it. He said, "The worst she can say is no," which was kind of like saying, "The worst she can do is completely shatter your psyche with a single word."

But finally at his urging, and just before he got annoyed enough to shove the phone up my - never mind. Anyway, heart in throat, I finally picked it up, dialed the number (and this is when you actually did dial), got her, talked to her, asked her out, and she said yes.

Now, it wasn't easy from that point on. There were peaks and valleys, drama and bliss, separations and dates with others, and all the stuff that goes on with young love, but we got settled in finally, and a few states and a foreign country and a brace of kids and grandkids and four decades or so later, here we are.

So thanks, Curt.

And sure, the redhead played her part. But it was really Curt.

Ahhh, Grandpa ... I love your stories. Glad it worked out for you.

 

[Grandpa]

You guys are too kind.

I'm on a bit of a keyboard tear right now, but I don't want to monopolize the pages. I'm enjoying all the stories. If you got something to relate, whether it's one paragraph or twenty, please do!

 

[Grandpa]

My little motorcycle was good for busting around town and in the country, but it was underpowered to get back and forth to the home town on a regular basis. That opportunity was supplied by Greyhound.

The weekends fell into a certain rhythm. Get on bus Friday afternoon, go home. Go out Friday evening. Go to work Saturday, pick up paycheck from prior weekend, go out Saturday night. Go to work Sunday, maybe socialize some late on Sunday, then take the bus back to school with enough money for the week's food, going-out cash, and bus money for the next weekend.

The free time was usually spent with Curt, and maybe Laura, too, and/or outings with the blonde. The parents were pretty good about letting me use the Barracuda for evening sorties, although they starting digging in their heels when I'd get back quite late from a date, which turned out to be most dates.

I was chatting with Curt and Laura in their back yard one morning, or maybe we were playing a game of some sort. Curt was grouchy. He was complaining that his left knee ached. I have no memory of what started the spat between the two (probably because brother-sister spats between them were pretty normal), but sharp words were exchanged that built up in fury (which was also pretty normal for them), and Laura lashed out with her foot (because they would sometimes thump on each other too), and she connected with the aching knee. He yelled, grabbed the knee, limped into the house, and slammed the door.

It wasn't unusual for Curt to sulk some when things didn't go his way, and I just waited for him to get over it and come back out, but he didn't. Laura and I talked a little more, but the mood was gone, and we soon went our separate ways for the day. The weekend drew to a close, and I got on the bus back to school.

Back at college some days later, I got a handwritten note from Laura in the mail. This wasn't terribly unusual because she was pretty good about that, and in the pre-electronic age, personal mail was always treasured, especially away from home. This one, though, carried a shock. Curt's knee had continued to hurt worse and worse, so they'd taken him to doctor, and it turned out he had cancer in that knee.

This was in the days that to get rid of cancer, the doctors just cut it out, along with any surrounding tissue that might be compromised, and hoped for the best. There were drugs being developed that were sometimes marginally effective and radiation treatments that were entirely toxic. But simple excision was the accepted course then.

So the doctors followed the same protocols that they would anyone else back then with cancer, and amputated Curt's leg at mid-thigh.

When I was able to come back to town, and Curt was back home, we just kind of picked up where we left off. He was on crutches, of course, with his left pants leg pinned up, but he was determined to carry on as normally as possible. Weekend nights, we still went out. During times when I was out of school, but when his school was still in session, I'd pick him up from high school, and we'd cruise like we always did, although we certainly weren't going to be running side-by-side anymore. His missing leg was something we talked about, but matter-of-factly, like we would about the late-late science fiction movie last night.

An example. His stump was shrinking as the remaining thigh muscles atrophied, and it meant the bandaging was constantly shifting. We were in the car one time when it was getting annoying to him. He pulled his pants down and took off the bandages to rewrap. I watched, fascinated. He had a scar around three-fourths of the bottom of the stump.

"So they left a strip of skin to fold over?"

"Yeah, they couldn't just leave it open. They folded that flap of skin over it and sewed it up."

"Never thought of it that way. Makes sense."

"Yeah."

Curt told me that he and the family were at a restaurant, sitting there with his crutches and his pants leg folded up. A man came up to him and said quietly, "I see you've had a misfortune. You should just know that with the right attitude and practice, you can do fine." Then he rapped on his pants leg to the hollow sound of the prosthesis underneath, shook Curt's hand, and walked off. Curt told me, "When he walked away, you couldn't tell he had an artificial leg. It was great. I can do it."

I wish I knew who that man was. Whoever and wherever you are, thank you, sir.

In contrast to our mater-of-fact talks, his family had to deal with the sharper consequences, not the least of which was worrying what was ultimately going to happen to their son with his diagnosis. And they were with him during the times like when he fell off the toilet because he was unbalanced and not used to the weight redistribution on the toilet seat, and they experienced the frustration, rage, and tears that accompanied such an indignity.

After Curt's leg stump had shrunk enough, he was fitted for and got a prosthetic leg. I will say now - I must say now - that the American Cancer Society picked up a sizable portion of the cost for that, and I contribute to them to this day.

He was old enough now for his driver's license, and his dad, who was a mechanic on P-40s in the CBI theater in World War II and who knew how to do things like wrench on cars and fix shattered concrete under cistern lids, modified their family's second car so it didn't need a left foot to be driven, and Curt tested in it and got his license. He walked with a cane for quite a while as he got used to his prosthesis, and he used the cane effectively, goosing people, and playfully lifting up girls' skirts, which I'm sure would've gotten me slapped, but the young ladies laughed and shrieked and gave him a pass on it.

Sometimes we went cruising out in the Barracuda, sometimes in his car, and sometimes if we had too many people, we went convoy. Like any 16-year-old with good skills, he relished driving and the freedom that came with it.

So when I was in the home town, I saw the recreational side of things, and they went along fine. He was doing well in school. He was quite the social cut-up with his leg and cane, and if anything, his popularity increased. The scans that the doctors took of him after the amputation and at various times afterward showed that he was clear of cancer in the remainder of his body.

I have no idea what the scanning technology was at that time. As it turned out, it wasn't good enough.

 

[Walter Oobleck]

So have you given any thought to writing/publishing memoir-type stuff, Grandpa? Michael Perry from northern Wisconsin writes memorable memoirs. I've a motorcycle story or two. Have also told a number of times about the time I was paid big bucks for a manuscript. Not directly, indirectly, as Greyhound lost my seabag when I traveled from Florida to Michigan at Christmas. I think what happened is my bag was unloaded with others at one of two military bases we'd stopped along the way...Fort Knox was one the other I forget. Fort Benning maybe. Too, the bag had a jar of pennies inside and perhaps that coin rattling around was perfect inspiration for a petty thief to foul things. I arrive in the U.P. sans bag and the next day I filled out a claim, itemizing some flannel shirts, jeans, the works, a few Christmas presents I was able to afford. Didn't put a price on the lost manuscript...500+ pages that I wish I now had in my possession.

Time goes by, I'm back in Florida, I walk over to the post office on 2nd avenue in Gainesville, Florida, open my box and pull out an envelope with Greyhound on the return address. I open it as I walk back to my rooming house, pull out a check and look at the numbers. $32601! I keep looking at those numbers waiting for a decimal point to appear between the six and the one and when none did I thought--what did I fill out that claim for? $230? Somewhere in that ballpark. Didn't have a phone--couldn't afford one--so I walk over to the Inn & Out (like a White Castle only not as good) where they had a payphone, look in the book for a number, drop a quarter and call...my coin dropping back into the return. I think. I believe it was an 800 number I called.

I explain who I am to a real person who answered and I am immediately connected with the president of the company there in Des Moines, Iowa. Thank you for calling, Mr. Oobleck, the president says, would you be so kind as to write "void" on that check and send it back to us? We'll send you the correct amount immediately. That's your zip code, by the way. Whud you talkin' 'bout, Willis? Asked him how long I had before I had to pay the money back, that I was on my way to Farnham, Fleetwood, and Parlapiano to test drive a BMW. Please be reasonable, Mr. Oobleck. Are you crazy! (I didn't tell him about the manuscript, that I was most upset about) I want my skivvy shorts back! I'm low on underwear now! And my jar of pennies! Do you know how long it took to collect those! (Turning loose change in at a bank at the time is another story, before coin sorters were everywhere.)

Anyway...they sent a new check I sent the wrong check back I never did get my manuscript back but I suspect it was in the seat-back by the sick bag and the Highway Catalog...that or next to the Federal Reserve at Fort Knox.

 

[Bryan James]

Good thread. Neat stories. Writing sometimes needs a polish (kielbasa), but doesn't it always?

These days I submit most of my words to notebooks. The good stuff ends up in old computers I chunk into the universe...behind my dilapidated greenhouse.

 

[Grandpa]

So have you given any thought to writing/publishing memoir-type stuff, Grandpa? Michael Perry from northern Wisconsin writes memorable memoirs. I've a motorcycle story or two. Have also told a number of times about the time I was paid big bucks for a manuscript. Not directly, indirectly, as Greyhound lost my seabag when I traveled from Florida to Michigan at Christmas.

One time, I put together some thoughts for a memoir. I called it "A Fairly Unremarkable Life," and after writing about 35,000 words and getting to my late twenties, I realized how true that title was and couldn't imagine anyone wanting to read it. Still can't.

Your lost manuscript puts you in some darn good company! The most famous example, I think, would be T.E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia), who left what he considered his best version of The Seven Pillars of Wisdom at a train station. It was never found, and he'd already destroyed many of the wartime notes he'd kept for reference.

 

[Walter Oobleck]

Here's another "writing" story. I took up space at the University of Florida, majoring in English, and that's why I now pound nails. Got out of the service, found my sister's old typing textbook, pulled out Ma's old manual, and taught myself the keyboard. I was going to change the world. I knew a girl from a lonely street, cold as ice cream, but just as sweet...this in Duluth where the ore carriers were backed up as were the tandem loads of grain not-going now to the U.S.S.R. what with the grain embargo. Packed it up and headed south. After a year or more of establishing residency, working on a framing crew or two, and eventually burning out three electric typewriters (lost the "i"...use it or lose it) I matriculated at UF where Padgett Powell and Harry Crews...Donald Justice...and a few other poets held court.

Have a Harry Crews story, unrelated to what I want to tell...went to his place on 13th one night as the summer session was getting underway...tried to register for a class w/him...and discovered it was not available. So, based on some lady's recommendation at the O-Dome, I tracked Harry down. Pull into the drive, night, small dog barking, tied on a leash by the door. I wanted in...in to the course, in to a way out, wanted to be heard. I knock. House is dark. Door is open on the Pontiac, engine is running, dog is barking. Must not be home...and I thought of a cassette I'd listened to at the Alachua County Library...Harry describing a time he hitchhiked to Jackonsville to see Frank Slaughter...only to have Slaughter answer the door in a bathrobe. He'd been taking a shower. The horror!

I knock again...turn, and step down the two wooden steps that led to a landing on Harry's house on blocks. I'm about to my car when a voice calls out, "You looking for something, dude?"
You really need to check out a pic of Harry...I was imagining a dust jacket photo as I heard the voice. Yeah! I'm looking for Harry Crews! Spring opens the screen door and a barefoot Harry Crews bounds down the steps into the dirt yard. I walk toward him. He's wearing a white bathrobe. We talk...he explains the course won't be offered that summer. Damn! Study the dirt.

A time or two later, in a class under Padgett Powell. The class and he liked one story I wrote...where I'd combined two unrelated stories and made it one...but at some point, Padgett tells me why do I get the feeling that everything you write actually happened? I don't recall what I answered, but after leaving his office I headed back to the Sanders House on 2nd Avenue, sat down in a bouncy metal chair under the carport where Herb ,a Phd/English grad student...Dan MFA/English grad student...and Myoung/Phd grad student were sitting. We start talking, classes, stories, whatnot. I begin to narrate a story about the time I held my father in my arms. His throat had been cut. He was bleeding bad and I held him until he died. I did it. He'd wanted me to leave the whoring business. I disagreed. Threw the body in a lake. Just off U.S. 41. Wow, they said, you should write about that.

Fast forward a week or two...Ray, this old man orphan who lived in this converted garage calls up the steps toward my window. Walter! Your Mom is on the phone! I run down to answer it...seems the police are looking for me...or looking into my past. Have an uncle who was a cop for the Michigan State Police and he'd seen some message traffic come over the teletype or whatever it was they had at the time. Investigation. That communicated with all Michigan State Police posts on U.S. 41. My uncle disavows any knowledge of me...or relation to me. No, I don't know that guy! Ma gives me the scoop. Dad thought it was a hoot, too.

Herb. Herb dropped a dime on me. So...I went over to Goehring's on 13th and University...local bookstore, and picked up a copy of Helter Skelter. Knocked on Herb's door, handle of a big carving knife visible...blade stuck in back pocket. Herb! Friend! Here, I wanted to give you this! I drop the book and bend over to pick it up...twisting as I did so he could see the knife handle. He backed a step or two away and held the palms of his hands toward me...No, that's quite all right...I've read it...years ago...and he reaches for the door to swing it shut. You sure? It's a fascinating read. Ok someone else now.

 

[Grandpa]

Good thread. Neat stories. Writing sometimes needs a polish (kielbasa), but doesn't it always?

These days I submit most of my words to notebooks. The good stuff ends up in old computers I chunk into the universe...behind my dilapidated greenhouse.

Yeah, you guys are getting pretty much the alpha versions here. I'd say sorry about that, but hey, this is just blathering to new-found friends, not meant to be literary masterpieces.

I know whatcha mean. Once on an old CP/M computer, I wrote up a blueprint for how the world should approach economics, productivity, religion, and discovery. It was comprehensive and completely brilliant. I'm sure that if it had ever gotten out, I'd have been acclaimed as the rightful leader of the world and my ideas followed for the betterment of all humanity to come. I imagine we've all been there with our own writings. And I have no idea where that computer, or the diskettes I wrote on, are now.

 

[Walter Oobleck]

Hide them in the wall. The discs. Like I do. Or used to do...until I considered the 8-track tape cartridge, imagined someone finding a stack of them in a dusty warehouse, wondering what they are, tossing them in the trash. Unless they're American Pickers. So now I print stuff out. Maybe someone finds them one day the house doesn't burn down. Used to send stuff out. Have an uncle in New Mexico...former press-secretary for various representatives from Michigan...owned a small newspaper in Iowa...retired now. Writes mysteries, e-publishes. I could ask him for some help...in fact he has some sort of how-to e-book...but one still needs to be fluent in computer. Burned a bunch of stuff this once, too. Wish I hadn't but it's gone.

 

[Grandpa]

If anyone, and I do mean "if," is reading along with my current theme, it gets wrapped up tomorrow.

Have a lovely day, everyone.

 

[Walter Oobleck]

If anyone, and I do mean "if," is reading along with my current theme, it gets wrapped up tomorrow.

Have a lovely day, everyone.

yep...you left a cliff-hanger with the last. someone else does that, too.

 

[Spideyman]

If anyone, and I do mean "if," is reading along with my current theme, it gets wrapped up tomorrow.

Have a lovely day, everyone.

Grandpa-- have become a fan of your writings and eagerly await a new contribution each day. Please keep writing, even when the current theme is completed.
It has been said before, to another member, keep these small treasures of your writing, and yes they are treasures. Who knows what the future could hold for self publishing, publisher or just family members to read. For now, it is the Ka-Tet that reads your stories and we savor them well. Like your style- no need to worry about "polish" just throw it out there and we shall read.

 

[Dana Jean]

Grandpa-- have become a fan of your writings and eagerly await a new contribution each day. Please keep writing, even when the current theme is completed.
It has been said before, to another member, keep these small treasures of your writing, and yes they are treasures. Who knows what the future could hold for self publishing, publisher or just family members to read. For now, it is the Ka-Tet that reads your stories and we savor them well. Like your style- no need to worry about "polish" just throw it out there and we shall read.

Just no fiction writing. Personal anecdotes = cool.

 

[mustangclaire]

There's a whole bunch of people whose writing I enjoy on here. Keep on keeping on folks, so people like me who aren't the least bit talented in that area can keep on keeping on with the enjoying bit

 

[Walter Oobleck]

There's a whole bunch of people whose writing I enjoy on here. Keep on keeping on folks, so people like me who aren't the least bit talented in that area can keep on keeping on with the enjoying bit

Oh...I dunno 'bout that...I liked your Great Thigh Caper...even if it was short & sweet.

 

[mustangclaire]

Oh...I dunno 'bout that...I liked your Great Thigh Caper...even if it was short & sweet.

*whispering.. I haven't a clue what you're going on about*

 

[mustangclaire]

I got it!! Chicken thighs!!!