Depth of Field

With the long lens of my camera

trained on distant memories,

surrounding events blur,

a narrow depth-of-field

comes into sharp focus,

But a wider angle

and steady look

show the grain,

fine details,

flaws.

Storytelling: Finding St. Francis

This past Saturday, I performed at a storytelling event sponsored by the Sisters of Saint Francis and the Great Midwestern Educational Theatre Company. I've been working with a writing coach for more than two years, and I'm a better teacher for the effort. I've also put together writings that will allow my children to know me better as they become adults. But part of getting people to read my writings is to first introduce them to me---through teaching and performances. Last January, I helped Amy Ressler teach a storytelling class at UD. Being around a professional is an amazing opportunity. I also take whatever opportunities pop up to get up in front of a crowd, whether it be 2 or 200.

I've gotten better, but I still struggle with some of my own baggage. As is often the case when I talk about New Orleans, I got pretty choked up at a few points:

• When Hurricane Katrina was blamed on a gay parade by San Antonio pastor John Hagee. Such ignorance and hatefulness aren't my ideas of legitimate Christianity. When Jesus spoke to the adulterous woman (John 8:1-11), he didn't call down targeted lightning, must less a widespread hurricane that killed 1,833 people, mostly poor, old, and minority.
• When I talk about revisiting my old house after the hurricane. I had sold it by then, but I had a lot of memories from living there---my children playing, geology students coming to parties, Thanksgiving celebrations, a Chinese grad student learning to barbecue on the grill I built, and screech owls nesting in the backyard tree. Lots of good times.
• At the end, when I quoted St. Francis: "We have been called to heal wounds, to unite what has fallen apart, and to bring home those who have lost their way."

But despite a few tears, I made it through. I beat myself up a bit, but mostly I'm glad I keep trying. Sr. Shell, the nun who arranged to host the event, wrote me, "THANKS! I absolutely loved your `Finding Francis' story! And the rest of the audience did as well. " Sr. Shell is kind, which I knew already, but that doesn't make it any less pleasant to hear.

Self

Humble bee,

the bumble bee,

bumbling by.

Courageous, calm,

compassionate, strong,

secure, and serene.

God grant me the serenity...

An AA bee.

Prehenderat Flatus

As intangible as a dream,

As difficult to guide,

As strong as our desires,

As difficult to hide.

There is something special within each of us—

Don't let others suppress or police it.

When that something arises within you,

Don't hold back—release it!

Like Walter White

"You look like Walter White," a new student told me a while back.  At that time, I didn't know who Walter White was nor had I ever seen Breaking Bad.  Recently, on a trip to New Mexico, a friend bought me a postcard-license for Walter White, shown above.  I did a bit of alteration and sent the new license by email to campus security to put on file.  I guess it worked, because I never heard back from them.

Ghosts

In may, Andrew Jones and I are taking a group of students to Ghost Ranch, N.M., as part of a nature writing course.  Here is Andrew's most recent prompt, followed by my response.

As we learned in Thursday night's presentations, ghosts of the past will be all around us at Ghost Ranch. From the old Spanish to the Pueblo tribes to former UD students, many individuals have set foot on the land and left an impression. For this week's assignment, I want you to embrace the idea that a particular place where you've spent time (as natural as possible) has a past that is now mostly hidden--a past that you must seek out and work to find. Try to unearth that past, to chip away at history until you find a piece/portion/relic that you can connect to or apply to your own time in that place. You might do a little research about the history of the place or you might simply imagine the landscape of the past. Embrace the idea of a presence, of a sensation, that might linger in a place. If you're really struggling for a place, try writing about the UD campus. Put yourself on the quad 150 years ago (go look at the history displays in the library or Heritage for ideas). What lingers from that time that you can embrace? Or, think about it in the opposite way: what mark, good or bad, have you left in a place? What "ghosts" have you created?

Nebraska is always a brutal, boring drive, and western Iowa is not much better, having been long ago flattened by glaciers. After two weeks in the cool July weather of Wyoming, having hung out in a KOA cabin while my daughter survived a wilderness program, I head east. I drop her off at the airport and turn toward home alone. I finally cross the Missouri River into Iowa after a day of dependence on NPR and a night in a cheap hotel. In my mom’s old car, cruise control is non-existent, manual cranks lower the windows, and the AC barely works, but at least until I owned it, it had always been exceedingly clean and undented.

Toward late afternoon, I give up on the AC and crank down my north-facing driver-side window. The blast furnace heat off the asphalt threatens to burn the stubble from the two-day beginnings of my beard. Keeping my focus on the road prove tough. As I nearly doze, what I initially think to be a small truck crosses in front of me. On the interstate! I blast my horn. The truck trumpets a retort and turns toward me. As I screech onto the shoulder, a cool breeze, as if off the ice, chills my left cheek. And my anger. I look down, watch my protruding belly, now bare, shrink, revealing what appears to be a giant-sloth-skin speedo. (Hyphens are important.) My muscles firm, my skin darkens, my glasses go out of focus before I toss them aside, and I am suddenly overwhelmed with smells, including my own scent of fear.

Coming toward me is a wooly mammoth. And in the back seat, my cat carrier is busting apart, as little Whiskers, my constant companion, expands and grows sabre teeth. “Nice kitty,” I say, as I simultaneously feet the cat’s teeth on my neck and the car’s movement—the mammoth lifts it with massive tusks and tosses it upside down into the ditch.

I awake to voices. “Don’t try to move, sir,” I hear. “We’ve stabilized your neck and are preparing to transport you to Mercy Medical Center. It was a bad crash, but you’re going to be okay.” 

Confinements

This piece was based off an example from Brevity magazine.

Regarding Beauregard

We lived in the country at a time when dogs were not house pets. All through the South, you could see dogs hooked on chains, tied to trees and posts in the yard. Somehow Dixie, our bitch, still decided to have pups. I remember keeping two from the litter, Beauregard and Ulysses, the latter named by a friend who didn't know better. I don't remember what happened to Dixie nor the other pups. I remember letting the dogs off their chains to run free, roaming the hollers and streams. I remember coming home and Dad saying Ulysses had been run over. I don't remember what happened to his body.

Beauregard was a coon dog-black, brown, bits of white. He was powerful, with a deep voice that carried for miles. He was bred for chasing a raccoon in the dark for miles, treeing it, then baying for someone to come shoot it.

What I don't like to remember is the years after I left home—Mom and Beauregard alone in the country, Beauregard always hooked to his chain, day after day, seldom making a sound.

Driving

I told mom I wanted to go riding with you and your brother. Your brother has the car. He's cool. Plays on the basketball team.

He said he would drive us around, maybe get some food. Mom said no. You're my friend. I've known you since Head Start, back before the schools were desegregated. But you're black. It wouldn't look right. Don't act hurt. It's not personal. She's just trying to protect me.

Stray

It was late in the afternoon. Still daylight, I know, because our old barn was open on the uphill side, still didn't have lights. We kept the hay stacked up top and dropped it through trapdoors to the cows below. Beauregard and I used to lie in the hay and listen to the rain on the metal roof. As I watched Dad work, a skinny dog wandered up. Some people in the neighborhood let their dogs run free. Dad said, "Don't pet him. He's a stray. Might have rabies. Watch him till I get back."

The dog had no collar. No tags. His ribs were showing beneath his matted brown hair. He didn't move much. Trembled occasionally. He looked like he'd weigh about 40 pounds if he weren't so skinny. Breed indeterminate.

Dad came back carrying his rifle. It was a 22-caliber, not good for much but squirrels and target practice. He had a couple of shotguns for hunting, though he seldom used them.

We got a rope around the dog's neck and led him to the edge of the woods. He stuck his rifle against the dog's head and pulled the trigger. There wasn't a very loud report, and only a tiny bit of blood. We left him where he fell.

We walked back to the house where Mom was making supper. The kitchen was warm and smelled of pinto beans and sauerkraut with wieners. Dad put his rifle back in the rack he'd built above the fireplace in their bedroom. We sat down and ate supper.