tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76495641283402002892024-02-20T11:29:52.475-05:00Sitting on the Back Porchor Lost in a Good BookSharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-32475764323016861572015-06-15T09:32:00.000-04:002015-06-15T09:32:21.302-04:00Review of The Lions Courtship by A Wendeberg<h2>
<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 19px; font-weight: normal;">Ms Wendeberg has used historical and scientific fact to produce an emotionally-charged, perspective-based novel.</span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It is </span>very powerful in both language and thought. Once started, it became a love-hate relationship. The horrors of everyday London of the late 1800's pushed me away, but the writing, the colorful, imperfect characters kept me involved in the story. <span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Though not really a mystery, it still provided a surprise ending that left a "what!" In my mind and eager for more of this great writer.</span></div>
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One delightful addition to the novel is that it is well-written in an age when grammar, punctuation, and a model of English use are sorely lacking. No distractions there. </div>
Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-72561298704026110682015-03-25T23:46:00.000-04:002015-03-25T23:46:13.575-04:00The Crash Heard Round the World by Donna PingryShe had to die and it was my job to do it. Plus it had to look like an accident.<br />
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My name is Sam and you'll have to excuse me if I don't fill in all the blanks for you. It's not everyday that I get an assignment to knock off the world's most famous princess, but that's essentially what I get paid for - killing high profile people for major team players. These team players give little consideration to my expenses. They are paying for a job well done. I'm one of the best, if I do say so myself.<br />
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So here's this beautiful, sad, recently divorced princess and she's making some of my players very uncomfortable. They fear that she's on the road to making the Jackie Kennedy/Onassis thing look normal, so she's got to go. On top of everything, every reporter and TV crew from several countries is hunting her down to take pictures of her ill-fated romance. She's in Paris with her new billionaire boyfriend, about to get engaged, and it's my job to arrange a little accident. Bye-bye princess.<br />
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I picked up the extremely fat envelope from my mail on the way to the airport. In the envelope is my passport, airline tickets and background information on every person assigned to be anywhere around her royal person. The initial deposit has already been transferred to my numbered bank account. I settle into my seat in coach and get ready to work.<br />
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Why does someone like me fly coach? It's the rules of the profession. People like me blend in. You've seen people like me walk by you dozens of times, but you probably can't remember my face or what I was wearing. I blend well. This job was just meant to be. I'd venture to guess you can't even pick my picture out of my high school yearbook. The invisible person, that's me.<br />
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So, you ask, how do you kill a celebrity? Well, usually with their cooperation. There is always some fault, some little opening, some weakness that I walk into and make the whole thing happen. This princess had it all -- beauty, brains, money, connections -- a real star. She also had a boyfriend that was going to cost her her life. Too bad. But it's not my job to judge. This playboy boyfriend is surrounded by daddy's lackeys -- bodyguards, chauffeurs, servants in every shape and size. This is useful in my line of work. Lots of paid employees mean someone with a grudge or someone with a secret. In the envelope on my lap were lots of grudges and secrets and the names of all the people who had them. Yeah, this was going well.<br />
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It was a sunny day as I left the airport. Another trick of the trade is to take only one bag. Nothing to draw attention to you at customs. Just appear to be the casual business traveler, here today, gone tomorrow. My associates had my car waiting, gassed, and ready. Driving into Paris, I made a few calls to verify the information in the envelope. Then I rent a plain black motorcycle just like the newsboys have. Those things really zip in and out of traffic when you're following a story. I make a quick stop at a prearranged drop and pick up one high tech piece of equipment. It looks like a camera, but what's inside is vastly differennt.<br />
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I make another call to verify that my associates have followed my instructions to the letter. Someone's loved one is a little out of touch for awhile. Then I contact the man with something to hide. Something he'd rather die than have revealed. It goes just the way I like it. I now have access to the plan, the car, and the driver. You'd think that Junior's dad would have screened his employees better before giving his precious son into their care, but he left me an opening so who am I to complain? That's what makes my job interesting. Devil's in the details, you know.<br />
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So this inside guy with the past tells me that the night guy called in and he'll probably have to pull night duty after he takes the charming couple to dinner. No opening there, right. Wrong. The sudden illness on the other drivers part ought to have tipped you off. I leave Mr. Unfortunate in the bar slugging down a few glassfuls while I take care of the vehicle. I don't blame him though. I'm sure he already sees his life flashing in front of his eyes and he wants something to dull the pain. I leave a few well placed people in the lounge to see that he doesn't drown his sorrows too effectively.<br />
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The decoy vehicle is out front. How lame. Only a fool would fall for that trick, but I guess there's a few born every minute. I watch some of the reporters take off after the decoy from my vantage point in the alley. By now the chauffeur is in the target vehicle waiting on the happy couple and the bodyguard. The vehicle with the slight modification. I get a quick glimpse of the princess, tall, blonde, gleaming with diamonds. Her bad choice boyfriend looks tired. Must be too many late nights, too much booze, too many women. Too bad, lady. You picked a lemon again. He would't have lasted any longer than the blueblood you married the first time. The one with the taste for women who look like they should be wearing a saddle rather than riding on one.<br />
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I'm way behind the pack of reporters as we start off after the vehicle. If they just wait a bit longer, I'll give them the story of a lifetime. But they are sliding in and out of traffic like a pack of sharks after blood. As we get closer to the tunel, I work my way to the left of the car. This is close to the prearranged spot. No one's looking at me. They are after the fox. Maybe they want a picture of the engagement ring, the ring that the princess will never wear again. Mr. Unfortunate is doing just as he was told, pushing the needle to 100 mph and heading to the tunnel. Just inside the tunnel, I push the little gismo in the camera and the front left tire explodes, throwing the vehicle into the middle of the tunnel wall. Kind of like sending a pinball into a bonus point pocket. All hell breaks loose as the reporters begin to realize what happened to their quarry. As they try to figure out the details a vehicle come from the opposite lane and quite conveniently, a doctor, gets out and checks pulses. Two down and two quite near the edge. A quick inspection of the tire and no device. After that impact, there isn't much of anything left. I'm just one of the paparazzi lost in the crowd. My job is done.<br />
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There just isn't much more to tell. The princess had a big state funeral. The world mourned. The family accepted the death stoically and with little sign of loss. You could almost see the relief in Her Majesty's eyes.<br />
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"What was the secret that the chauffeur took to the grave?" you ask. Well that's another story. Why I told you is another story, too. You see, I just got another envelope in the mail. Evidently you are important enough to cause embarrassment to someone too. I'm sorry, but you won't be sharing this story with anyone else. Yes, I see from your eyes that you understand. It's nothing personal, just a job.Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-83798021804397806342015-03-22T22:40:00.001-04:002015-03-22T22:40:29.154-04:00The Test by Dennis Perry<div class="s2" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 21px;">
<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">A man and his two young s</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">o</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ns walked toward a gentle, dusty sunset, passing a cemetery that</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> was generally regarded as </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">the western edge of town. They </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">stopped at</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> a f</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ield </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">which pressed the cemetery’s boundary</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> The field</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">,</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> perhaps a hundred feet across and flow</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ing</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">gently downhill from the road</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> to a narrow creek</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, was framed by the cemetery’s wrought iron fence and two freshly dug basement cubes on its other side, the fresh mounds spilling into the field.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"></span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Pop, as he was called by the boys, Ricky, age seven, and Jimmy, age five, tossed away his stubby cigarette and surveyed the field, hands on hips.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> His face was a mask of concentration.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">He noted a steam shovel between the cubes, two workmen securing it for the evening, and he turned to the boys.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Ricky was wild-eyed excited. He wore a toy Army helmet and a web belt – genuine issue – which flapped several inches beyond the clasp, even though it had been trimmed. The web held a toy canteen, and the boy held a facsimile rifle, jigsawed from a piece of white pine. An old pants belt served as the rifle’s sling. He was ready for Pop’s instructions. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Pop had planned this event for a couple days, indeed had planned it for eight years, since he manned foxholes and snowbanks during the last months of World War II, the defining days of his life. “If I ever have a son he’ll know what this was like,” he’d contemptuously spit to his buddies, and what was worse, this was no id</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">le</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> gripe. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Pop, given name George, glanced again at the two tired workmen in white tee shirts and jeans – referred to then as dungarees – locking down the steam shovel, their day’s sweat evaporating in the co</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">o</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ling long-shadowed late summer eve. They were </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">nearly silent as they gathered their black metal lu</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">n</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ch pails and dropped satisfyingly, wearily, into a</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">n</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> old brown Chevy pic</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">k</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">up truck while glancing at the trio. The company name, “Ch</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ri</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">stian Brothers” was printed on the pickup’s door. Along the bed was the slogan, “</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">B</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">uilding Futures One </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">at a</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> Time”</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> As the Chevy eased on to the sparsely traveled road, George made not</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">e </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">of the message and idly thought, </span><span class="s4" style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 14px;">well, that’s what we’re doing, giving the boy his future.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">George himself had spent the day clearing trees from another tract even further west. He wore green cotton coveralls, work boots, the day’s dirt and stray woodchips. His reddish overgrown crewcut w</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">a</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">s matted, he wore no cap. He had a blocky, muscular build, just starting to flesh, but his prominent feature, a half-scowl, half-smirk usually was the first aspect people noticed, and it signaled that he was not a person gi</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">v</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">en to idle friendliness. A disgusted glance from his steely blue-grey eyes could wither a circus strongman.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Pop directed Jimmy to play in a</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">small pile of sand</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">-</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> and</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">-c</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">lay mix scarcely six feet from the road’s edge. Because he had planned this trip</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">,</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> he’d given Jimmy a small metal </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">b</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ulldozer so the younger boy wouldn’t distract him as he trained the older boy in the tasks of soldiering.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Little round Jimmy happily began </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">bulldozing</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, complete with sound effects.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Pop turned his attention to Ricky. The older boy was somewhat tall for seven, and had willing, expressive eyes in his thin face. Pop was adjusting the way</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">-</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">too</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">-</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">big web belt around Ricky’s waist as Ricky dropped the pine rifle and adjusted his toy helmet. He wore dungarees and a green tee shirt, the best “Army” style shirt available from the surplus store.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">George had Ricky shoulder the rifle, then went through his various basic training commands – present arms, re-shoulder, drop to a knee and various aiming postures.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">George’s memory of his own stateside training was all too vivid, as was his bitter memory of scant into-battle training once he’d arrived in Europe. His bitterness seemed an outgrowth of his own tough-kid youth. He had been the c-minus, d</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">-</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> kid, the sometime troublemaker, at times a bully. He relis</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">h</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ed the idea of combat, figuring at minimum he was at least equal in toughness and skills to anyone. When he puffed himself up, he felt he was better.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">He convinced himself he had no fear, as fear was a weakness, but that idea, indeed his smirk, was erased upon his arrival at the edge of the glowering Huertgen Forest, where a barely-civ</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">i</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">l sergeant placed George and his buddies at tenuous intervals with instructions to shoot anything moving ahead, as nothing in the forest was friendly.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">For a few days, no enemy was seen, let alone engaged, but the presence was more than felt. That immedi</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ac</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">y of danger was confusing and frightful. George, maybe for the first time ever, was scared, causing his imagination to race, causing him shame.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">He pushed fear deep into his psyche, so far that he did not admit its existence, and as long as he stayed on the move it did not sur</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">face. He began portr</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">a</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ying himself as an unfeeling, unflappable killing machine. The uncaring, caustic, let’s</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">-</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">get</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">-</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">to-it guy. He had pride in that portrayal which in time blurred the true man, so that the make-believe became the only George.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">And living this lie was effective. Others thought of him as fearless, if somewhat edgy. He had that chip on his shoulder, the unfriendly look, but he was totally reliable. Anyone would consider him a good, dependable soldier.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">In his son </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">R</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">icky, George saw weaknesses, weaknesses which had to be overcome, and George appointed himself as the one to get it done. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">George’s first task was to drive out Ricky’s sense of kind</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">n</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ess, because people took advantage of the kind. The kid was not a girl! He also felt Ricky was mentally weak, had to learn that things would seldom go his way. He needed toughness, to be like George, to deal with the inevitability of disappointment.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">As the shadows lengthened, the field slowly lost its cheer. George surveyed the slightly downhill overgrown field, its few saplings, the brook at the end, a few large rocks strewn th</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">r</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">oughout. Ricky was again adjusting the canteen</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">“Here’s what you have to do,” Pop barked, and pointed. “Go down there to the creek. When you’re down there, hide, yell out when you’re ready. When I tell you to go, try to make it back up here – crawling, I don’t care how – without being seen. So what we’re doing is, if I see you, you’re dead, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">y</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ou’re not a soldier, just dead, got it? If you get up here,” and he tapped the ridged ground with his foot, “then I’m dead, you win. I might have to kill you a couple times but we’ll do it till I think you’re getting it. Now be a man and get going!”</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Ricky, eyes blazing with confidence and gameness, eager to please, started through the waist-hig</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">h</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> grasses, weaved past a little fresh spillage from the large mounds, hop-skipped</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">over the uneven terrain and reached the creek. He crouched behind a few saplings which were younger than </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">him, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">saplings currently surviving the relentless progress “one at a time.”</span></div>
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<span class="s4" style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 14px;">Hearing Pop’s rules, his mind had raced – he’d not thought of this outing as a task, or even as a game. To him it offered excitement, maybe a chance to gain Pop’s approval, something foreign in his experience. So he accepted Pop’s terms, as if he’d had a choice in the first place, and formed a basic strategy as he bumbled down to the creek. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Go to the deep grass. No! The border, up the cemetery side! No! Use the big hills made by the steam shovel – that’s it, I’m small! No, wait! Pop’ll expect that! It’s where I’d looked the whole time he talked! Think! Think! I have to go to those hills!</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">This task, like so many other seemingly innocent ones, was overshadowed by the consistent, unshak</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">eable</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> quality Pop had of looking at him with that half-smirk, reinforcing the concept of “Not Quite”. Pop never named his trait, but that’s what it was. Nothing Ricky did was ever enough, it was always, “Not Quite.” I, Pop, am better than you, you cannot win. I win. You cannot earn anything that I am unwilling to give. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Indeed, this task was to teach Ricky that he could never be as good as George. The “soldiering” was secondary, or actually just a means of proving George’s superiority. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Yet Ricky continually, inexorably tried. He was only seven. He wanted Pop’s approval, if not his affection. He wanted to succeed. He wanted Pop to look at him the way he’d seen other fathers look at their boys, a sort of beaming glance of satisfaction. A tussle of his hair. Was it </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">t</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">oo much to ask? Till now, for Ricky the answer was “yes”. “Not Quite.” He didn’t understand, but he didn’t get angry, and he never gave up.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Not Quite was not confined to the family. The family was just closest and most easily accessed. No one inside of it, or the con</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">tin</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">uously expanding circle of inferiors, ever faced </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">what </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">George faced! </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Y</span><span class="s4" style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 14px;">ou couldn’t handle what I handled because I said so.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> Who could challenge that? </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">One of his favorite say</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ings</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, indicating disagreement, was “What kind of outfit is this?” </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">T</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">hen he’d set the offender straight. For instance, the day at the surplus store when George bought the web belt, he fiercely told the clerk – a combat veteran himself – that he was all wrong about some aspect of a piece of gear, and then he spouted the “real” truth, real because he’d been at the Bulge and all. “I see,” said the clerk, in this case eyeing him politely and with caution as George lectured.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">The Bulge was used by George to excuse and explain himself clear of any annoyance, and if others couldn’t accept him, well, too bad. Ironically, other vets like the store clerk usually gave him slack, while not totally excusing him, at least accept</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ed</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> that combat may have created him. It was the uninitiated, the children, the women, who had difficulties. They tended to move away or at least stay silent and guar</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">d</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ed</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, if uneasy, in his steely presence. George took that as acceptance, respect.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Ricky, unfairly dogged and too young to know, began accumulating snippets of self-doubt</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> He was too inexperienced to think of self-doubt as abnormal, he couldn’t know that he</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">’d</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> never crack “Not Quite”. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">In his favor, Ricky was developing an embryonic defense to beat Not Quite, to gain a feel-good sense of accomplishment. He pulled himself into a qui</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">et</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> world he called “White Zero”. This brain</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">-</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">stop blanked the experience, told him he was okay even while hearing, but no</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">t</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> necessarily listening, as Pop degraded and criticized him or Mo</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">the</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">r, or life itself. His characteristic aspect during White Zero was distraction, inattentiveness. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">It had begun about a year earlier, as Ricky and Mother watched an appliance store clerk turn off a display television set, indeed, on</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">e</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> of the only tv sets in town. As it clicked, Ricky was fascinated by the line-and-dot image on the screen as it faded to murk. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Shortly after that, Ricky e</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">x</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">perien</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">c</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ed an e</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">v</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ent that became one of his earliest seminal memories. He was awakened late one night to the sound of Pop </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">b</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ellowing violently. He couldn’t make out the words, but heard the violence, the sma</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">c</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">king of hands on the kitchen table, other rough sounds</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> sailing through the walls</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, maybe a few dishes being broken. So, he pulled a blanket over his head thought of something pleasant, became fetal. The image of the television shutting off flashed into his brain, as if he was trying to turn off the violence. He stopped thinking, and had reached White Zero. It passed as peace.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Now near the creek</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">,</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> he yelled out that he was ready, Pop yelled “Go!” and he crouch-crawled a few feet up the hill, then realized the taller grasses might bend</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> and give him away, so he gently f</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">lattened, then folded the foliage with his hands, then by slightly rai</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">s</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ing his rump and bringing his knees under, he to</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">r</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">tuously labored up the gentle slope, the only physical problem being the nagging rub of the canteen in the small of his back.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">He imagine</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">d</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> Pop’s eyes were somehow burning the weeds and grasses, exposing him, so he gravitated with natural instinct toward the mounds. The hills would hide him, and indeed, he reached the far flank of the most western one fairly quickly, stopped, rolled onto his back, struck by the sudden thought – </span><span class="s4" style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 14px;">when does Pop win? – h</span><span class="s4" style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 14px;">e</span><span class="s4" style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 14px;">’s not saying anything so he might be watching all my moves for all I know. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">So he </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">moved cautiously higher, mindful of preventing a minor avalanche, working silently to the top, checking what he thought was a too-audible sigh, knowing in his heart that he would probably lose when he thought he might win, finally concluding he would win the only way he knew - in his own mind. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Right now, he calmly accepted that Pop was somehow going to turn the tables, even when he surprised him by breaching the top of the mound and firing three rapid “shots” into him as the man flinched – too late – in the direction of the popping noise. Ricky yelled, “I won!” then waited. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">George, staring hard, full of surprise, then recovery, his left hand reflexively dusting his white name oval stenciled above the breast pocket of the hunter green coveralls, gave an exasperated sig</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">h</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, and said quietly with slight disapproval, “No, you didn’t win. The Krauts would’ve covered that flank. I figured myself you were there,” he lied, “and just wanted to see what you’d do. Besides, these dirt hills are out of bounds.” Pop was squinting, Ricky being west of him, and the</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> late summer </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">sun just now slipping pas</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">t</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> a bronze horizon. “So,” he commanded while exhaling heavily and ra</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">i</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">sing his voice, “get on back down and do it again, I’ll give you a little credit here for what you did, but you have to be better this time.” He turned his head to Jimmy, bulldozing a ridge of sand at the street’s edge. “And by that I mean stay quieter, and I’m not going to give you any slack on that! Yell when you’re ready!”</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">At least he wasn’t real mad, thought Ricky. Just a little bawling out, no slap, nothing physical, so “</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">W</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">hite Zero” only had a short life. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">The whole of the field was dappled by the time he reached the creek, the lines of soft sunlight replaced by va</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">r</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ious shades of darkness contouring the wholeness. He shouted his readiness and crabbed through tall weeds to the cemetery’s lower boundary, figuring to use small clumps of saplings near the property’s wrought iron fence to cover him right up to Pop’s position on the ridgeline. He thought of the saplings as islands. A southerly breeze seemed to push him up the slight grade as he felt this time, for sure, he’d win, and Pop couldn’t do anything about it. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">George casually walked from the ridge to the base of the closest mound, flipped a cigarette, and gathered a few large clods of clay, cradling them in his left arm. A few steps later he was back on top of the narrow ridge. He scanned for Ricky, did</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">n’t see him, and</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> yelled, “</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">E</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ighty-eights coming!” He lobbed a couple of the clods high in the air and far down the meadow. Sensing that he’d stopped Ricky, or at least scared him, he scrambled over to the pile again and filled the crook of his arm with as many more clods as he could carry, then scuttled back to the ridge.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">“Eighty-eights! Mortars! Fifty caliber!” George shouted as he threw cods in several directions, one after the other. He couldn’t see Ricky but it didn’t matter. This was George at George’s best, teaching the lesson of “Nob</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ody experienced what I </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">e</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">xperienced.” </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">The lesson had an immediate impact. Ricky couldn’t see Pop, but he heard him just fine, maybe like Pop had first heard those Germans in the forest, and he twisted in an almost fetal curl, nearly choking on the fine dust which lingered on the tall grass and weeds. When the shouting stopped he crabbed cautiously forward, still hugging the field’s far eastern border near the cemetery fence. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">George reloaded with clods and not a few rocks, as the game had materially changed. He’d induced remembered bitterness, and not an inconsiderable amount of anger to what had been merely an object lesson, a hard one, but still, it had been just a lesson. Now it was in his mind a test of wills and the kid would know how tough the old man could be by </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">t</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">he time it was over! After all, the kid had an obligation to learn. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">George resumed shouting and throwing the missiles from the ridge, adding to the “eighty-eights” babble. “Too cold out there? Come on out where I can see you! No deep cover. No trees. No place to hid</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">e! H</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">a! You think you see it now, I bet, you think you see what it was like! And this just the first tast</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">e</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">! Child’s</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">play!” And on and on he went, similarly, as he threw, adding curses and epithets as he grew to his task. His face contorted as he released his ordnance. He brought forward his anger against the memories of the splintering trees of the Huertgen, the snowbanks during the Bulge.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Ricky managed his way to the wrought iron fence. A quick glance through some scrub sho</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">w</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ed Pop standing on the ridge, right in the middle. One of Pop’s random clay bombs unfortunately exploded only a few feet away</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">s</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">pewing grit and stone into his face, stinging and filling his eyes with defensive tears, stopping him cold. He looked into the cemetery, away from the exploding dirtballs and dangerous rocks which seemingly surrounded him, as he’d frozen unwittingly into Pop’s comfortable throwing range. Dust swirled in front of him, reminding him of pr</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">inted images of ghosts in illustr</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ated story books. Now a rock splashed nearby, then another, Ricky curled again, and was in fear. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">The cemetery’s trees were mostly large sycamores, their shagged bark shimmering an unreal, coppery patchwork in the waning western twilight, and as Ricky eventually uncurled, he cleared his eyes, then felt new tears spilling onto his cheeks, shouting an unwillingness to continue the game. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">He steeled himself against his natural instinct to quit, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">as </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">a need to rush Pop </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">tempered</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> fear, and after a pensive glance through gaping weeds signal</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ed</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> that Pop was gone from sight,</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">probably reloading, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">he readied. Determination overcame fear. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">He crouched, zigged his way past a few jagged rocks. A breezy puff of wind, not a gust, seemed to help him up the gentle slope. He was about ten yards from the summit when first Pop’s sweat-oiled head, then his body, crested, and his arm simultaneously launched a heavy clay clod that burst into Ricky’s chest. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">George was oblivious to the pain he’d caused. Ricky absorbed it, crying softly, doubling over, and dissipating the physical while fearing the terror growing inside Pop. He felt that he was an object now, not a person</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, as he struggled to breathe</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">. </span></div>
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<span class="s4" style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 14px;">“You’re meat, you’re chewed up! Eig</span><span class="s4" style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 14px;">t</span><span class="s4" style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 14px;">hy-eights! Hah! This one’s from a Tiger. They had those Tigers out there and we didn’t have a damn thing not one damn thing to stop em! A </span><span class="s4" style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 14px;">T</span><span class="s4" style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 14px;">iger got you! They wouldna found enough of you to put in a matchbox and send home! Missing! Missing! How do you like it? Do you see what it was like? Do you see?! Can you see?! Your mother with a telegram! Just like that! You better believe it happened to a bunch of ‘em, that’s what you don’t know. None of ‘em know!” He gestured emptily toward the east, toward town. “Most of’</span><span class="s4" style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="s4" style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 14px;">em were dummies, like you, too dumb to get outa there! You see what old George Unger had to go through? Eighty-eights, Tigers! And divisions they threw at us! Divisions!” He made another sweeping gesture and shook his head contemptuously. At </span><span class="s4" style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 14px;">l</span><span class="s4" style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 14px;">ast he focused on Ricky and was silent for several moments as he stared. He noticed but never addressed Ricky’s </span><span class="s4" style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 14px;">sobbing. He never considered that the boy was hurt. If he was crying it was because he was weak, and he knew it. And this was only the first lesson. George surmised, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">the</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> kid can’t take it, but he learned to respect me.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Ricky was ordered back down the gentle sloping meadow for two more re-tries. Both ended in predictable failure. On the first one, Pop saw him wriggling through some lain-over grass, and the second time he hit Ricky with a barrage of clods after hearing him approaching ne</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">a</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">r one of the mounds. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">After this fourth failure, and allowing th</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">a</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">t darkness was then pushing twilight, but mostly because George had satisfied his own needs, he called the game. He called Ricky closer, growled softly, “Okay, that’s it, get over here you useless hunk of Tiger meat,” his face now smoldering in disappointment at the same time his insides swelled satisfied. “Pathetic,” he assessed the boy. “Just plain pathetic. But if you listen to me, maybe we’ll make something out of you yet,” he snorted through a patronizing smile. He examined Ricky with embarrassment, as if Ricky was too stupid to be embarrassed himself, so he’d have to do it for him.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Ricky heard, but di</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">d</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> not listen. George thought the kid was a little distracted. Ricky was in White Zero, and he was </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">convinced</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> that he was not so much his father’s son, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">maybe he never could be his son, maybe he didn’t want to be his son, either.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Pop stepped toward Jimmy who was contentedly pushing </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">talcum-fine dirt</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> with his bulldozer. It was time to go. All seemed to be breathing moist twilight dust. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">George brushed his hands on his coveralls. He looked balefully at Ricky, then down to Jimmy again. Toward Jimmy he said, “He’s no soldier, ah, I don’t know about him. Do you think he’s a soldier? Is he a big tough soldier like he thinks he is?” He flashed Ricky another patented half-smirk, the one look the boy absolutely had grown to fear. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">But this time, Ricky, whose nose was running a little, mixing with the drying tears on his face, felt a new sensation when returning Pop’s stare. White Zero was there, but is was being pushed away, still there but forced more toward some darker space in his brain, and replacing it was a sensation of nascent resistance, not yet defiance. He was</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> not co</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">nsciously aware but it was </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">there just the same, a need to play protective offense instead of retreating. Fear was being dared.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">"What're you staring at?" spat George.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">"I think I had you that first time, Pop!" Then he looked right into Pop's face. "You know, someday I might turn out to be better than you." He hastily added, "What with your teaching and all. What do you think?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">That'll be the day, George thought. He looked at Jimmy again. "What do you think about this big tough soldier, Jimmy-boy? Sorry this big dead nothing-but-Tiger-meat we couldn't find. Is he a tough guy or what?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Jimmy pointed the bulldozer at Ricky and said, "He's my bruvver."</span></div>
Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-89093917127401782662015-03-21T00:07:00.000-04:002015-03-21T00:07:20.600-04:00Catch and Release By Sharon ShermanMeasles and Mumps<br />
<br />
A Bridal Bouquet<br />
<br />
A Drive-In Movie<br />
<br />
Coaches and Milanos<br />
<br />
An Old Boyfriend<br />
<br />
Throwback Thursdays<br />
<br />
Sudoku, all except the Evil version<br />
<br />
Farmville<br />
<br />
Harry Potter<br />
<br />
The BeeGees<br />
<br />
Pet Rocks<br />
<br />
Our Heart's Desire on a day to day basis<br />
<br />
Our Wandering Thoughts<br />
<br />
Old Photos<br />
<br />
My Husband's Eye in the morning<br />
<br />
My Mother's smile<br />
<br />
But I could never catch a fish.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-3738687904631035492015-03-18T06:31:00.000-04:002015-03-18T06:31:00.947-04:00Will Makepeace by Sharon ShermanWishing and watching and making believe.<br />
<br />
Thinking and thanking when hearts are deceived.<br />
<br />
Typing and talking, headaches are real.<br />
<br />
Speaking and sharing, thoughts are congealed.<br />
<br />
Waving and walking, not really there.<br />
<br />
Limping and looking, life has gone bare.<br />
<br />
Fishing and fasting, hate is relieved.<br />
<br />
Feeling and falling, parts are retrieved.<br />
<br />
Pacing and praying, hoping to feel.<br />
<br />
Loving and living, spirits are healed.<br />
<br />
Hyping and hoping, one little prayer.<br />
<br />
Laughing and lighting the peace in our care.Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-27212727379696900502015-03-16T01:41:00.003-04:002015-03-16T01:44:44.688-04:00Back When I Met Mickie Mantle by Dennis Perry<div class="s2" style="line-height: 21px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Well, you already know how I got </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">my</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> name, Busher, from hanging around my father during his minor league career, how all the guys called me “Busher” which </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">means </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">a real minor league guy, like Pop, so they just kept calling me that right along</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> and I loved it</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">. Pop was in the Brooklyn organization</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">. This is</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> back when the Brooklyns were in Brooklyn.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Then I told you how I went </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">right </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">out of high school into pro ball, following Pop’s footsteps, as I was put in to the</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> Red Sox </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">chain after one year of independent ball out in Nebraska where the league was of the same name as the state. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">After </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">t</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">he Red Sox had seen enough of me to get as good an opinion of me as they could, I went to the Cubs organization.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">But then you</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">asked, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">did I play with</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">,</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> or meet</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">,</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> any of the famous players, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">so I have to answer you. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Back wh</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">en I played in the 60s, I batted off the great Marichal out in the desert, with the Cubs, and of course I knew Banks and Williams</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> and all of them</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> from spring training, and </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">then, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">r</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">ight up to ’68 which</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> at that </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">current </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">time</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> I was trying out for the Detroits, and in spring training we happened to meet up with the New York</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> A.L. club</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">, playing them in Lakeland, and I </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">met</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> the great Mantle. New York</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> by-God Ya</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">nkees. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Mickey by-God Mantle.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Now, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">before that game, I have to tell you I was in the clubhouse reading a letter from a high school player back in my hometown of Campovilla, Illinois, and he was saying how he wasn’t sure he was going to go out for the high school team this year, on account of he didn’t have much fun the previous season, being mostly on the bench, but he was taking kind of an inspiration from me as he mentioned I’d been in the minor leagues eight years of </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">negative </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">successful playing, and he wondered should he go on or was he making a mistake? I was making a note of the address, to maybe send the kid a few words, with a stub of a pencil I kept at the locker, usually </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">which I used it</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> to mark down notes after the game, recalling the pitcher’s name and what I did and all that. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Now it also occurred that I was going to be at first base that day, against </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">the </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">New York</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">s</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">. That’s because of w</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">hat happened the day before</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">.</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> I had been playing in the outfield against the Washingtons, and I had a little problem with a ball hit way up in the sky – and you know that Florida sky, that particular time of the year – it’s </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">not the right</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> sky. Well, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">what with not catching the ball</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> successful</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">,</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> and</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> even though I have a cannon out there, this Washington guy just put himself </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">in gear and </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">was able to get</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> to second for a routine double, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">but th</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">en after the game old white</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">-</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">haire</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">d Mayo, our manager, pulled me over to the side as a couple of the fellows were walking by, and he said that I had to buckle down, maybe I had to play my other position</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">, first base, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">the next day, and then they’d see about St. Petersburg. I asked at that time, “Where is St. Petersburg?” and one of those walking-by fellows, maybe Oyler, says it’s in Russia,</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> which then I think I recalled</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> that </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">from school, maybe so, and I was grateful for his reminder. I al</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">so have to explain </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">to you </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">that the ballplayers have their own kind </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">words which are not the regular kind of words.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">What they </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">probably </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">meant was that </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">just like Russia, where </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">people get sent away</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> all the time, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">well, baseball could be </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">like Russia and if </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">something happened to another ball out there wrong, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">I’d probably be put back into the </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">minors</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">, no chance of </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">making this club, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">which at the time I was trying to prove I belonged to. So, I didn’t want to go to Russia, meaning St. Petersburg</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">.</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">But, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">because every day is a new day in baseball, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">I had another chance</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">.</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> Now, I also have to say this is my first game at first base that spring, although I was a natural over there, sort of like my outfield work, which was now proved,</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">being a first-rate ballhawk. I guess they needed to see my work at first</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">,</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> just to give them another way they could </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">get </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">my </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">bat, which I called Old Thunder, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">in the lineup, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">should the need arise.</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">I was thinking about that as I went on out to the field, to warm up, and in the course of doing so,</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">I stuck that little pencil in my back pocket</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">and while the New Yorks</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> were taking batting practice, out of nowhere I was called over to the batting cage by Mayo, him saying, “Here’s a fellow I’d like you to meet”, and </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">of course it’s the great Mantle he was speaking of, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">who at that particular time was leaning on a bat watching the balls being smacked out by his teammate in the cage.</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> And of course he leaned on that bat greater than others could lean on a bat. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">My first thought was, there he is, looking a little bigger than he did on the gum cards I had back home, in </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">a</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">shoebox</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">.</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> He had big arm muscles, and blond hair sticking out the back of his cap. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">His face</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">looked a little rounder than the pictures I’d seen, but he had a nice comfortable smile.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Mayo says, “Mickey, this here is Busher,” - or some such, I can’t recall exact – “and Busher is one of my minor league guys trying to make the club. He’s got a good stick generally…” and he said some other stuff about my overall abili</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">ti</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">es.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Now, right here I have to add that I am generally known as a heady player with a lot of savvy. The reason most players don’t stick in the big leagues is because they have a lot of skills in other areas such as hitting and fielding, but they don’t have that </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">brain power. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Guy like me, by the time I get the acquired skills, what with my savvy, I’</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">d</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> be the complete guy every team needs. Of course you could say that it helps a team to have a guy or two to blam the ball out of the park, and a quality pitcher or two helps a lot, but you got to have </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">the smarts </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">to bring it all together. And I’ve always been told that I think about the game different from most of the other guys. A lot of people have said it, and I take pride in it. So, today wouldn’t be any different, from my perspective. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 12px;">I told Mick I was pleased to make his acquaintance, but that I had never seen him play, my interests being with the Cubs and the National League mostly, but I had heard of him, I explained.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">“That so?” he said, the words dripping out with that familiar</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">-</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">on</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">-</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">the</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">-</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">radio Oklahoma</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> voice.</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> I said, well it was so, and of course I immediately went in to how I thought the league would play out, once league play started up next month, figuring he’d </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">appreciate</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> my </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">general</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">knowledge, such as others have done. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">I said I thought the New Yorks were a little thin, and wouldn’t figure in the pennant for that go around, and Mick nodded, - I could tell he was </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">registering</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> the way I’d sized things up – looked away a little bit, and said, “Well, Mayo, I guess I should just rest up, my body sure could use it, not even play this season.” To that, I thought, well, he probably didn’t mean it. I told him he</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> should</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> play, even </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">though </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">it was hopeless for his club. Mayo was smiling, knowing how I could figure things out.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">I started to say something else which I now cannot recall, and Mick just jumped in and started talking about how he wasn’t feeling all that </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">good</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">, what with a knee that was balking, a sore wrist, sore back, a couple eyeballs </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">tore up or whatever, stuff out of whack, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">a sprain here and there on his various fingers and other parts</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> which were generally busted</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">. Anyone would </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">assume </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">he was not fit for play, but being a big star </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">such as</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> he was, that list of body ailments wouldn’t keep him out of the lineup.</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> He looked </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">fresh, and I said he looked okay, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">maybe not so hot, but okay </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">to me, should anyone ask. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">I said also maybe one of the things I noticed was that he might be a little too heavy, and all he had to do was </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">check himself a little bit</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> in that chow line and he’d be back in his playing trim. Again, Mayo had to smile at my figuring out overall observation powers. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">But, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Mickey said</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> was going to play, busted up and not in the greatest shape, but p</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">laying all busted up was </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">just one reason he was such a big well</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">-</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">known star. Anybody knew, if you said “New York Yankees” you immediately thought of Mickey Mantle.</span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Mickey sort of coug</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">h</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">ed, and said there was a doctor in Dallas who had come up with a new medicine which if he took it, might allow him to play till he was fifty. This medicine would fix up his </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">general </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">body, but I asked if it would fix that bum knee, or some other part that was really busted which he’d mentioned, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">but which I couldn’t specify on the spur of the moment, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">and Mick allowed that it would not fix those things, just sort of make his body feel </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">better as to the energy and what all he might have</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">, such as getting his veins going</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> and other parts lined up the way he wanted</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">, the way I recall it</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">I had to think for a minute or so, then I said if it wasn’t going to fix those busted things, then I didn’t think he should take it. He asked why, and I said, well,</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> if</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> he couldn’t put up the stats such as he was </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">accustomed to doing</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">, pretty soon the New Yorks would get to thinking of him as being </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">a regular player, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">and the fans would </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">recall</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> how he used to put up the stats, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">which would’ve put him</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> in the lore of the game, and if he just bumped along at a low level, pretty soon he wouldn’t be the great Mantle any more</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">, and besides him the fans</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> themselves</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> would be upset. To say nothing of the manager.</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> Old Mayo had to smile again at my savvy,</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">and he told Mick I’d be at first base today, just like Mick was for the</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">m</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">I took the occasion to mention</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> to him</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> that</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> with his legs shot, and so his speed being shot, it was natural for him to be over at first base, and to not feel bad about being taken out of the outfield which had happened to him last year.</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> This </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">news wasn’t that new, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">having been in the Sporting News and all, but I figured he’d catch on to how I was on top of things. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">M</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">ick</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> just shook his head which I </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">knew</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> he was saying how I was right. “Something to think about, for sure,” he drawled that friendly way again</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">, and he was looking at me keenly.</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">“</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">I</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">n fact, all of it,” he finished </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">up.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Now, right then, Mick had to leave, he said, and he </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">limped on</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> over by the fence, where he started signing scorecards and autograph books for</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> a</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> whole bunch of fans clu</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">mped</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> by the New York dugout. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"><br />I was watching those fans, and boy were they happy! Here was the old Mick, that great figure of New York, and he made so many of them happy, what with the smile and autographs and some small talk, and all of them were walking away smiling and all of that. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> And Mickey had that big old Mickey smile himself.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Pretty soon the game started up, and there I was, stationed at first. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">I recall it being a warm day, even for Florida at that time of year, which I’ve only been there in spring training, always in March, so I assume I am knowledgeable as to spring training type of weather</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">, which is usually sunny and warmer than other parts of the country which are </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">known for being colder.</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">A lefthander, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Warden, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">was pitching for us and he got the first two out, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">t</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">hen Mick came up</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">,</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> being a switch hitter he was</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> hitting righthanded against our lefty</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">. The crowd sort of had a buzz to it and everyone watched close as he fouled a couple back, took a ball, then </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Warden</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> gave him a low, slow one, and Mick lunged out and missed it, striking out. This was a</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">great strikeout, all the air seeming to go out of the park</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Even striking out, Mick had a special quality about himself. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">I figured no one could strike out like Mick, and I had seen a lot of people strike out over the years</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">, such as my own self</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">I came up in the last of the second, hitting seventh, against a tall righthander, Bahnsen, and he fooled me with a </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">fast</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> one on the outside, which I managed to get the end of the bat on. The ball went on out to Mick, I think it must’ve been pretty hot, though the next day the paper called it a dribbler,</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> but</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> anyway, Mick came in, seemed to trap it, then couldn’t pick it up clean, then grabbed it, then Bahnsen came over for the toss.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Of course, all this time, I’m blazing my way down there</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> – I think people always knew I had that good speed, back then - </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">so I was going to be safe, most probably, which is likely why Mick was rushing and causing himself to bobble that ball. Once he got it to Bahnsen, he bobbled it too, then picked it up, then fumbled for the bag, then I beat it in there by a hair. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">That’s one thing about the kind of speed I had, you cannot teach it. Just a gift. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">So as he was getting his breath, hunched over in the holding-on position at first, I says, “Well, Mick, you can’t be blamed for </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">kicking </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">around my hot one, you being not all that familiar around first base and all.” And he says, “Well, it’s the Busher!” and a big smile hit his face. “You sure did get me with that one</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">,</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">”</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">he </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">admitted.</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">The inning soon ended with no further advance by me, then</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> later, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Mick came up again, facing a young tall boy we had that year. Name was Patterson and I think he was from California or at least </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">someplace like that.</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> When Mick</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">ey</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> stepped in,</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> being the switch-hitter he was, now batting left handed,</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> I called time and told Patterson that </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Warden</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> had got Mick with a slow one, early on, just as a suggestion, which he didn’t acknowledge right off but I knew he had taken in because he burned in four or five in a row to Mick, just keeping that slow one in his back pocket just in case, so Mick couldn’t get comfortable about it. It’s just one of those normal things of baseball the average fan can’t know right off, but </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">it’s part of the savvy I </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">possess</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> that is natural for me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Now I have to interrupt. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">One of </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">my</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> duties </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">as</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> first baseman of course is to roll out the practice ground balls to the infielders as the pitcher warms up</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> before the inning starts up, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">and funny thing, that inning, no one seemed to be paying attention in the dugout for me to throw the ball in, as I shuffled around with my glove off and held the ball in my left hand, so I stuffed it into my back pocket figuring no harm, and I put the glove back on my left hand, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">on account of</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> we were now ready to play.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Well, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">right at that time, with Mickey there, I’m thinking </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Patterson would’ve been successful with that slow one, for sure, but before he had a chance to throw it, Mick lined one of the fast ones out there to right field for a single. The ball just fizzed off his bat, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">making a strange zzzzng sound.</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> Anyone could see he was a real star by that fizz. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Mick sort of smiled at me</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> once he got to first, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">and </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">he must’ve noticed my back pocket, as he </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">said, “Say, what’ve you got there, going to try </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">a hidden ball trick </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">or something?” Well, I reached back into my right hand pocket, being as I had the glove on my left hand, so only the right one was available, and I felt </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">that</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">little stub of a pencil, which I at that time recalled I </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">must’ve left it there</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> from the clubhouse</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Actually, sort of funny, Mick was pointing out the ball I had in my </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">other </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">pocket, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">not the pencil.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">“</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">O</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">h, sure, I mean,</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> it’s just </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">the old</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> infield</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> ball, Mick!” and then I put two and two together</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">, quick</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">. I took my glove off, pulled the ball out, and the pencil, and I says, “Hey Mick, how about scratching your John Hancock on the old ball here, it would be a big deal to me?” See, I was remembering how he was signing all those scorecards and </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">everything</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> before the game, so I thought this was a once-in-a-lifetime </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">opportunity</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">to get his autograph, being as he wouldn’t be about to sign in a regular season game</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">, to say nothing of how I might not actually be on the club once they headed north for the season. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">I thought this was pretty </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">smart</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> but the ump, Honochick, an older guy, bellowed out right away, loud enough to hear in Russia, “Time! Hey, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">B</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">usher, you can’t do that! Get that ball outa here!” This had the effect of causing embarrassment to me, and pretty much to Mick too, as he had his head down low, and his hands on his knees.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Old Mayo c</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">a</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">me running out and there was some jabbering going on, and I was </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">instructed</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> to give the ball to Mayo as he returned to the dugout, sort of shaking his head, walking slow, probably figuring Patterson should’ve given Mickey the slow one which he couldn’t do any damage with.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">We got out of there with no runs, and I came up again the next inning, this time I hit a ball dead on the nose, nobody could hit a ball harder, right on the best part of the bat, but I didn’t get any liftage so the ball just sort of lined straight out to the leftfielder. So there I was, thinking another one of those odd things about baseball. Hit that one down to Mickey earlier, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">get on base. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Nail this one hard, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">should’ve been a home run, no liftage, </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">it goes for an out. As you can see, there’s no </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">fairness to the game, mostly. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">And good pitching will usually beat good hitting, except as the vice versa.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">W</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">ell, we ended up winning that game</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Mickey had been taken out about halfway through and me right after that scorcher I hit, probably so I could rest up, and I didn’t think any more about that game till the next day when I was in the clubhouse getting a few things together for the bus ride over to Tampa</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> Saint Pete</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">, where we were going to take on the Mets, and I had been informed by Mr. Mayo to go on ahead and get ready to play first again. </span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Just before the clubhouse guy says to get </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">my stuff </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">on the</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">bus, he</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> stops and</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> says, “Hey Busher! The Yankees sent a little package over for you, I forgot to give it to you last night.” And he tosses me a little cardboard box.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Inside that box was a brand new official league ball, with the </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">blue-green</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> writing on the front of</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> it -</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> “Official American League Baseball” and on the other side</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">of the ball, in the narrow space between the two red seams, there was a signature: “Mickey Mantle”. I noticed right off in the “U” part of the ball, the fatter part, just above his name, he’d written, “The game needs more stars like you”. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">I felt like a million bucks, you can be sure of that</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">!</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> Mickey, taking time out for me!</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> I figured to hold on to this ball for the rest of my life. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">Then I thought of something else, and wrote a little note</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> on some paper I had in the locker</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">, with that same stub of a pencil</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;">. I found another ball box, got a paper bag, wrapped it all up, found the letter from</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> yesterday from</span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> the kid back home, put the kid’s address on my package which I’d taped up together, and took it all to the clubhouse man. Without me saying anything, the clubhouse guy said he’d be glad to. </span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"><i>This is Dennis' second short story fiction to be posted on this site. This story was one of many featuring the character, "Busher." Unfortunately, they were also written prior to mass sale of computers and thus part of someone else's collection somewhere. </i></span></span></div>
Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-63163947533463552862015-03-07T05:17:00.000-05:002015-03-07T05:35:47.152-05:00Prose or Poetry? by Sharon Sherman<i>Beauty lies among these lines</i><br />
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<i> of equal measure, beat and rhyme,</i><br />
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<i>spaced amid the tripping tongue,</i><br />
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<i> a true delight for everyone.</i><br />
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<i>How foul the words that come to me,</i><br />
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<i> (for sure, that"s how it seems to be),</i><br />
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<i>when writing deeds of nastiness,</i><br />
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<i> it claims the power to depress.</i><br />
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<i>But when the words are light and airy,</i><br />
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<i> bespeaking acts of friends or fairy,</i><br />
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<i>twinkles lie among the lines</i><br />
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<i> evoking smiles and fun, this time.</i><br />
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<i>"Oh, Romeo, my Romeo!"</i><br />
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<i> My love has asked where doest thou go.</i><br />
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<i>For romance has its own sweet song,</i><br />
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<i> to move the heart, so right, so wrong.</i><br />
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<i>And if you read this little ditty</i><br />
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<i> looking for an unrhymed gritty,</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>you'll not be satisfied with these,</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> these lines of thought that rhyme with ease.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-62187223000522091282015-02-24T22:22:00.000-05:002015-02-24T22:22:10.520-05:00Review of the "As You Wish" series by Mindy Klasky<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 19px;">
If wishes could come true, what would you do?</div>
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Mindy Klasky takes us on a delightful ride as she leads us through the lives of three young women staged to answer this very question in her "As You Wish" series. </div>
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In Act One, Wish One, Kira is a stage manager at a small town theater that has just closed it's doors.</div>
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Wishing In the Wings shows us Becca, who is a producer at an off-Broadway theater. Unfortunately, she was just jilted by her boyfriend. Who disappeared. With her life savings.</div>
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Erin no longer has a job, a boyfriend, or a place to call home in Wish Upon a Star. Unless she can get the notice of the producers for the exciting remake of Romeo and Juliet, she may have to give up on her dream of acting.</div>
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With humor, spunk, and more than one wish, Ms Klasky's heroines find new beginnings in the strangest places and love just around the corner.</div>
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Read them. They will keep you emotionally invested to the end.</div>
Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-9266409109220922792015-02-18T16:57:00.001-05:002015-02-18T16:57:50.303-05:00Bob White by Dennis Perry<div class="s2" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 21px;">
<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">I’d never been hunting and I wasn’t</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> hunting</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> this time either. I’d </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">tagg</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ed</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> along</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> my friend Jack </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">and his dad and uncle</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> out to the country for a day of pheasant hunting, but it was pheasant hunting observing.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Me and Jack at 14 </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">had no guns.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> Good enough for me</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">. Me and Jack were </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">there </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">to more or less watch Jack’s</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> favorite companion, the family’s Springer spaniel</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, Bob White.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Jack’s dad, Mac, or Mr. Mac as kids called him, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">said Bob White was sort of unusual for a Springer as he</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> was mostly white</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> When he ran through a field, he bobbed up and down, so early on, so Mr. Mac said, he called him Bob White. Bird dog, pheasant dog. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Who’d argue with Mr. Mac</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">? D</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">og trainer by hobby or</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> actually a</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> second profession, first being auto mechanic. Everybody in town knew him, Mac, the mechanic. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Fixed everybody’s car. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Mac, the guy who also raised and trained dogs. He had a full-time trainer on his </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">property, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">which was </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">called the d</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">og farm</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> by most people. The dogs </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">were always referred to as Mac’s dogs</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, like the </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">pro</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> trainer didn’t exist</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">So </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">this one fall</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> day Jack said c’mon along with us tomorrow, or some such thing, and I’d jumped at the chance. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">We were going out to</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> the country, which from our little town was about five miles, but sure seemed longer, figuring in so little traffic, even fewer people than our town,</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> and all that</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> quiet. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">We got out there</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> –</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> a</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> place </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Mac</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> said he’d come several times before. Farmer’s land, he said. Gave him a couple dollars to let us roam. Said we couldn’t go through the wire, where the corn</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> had grown</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> and </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">where </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">the gold stalks now </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">stuck out, the wire separating the corn from the untended land. Mac explained Bob White could get near the wire, flush out pheasants </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">right on that fence</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> border</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">as pheasants liked to hide on the ground</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">We couldn’t see the other edge of the field, were told it ended at a distant tree line, this was maybe a half mile</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> on</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> non-scientific guess. Couldn’t see the far edge</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> in front of us</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, either</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">The field went down</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> gently </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">to </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">a road,</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> so I guess</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ed when</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> we got there we’d know </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">it.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> Turned out it wasn’t all that far, not a mile, for sure. “Perfect hunting ground” Mac pronounced it.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">He gave me and Jack gallon jugs of water, gave Jack a small canvas bag. Called it a “kit” – had tweezers for pulling thorns out of Bob White’s paws</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, if -come</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, had some medicine </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">and tape</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, also for Bob White. “</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">C</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">an’t be held up by a dog comes up lame,” Mac smiled to us. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Seemed to make sense, but t</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">here was no food or water for us, I noticed. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Maybe in the car. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Bob White was eager for the task, jumping up and down. Jack and me walked down to the far end –</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> to</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> the road – near the wire line, instructed by Mac. “You boys can be blockers, me and Uncle Ted here</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, you see,</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> are against the wind. Bob White’ll flush ‘em, they’ll see you guys and spook short, we can bag ‘em.” That was the whole explanation. I’d have to see it in action</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">“Can’t shoot a hen,” Jack told me walking down the line. “Gotta get the males, the ringnecks.” I guessed a hen was a female, I suppose I should’ve known. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">“Hope the hunters spot the difference,” I said, hoping to sound knowledgeable. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Jack, dark haired, several inches shorter than me, laughed. “They been doing it since ‘fore I was born, you too.” </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">A</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">s</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> he was smaller than me, this made him seem even younger.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"></span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">We </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">cros</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">sed a ditch, stood in the dirt road. Road didn’t look much used. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Before long Bob White came, well, bo</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">b</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">bing through the taller crunchy field grass, right along the wire by the corn. We hadn’t seen any pheasants come flying up. Bad day for Bob White, I asked Jack, who assumed the role of the veteran hunter. Birds’r a little deeper probably he said through a squint, though the sun was </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">away from where he faced. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"></span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">I remained silent and Jack didn’t mind, the rest of the morning.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Bob White had come near us, scouted the ditch to our front, all along that north-south half mile stretch. We moved with him, the dog actually ahead of us, the hunters probably not happy about it. But maybe not;</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">they never said, even later after the bad stuff.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Mac and Uncle Ted were quite a ways behind, something I never figured on, I don’t know why. Mainly I thought if Bob White got </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">a bird</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> out then we could get shot, unintentional, and said as much. Jack said no, they get ‘em in the air, then Bob White’ll go pick ‘em up.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> He’s the best, that Bob White. Trained so as not to damage’em. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">The day was so clear, s</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">uch</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> blue sky, the</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> early</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> afternoon – still no birds</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> bagged</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> but Bob White had roused two of them out of hiding, near that far tree line – too far for a shot according to Mac when we somehow joined up</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">. The pheasants</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> had flown directly away low over the tree line.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">By </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">mid-</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">afternoon</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">,</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> Bob White had gone up and down that field a bunch of times after </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">that first trip around the</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> rough perimeter. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">W</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">e’d started</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> at the top of the rise</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, a small bluff. Where we were, down by the road, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">we </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">had to move back up the rise, that was the pattern.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Now t</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">he sun was </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">pretty much </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">at that time of day where everything looks gold, even the people.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Bob White’d had his water, then took off again, me and Jack set out to the</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> “start”</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> end again, as blockers. I’d seen </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">during</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> the water break how Jack and Bob White just had this affection. Best pals. Somehow it made me feel good</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, one of the best sights ever</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Me and Jack, now getting near the top, could see Mac and Uncle Ted way back, the gold field haloed them and their fronts looked dark, the sun was angling just slightly further west after that water break. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Not much</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> later, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Jack looked puzzled, gazing the field. I didn’t notice anything. “Bob White’s not moving good,” he pronounced. “Something’s wrong. I’m going to find out what.” I raised my voice that Bob White was probably just tired, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">but </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">might as well have told it to the wind. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Jack thrashed his way through the rough field, me a bit behind.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> Bob White was about a hundred yards ahead, picking his way. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Mac and Uncle Ted shouted from far back, Jack get away. I thought, maybe something happens Jack’ll get shot. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Jack got to Bob White, I trailed</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> in.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> Jack didn’t want me to see his </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">tears. Did anyway, turned my head.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> Bob White was whimpering, favoring a leg. The hunters got there, sort of mad, sort of concerned.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> I couldn’t judge which was most. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Seems after a lot of discussion Bob White must’ve stepped in a hole, the left foreleg was </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">probably </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">busted, tape from the kit maybe helped, but the hunt I figured was over. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Bob White was laying on the ground, no desire to move. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">We were there a long while, Mac and Uncle Ted doing about all the talking. I was surprised </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">when</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> they decided to keep going on. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">We go without the dog, Mac ordered, and he and Ted started back down the gentle rise. Me and Jack stood with Bob White. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Well, we ain’t leaving him, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">J</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ack said. No of course shot back Mac.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">You stay or you bring ‘im. So </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Jack picked </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">up Bob White,</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> carried him. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Soon we were catching up with </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">the hunters, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">and </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Mac growled back, something about me and Jack and the noise.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">I didn’t know why we were still hunting, but I guess these things don’t have time limits, except for daylight, which was about an hour and half left I figured. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">I was thinking of the dog, of pain.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Jack was tired </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">after </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">carrying Bob White</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> a few hundred yards.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> “You guys are a sorry sight,” Mac informed. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Jack was dribbling water from my jug into Bob White’s mouth. I wondered if the dog was going to die, then pushed the thought out. Geez, he was okay, everything’d be ok. I was being a </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">fool,</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">more </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">concerned for </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Jack</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, who </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">was</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> Bob White,</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> the two were one in that field right then.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> Jack said </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Bob White’d</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> patch up fine. Said it more than once or twice. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Uncle Ted said give me the dog, he’d carry. You boys get down the end of the field by that ditch</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">you’re pretty slow he grumbled. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"></span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">We</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> did, it was about where we’d first gone early on. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">We couldn’t see the hunters, but heard a shot. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Me and Jack were pretty far from </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">it,</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> It sounded from </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">over by the tree line, near where we’d</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> just </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">been.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> They must’ve </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">got one out. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">I figured Mac</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> probably </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">bagged </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">it,</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> if Uncle Ted was carrying Bob White. Couldn’t tell.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> I </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">noticed I hadn’t seen a bird, guessed we were pretty far away.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"></span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"></span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Mac appeared a </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">couple minutes</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> later. You guys get on over to the wire by the corn, start back up</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">. He and Uncle Ted would be ahead of us, or the side, we would sort of be like Bob White now. We hunted about another hour. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Never heard another shot, never saw another pheasant. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Couldn’t hardly see the hunters, for that matter. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">W</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">e got back, making</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> a</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> big “L”</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">-</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> shape</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">d</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> walk</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> on up the rise</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">,</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> way behind</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> the hunters</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> by this time</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Mac</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> was</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> there at the top, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">fixing up the guns and ammo into some </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">cases and little boxes.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Jack at first was sort of smiling, “Heard </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">the</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> shot</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> back there</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, get a bird?” or some such, then the deep furrowed frown. “Where”s Bob White?” he demanded from Mac.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Mac turned toward the car. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">I figured Bob White was there, as Uncle Ted was.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> Uncle Ted had a blank face, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">looked wrong, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">like somebody told him to have a blank face.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Get into the car he said. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">T</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">he car was about 50 yards </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">from us.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">“Can’t let a dog hold up a hunt</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">,</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">” Mr. Mac ruled. “Hunt</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">ing</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> dog can’t hunt, better off not being a dog,’ he finalized. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">He spat. Looked away. Especially from Jack.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Comes a time people have to accept life’s evils</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> showing up</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Can’t really prepare for them, even if you try.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> What I’ve learned, they usually chunk in a little here and there, give people time to think, to adjust. Shouldn’t have to take all the evil in one big chunk like Jack.</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> Especially at fourteen, my opinion. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> No evil could ever try to compete with this, </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">couldn’t be the topper. </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Jack could laugh</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">if it tried. I guess</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> that could be</span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> consolation if he was to think about it. He wouldn’t see it that way if it was explained. Then or now. Me neither, likely. </span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">I don't remember riding home that day.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Jack's still my friend. I never saw Mac after that day, I assume he's died by now. All this was fifty years from this past Monday.</span></div>
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<span class="s3" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"><i>My friend, Dennis Perry, sent this to me in an email, saying, "Put together a little story for you. I sort of like it. Let me know what you think."</i></span></div>
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<span class="s3"><i><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">I think Dennis has a very clear voice when he writes. I'm there in the story whether I want to be or not. And, at times, I didn't want to be. It is so moving, so sad, yet life goes on. . .</span></i></span></div>
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Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-28592506185252938042015-02-17T19:24:00.000-05:002015-02-17T19:25:02.830-05:00Review of The Infinite Series by L. E. Waters<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 19px;">Review of The Infinite Series by L. E. Waters</span><br />
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Currently, there are three books to this series, Infinite Sacrifice, Infinite Loss, and Infinite Devotion. Hopefully, soon to be four with Infinite Faith.</div>
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The premise of Ms. Waters books are part metaphysical, part historical, and completely entertaining as this fictional account of one person's voyage to the afterworld weaves a story of incarnations both illuminating and heart-rending. </div>
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At the beginning of Infinite Sacrifice, the lead character has just died. She finds herself relaxing on a beach chair with her guide. She is anxious to see her dear friends, only to find that she must first reacquaint herself with her previous lives. And therein lies the excitement that Ms. Waters has brought to these stories. Each life story, complete in itself, is totally gripping and fascinating to watch in your mind's eye. Discovering the characters as they are reincarnated in each life adds mystery and skill, while immersing you in the current life - until you forget - there is a larger story. </div>
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As each book ends, the character finds there is a pattern to these lives that must be understood. </div>
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Ms. Waters has done an excellent job of developing both the characters and the plot so you beg for more. I know I did.</div>
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When you have finished reading the first three books, go to her website, www.infiniteseries.net and sign up for her notice on the next installment in the series. Then find another good book to take your mind off of the waiting!</div>
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Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-1489194854014239792015-02-17T11:06:00.000-05:002015-02-17T11:06:34.845-05:00<b>I, Eye, Aye </b>by Sharon Sherman 2015<br />
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What's in an eye? Aye, I'll tell you!</div>
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With a nip and a tuck, it can change your whole view.</div>
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Most people 'cept me generally have two.</div>
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It's been said they're the windows straight to the soul,</div>
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one ruse of many, so I am told.</div>
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I use mine to admire the natural beauty</div>
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of wind, sea, and sky. That is my duty!</div>
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Billy here cries when onions he chops.</div>
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Or when a fine plate he covets, he drops.</div>
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Grumpy here frowns, his eyes all ablaze</div>
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when Benji has stole his last donut glazed.</div>
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Benji lies down, his eyes looking up</div>
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to see if we've noticed his quiet hiccup.</div>
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Murphy's eyes crinkle with merry and mirth</div>
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to see his fair home, this side of Perth.</div>
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McDougal, he flops when he's down in his cups,</div>
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eyes all glazed over, cut off from his sups.</div>
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Mary stands hearty, she's one of the guys.</div>
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Her love for us surely comes straight from those eyes.</div>
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When all's said and done, the 'ayes' have it now.</div>
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If you look in each eye, they go down with a bow.</div>
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Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-77164655598785232792015-02-15T23:35:00.001-05:002015-02-16T09:57:59.229-05:00Poverty by Elsie Lois Kolbasa"The state of being poor or without competent subsistence" is the general definition given by the dictionary. To someone who has lived in such a state, it is much more than second hand clothes and an empty stomach.<br />
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Migrant workers who go from farm to farm to gather the crops at harvest time, live under these substandard conditions. So does the share cropper in the Appalachian area who moves from farm to farm to till the soil for the land owners. Some land owners give two-thirds of a crop a share cropper raises on his land, and some give only half of the crop. If the land is in poor condition and does not yield a good crop, he could end up with less from the land owner who gives two-thirds of the crop.<br />
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There is also the house to consider, as the sharecropper has to live in whatever house the land owner has to offer. The house that has broken windows and loose floor boards and no doors between the rooms means a drafty, cold house in the winter. So the share cropper moves from farm to farm in search of more food from the crops and a better house for his family.<br />
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Moving year after year is wear and tear on the already meager furnishings. It constantly uproots the family and changes the children from school to school. Adjustments to the new teacher and classmates are made more difficult with the shabby clothes and bare feet, and the laughter and snickers of the other children.<br />
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There are the times of sickness when there is not any way to go for a doctor, or any money to pay him. So the family turns to home remedies such as castor oil, turpentine, catnip tea, kerosine oil, and sulfur and molasses. Sometimes, the remedy is worse than the sickness. For example, kerosine oil for the sore throat, which can make one so violently ill, the sore throat is forgotten.<br />
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There are the times when the home remedies fail to work and the doctor gets there too late. A beautiful little baby is claimed by death, and is laid out in a rough hand-made coffin of one-inch boards and two-by-fours covered in a remnant of satin. The helpless, empty feeling that washes over the body after such an ordeal is never forgotten.<br />
<br />
Poverty is something more than an empty stomach to those who have to live in it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Elsie Lois Kolbasa, or Lois Kolbasa, or Elsie Lois Rice is my mother. She was born and raised in the Appalacian Mountains of North Carolina. She told stories of growing up there and in her later years, courtesy of a writing class at the local college, put some of those stories to paper. This is one of those stories. For her dad was a sharecropper and her youngest brother, William, died within days of his birth.</i>Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-44575219219670649202015-02-14T08:50:00.002-05:002015-02-14T08:50:40.801-05:00Twas the Day Before Christmas by Sharon Sherman<i>Twas the day before Christmas, the house was a mess.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>My hair was all frizzy, this must be a test.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>My husband's still sleeping, I just didn't care.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I tripped on a truck and flew up in the air.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>On doll shoes, on marbles, on tea sets and crayons.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>On blankies, on Legos, so much to lay on.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>I dropped on them all like a mother of four.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I'll not have another, by God, this I swore.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>I stomped to their bedroom by this time a fright,</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>swung open the door. What I saw wasn't right.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>No clothes on the floor, no shoes in the bed.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>No baseballs or footballs. Just neatness instead.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>Away from the room, I flew down the hall,</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>threw open a door and gasped at it all!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>Their t-shirts were folded and placed on a shelf.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Ribbons and bows they'd collected themselves.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>One more I would try as I crept down the hall</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>and opened the door, making sense of it all.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>One grinning husband, so handsome, so bright,</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"We waited until you had gone nighty-night."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>I brushed my sore elbow and smoothed out my jeans.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The spirit of Christmas was here, so it seemed.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>Life is a gift that always surprises.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>It twists and it turns. It brings many crises.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>But when you're not looking too closely it brings</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>the love of a family. The sweetest of things.</i>Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-9446679116863510662015-02-12T14:42:00.000-05:002015-02-12T14:42:00.329-05:00Team of Rivals by Doris Kearns GoodwinRarely has a book moved me so. Rarer still, it is a non-fiction book. In Team of Rivals, Doris Kearns Goodwin marvels as a storyteller, much like her hero, Abrahm Lincoln.<br />
<br />
Knowing how this famous story ends, I still shed a few tears. Ms. Goodwin brings both Mr. Lincoln and his rivals out of the legend and into our lives. Each with their own tragedy and humor, ambition and loyalty. We sympathize with the setbacks, rejoice with the victories, and, yes, cry with them as they are torn apart by grief.<br />
<br />
Mr. Lincoln's great feat was to assemble a cabinet that was politically balanced. He managed that balance through humor, wisdom, ambition, and sensitivity. Ms. Goodwin wove those traits into a compelling account of an awesome individual we were lucky to have for our sixteenth president of these United States.<br />
<br />
No spoiler alerts here as this story is eye-opening even for those who studied the facts. Yes, I knew Lincoln was shot at Ford Theater while watching a play. I knew he was the president that presided over the civil war. I knew there was sincere tragedy in his life. But there is much I didn't know.<br />
<br />
By gleaning perspectives from the diaries of Lincoln's family and friends, Ms. Goodwin, master storyteller, gives you a ringside seat in history as she tells the rest of the story.Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-26511988441911044212015-02-12T13:57:00.000-05:002015-02-12T13:57:08.854-05:00My Pixie Girl by Sharon Sherman<i>I love my little pixie girl.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>When I come home, her tail's a twirl.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Her little paws reach toward my chest.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Her legs, her nose, her ears attest</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>to love returned. I'm back home now,</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I never left. I'll tell you how.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I send my love into her eyes.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>She sends it back, there's no surprise.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>From tail to tongue, by me she lies.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Comfort comes from those brown eyes.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-71748876960557381272015-02-10T20:39:00.001-05:002015-02-10T20:39:36.709-05:00It's What We Do by Sharon Sherman <b><i>A silver moon casts its frosty shadow on the chilly water.</i></b><br />
<b><i>The hoary frost blanketed the twigged countryside.</i></b><br />
<b><i>He frosted his acquaintances in both deed and word.</i></b><br />
<b><i>Frostily, he explained the punch line.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>We join each one over nouns and verbs.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>We help with adjectives, too. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>And if the verb needs our assistance,</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>we're there with voices true.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Though soft on placing commas there,</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>The m-dash makes us blush.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>We're never sure, though check it twice,</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Which one has our trust.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>The action verb escapes our pen,</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>But not the wise, old owl's.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>And if stray "that"s begin to show,</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>We'll strike them out with howls.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>We don't forget the rule of three</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>or making subjects follow.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>"Repeat me not!" we say again.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>It makes the meaning hollow.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Add a space or make a typo,</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Those we can amend.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>And when the last of thought dost show,</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>We make our periods . . .</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> end.</i></b>Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-83633242902129465502015-02-09T23:02:00.000-05:002015-02-09T23:02:01.958-05:00The Forgotten Presidents by Michael J Gerhardt - ReviewOur formative years are spent absorbing everything we see and hear. Then, we spend the rest of our lives discovering the origins and reason for what we have seen and heard.<br />
<br />
Michael J Gerhardt provides some of those origins in The Forgotten Presidents. He teaches us the great constitutional legacies of thirteen presidents whose imprints upon the American people was less than stellar. Historians brush these men aside as inept or inconsequential, yet each has made their impact on future generations of Americans in ways we see today.<br />
<br />
While we remember the deeds of some presidents due to scandal, war, or notoriety, we remember little of those who served in times of peace and complacency.<br />
<br />
Mt. Gerhardt describes the world of each of these thirteen leaders; we learn what each faced, what their values were, and what they believed constitutionally. Some, with the ideals of the brightest star and the purest heart, delved into a world they had no experience in, not knowing the rules of the game of politics. These became prime examples for new ideas and new disasters. Others came in with high expectations and few personal skills. Many came in on party lines, only to discover themselves when they reached their destination.<br />
<br />
The 'aha!' moments are many as we finally understand a phrase or a policy indentured to our way of life. I might argue that a more intense knowledge of the constitution is necessary to understand much of the ideas demonstrated by Mr. Gerhardt, but in the end, we grasp his ideas through context and the subsequent political biases we have brought with us.<br />
<br />
Mt. Gerhardt's book is an intense read, but well worth the effort.Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-74022737552773008202015-02-08T09:38:00.000-05:002015-02-08T09:38:14.586-05:00Twas a Writer's Christmas<i>Twas the night before Christmas and all through the land</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>the scribes were still writing to give Santa a hand.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>They knew this new world was a world of "just me,"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>but what could they write that would change it to He?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>They 'mmmm'd and they 'ahhh'd from morning to night</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>and yet had to find the phrases just right.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Oh, Plato! Oh, Byron! Oh, Charles Dickens, please!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Please help us to find the right words with ease.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Dickens, you say! What could be better?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Let's look through his works. He's a master of letters!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I think I have got it. That little boy, Tim.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The one who's so happy. Let's take words from him.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>When Santa dropped by to see what they'd done,</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>They shouted, "God bless us, everyone!"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Oh, my," he exclaimed. "That's perfect, you know.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>How to help others in Christ's birthday show."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
I thought I would start adding little snippets of poetry that I write. At least, so I have a record of it. But will continue with the book reviews as I love to read and write, and it gives me a little of both.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-31087324430246515502015-02-05T11:20:00.000-05:002015-02-05T11:20:27.994-05:00The Bully Pulpit by Doris Kearns GoodwinAccording to Wikipedia, "A bully pulpit is a position sufficiently conspicuous to provide an opportunity to speak out and be listened to."<br />
<br />
It is Theodore Roosevelt's use of the bully pulpit that greatly influenced the world around him. Allowing him to move the country forward in times of peace and to rally support in times of conflict.<br />
<br />
Ms. Goodwin shows how Mr Roosevelt used his friend and the press to promote his agendas. Thus, the author introduces the other protagonists in her great work of non-fiction: William Howard Taft and the great investigative journalists so important to the times.<br />
<br />
By delving into the papers and diaries of Roosevelt and Taft, their friends, family, and their colleagues, Ms. Goodwin has recreated the chronological facts of each life for a three-dimensional view of history.<br />
<br />
I was in awe of how Teddy Roosevelt spoke to the people, made great friends, and wanted what was best for the country. I thought Mr. Taft soft-spoken and insecure, but loved by many. The journalists, each had their own agenda, fleshed from experience, flushed with the chance to find out the truth. In reality, all things change. There are disappointments on all sides. There are happy and sad times. Times to question where you are going and what your are doing. We all have greatness. We all have weakness. Ms. Goodwin's ability to show just those dimensions can move us to tears.<br />
<br />
I will keep my seat next to Ms. Goodwin's for the chance to see the color in the world as I journey through history.<br />
<br />
<br />Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-56722174625706629042014-01-17T21:02:00.000-05:002014-01-17T21:25:26.126-05:00Thank You for Your Service by David FinkelDavid Finkel began his project by following the deployment of the 2-16 battalion to Iraq. He was imbedded with the soldiers for eight months. His gripping tale was published as The Good Soldiers. <br />
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Mr. Finkel continued by following some of the same soldiers home. He witnessed their struggle to leave war behind. To return to what was. But for the soldiers, the war kept butting in. At night. During the day. Sleeping. Awake. So close to the surface. The struggle gets worse with time. Families work to understand, but they can’t. How can you understand war when you weren’t there? Their soldier moves further away. This soldier doesn’t deserve understanding. This soldier came home. This soldier wasn’t there to save the buddy. <br />
<br />
In Thank You for Your Service, Mr Finkel is masterful at showing the quiet devastation tearing these vets apart. Their self-induced loneliness is fostered by their inability to talk to anyone that wasn’t there. They didn’t understand what the soldiers were expected to do to survive. Politics, ego, and exhaustion further demolish their fragile minds. Many are abandoned by family. Even if they’re not, they feel guilty they can’t be the hero. They can’t be the caretaker. They can’t be a shoulder for their loved ones. They feel guiltier still when they are the ones who abandon loved ones so as not to be a further burden. <br />
<br />
The Veterans Administration has tried to help the vets and with each new program, the soldier is hopeful. Only to be let down when the list is bigger than the number of seats. Or, because of budgets, the program is cut.<br />
<br />
These soldiers returned so damaged, so hurt, so hopeless. Where could they turn for healing? They came home, but did they survive the war?<br />
Certainly, the combat veteran’s rate of suicide, two every three days, is an unmistakeable indicator.<br />
<br />
One reviewer called this book a “bruising account” of the plight of combat veterans. Well, it bruises anyone who reads it. <br />
David Finkel begs the reader to ask: <br />
Do we know what war is?<br />
Do we realize the true costs of war?<br />
What are we thanking our veterans for? <br />
<br />
These are questions we should all ask before we send anyone to war.<br />
<br />Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-64623482646531592012013-02-16T15:20:00.000-05:002013-02-16T15:20:23.734-05:00Review of Change of Heart by Jodi Picoult“America’s the only first world country that still uses capital punishment,” Ms. Picoult exclaims on her website and repeats in this powerful book. Exploring the death penalty, religion, and spirituality, she tells a story constantly questioning and always pushing at the boundaries of our beliefs. <br /><br />Shay (Isaiah M.) Bourne, New Hampshire’s first death row prisoner in 69 years, is the impetus for these questions. In his trial, he is represented by a charlatan and is sentenced to death. While in prison, he heals the sick, turns water into wine, and speaks with a prophetic grace. <br /><br />Father Michael Wright answers the call for spiritual help. But Father Michael has a secret that affects his ministry to Shay--a secret tormenting the Father and begging to be told. In the end, he wonders who is ministering to whom.<br /><br />Maggie Bloom is a lawyer for the ACLU. Her causes are those of the hopeless. When she learns of Shay’s request to donate his heart to the victim’s family, she takes on the challenge of changing the death venue to make that possible. After all, everyone deserves to practice their own religion, don’t they?<br /><br />June Nealon is torn apart by the events that have shaped her life. Her first husband was killed in a vehicle accident, though her daughter, Elizabeth, was spared. Then, after she married again, her new husband, Kurt, and Elizabeth were killed. Tormenting her is the fact that she hired the accused killer, Shay, to change their spare bedroom into a nursery for the baby inside her.<br /><br />Claire Nealon is ten years old now. She has lived with heart disease most of her life, but her heart is giving out. There is the possibility of a heart donor. . .<br /><br /><br />Ms. Picoult delves deep into the bowels of the prison system and what we consider justice. She takes the basic concepts of our beliefs and lays them on the table to be dissected and explored. Forever a master of words, Ms. Picoult weaves the title in and out of the story so seamlessly, you find yourself reviewing the book to discover all the ways you can have . . . a change of heart.<br /><br />Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-7122082725990075672013-02-16T15:13:00.000-05:002013-02-16T15:13:52.068-05:00Review of The Lion by Nelson DeMilleNelson DeMille is a funny guy. Not overtly, but rolling-your-eyes funny. The kind of guy you would have liked to hang out with in high school. Always a chuckle, but with a sparkle of intelligence gleaming in his eyes. <br /><br /> In The Lion, DeMille shows us in Micky-Spillane fashion. John Corey and his wife, Kate Mayfield, are members of a joint task force of FBI agents and retired New York cops. Kate is FBI; John, a retired cop. Together, they lead us into a world of daring-do.<br />
<br /> Taking a break from the stresses of work, they go skydiving. Kahlil Asad, the Lion, shows up to exact revenge for past grievances - midair. During a tandem jump, Kahlil attaches himself to Kate and, in a grand show of retribution, slices her throat in full view of a helpless John. Kahlil promises he will soon be back for John and leaves him to deal with his dying wife.<br /><br /> In this lion and tiger dance, each has surprises for the other on their way to the endgame.<br /><br /> DeMille’s writing is sharp, witty, and clever. Each of his characters have personalities that explode in color, framing a picture for the reader. His plot moves at a consistent pace, drawing the reader deeper into the story.<br /><br /> DeMille further adds interest to his characters by donating the names of philanthropic friends to the cast in exchange for a hefty donation to the charity of their choice. <br />
<br /> DeMille is succinct in his words. I was surprised that I had read the last line, indeed, the last page, for when I flipped it over, I found the acknowledgements. <br /><br /> Guess I’ll just have to read his next book!<br />Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-60129814379844279062012-05-13T19:54:00.000-04:002012-05-13T19:54:04.835-04:00Rapture in Death by J.D. Robb<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Would it surprise you to learn that J.D. Robb is actually Nora Roberts? No, I thought not. Fans of both know who the author really is. How can they help but find out when they go to the library for their Nora Roberts fix? </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>While she uses distinct styles for each name, it’s easy to spot the genius that is Nora Roberts--and true fans know that. Just as Eve Dallas knows how to track down her killer, so does J.D. Robb know how to weave a story that rocks. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A futuristic thriller, <i>Rapture in Death,</i> pits the beautiful-yet-brooding, heroic cop, Eve Dallas, against a beautiful and charming sociopath out to use everyone and everything for her own, fiendish benefit. Dallas’s blunt approach to life, in the mansion and the station house, is a fresh change from the “Nick and Nora” type of setting. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Her cast of characters are charming and off-beat, but be warned: you’ll want to cuddle them like teddy bears. Delia Peabody, Eve’s sidekick, is an intelligent cop mentored by the brilliant Ms. Dallas. But the dynamic is reversed when Ms. Dallas plays straight-man for the witty </span>Ms. Peabody. When the day is done, poor Eve goes home to her mansion and gorgeous, sexy, and seriously-rich husband, Rourke. And ladies, Rourke has an Irish accent that melts butter, a past that is way past choirboy, and a love for Eve so deep, it tugs the heart. </div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Pick up a J.D. Robb book. You’ll be glad you did. Better yet, pick up the book on CD and let reader, Susan Ericksen, lull you into a fantasy with her sharp portrayal of these rich characters.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-3417960387566501042012-05-13T19:39:00.001-04:002012-05-13T19:52:53.990-04:00Character Counts by Sharon ShermanDeveloping the right characters can make all the difference in the success of a novel. What do you remember from a favorite novel? The plot? The place? Or the characters? In the plot summary on the back cover, what is mentioned first and foremost? What do you want to see when you read a sequel?<br />
<br />
For me, it’s the crazy characters. The mysterious Ranger or hot Joe Marino. And maybe Grandma Mazur with her less-than-normal view of life. I really like Lulu - an ex-prostitute attached to Stephanie Plum on one side, and two buckets of chicken on the other. Nothing is normal about Janet Evanovich’s characters, including Bob, Steph’s bulimic dog. While her characters are wild and crazy, there’s an implied goodness about all of them. We feel safe with them, no matter how questionable their past. We want to pack our bags and follow her characters around, just for the excitement.<br />
<br />
Not all characters are as fun-loving as Evanovich’s. Some characters we love to hate. Look at the popularity of daytime soaps. So popular were they, they added soaps to prime-time fare. Dallas was one of the first with an extensive thirteen season run, thanks in-part to its greedy, scheming J.R. Ewing. If you want bizarre characters, look at Dark Shadows, returning with the all-time character actor, Johnny Depp.<br />
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Then there is the character we would love to be: the beautiful and intelligent Elizabeth Bennet or the unusually deep Mr. Darcy in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, who would keep us on the edge of our seats with their banter and thoughtful emotions.<br />
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While a weak plot cannot overcome all the beauty or cleverness in the world, dull characters can keep you from discovering how clever the plot really is.<br />
<br />Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649564128340200289.post-71346657013799074702012-03-13T15:37:00.001-04:002012-03-13T15:37:47.897-04:00How To Get Published | Online | Creative Writing Classes in NYC and Online with Professional Writing Instructors<a href="http://www.writingclasses.com/CourseDescriptionPages/GenrePages.php/ClassGenreCode/Hp/type/O?utm_campaign=d41227fe55-3_13_2012?utm_source=Gotham+Writers'+Workshop+List?utm_medium=email">How To Get Published | Online | Creative Writing Classes in NYC and Online with Professional Writing Instructors</a>Sharon Shermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05221880587305865238noreply@blogger.com0