Crying

 This little piece is from a YA/historical fiction I wrote called A Change Gonna Come. Change is about being in 6th grade in a Catholic school during the 1967-68 school year. Tom is a sweet kid. He thinks he's a little too sensitive for his own good. Marilyn is a new girl in class. Her mom took Thalidomide during pregnancy and this leaves Marilyn with phocomelia the most obvious deformity caused by Thalidomide. Her arm is severely shortened. This little bit is based on a true story from my own childhood. 

Mark Timchenko was tough. Once, Tom saw him slide into second base on the asphalt playground during a game of kickball, ripping his trousers and skinning his knee. Sister Celeste declared him safe at the base. His hair was slick, which bothered Sister Rachael Marie. She ridiculed him about it. In his quiet, confident way, he was defiant. Geno was cool in a loudmouth way. Mark was quiet cool.

That morning, Sister walked the aisles while the class worked on penmanship. Sister stopped near Tom’s desk. She sniffed the air like a dog on the scent. “What on earth is that smell?” She glanced at Tom accusingly. He shook his head. She was holding the ruler.

She looked to her left. Mark shrugged, eyes wide. She turned to Tom. He shuddered. Then she snapped back to Mark. “It’s you!” she shrieked, grabbing him by the neck. He dropped his pencil with the chewed-up eraser. It rolled down the aisle.

“What did you put in your hair?” Mark didn’t speak at the first assault. “Answer me!”

Mark’s big brother wore Brylcream in his hair. Everyone knew if you wanted your hair slick that “a little dab’ll do ya,” like they said on TV. It didn’t smell like Brylcream.

“Bacon grease, Sister Rachael Marie,” Mark choked out.

“What were you thinking?” She jerked him out of his seat by the neck and shook him like a terrier shakes a rat. Mark winced. But he did not cry. That boy had a high threshold of pain. Mark simply wouldn’t or couldn’t cry. 

Then she pulled his hair.

“How dare you? What will your father say?” If his parents were anything like the O’Briens, they’d laugh and called him a goofball. Maybe, Tom thought, Sister felt like she owed Mark, like he’d gotten away with too much. 

“I… don’t… know…Sister…” The words came out with little spaces between them. Spaces Tom knew were filled with pain. Mark’s scalp rose at the front of his hairline. His eyes were squeezed shut. 

The class knew that she wouldn’t release him until she got what she was looking for.

“What will your father say?” she repeated. 

She shifted her grip from the front of his hair to his sideburn. Of course, they were too young for real sideburns. But Sister grabbed the piece of hair just in front and above his ear. And pulled. Up. Hard.

Mark wasn’t trying to be brave; it was just not his nature to cry. The class knew she wouldn’t stop pulling until he did. Tears were Sister’s currency.

Tom said a prayer for Mark. Tom thought later he should have prayed for Sister to have a kinder heart.

After what seemed like eternity, a tear pearled in the corner of Mark’s eye. All the kids who could see that tear hoped it would signal the end of Sister Rachael Marie’s discipline. The tear slipped down his cheek and onto his handwriting paper, a round wet spot blurring the blue lines.

With a faint smile, Sister let him go. Mark’s face was red. Tears filled both of his eyes now. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. 

Sister sighed. “Where were we? Oh yes, let’s review the letter Q…”

Tom walked home alone. Geno would have made up a nickname for Mark, and Tom couldn’t bear it. The scene played over in his mind—Mark’s crooked tie, the chewed pencil rolling down the aisle, the silence as everyone waited for him to cry.

Tom ducked into a weedy lot beside 57th Avenue. He sat on a cement block, the remains of a house foundation. Crickets chirped. Grasshoppers flung themselves around at being disturbed on this perfect grasshopper day. There was a yellow and black spider with a bright white zipper line woven through the middle of her web, waiting to catch one of these reckless grasshoppers. He heard traffic and snatches of kids’ conversation. A cicada buzzed close by. Tom put his head in his hands. And cried. 

They were quiet tears, like Mark’s. He prayed Mark would not be too embarrassed. He prayed Sister would lighten up. He prayed for the strength not to be such a crybaby. Tom was alone in this weedy little world, his head bowed. 

He sighed and lifted his chin. Startled, he realized he wasn’t alone. Sitting next to him was Marilyn Malloy. She looked into the distance. Tom wiped his eyes and stole a glance at her. Her right arm was tucked into the folds of her plaid skirt. Her eyes sparkled blue and clear. 

Then she snatched off her beanie. Bobby pins flew. Tom thought about making up a story to account for his tears, maybe allergies or an imaginary bug that flew up his nose.

“Sorry,” he croaked.

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“I don’t usually hang out in the weeds and lose it.”

“I get it,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “Sister’s cruel. I cry sometimes, too.” 

So, Tom thought, she can read minds.

They sat silently for a few minutes while he composed himself. She looked away so he wouldn’t be embarrassed. Tall weeds. Singing crickets. Foolish grasshoppers. Hungry spiders. 

Marilyn pulled her malformed arm from its hiding place and touched Tom on the shoulder. Tom looked at it, then met her gaze. She smiled.

“Listen. Don’t let her get you down. She wins then.”

Tom had never been touched by a girl, other than his sisters or his mom.

She simply touched him, got up, nodded, and walked away. For the rest of his life, he’d remember the first time being touched in kindness by a pretty girl.

We Pray for Children

I discovered this poem many years ago. I don't know it's history but I used it often whenever I spoke to teachers of young children about how important our job is. For many kids, teachers are among the most important people in their daily lives. During the workweek, teachers spend about as much time with their students as parents do. That’s a lot of responsibility.

 

During this time in particular, when our world is making life brutal for kids, the teacher’s roles of comforting, strengthening, confidence building, nurturing, empowering, and – yes – loving, are more crucial than ever. While I’ve been out of the classroom for over a year now, it’s hard to stop thinking of myself as a teacher. I hope I didn't just teach math or reading or social studies. I always meant to teach children. They weren’t my clients or my job. They were my best friends. This poem by Ina Hughes reminds me.

 

We pray for children

  who put chocolate fingers everywhere

  who like to be tickled

  who stomp in puddles and ruin their new pants

  who sneak popsicles before supper

  who erase holes in math workbooks

  who can never find their shoes

 

And we pray for those

  who stare at photographers from behind barbed wire

  who can't bound down the street in a new pair of sneakers

  who never "counted potatoes"

  who are born in places we wouldn't be caught dead

  who never go to the circus

  who live in an x-rated world

 

We pray for children

  who bring us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions

  who sleep with the dog and bury goldfish

  who hug us in a hurry and forget their lunch money

  who cover themselves with band-aids and sing off key

  who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink

  who slurp their soup

 

And we pray for those

  who never get dessert

  who have no safe blanket to drag behind them

  who watch their parents watch them die

  who can't find any bread to steal

  who don't have any rooms to clean up

  whose pictures aren't on anybody's dresser

  whose monsters are real

 

We pray for children

  who spend their allowance before Tuesday

  who throw tantrums in the grocery store and pick at their food

  who like ghost stories

  who shove dirty clothes under the bed and never rinse out the tub

  who get visits from the tooth fairy

  who don't like to be kissed in front of the carpool

  who squirm in church or temple and scream in the phone

  whose tears we sometimes laugh at and whose smiles can make us cry

 

And we pray for those

  whose nightmares come in the daytime

  who will eat anything

  who have never seen a dentist

  who aren't spoiled by anybody

  who go to bed hungry and cry themselves to sleep

  who live and breathe but have no being

 

We pray for children who want to be carried and for those who must

  for those we never give up on 

  and for those who don't have a second chance

 

For those we smother... and for those who will grab the hand of 

 anybody kind enough to offer it.

                     Ina J. Hughes

 

At school we had a moment of silence. I used to resent it. "Please pause for a moment of silence," said the child who read the announcements every day. It used to mean nothing to me. It was just thirty seconds where I would mentally prepare for the school day ahead.

 

After a while, I tried to look into the eyes of each student. After a while they tried to make sure our eyes met. During that sort of sacred time, I prayed for children.

 

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