A Change Gonna Come

 

 

For the past couple of years I've been writing fiction. Sort of. Much of it is memories. I have two manuscripts under my belt. Working on a third. Below is the first chapter of a historical fiction/middle grade novel tentatively called A Change Gonna Come. It's about being in sixth grade in a Catholic school during the 1967-68 school year. While it IS fiction, it's based on some of my experiences, friends, family, teachers, and enemies. From time to time I'll post bits that might work as stand alone pieces. Here's the opening chapter. I'd love to know what you think. 

Looking for an agent. Just saying. 

Merrillville, Indiana - Tuesday, September 5, 1967

“God, I hate these chokers!” Geno Svoboda tugged at his tie on their walk to Saints Peter and Paul Catholic School. Almost fall, it was still summertime hot.

“I miss vacation already,” said Tom. Black dress shoes shined, white shirts bleached, hair buzzed. This was the freshest they’d look until May 31, their final day of sixth grade. Their shoes were dusty by the time they got to school.

The classroom smelled of the waxy floor coating applied over the summer, chalk, and dusty books. The windows let in a welcomed breeze that smelled of baseball, fort making, and snake catching, now reserved for weekends and vacations.

Sister Rachael Marie was dressed in her nun’s habit, her “penguin costume.” All you could see of Sister were her hands and face. Even her forehead was covered with stiff, white fabric. The nuns wore long black veils, and their habits reached the floor.

She studied her seating chart and looked up at the young faces forming first impressions.

After nodding to Sister Rachael Marie, Tom zeroed in on his name, written on the desktop in neat cursive on a piece of tape: Thomas O’Brien. He looked at the name on the desk in front of his: Mary Malloy.

Tom hoped she was cool, because he’d have to look at the back of her head for the next one hundred seventy school days.

The girls wore white blouses, shiny black shoes, and pleated skirts. Through sixth grade the girls wore beanies, little round cloth caps held in place with bobby pins. 

Sister examined her chart. “Another O’Brien, hmm?” Tom hoped she wouldn’t judge him from his brother Matt’s shenanigans.

“Maria Bartolomeo. I pray you have a better work ethic than your brother, Anthony.”

“Yes, Sister,” she replied.

“You must call me Sister Rachael Marie. No informalities in this classroom.”

“Yes, Sister Rachael Marie,” Maria nodded so hard her beanie almost fell off.

Then she walked in. It had to be Mary. Tom noticed how bright her eyes were in contrast to her dark hair.

Rachael Marie motioned to the empty front desk.

Mary’s beanie was tucked into the waist of her skirt.

“Mary, put your beanie on.”

Mary looked perplexed.

“Mary!” Sister said too loudly. “Beanie. Now!”

“My name is Marilyn,” she whispered. “I thought you were talking to someone else.”

“There is no Marilyn in the Bible. I will have no unchristian names in my classroom.”

“My parents named me Marilyn,” she said, eyebrows scrunching together.

“Children in this room will be called Christian names.” Tom could think of plenty of kids in school who didn’t have Biblical names.

“Now, put your beanie on.”

“Sister, we didn’t have any bobby pins. I just enrolled and…”

“I expect you’ve been raised very informally. In this classroom you will give me my rank.”

“Ma’am?”

“You’ll address me as Sister Rachael Marie at all times.”

“Yes, ma’am. Yes, Sister. Yes, Sister Rachael Marie,” Marilyn-Mary stammered.

“You will wear your beanie every day. Today you’ll buy pins from me. I charge two pennies each.”

“Sister, I don’t…”

“Pay me tomorrow, but you will wear your beanie today.”

Marilyn-Mary’s cheeks flushed. Sister opened her drawer and pulled out a card covered with bobby pins. She pulled two off and walked over to Marilyn-Mary’s desk. They dropped with a tink-tink.

Marilyn-Mary pinned her beanie in place.

Later, Tom watched her reach out to open the lid of her desk. Her arm ended above the elbow. The hand at the end of that short arm had only one tiny finger curving out from the side.

Tom stared. This girl was so pretty, so normal. But her arm gave him the creeps. No matter what was happening in class, he searched for her stump. He didn’t want to see it, but he couldn’t look away.

Around midmorning, textbooks were checked out. Marilyn-Mary’s stump snaked out to hold up her desktop as Sister handed her the heavy American history book. Sister saw the malformed hand, and so did many of their classmates.

“Mary,” Sister said.

After an entire morning of talking, Sister fell silent.

Marilyn-Mary looked up, “Yes, Sister Rachael Marie?”

“I’m sorry,” Sister said, eyes focused directly on Marilyn-Mary’s arm.

Marilyn-Mary’s cheeks flushed; her eyes bright with anger. “Don’t waste your sorry on me, Sister Rachael Marie.”

 

Dear Mr. O

Forgive the tense changes in this piece. I retired from teaching little kids a year ago. Sometimes I still wake up and I'm a little confused about where I am. My tenses are bewildered.

You might remember letters. A pencil-and-paper message, handwritten, with thoughts, memories, stories. Love. Carefully crafted. Written in cursive, folded twice, tucked into an envelope, licked shut, stamped, addressed, return addressed. I received one this week. It was from an old friend. 

 I knew this child a couple years ago. She was in my third-grade class. We spent 7 hours a day together. We played on the recess field. Shared meals. Made each other laugh. We shared our favorite books, family stories. We sat side-by-side during powerful discoveries, asked and answered important questions. After a while (never at the very beginning) we said we loved each other. And it was sincere. 

The life of a teacher must be peculiar to those outside the field. Teachers and students start out essentially as strangers, each of us asking ourselves if we’ll like each other, if this will be a good time, if we’ll laugh. Can we be ourselves? Will there be moments of amazement? Joy? Will there be sadness? Fear? Will we be allowed and encouraged to be who we really are? 

 I asked myself at the beginning of the year (yes, even after 38 years), Am I up to this? Do I have teacher/imposter syndrome? Am I faking it? Is everything going to be OK? 

As we got to know each other, there were all the important times one expects after years in the profession. The Ah-Ha! moments, difficult things to learn and teach, the sometimes excruciating outside world pressing in on our classroom lives, new babies, the deaths of grandparents and beloved pets, getting to know each other in ways that few people can. Knowing which gags will make the class laugh. Understanding how to get everyone’s attention. Figuring out everyone’s line of when to push, when to let go, when to show anger and disappointment, and when – after a while – to say, “I’ve been meaning to tell you all this. I hope you don’t feel uncomfortable. But… 

“I love you. I do. You’re my best friends. Someone has to be in charge here. And that would be me. But I want you to know. I mean it. I love you.” Or something like that. 

 It was more spontaneous than it sounds. It wasn’t rehearsed. I usually said it when we got settled from a transition. Like coming in for recess, just before read aloud, lining up for lunch, or at the end of a particularly difficult day. (Yeah, we had those.) 

There were plenty of years as a young teacher when I didn’t tell the kids how I felt. The emotions were always there. I just wasn’t comfortable enough in my teacher-skin to say it. But after the first time I used “the L word” with my young students, a weight was lifted. It became more natural. It felt right. 

When the kids went on the fourth grade, I often mourned. Quietly. It wasn’t just certain kids. There’s an US that happens with a group of people who get to know each as teachers and learners in a room where you spend hundreds of hours in the same space. You may remember from when you were little. It probably happens in middle and high school. Surely it happens in college seminars. But it’s not quite the same as when you’re little. 

So, when they moved on I mourned. I missed US. Certainly, there was a new group in front of me that I would learn to love. But for a time, there was an uncertainty in many of my former students’ eyes as we passed in the hall or saw each other in the cafeteria. 

There’s the guy who made us laugh and work hard. There is the graybeard who read us stories, let us into his life, read to us from the news and asked our opinions. That man who brought in watermelons for us to eat on hot days, caterpillars for us to watch, forest soil to examine. He prepared us for the ridiculous end of the year tests, sang songs with us, listened as we shared our stories. That old dude who taught us new playground games, math games, chess. The fella (born in the 1950’s, can you believe it?) who had a hard time hiding his tears and never held back his laughter. 

After a while our connection fades. For those new 9-year-olds passing me in the hall or playing kickball with their own class on the recess field, that time in 2nd and 3rd becomes distant. They’re growing up, making new memories that replace many of the old ones. They’re not strangers exactly, but no longer best friends. I might flash the “I love you” sign, but their smiles back become less bright. 

It’s natural. I’ve seen it so many times I can’t remember. My first students would be in their mid-50s now. They may remember my name, but very little else. It’s just the way it is. 

But then every once in a while, a little glimmer reaches through the bills, ads, political BS, and sales circulars in my mailbox. Every so often there is an envelope addressed to me in cursive handwriting (that I taught). And it’s filled with… 

Dear Mr. O… I got to see my new baby cousin for the first time. She is so sweet… We caught 3 snakes and a huge crawdad… My pinky got stung by a bee that I was trying to rescue… I can’t believe we’re going back to school so soon. They say there might be a new kid… I read a good book called Charley Thorn and the Lost City. What are you reading?... 

And every once in a while, it’s signed with perhaps the most important word of all time. 

Love

Just Ordinary Thoughts - Three Angels and a Truck

 

Just Ordinary Thoughts

Once again, restarting the blog. I mean it this time. A lot has been going on.  Retired from teaching little kids after 38 years. I wrote two books. Querying the heck out of the first one. Waiting for edits on the second. Thinking and making notes for the third. In the meantime I have the need to write. My goal is to write something new every week for Ordinary Guy (the name of this blog). But I'll also repost older pieces that haven't seen the light of day for a while. This is the one I started off with on September 25, 2008. A little time capsule. A little fossil preserved in amber.

The other day a cool thing happened. I guess it isn't just ordinary. My wife and some new friends and my son and his sweetie were helping a friend in distress. She was moving out of her estranged husband's place. It was hard. Not the work. The situation. She was incredibly sad. She and her husband had fixed this beautiful place up. It took years of backbreaking work. Yet, as our friend explained, it was all a labor of love.  

It was a big old building. They had to tear it apart before rebuilding. Sweat. Tears. Years. The estranged husband was there while we were organizing, collecting dusty boxes, emptying out closets, getting fire ant bites. He was there sort of creeping around. and playing his symphonic music REALLY loud. We would catch peeks of him lurking.

Our friend was in pain. She took us on a lengthy tour of the place. It was magnificent. The work was brilliant. While there was still a lot to do, her work there was finished. She was not only saying good bye to this home, this project, the years of labor and love she put into it. She was also saying farewell to years of marriage and commitment to a guy who wasn't nice for a long time. There were lots of tears. While the morning became afternoon I became more and more angry with her skulking husband and sadder and sadder for her. It was wretched.

In the early afternoon three guys came from Two-Men-And-A-Truck. To me they were sort of faceless. I'm embarrassed to say it but I was so absorbed in my friend's pain, and my anger at her creeper husband, that I never even looked these men in the eye. While we had sort of organized things and pulled some of the boxes together, these three men did the real work. Dressers, wardrobes, stuffed dusty boxes. I didn't even acknowledge them. These strong young men put their backs into the real labor, while we sort of huddled around our friend. We were doing our job. They were doing theirs.

After the truck was loaded we prepared for the long ride back to her new place. Three cars and the moving truck. One of the young movers said, "We need to circle up." I wasn't sure what he meant. "C'mon, man. Why don't you go get the lady? She needs a circle." I went to get our friend. As I walked up to the door she came out into the sunlight with red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks. She had just been saying good bye to her dog who was staying behind. The rest of our group were standing in a semi-circle. Waiting. When she came over, we held hands. The Three-Men-And-Truck guy took off his hat. His head was shiny bald. He tucked it under his arm and held hands with one of the other guys. The Three-Men closed their eyes and bowed their heads.  

"God," he said reverently. "Please send down your love on this good woman. She's goin' through some hard times and she needs some of your love right now. Thank you, God, for these good friends who have gathered 'round to give her comfort. Please be sure that she sees some of your kindness and mercy real soon." Long pause. The other Three-Men guys nodded their approval.  

"Thanks," our friend said quietly. "That was beautiful."  

I cried. Some of the others did too. The words were perfect. The sentiments exactly what were needed. The blessing so pure and sweet. Of course these good men had seen the pain and sorrow. They were tired, probably not all that well paid. And yet they gave back to all of us in a way that nothing else could.  

We left that place soon after. It was one of those real times, one of those lessons about human worth and dignity that jumped out at me. When I shared this little story with some friends it occurred to me that there are small important moments that happen all the time. I work with small children. I am married to my best friend and have two wonderful sons to fill my life with joy.  

It was this bright little moment that made me think I should start another blog. This one will be a combination of Just Ordinary Thoughts and stories of a life. It will also contain short stories and bits of fiction that I have written over the years. Since I am a teacher, it will probably contain stories of wonderful children and the lessons they teach me.  

So, here is the start of my story.  I hope that it has some light for you.

That One Day

I hadn’t even looked at my blog for a long time. I AM a writer. I have written curriculum with kids, I have written books, chapters and articles about teaching. I wrote lengthy newsletters to my students’ parents about what we did each week in class and why we did it. I wrote during my class’ writing workshop. I’ve written songs, responses to books, lots of things. Really.

But I let this blog go. I stopped writing about the essential every day noticings a writer needs in order to sustain an edge, that look at the world, that observational stance, which makes one more careful, more watchful, more keen to pick up on little things that make a big difference. We live those moments all the time. But writing about them gives them their rightful place in our lives.

It’s all those small stories that make up the big story of our life. And when you write them down, they find their importance.

Here’s one. A couple weekends ago, Heidi and I went up to our son’s house. He and his wife bought this honey of a place in Tega Cay. It had just been flipped. The previous owner went through as fast as possible and slapped down carpet over tile, ignored drainage issues, and painted surfaces that deserved a little more TLC before being whitewashed over.

Devin found mold behind some sheetrock and had to gut a downstairs room. Carpet had to be pulled up, plasterboard broken up and removed, everything needed to be bleached. He had to get it all down to the bare bones. Not pleasant but necessary. He invited me up for the construction. 

Neither of us had ever done any extensive rebuilding like this. Instead of replacing the sheetrock we used tongue-and-groove pine boards. There were four outlets on the wall, space for trim, lots of measuring and cutting. It’s not like it was all that hard to figure out what to do. It’s just that we figured it out together.

Here is this big strong man, who I used to carry on my shoulders, who used to delight me with his first insect discoveries, his first guitar licks, his first tricks on a skateboard, catching his first bass. Then his first crush, his first car, his first experiences in college. Then getting into grad school, getting that doctorate, marrying the love of his life, buying his first house.

That one day of us figuring out – Measure twice, cut once! – on the edge of understanding, of making small mistakes and figuring out how to fix them so no one would notice but us. That one day of measuring and cutting, of drilling and screwing, of trimming over larger than expected spaces and spackling and calking in places where it was needed. That one day of laughing and reminiscing and catching up on the miles and time between us. That one day of sawdust in our noses and too loud noises in our ears, of cool water drinks and fast food sandwiches. That one day.

If you’d asked me on Monday what I did over the weekend, I probably would have said, “Heidi and I went up to Devin and Shae’s and we refinished his sunroom.” But it was more than that. It was that one day.

I looked over the little profile piece for this blog. Sheesh, it is out of date. I will do the necessary repairs to the blurb, but after teaching little kids for thirty-eight years, I am a retired classroom teacher. It feels weird to say it, to write it, to be it. When I find myself at Lowe’s at 9:00 some random weekday morning to get paint for that shed I’ve let go for so long, it still feels weird. When I look at the clock throughout the day I wonder what my old class, my old best friends are doing right now. When it’s recess time I wonder if they are playing the games we used to play. I wonder what books they are reading, what science they are learning, how their writing is coming along. I wonder if they laugh as much as we used to. I wonder if they still read books that make them cry.

Here is a little piece Heidi and I published in a book called 

Open a World of Possible

That being said – here comes the part that sounds trite – I am working on my first novel. I told you I am a writer. But don’t many people, at some time or another, start their first novel (and never get it finished, never get it right, never get it submitted, never get it accepted, never get it published)?

I have been working pretty seriously since September, and it is more than half finished – well, the rough draft. I do understand that a ton of work has to be done in the finishing. You know, filling in where there are gaps, trimming over larger than expected spaces, calking, spackling, measuring twice and cutting once. So far I’ve only measured once. But I’ll get there.

Thing is, it doesn’t feel like work. In some ways I have been preparing for this for my entire adult life. I have read the greats (Stephen King - On Writing, Strunk and White – The Elements of Style, Ralph Fletcher – What a Writer Needs, William Zinsser – On Writing Well).

I know that in future blog posts I will write more about my sixth grade characters set in northwest Indiana, in a Catholic school, in the 1967-68 school year. Back in the day there were 170 school days. The working title is One Hundred Seventy Days With Marilyn.

I hope that you stay on board.

I’ll be back.

I promise.

Cancer Poetry

I have been out of the blogging business for quite some time now. I have not been out of the writing business though. Currently I am working on a young adult novel. The tentative title is, One Hundred Seventy Days With Marilyn. 

It feels good. I'll probably keep updating about the progress of the book. Thing is - it doesn't feel like work. When I am not writing, I read about writing. I think about writing. I have little epiphanies at the strangest times. Taking a shower, going out for a walk, painting the shed. Dreaming. 

I feel as though I need to get back to my roots and write about the wonderful, the mysterious, the mundane. The people and events that shape my life. 

If you have checked in on my blogs in the past (bless you), you know that at one time I was a regular. It might take me a while to gain that momentum again. 

People don't much read blogs anymore. No, it's the Facebook, Instagram, Twitter. Frankly, not a whole lot of people read books anymore. 

But writing is, at least in part, for the writer, right?

Here's a little piece (a text - HA!) I wrote to my principal and my friend about going to the doctor. She said with the right line breaks it might be poetry. Hmmm

You be the judge. It ain't like James M. Woods (see blog scroll for some real, honest-to-God poetry).

Thanks for reading. 

I'll be back.

Tim





SKIN DOC

Went to the skin doc on Thursday

She sort of keeps my cancer business
in check

Along with my oncologist

I have seen her a dozen times or more

Never in clothes

By the time she comes in
I am always in my skivvies

Weird relationship, huh?

(Nine years since my malignant 
melanoma, by the way 

But I should never feel at ease about it

There is no statute of limitations
on malignant melanoma

THANKS, DOC!)

I leave a little part of me with her
whenever I see her

Not in a love song way

I mean a piece of my body

This time a piece of my cheek

Like I'm not rough looking enough

God Bless John Lewis

God Bless John Lewis

“I believe in forgiveness.”

I get that. Totally. If someone punched you in the gut. Even if he did it on purpose. One could possibly forgive that person. But could you do it while the person was punching you? What if the person kept on punching?  Can you forgive someone who is punching you, has a history of punching others and has proven that he just won’t stop?

Can you forgive a person who punches people who are less able to defend themselves? Can you forgive a person who punches freely, without fear of any reprisal, whom you know will keep on punching, and kicking, and who will get others to do it for him as long as he possibly can?

The closer we get to inauguration day, the scarier this whole thing becomes. Trump's cabinet choices demonstrate how he has no regard for our political system, no intentions of placing people who would do a decent job of representing the people’s interests.

Rex Tillerson for Secretary of State. Could there be a worse pick? He is the ex-chairman for Exxon Mobil, has extremely close ties to Putin. In the past has been a climate change skeptic, but may be willing to change his tune for a shot at this job. He just acted dumb about foreign policy questions during his hearing. He is openly ignorant about foreign policy. You would have thought he could bone up for the interview, right?

Ben Carson for the director of HUD? It would be funny if it weren’t so apparently ignorant. Carson didn’t want the position. Admitted that he had no experience or knowledge of what to do. Probably doesn’t know what HUD stands for.

Michael Flynn for National Security Advisor. He lost his job in part for giving classified information to Pakistan. Trust issues?

Trump wants Linda McMahon to be in charge of the Small Business Administration She is an executive from World Wrestling Entertainment. Her qualifications? Promoting fake wrestling. Make sense?

Mike Pompeo as Director of the CIA. He called those at the CIA who participated in torture “heroes, not pawns in some liberal game being played by the ACLU and [former intelligence committee chair] Senator [Dianne] Feinstein”. (https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2016/dec/09/donald-trump-administration-cabinet-picks-so-far)

Rick Perry for the EPA! Kidding, right? Nope! The same Rick Perry who in a debate, forgot the name of this department as one he would get rid of. This department. A climate change denier in charge of the the Environmental Protection Agency he wanted to eliminate?!

Betsy DeVos who has spent all of her energy in education undermining public schools. She’s the pick to head the Department of Education. Seriously?

Sarah Palin in charge of the Veterans Administration? Sarah Palin in charge of anything?

So when Donald Trump tweeted that John Lewis needs to stick to his own business, and that he is failing to help his own district, I thought – Donald Trump isn’t worthy to be in the same room as John Lewis. John Lewis has spent his entire life helping others. He risked his life to do so. He has always stood up for the common man, the poor, the oppressed. The only person Trump has stood up for is himself, his only cause is to make more money.

So God Bless John Lewis. Between him and Donald J. Trump, which one do you think is the patriot?

Yes We Did

Yes We Did

I can hardly believe that these eight years are over. I can’t say that I agree with everything that Barak Obama has done as president. And there are things that I wish he had focused on more. But no president tried to do more good for more people than he did. There could never be a president of the United States of America that I could completely agree with. But he had integrity. Sincerity. He stood up for the oppressed. He was kind. He was generous. Welcoming. Strong when he needed to be.

There were no scandals in the White House. Michelle Obama is articulate, brilliant, beautiful. All of her causes were noble and forward thinking. She really did write most of her own speeches.

I can’t say I am not a little frightened. OK, a lot frightened – by our experiment in idiocy. Our next president has more honesty issues, more hypocrisy, more racism, more sexual violence in his past, than can even be imagined. I wouldn’t want my students in the same room alone with him. And we voted for him as our president?

Where are the conservatives who despised Russia? Are we now willing to suck up to a villain? And don’t give me that Russia had no effect on our elections. They hacked emails. Spread fake news. They lied. MANY believed the lies. They got away with it.

His racism and hostility towards minorities and immigrants is disgusting. His apparent sexism and brutality toward women, his bullying and incitement to violence at his rallies, his acceptance of indecency all should have disqualified him.

Ah, but these are different times. There are new rules in that there are NO rules.  Lies, scandal, ignorance, sexual assault – nothing stood in the way of the US voting for this man. Here are a few of Trumps “issues” listed by my friend Dan in an email, any one of these may have disqualified anyone else in the past. Charity fraud  - caught in lies, calling for nuclear proliferation, calling for national stop and frisk, violating the trade embargo with Cuba, bribing the DA in Florida and getting caught red-handed, employing a campaign manager involved with illegal corruption in Russia, he doesn’t pay taxes for 20 years – and brags about how he uses the system.

He called for banning an entire religion from entering the US, lied about his support for the war in Iraq, in court for the rape of a minor, being totally unaware of Russia’s invasion of Crimea and the many deaths there, being unaware of the situation in Syria, being penalized for discrimination in housing, filing for bankruptcy 6 times, showing very little knowledge of world affairs in all of the debates.

He slammed John McCain for being a POW while he never served in the armed forces (the details of his deferment seem to indicate that he lied to get out of serving in Vietnam), he called Mexicans rapists, he questioned a federal judge’s integrity because his parents are Mexican, he deleted emails in a casino scandal, he committed insurance fraud after a hurricane in Florida.

Dozens of assault victims came forward with allegations of abuse, he attacked and kept attacking Miss Universe for being overweight (while Trump himself is considered well beyond a healthy weight), he called for US citizens to be sent to Gitmo, he called for more extreme forms of torture to be used, he asked why we can’t use nukes if we have them.

He called to kill women and children in families of suspected terrorists, he said women should be punished for having abortions, he made fun of a disabled reporter and then continually lied about doing so, he has called for an end of freedom of the press, he has called global warming a Chinese hoax, he continually praises Putin as being an intelligent man and a strong leader, he openly admitted to not paying his employees during a debate, he delegitimized Obama’s presidency hundreds of times by lying about his citizenship.

He used campaign contributions to enrich his own businesses, said Ted Cruz’s father was involved with the assassination of JFK citing the National Enquirer as his source, he said that Black people are inherently lazy, and his appointments for cabinet positions and advisors are almost comical in their absurdity.

I will miss Barak Obama more than I can imagine.