Joshua and Rosa: A Love Story (Part 3)

Joshua courted Rosa for the next two weeks, quite oblivious to the whispers…indignant from some of the married women and angry from some of the single women, racist and/or lecherous from some of the men. Joshua asked Rosa to marry him on the 15^th day after he first laid eyes on her.

Rosa was startled by Joshua’s proposal…pleased and wary and terrified about the implications of it all at once…but her fears held no sway in the face of the man’s gentle determination. Before she gave him her answer Rosa told Joshua about being raped…a secret she decided she could not keep from him in case it mattered enough for him to take back his proposal.

Joshua, though startled, pondered this new information for less than a moment and then he told her, truthfully for the most part, that it didn’t matter. He told her that he wanted to be the one who would protect her from ever having to endure anything so terrible ever again. And then Joshua smiled and kissed her shyly and reminded her that she had yet to answer his question.

Rosa’s heart filled with almost unbearable warmth. She nodded to the affirmative.

They were married in Preacher Brown’s little church two days later.

The first night they lay together Joshua was a bit surprised that, if only fleetingly, he felt a twinge of anger and regret as joined with his bride knowing that someone else had stolen her precious virginity. But he brushed that aside, the love in his heart overpowering his silly male pride, and gave silent thanks to God for giving him such an amazing woman as his own. He was tender with her…not wanting her to think that he thought of her like the rent women he’d laid with in his past…and he was strong for her…because he was her husband and that’s was his role was supposed to be.

Rosa, who had been afraid that her rape might have led her to be fearful of being with a man again, was pleased that her love for Joshua made that a foolish notion. She prayed that she would not be a disappointment to him. She shuddered as his rough hands cupped her breasts and stroked her stomach. She trembled beneath the weight of his sturdy body and felt herself truly a woman at last as he took her with awkward and steady…shy and sure…determination and sang his passion…all masculine gasps and grunts and prayerful endearments…deep into her welcoming womb.

Joshua took on a hired hand to help out at the shop while he and Rosa staked out some arid land on which they were going to build their home. The scandalous whispers about their marriage…white men and Mexican girls didn’t often marry in that neck of the woods…quickly died down. The townspeople saw that Joshua was still Joshua and that Rosa proved herself to be a woman of good character despite the fact that she had worked in a saloon.

They would still get the occasional disapproving stare as they walked down the street but neither of them paid it much heed and in quick order only strangers to town found their union to be particularly remarkable.

Thanks to Joshua’s hardworking nature and fair dealings, there had been no shortage of men, from in town and from miles away, who gave time and sweat to help Joshua and Rosa build their house and barn on the land just a bit outside of town. The job was done is fairly short order and Joshua and Rosa threw a big party to thank everyone…and to announce that Rosa was carrying their first child.

Rosa had been wary of what people would say…despite the way the people of the town had embraced her she was still worried that they would not be pleased about she and Joshua having a baby together. But the cheer that went up when Joshua made the announcement had reassured her. Some of the men had gathered around Joshua, slapping him on the back and making the kind of almost-crude comments that often passed for masculine affection. Some of the women hovered around Rosa, cooing and offering advice and promises of help and support. It was on that day that Rosa felt completely at home there in the house that her neighbors had helped them build…in the town full of people who were nothing like her and yet accepted her as one of them just the same.

Joshua began to take on more work and work longer hours in order to make sure they could have everything they needed for his child. He was so proud that he could burst. Joshua even wrote a letter to his father, not expecting a response but wanting to share the news just the same. Some nights he would be so tired that he could hardly see straight when he got home. He was often silent and withdrawn on those nights, not wanting to do anything other than eat a bit and fall into bed.

Joshua and Rosa: A Love Story (Part 2)

Joshua had come west looking for a fortune. His father had given him nothing but the bitter prediction that failure would follow Joshua and bring him back home with his tail tucked securely between his legs. Joshua knew that his mother, had she lived, would have been more supporting but a lifetime of enduring her husband’s casual brutality had left her old and broken before her time and she had passed on while Joshua was just moving into puberty.

Having not found a fortune Joshua decided to try his hand at farming. But having neither the skill nor the fertile land needed to be a good farmer, he found his true calling as a smith. More than a smith actually, Joshua had an intuitive way around machines and tools…he could fix a plow or correct a wobbly wagon better and faster than any man that anyone in those parts had ever seen. Joshua’s shop, which was once a cavernous stable in the heart of town, was financed by monies saved from a small bequest from his mother and from odd jobs taken during his years traveling and searching. It eventually became one of the most prosperous businesses for miles around. Word of mouth spread among the ranchers and farmers and working men of the area and people came from far a-field to buy his well-crafted tools and have him work on their precious equipment.

Rosa had gone north looking for…for something more than Mexico was willing to offer a woman. With five younger brothers and three younger sisters, Rosa imagined that she was little missed in the ramshackle house that mother worked day and night trying to keep together. Rosa had drifted into America with no specific expectations and America had not offered her much beside the chance to wash other people’s clothes or to serve drinks in a bar where the men had no compunction against touching her rudely and often. Disillusioned Rosa eventually decided to return home…to heed her father’s wishes and settle down as the dutiful wife of whatever man would have her…and live out her life in the quiet desperation that she had seen overwhelm and nearly kill her mother. But having made that decision, bitter fate intervened to change her plans.

Fate that took the form of a man whose wife Rosa worked for. He was a foul-smelling, often drunk man who would not take “no” for an answered when he demanded sexual favors from her. He raped her in the room where Rosa tended to the chores the man’s wife assigned her and then laughed when she threatened to report him to the authorities. The local authorities laughed too and sent her on her way. Stripped of her virtue, the one thing her father had specifically commanded her to guard zealously, Rosa knew that returning home was no longer an option.

Joshua had found his calling in the small town…and built a reputation that spread far and wide…but he was still unfulfilled because he had no one share his relatively prosperous life with. Joshua worked hard from sunup to sunset most days coming “home” to an empty room in a quiet boarding house. Joshua occasionally entertained the ill-disguised intentions of marriage-minded single and widowed women in town but none of them sparked with him in a way that made him want to stand in front of Preacher Brown’s altar. Folks wondered what Joshua was looking for but in truth he couldn’t say himself.

On occasional nights, Joshua indulged himself to the point of buying the intimate company of one of the girls working in the saloon but that usually left him feeling ashamed and more alone than ever.

Rosa had resigned herself to a fate that she could have scarcely imagined when she came to America. Having taken on the mien and mantle of a fallen woman, she moved from one nondescript town to another equally nondescript town until she found work as waitress in a sleepy saloon in a dusty, sleepy town. Despite her shame at having had her virginity taken from her, Rosa resisted an offer to make better money as a “working girl” and settled into the drudgery of waiting tables.

Joshua would always remember the night he wandered into the saloon after closing up his shop. His first impulse had been to just go to his room and sleep but he was strangely restless and something compelled him to stop in for a beer. Joshua had just taken a table in the back of the saloon when he saw the Mexican girl who was the new waitress sigh heavily and cross the floor towards him. And there it was…out of the blue…that spark he’d been looking for.

Rosa rarely made eye contact when she was taking drink orders. Thanks to having been introduced to the ungainly language by a nun who taught school in her hometown, Rosa’s English was good enough but far too often her thick accent became the brunt of crude jokes so she usually said as little as possible. But on that night something drew Rosa’s eyes up and when her eyes met Joshua’s piercing eyes she felt a light in her heart that she hadn’t felt in so many months that it disoriented her. Rosa took his order…smiling inside when he seemed as tongue-tied and thunderstruck as she did…and went to the bar with a lighter step.

Joshua drank his beer self-consciously, feeling as though his heart was going to burst from his chest, and left quickly. He dreamed about the girl that night and then daydreamed about her all the next day. Joshua went back to the saloon that night and was happy to see that she seemed to be pleased to see him. Joshua was halfway through his second beer when he finally found courage to ask her out. The girl seemed reluctant at first but, shyly, she agreed.

Joshua and Rosa: A Love Story (Part 1)

(This tale started out as just a little love story, a story that came to me in a series of dreams...a simple little story that resonated like it was something that had really happened...and then it grew to something longer than a short story, shorter than a novel. I'm not really sure how many parts there will be as I'm still breaking it down.)

Rosa was tired. It had been a long, busy day and she was so tired that her very bones seemed to ache and cry out for the relief of a warm bed and a lingering night’s sleep. But sleep would have to wait its turn, she knew all too well, because Rosa’s day was not yet done even though the sun was long gone and the moon was lolling lazily in the expansive darkness above.

Rosa was a softly rounded woman with full breasts and full hips setting off a well padded but still somewhat tapered waist. Both her long, thick hair and her piercing eyes were so deeply brown that they often seemed black. Her skin was a burnished golden brown.

Rosa rocked idly on the porch of her home in the sturdy chair that Joshua had made for her. It was, she mused without rancor, the same chair that was supposed to have provided some occasional relief from the busyness of her days. In fact, it was a chair that only got used in those rare quiet moments when the night was still and the children were asleep and Rosa had a bit of time to just get lost in her thoughts.

It was in these fleeting times that Rosa wished that she had had time to learn to read better, but she always pushed that thought aside. Her Mary could read like nobody’s business, after all, and Rosa was always so very happy when the girl would sit close to the stove and read the Bible or the newspaper to her while she worked. Rosa was pleased that her daughters could all read and that was enough for her in regards to that.

Rosa relished these moments…all the dishes, save for one, were washed and put away and the house was as clean as it could be with the dust tracked in by five very active children coming in and out all the summer’s day long. Even the baby was sleeping soundly in his cradle in the nursery.

Their home…the house that she and Joshua had built on the hardscrabble plot of land just outside of town with the help of friends and neighbors…pleased Rosa to no end in those moments when she could sit and reflect upon it. It was seemingly ever changing, ever growing…rooms being added as babies came along…but always familiar and comforting just the same. As comforting as the shouts and laughs and cries of her children…as comforting as the blanket of stars stretching out to the very edge of eternity in the nighttime sky. As comforting as the familiar lope of Joshua’s horse coming slowly but surely up the dusty road that led out of town.

He came slowly out of the evening dark, riding tall even though he too was bone tired from a long, hard day’s work. Rosa rose from the chair and waited patiently on the porch as Joshua put his horse in the barn and trudged wearily towards the house.

Joshua was a tall, sturdy man, deeply tanned by days working in the sunlight and in the face of the flames from the forge. His hair was chestnut brown, like his mother’s. His beard came in darker and coarser, like his father’s hair, and it grew fast, every morning Rosa shaved him and every night the stubble had grown dark and thick anew. His eyes were striking, blue and gray…more one than the other depending on the light.

Rosa’s head only came up to her husband’s broad chest.

Neither of them smiled at the other as he climbed the stairs…they had neither the energy nor the need to do so…but Rosa’s heart quickened as their eyes met.

“What’s for supper, wife?” Joshua asked gruffly…though not quite so gruffly as to be able to disguise the affection he obviously felt for her.

“Beef stew,” she answered, reaching over to open the screen door for him.

“Sounds good,” he said, carefully shaking the dust off his boots before going into the house. Joshua loved Rosa’s heavy accent, which lingered despite the many years in which she’d been living in the north…he found it musical, exotic, and endearing beyond words…but he knew better than to ever give voice to that because she was still more than a little self-conscious about it. He sat in his chair and Rosa dutifully bent down to pull off his dusty boots. Joshua smiled to himself as Rosa took his boots out to the kitchen…in the morning they would be clean as a whistle…and gave silent thanks for the blessings in his life.

Blogs of Note: PSoTD and The Donegal Express

A somewhat significant number of politically-oriented blogs are so askew when it comes to the signal-to-noise ratio…eschewing the notion of anything even remotely resembling fair and balanced (so to speak :-) discourse in favor of vitriolic, occasionally profane, attacks on opposing viewpoints and/or self-righteous chest-thumping about the unassailable virtues of their own sides in the right/left, “blue state/red state” divide…that they add little to the exploration...and healthy exchange…of meaningful ideas.

I have an abiding fondness, undeniable warts (especially nowadays) and all, for politics and political discourse (something that stretches from my youth wherein I followed the twists and turns of local…that being Los Angeles at the time…state, and national issues with more genuine interest than my peers…and sadly, more genuine interest than most of the adults in my life at the time as well) and well-written, thoughtful and thought-provoking “punditry” (from whatever point in the wide political spectrum…the notion that there’s only two viable political points of view is, of course, absurd; a thinking person’s politics is as complex as many other parts of their lives and beings are) will find favor in my eyes.

Two of my favorite blogs to visit, to savor, to be challenged by (and occasionally to be provoked by :-), PSoTD (Political Site of the Day) and The Donegal Express, are welcome outposts in the cacophonous storm of political blog crossfire. Neither is exclusively political (there is more to life than that, of course) but both are engaging, extremely well-written, and filled with thoughtful, often witty, commentary and interesting links to other interesting and illuminating sites and posts in the ever-burgeoning blog world. For those who approach politics...and life...with an open mind and the ability to listen to opposing viewpoints with same...as well as those who can agree to disagree without pointless acrimony...I heartily recommend both of these fine sites.

For Your Love

(FYI: This story is fiction…except for the parts that really happened. It's one of a trio of stories I wrote that were, as part of a writing experiment, inspired by songs from Stevie Wonder's album, Conversation Peace)

Phil Genret was a big man on the campus of Alexander Graham Bell High; he was a tall, gregarious, athletic, talented boy whose quick wit and sharp mind made him one of the most popular students on the sprawling urban campus.

Kara Jordan was also a very intelligent student…perhaps the brightest student at Bell…but she was not a popular student (truth to be told she was barely known save as the butt of an occasional joke.) A plump and intensely shy girl, Kara made every effort to be as invisible to her peers as she possibly could be.

Kara knew of Phil, of course…everybody knew of Phil. She also knew that circle he traveled in would give her not even the slightest of thoughts much less egress into their lofty clique. With her books clutched to her chest like a shield, Kara went through each school day with her head down and then retreated home to her room and her books and her music (Joni Mitchell and Carly Simon and Jackson Browne, all in their most plaintive youthful angst.)

Though Kara would never believe it, Phil knew of her as well. He watched her from afar…intrigued by her shyness (which he had recast as mysteriousness) and her fierce, undeniable intelligence; he found favor in the shy, soft, rounded beauty of her face. Phil had often wanted to approach her but her lack of status and his high profile combined to stay that impulse. A prisoner...a willing prisoner…of his own popularity, Phil had no idea how to react when he realized her might have a crush on shy, chubby Kara.

As part of Bell High’s annual Spring Festival there was a student talent show during the third and fourth periods of one fateful day. It was one of the most anticipated events of the school year and, as classes during those periods were suspended for the day, attendance was mandatory. Phil, an accomplished singer and guitarist, had won the competition the previous year and everyone was looking forward to his performance this year.

Kara, not at all fond of large gatherings, had managed to avoid the show the previous spring by being home sick with the flu. This year, she tried to beg off…she wanted to be allowed to go study in the library…but her student advisor, desperately trying to find ways to bring Kara out of her shell, refused to give her a pass.

Fighting back tears, choking on the lump in her throat, and clutching her books to her chest, Kara allowed herself to be swept along with crush of eager students heading into the school’s cavernous auditorium for the show. Despite her intention to find a seat in the rear of the hall, Kara somehow found herself third row center with happy giggling students all around her. Kara cracked open one of her books and tried to shut out the din and the show played on.

Phil closed the show with his guitar and a stool as his only onstage companions. He nodded confidently as the kids in the audience cheered.

Kara looked up from her book and her eyes met Phil’s; where she would usually look away very quickly, for some reason she kept gazing into his eyes.

Phil was dumbstruck to find Kara looking up at him so intently…he was, in fact, surprised that she was there at all. He was surprised…and he was pleased. He took a deep breath, gathering his courage to do what he most wanted to do. “I’d like to dedicate thing song to a special girl,” he said, uncharacteristically nervous in front of the adoring crowd. An anxious, hopeful murmur went up from a large number of girls in the audience…Phil had never had one special girlfriend despite the number of girls who coveted that position.

Kara blushed and shrugged, wondering enviously which cheerleader would be getting the dedication, and looked back down at her book.

A gasp danced through the hall as Phil, almost shyly, spoke a name, “…Kara Jordan…”

Kara’s eyes went wide with shock and horror as her name echoed through the auditorium and eyes searched the room for her. More than before, he wanted to shrink away, to disappear…but, of course, she could not. She looked up to the stage with hot, liquid eyes, sure that she was about to be mocked in front of the whole student body.

But Phil nodded reassuringly and smiled. The rest of the crowd seemed to fade away as he began to play and sing directly to Kara.

…all the gold in all the world
is nothing to possess
if all the things that it can bring
can’t add up to one ounce
of your happiness…

and for your love
I would do anything
just to see the smile upon your face;
for your love I would go anywhere,
just you tell me and I’ll be right there…

Kara sat…waiting and dreading the point where the joke would be sprung…waiting for that public humiliation to be delivered. But it never came. She looked up into Phil’s eyes again and she found nothing but earnestness and…

…a diamond that shines
like a star in the sky
is nothing to behold
for miniscule is any light
if it can’t, like you, brighten up my soul…

Phil sang on, his eyes never leaving hers, feeling a weight being lifted off his shoulder as he did so.

At the end of the show, Kara will bolt from the auditorium, red-faced and teary-eyed…thrilled and terrified…and scurry into the relative safety of the nearest girl’s restroom. Her mother will be called and she will go home to her books and her music…and her dreams and memories. On the next day, Phil will find her and apologize; Kara will tell him that he didn’t have to apologize. On the day after that they will talk a little more. They will never become a couple but, against all odds, they will become fast friends.

But there and then, with the music playing, there was only the two of them sharing a wondrously romantic and deliriously inappropriate song…just the two of them, fleetingly alone in a crowd.

…and for your love, I would do anything…

- for GRP -

“For Your Love”
words and music by Stevie Wonder
©1995 Stevland Morris Music

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

My results (I'm surprised that there isn't more Dixie in there since I was raised by Southern woman :-) :

Your Linguistic Profile:

55% General American English

20% Yankee

15% Upper Midwestern

10% Dixie

0% Midwestern

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

Ten Years

It’s been ten years.

Ten years since a crude, yet monstrously effective, bomb ripped the life from 168 souls who were just going about their lives…working in offices, running errands, delivering packages, playing and learning in the daycare center…in the Alfred P. Murrah Building in Oklahoma City.

Here in the United States…a place not often touched by the inelegant attentions of those who would use mass destruction and mass murder as political statements …we were stunned and numb and, naively, we couldn’t really imagine anything more devastating.

We were disabused of that notion come September 2001.

It’s been ten years. And, as these things go, it really doesn’t seem like it’s been that long.

It’s been ten years. And, as these things go, it seems like a distant lifetime ago…like another, much less dark and foreboding, world ago.

Ten years…

In the cool, soothing twilight,
In the soft, warm glow of the dawning sun,
America sings…

We sing of joy and hope, of pain and forgiveness,
We sing of sins gone but never forgotten,
Of sins to come, ready to be weathered and overcome.

We sing of bright souls lost and redemption found,
We sing of blood spilled and new life dawning…
Of life renewing, sure and fertile and ready to soar.

In the complex shadow of our history,
In the burnished glow of complex days to come,
America sings…

We sing of our days of glory, our dreams of tomorrows,
We sing of peace from war, liberty from chaos…
Of passion never-ending, God’s grace blessing us all.

In the cool, soothing twilight…
In the shadow of our history…
America sings…

Nothing 'bout Me

We sometimes look outside ourselves to know ourselves better (it’s an odd, utterly human paradox.) For an astute fan of literate pop music, sometimes the words of a song seem to touch something deep inside...and hearing it, one runs to their secret place and makes sure their diaries are still safe then listen again, amazed that anybody could "know" them so well...

...run my name through your computer,
mention me in passing to your college tutor,
check my records, check my facts,
check if I've paid my income tax,
pore over everything in my C.V.,
but you'll still know nothing 'bout me...

It's a romantic fallacy, of course...songwriters don't really write about other people (not on a fundamental level anyway), they write about themselves, their loves and experiences, their foibles and observations, their oft-times jaded view of the world (or their proudly optimistic view of the world...)

And still...

...you don't need to read no books on my history,
I'm a simple man, it's no big mystery,
in the cold weather, a hand needs a glove,
at times like this, a lonely man like me needs love...

One looks over their journals once more, wonders to whom they might have injudiciously revealed some secrets, and listens once more, amazed that anyone could "know" them so well without knowing them at all.

But still, life is life...and a song... a song is just a song. It doesn't mean any more than that...

...search my house with a fine tooth comb,
turn over everything 'cause I won't be at home...

...songwriters aren't on anybody's "wavelength" other than their own...

...set up your microscope and tell me what you see...

...and projecting ourselves into the lyrics of a pop song is just an egocentric affectation, when all is said and done...

...you'll still know nothing 'bout me...

Well, unless…maybe…just maybe... it was a Paul Simon song. In younger days, I often found "myself" in the lyrics of an unsettling number of his songs..."Still Crazy After All These Years", "Paranoia Blues", "You Can Call Me Al", "The Sound of Silence", and especially (in my silliest and saddest moods...which, thankfully, occur with far less frequency here in my dotage thanks to the weight and wisdom of age):

...I've built walls, a fortress deep and mighty,
that none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship...
friendship causes pain...
it's laughter and it's loving I disdain.

I am a rock...I am an island...

I celebrated those words during my oh-so-sensitive youth (teenaged poets are always “oh-so-sensitive”…goes with the territory)...took them to heart… wallowed in them when, for fleeting moments and minutes, real life became too much to deal with.

I slipped away to my secret place and counted my journals...then I listened again, amazed that anybody could "know" me so well...

...I have my books, and my poetry, to protect me,
I am shielded in my armor;
hiding in my room, safe within my womb,
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock...I am an island...

It was a gentler madness, I suppose...

...and a rock feels no pain;
and an island never cries...

Yeah, right.

"Nothing 'bout Me"
words & music by Sting
(©1992 Blue Turtle Music)

* * * * *

"I Am a Rock"
words & music by Paul Simon
(©1965 Paul Simon)

Barry

I’m never sure why nostalgia decides to take hold at times. Like with a lot of things in life, it’s best to go with the flow of it and see where it might take you. In my previous post, I was drawn back to memories of my third grade teacher; a few months back, I was haunted sweetly by memories of my long-lost friend Leslie. And now, for some reason, Barry has come into my mind often during the past few days.

His name wasn’t really Barry, we* called him that because he had a rather remarkable resemblance to the erstwhile king of easy listening pop, Barry Manilow (some of us were given nicknames…including and especially the very tall, casually beautiful, sweet-natured redhead whose nickname…given her by Barry…ended up naming the group as a whole; some of us were not…I was not and that was fine with me since I had accumulated a fair number of nicknames during childhood, high school, and college and I really didn’t need any more.)

Our Barry, with his multi-ethnic genetic makeup, looked like a young Manilow who had been dipped in creamy caramel.

Barry was the life of the party wherever he went…the original “good time Charlie”, who could charm almost everyone he met…but it was a façade, of course. Behind the façade was a melancholy that he, out of habit or fear, rarely slowed down to acknowledge.

He was always searching for something but never really sure what that something was. He liked the “good life”…all-night partying, fine restaurants, expensive clothes, endless drink and drugs…but he didn’t really care for the workaday world as a means of getting it (especially not doing the kind of mind-numbing paperwork we were doing deep in the administrative bowels of the cosmetics company where we toiled at the time.)

He said that he longed for love but wouldn’t stop prowling the bars of West Hollywood and the San Fernando Valley in search of newer conquests (for many years he had the devotion and support of a long-suffering partner…a brawny, grounded, quiet-spoken, quiet-living fellow who looked to be of solid Nordic heritage…but Barry managed push his patience to the point of breaking with years of dedicated effort and casual neglect.)

As all of us moved on and moved apart…our carefree years giving way to new jobs, new cities, new partners and new families, new responsibilities…Barry resisted the notion that growing up was part of the deal and drifted away from all of us (even before we all drifted apart from each other.) Last I heard, he had quit the west coast to return to his beloved New York City…hopefully he found the something he was looking for there.

* * * * *

*”we”, in this case, being the fairly tight-knit (for a good while anyway) group of friends who referred to ourselves, with seriocomic archness, as the “United Mooses of Max Factor” (therein lying a tale that may or may not be told at some point in the future.)

Writing

Will the things we wrote today
sound as good tomorrow?
Will be we still be writing
in approaching years,
Stifling yawns on Sundays
as the weekends disappear?
- Elton John and Bernie Taupin -

When I was in the third grade (at Menlo Avenue Elementary in Southeastern Los Angeles near USC and the L.A. Memorial Coliseum) my teacher (Miss Levy...I remember her through the vague, rose-colored prism of youth...not long out of college, still filled with a passion for nurturing young minds, pale and brunette and often smiling as she taught arithmetic and reading and such to her mostly brown and black young charges in room 16) gave us an assignment to write about our "favorite color".

Now as I've grown older, I've noticed a slight preference for blues and earthtones but back then I, being relatively non-discriminating about such things, couldn't really pledge my allegiance to one particular hue. So that night, wanting to get the assignment done before my favorite TV show at the time (Batman, a camp classic that my younger self took oh-so-seriously) came on, I picked a color at random...orange, for reasons which escape me all these years later...and wrote the piece on a sheet of notebook paper, put it in my notebook and gave it nary a second thought.

Miss Levy read our papers the next morning while we were in our "reading time" (an hour each day where we read books we'd gotten from the library at our desks) and at one point she called me up to her desk and with my orange essay in hand she asked me if anybody had helped me write it. It was an odd question to me and I just shook my head and said no. I remember her smiling an odd smile before sending me back to my book. Miss Levy got up and tapped on the door that connected room 16 to room 17 and, after a couple of moments, Mrs. Jacques (a tall, plump blonde who would be my fourth grade teacher come the next year) opened it. Miss Levy and Mrs. Jacques whispered something and Miss Levy handed Mrs. Jacques my paper. They both kept glancing at me as they read. I was feeling incredibly exposed and self-conscious at this point wondering what it was I had done wrong (shy, overly-sensitive third-graders always presume the worst when they become the subject of adult scrutiny.)

That evening, Miss Levy called my mother to ask her if anyone had helped me write my orange essay. My mother, who hadn't even known about the assignment, found it to be an odd question and said no...said that I always did my homework alone and only asked her questions every now and again if I got stuck with something.

The next day, Miss Levy returned the color essays to the class...except for mine, which she announced she was going to read aloud. My young heart almost stopped...I was intrigued, apprehensive, and mortified all at once...and I don't really remember actually hearing her reading my words to my classmates. Afterwards, she returned the paper to me with a big red grade...A+...slashed in fat marker strokes just above the title; she told me to take it home and show my mother and then asked if I could bring it back after having done that. Mutely, I nodded to the affirmative. I took it home...my mother read it and smiled...and I took it back to Miss Levy the next morning. Miss Levy asked if she could keep it and I, wanting the strange fuss to be over, shrugged and said "sure". I never saw the paper again (and I don't remember exactly what I wrote...I vaguely remember something about sunsets, fireplaces, and Halloween pumpkins.)

It only occurred to me years later that that was the point in my life where the writer in me was truly born...that that was the point where I knew that words had power and that I was, on the good days, both a conduit and a thrall to that power.

I think about that episode now and again...when writing is slow and I wonder, as I always do, if I will ever write anything worthwhile ever again (it's a fleeting concern...there's always more writing to do sooner or later...but it comes often enough just the same) and, especially, when I'm culling through pieces I've already written looking for things I think are worthy of submitting for publication and/or competition (a periodic process I've been concentrating on for the past couple of weeks.) The story still makes me smile...wistfully, gratefully, indulgently...after all this time (and I wonder, foolishly I suppose, if Miss Levy still has that orange essay...)

* * * *

The opening quote is from the song "Writing"
...music by Elton John, lyrics by Bernie Taupin...
from the Elton John album,
Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy.

Blogrolls?

As I surf through blogs I notice that bloggers approach blogrolling in many interesting ways. Some have extensive blogrolls of dozens of sites...others have none at all. Some pointedly don't blogroll sites at all (I've run across blogs that pointedly declare so) and others actively exchange links with other blogs.

Personally, I list sites (here and on Neverending Rainbow) that are of abiding interest to me...and, I hope, of some interest to people who read and/or enjoy my blog(s). There's not really a rhyme or reason to it...if a blog catches my fancy (because it's well-written and/or thought-provoking and/or entertaining and/or just warm and welcoming) I put it on the blogroll (as much, if I'm being honest, so that I can easily return to them myself...I try to check out all of the sites on my blogrolls at least once a week...as for any other reason :-)

I also try to keep the number of blogs on this list at a manageable number (I occasionally swap out blogs that have stopped being updated for whatever reason) so that it doesn't become too unwieldy. (I haven't really decided what that "unwieldy" number is...I've been keeping the list at 20-30 sites for the most part but it fluctuates.)

I'd be interested in how other bloggers approach the subject of blogrolling so please feel free to share your perspectives on the issue if you've a mind to.

Namaste, y'all.

Late Night Grande Hotel (Part 9 - Epilogue)

IX: Lobby (Red)

Red stood and stretched as the hour struck two.

Jerry, already in his jeans and windbreaker, broke for the door with a speed that he never tapped into while working. "Night, big guy," he called out with a jaunty wave.

"Tip money burning a hole in your pocket, huh?" Red said sardonically as he put on his own jacket.

Jerry's eyes went wide. "Something like that," he mumbled self-consciously. "See ya tomorrow," he said pushing briskly through the door and almost bowling over Tom, the gray-haired graveyard shift manager in the process.

Tom shook his head and laughed. "That kid's always in a hurry..."

Red just smiled. "The old girl's been pretty quiet tonight, Tom," he said, picking up the briefcase that contained his book, a newspaper, and the large brown paper bag which had held his lunch.

Tom slipped out of his overcoat and took his place behind the desk. "Why do you work this shift, Red? With your time in here you could work anytime you want?"

Red smiled enigmatically...the Grande had stories to tell twenty-four hours a day, this he knew, but those it held at night were special. "I already am working the time I want," he said simply. "Good night, Tom."

And Red O'Malley walked into the early morning darkness without another word.

Tomorrow...tomorrow he would be back on duty...back where he belonged...back with all the sad, sweet, wondrous souls wandering through the nooks and crannies of his late night Grande Hotel.

With apologies and thanks to Nanci