Great Beginnings

2016-04-20 09:16 AM

Great Beginnings Exercise from Great Courses on Writing Creative Non-Fiction.

Jack and Judy - Su Manzaneros - sat astride Suena Machina locked in dream states as they flew toward the split psychedelic horizon that appeared in their fisheye view finder. “What are you doing? Where are we going? Look at me, talk to me,” barked Judy. She sure gets on my nerves, as my old man used to say, thought Jack.

1968, 23 North Iowa, Colorado Springs, CO

1968, 23 North Iowa, Colorado Springs, CO

The cats on the porch were feral, they lived in the vacant farm house sitting on a side street with a hanging for sale sign that never drew any lookers. Fine for me, the rent was $80 per month, I never saw the landlord, mailing the rent check. I was okayed to paint the interior as I pleased and I did. Black woodwork, carpet square flooring, red wainscot bathroom. Green kitchen with a genuine farmer’s sink, mauve walls in living room, beaded curtains separated the yellow walls of the sitting area. A single small closet in the entire house squeezed in beneath the stairs leading to the top floor that I never visited. A women’s touch covered an abandoned couch in orange burlap and fashioned curtains also of burlap. We called it the Great Pumpkin, the realization of my hippie fantasy with white cinder blocks and redwood planks and black Naugahyde cushions. A short year later I came to regretfully question my choice of abode as I found myself, alone, chasing a dream that never was. Unable to stay and enjoy, realizing my mantra – can’t wait to get there, can’t wait to leave – I began to realize I didn’t want to live Mother and Clinton’s life.

World War III

2016-04-12 07:27 PM

World War III

The black and white photo of a World War II Paris street battle scene from the archives of Life Magazine is titled the “Liberation of Paris.”  It’s a stark contrast to today’s televised war coverage that seems to loop endlessly on worldwide television networks at all hours of the day. The grey-toned 1944 photograph lacks an accompanying sound track. Looking at the still photograph one cannot hear wailing sirens, explosions, screams of the wounded, and the ominous voice interpreting the events that accompany videos reporting recent terrorist attacks in Paris. The still photo does not show the torn colors of the chaotic victims, the drifting smoke, or the battle-ready police and soldiers as they rush about.

What is the message behind the “Liberation of Paris” photograph? Are we to believe that a few soldiers of the French Resistance forced the Nazis to surrender through street battles such as this? These soldiers are poorly equipped and in an exposed position.  No, the impetus behind the Nazis surrender was the impending arrival of the US Third Army, led by General George Patton, that consisted of the 2nd Armored Division and the US 4th Infantry Division.

What’s the message behind today’s war coverage? How can we be so unaware that World War III is happening right in front of our eyes? Nations of the major continents America, Europe, Africa and Asia are under siege by the ISIS Islamic Nation. Attacks are not reported as acts of war. Rather they are reported as acts of terror caused by resource inequality and climate change. The war with ISIS goes on and on, unacknowledged, undeclared, and unrestrained. We are like proverbial frogs in a caldron, unaware of the intensifying blaze of the secret World War III.

Easter Shot

“Shoot it, shoot it!” Mother quietly urged through her frozen smile as she excitedly bobbed about – up, down, and sideways. My stepfather Clinton stood nearby grinning broadly. He’s from the hills of Kentucky, by way of World War II in Germany, and he has been around guns for as long as he can remember. “Why, when I was your age, I shot squirrels with a 22 rifle for our supper,” he once said.

How did this day start? I dressed in new Easter Sunday clothes. I’m wearing a rather flamboyant polyester blue suit created by Mother, which features a contrasting light plaid front.  She’s an ambitious seamstress out of necessity. ”Just to be different,” she said about her unusual design. I donned a white shirt, slicked my thick brown hair over to one side with a low part, and freshly polished my shoes to complete my Easter Sunday outfit.

We’re living in Denver in the mid-1950s close to Speer Boulevard and 17^th Street. I sometimes play in Cherry Creek following a big rainstorm marveling at the mini sand dunes created by the passing storm. 

I don’t recall what church we went to that Easter Sunday. It is now near midday, we are at a water ditch south of Denver. Could this be the High Line Canal? We’re here so I can shoot Clinton’s 410 gauge shotgun. This is the same gun that I recall Mother and Clinton using one time when we drove the gravel roads among the fields south of Denver at night and poached a pheasant by first blinding and freezing it motionless in the spotlight of our 1953 green and cream Custom Ford sedan. Mother tucked the dead pheasant inside her blouse in case a game warden came along.

My final shot of the day was a close-up blast at a small rabbit. While our original intent was target practice, when the little critter wandered into our path, the hunting instincts of Mother and Clinton took over. Excitedly hopping about, Mother urged, “Shoot it, shoot it!” I shot it. A mass of bloody fur lay on the ground 10 feet away.

I didn’t feel thrilled. “Is this what it’s all about?” I must have wondered. Were they elated on the drive home? Did we fry and eat the rabbit for dinner? Did I help Clinton skin it, cut it open, pull its guts out, cut its head and paws off, and cut it into the serving size pieces for dinner? I don’t remember those details.

I do remember this day as the last time I shot an animal. Dressed in my Easter Sunday best, I blasted a small rabbit at near point-blank range with a shotgun. It was an Easter shot I never forgot.

Revision #1

“Shoot it, shoot it!” Mother hissed, a frozen smile on her face as she excitedly bobbed about – up, down, and sideways. My stepfather Clinton stood nearby grinning, “Why, when I was your age, I shot squirrels with a 22 rifle for our supper.” He’s from the hills of Kentucky, by way of World War II in Germany, and he has been around guns for as long as he can remember. 

How did this day start? I'm wearing new Easter Sunday clothes, a flamboyant polyester blue suit sewn by Mother, which features a contrasting light plaid front.  She’s an ambitious seamstress. ”Just to be different,” she said about her unusual design. I'm wearing a new white shirt, my thick brown hair is slicked over to one side, freshly polished shoes complete my Easter Sunday outfit.

We’re living in Denver in the mid-1950s,  close to Speer Boulevard and 17^th Street. I sometimes go to Cherry Creek near downtown Denver after thunderous rainstorms and play among the mini sand dunes left by the big storms that sweep through the then unchanneled natural flowing creek. 

I don’t recall what church we went to that Easter Sunday. It is now near midday, we are at a water ditch south of Denver. Could this be the High Line Canal? We’re here so I can shoot Clinton’s 410 gauge shotgun. This is the same gun that I recall Mother and Clinton using one time when we drove the gravel roads among the fields south of Denver at night and poached a pheasant by first freezing it motionless in the spotlight of our 1953 green and cream Custom Ford sedan. Mother tucked the dead pheasant inside her blouse in case a game warden came along.

With my final shot of the day, I blasted a small rabbit. While our original intent was target practice, when the little critter wandered into view, the hunting instincts of Mother and Clinton took over. Excitedly hopping about, Mother whispered, “Shoot it, shoot it!” I shot it. A mass of bloody fur lay on the ground 10 feet away.

I didn’t feel thrilled. “Is this what it’s all about?” I must have wondered. Were they chatting happily on the drive home? Did we fry and eat the rabbit for dinner? Did I help Clinton skin it, cut it open, pull its guts out, cut its head and paws off, and cut it into the serving size pieces for dinner? Or, was the little critter blown apart so badly that we left it lay? I don’t remember those details.

I do remember this day as the last time I shot an animal. Dressed in my Easter Sunday best, blasting a small rabbit at near point-blank range with a shotgun. Yukk!  It was an Easter shot I never forgot.