Category: News

There Was Always a Writer in This Cop

Mid-way through his law enforcement career, David Barnes made a deal with his wife. She would go back to school for her Master’s degree while working full time, and someday he would do the same. Two decades later, she held him to the deal. [More…]
“She had decided it was time, and she let me in on her decision after she’d planned it all out,” David remembers, laughing. 
“I kept coming up with stumbling blocks,” he says. “But she’d saved up the money for the first course.” So, after years of retirement from the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation, David Barnes went back to school. 
Writing and telling stories, it soon became evident, was a calling. As a cop, David had long been interested in the people he met. “Most of the people I came across just got caught up in a series of bad decisions. I was interested in people and their circumstances. I wondered about the root of what happened to people who were marginalized.”
At the University of North Carolina-Asheville, David crossed paths with novelist and creative writing teacher Tommy Hayes. “I wanted to learn how to write, and people said, ‘This is your guy.’ They were right.” Decades of life at the dark edges of society began to come out in David’s short stories.
It was then that David met another mentor and teacher, David Martin of Fine Lines. “He’s the same kind of person Tommy Hayes is. He quietly demands that you do better than you think you can.”
Martin and the Fine Lines community of writers offered David Barnes the encouragement and help he needed as a new writer. “For someone who wants to learn how to write better, this is the best way to do it,” he says. “The feedback is all positive, pointing you, nudging you, in the right direction. David is a teacher, and a damn good one.”
“I attended every Fine Lines workshop but one,” he adds, “when my wife and I were driving Route 66.”
Not long ago, an old law enforcement friend asked David about his writing, expressing surprise that he would write for no pay. “Why are you doing this if you’re not getting money?”
“I can’t do anything with my hands,” David answered. “I’ve tried woodworking and auto mechanics, but I’m not mechanically inclined at all.
“But I can build things with words.”

Featured Writers

Carla Cherry – “I am a veteran high school English teacher and earned my MFA in Creative Writing at the City College of New York in the spring of 2022. My poetry has appeared in Random Sample Review, Memory House, Bop Dead City, Anti-Heroin Chic, 433, Raising Mothers and have been nominated for Best of the Net. My five books of poetry, Gnat Feathers and Butterfly Wings, Thirty Dollars and a Bowl of Soup, Honeysuckle Me, These Pearls Are Real, and Stardust and Skin are available via iiPublishing. 
 
 
John Doble – “My writing was published in the Valley Review, The Eureka Quarterly, and as a collection by Clemson University. I am an award-winning playwright and have had plays produced across the U.S. and in the U.K. I live in New York City.”
 
 
Richa Dineen Sharma – “Although I have written poetry ever since I could form legible sentences, I have always looked upon it as a means of escape, self-validation, and healing. For over thirty-five years, I have been writing prose and poetry. I am at the cusp of youth and wisdom. It is only recently that I’ve discovered a world of poetry beyond my own communities and journals. Reading beautiful pieces from others and the joy of having them read mine is a simple thing that I would love to experience more. I just want to share my words, verses, and thoughts with those who care for poetry. I live in Singapore, although I am originally from India. Most of my writing is my understanding, interaction, and interpretation of life: things that surround us, people, nature, tragedies, grief, and the entire gamut of human experiences.”
 
 
Charles De Flanders – “I am retired and live in Palm Desert, CA. I spend my time writing fiction. I grew up in Mississippi, Louisiana, and Texas and only attended poor schools. I was 31 when I first read a book completely to the end. Thank goodness I found that community college teacher who sensed I was smart and could learn to become a good student. Now, I cannot stop reading and telling my stories to Fine Linesreaders.” 
 
Emily Breese – “I published nonfiction in Carve Magazine. Recent research and writing projects cover my Holocaust survivor parents and grandparents, who died in the camps, yet thankfully left letters from their time in Germany before their deportation. I volunteered as a Court Appointed Special Advocate and worked as a social services counselor, following a career as a Librarian and Information Specialist in technology companies. I am honored to be included in this literary journal Fine Lines. I live on Mercer Island, WA.”

Al and Sophia

Al and Sophia

David Martin

In fifth grade, I rode my new bicycle into the street in front of my house. The driver of a car coming around the corner did not see me. We crashed into each other. The accident was not my fault. That car broke my right arm and leg. My head hit the concrete. I was knocked out. 

When the ambulance got there, I came to. Two men in white suits put me on a stretcher, slid me through the back doors, and took me to the hospital. My parents said I was never the same. My body reacted differently. I limped every day. I saw the twisted bicycle wheels and never wanted to ride it again. That thrill was gone. Some people said I was lucky to survive. I moped around a lot. I felt “blue.” I was in a daze for three years. 

Since the injury to my head, I never go anywhere. I don’t do much. There are so many things that I do not know. I can’t do what other kids do in school. I am not good at many things. Life leaves us quickly, if we are in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it hurts. 

My high school English teacher asked me to write this journal. This is page 1. He said it would help me remember words and think better. Maybe, it would help me talk better, too. Every night before I fall asleep, I place my thoughts, questions, and feelings of the day on these pages. I hope this journal helps me come up with more ideas to mention in class. I want to do better in school.

***

For a few years, Al’s parents carefully watched him and saw that he was attracted to musical entertainment shows on television. They noticed that he wrote in his journal after listening to songs. One night, Al’s mother said to his father, “I wonder if he could play an instrument at school. I’m going to call the band director and make an appointment.”

A few days later, when the band director invited the three of them into his classroom, he let Al touch the instruments. The director played ten different ones and gave the family a five minute concert, so Al could imagine playing them himself. When the demonstration was finished, Al picked them up one at a time and held each one for a while, but he felt pulled to the saxophone. When he touched its keys, there was electricity in his fingers. Something in his heart said, “You can make that wonderful noise, Al. Try this one.”

***

I don’t talk to people much. I just want to be Al. When I play the sax, it is my meditation. When I write in my journal, sometimes, I forget my medication. I can live a lifetime in 60 bars, the length of time it takes to play one of my favorite tunes. That makes me happy. My musical notes are a lot like my words in this journal.

I heard a movie character say, “There are no mistakes in the tango. If you make a mistake, just tango on.” That should apply to life, right? Whatever happens just happens. The important thing is to keep dancing. A slip-up is life trying to get my attention.

When I make an error, I shut my eyes and imagine that I am home in my room playing a melody I love. I close my eyes to see. I open my heart to feel. I play music to speak.

The bicycle accident might limit my future, because I do not act like other kids. I am not as clear about some things as other students are. I do not care. Textbooks do not move me. Music haunts me. The director let me take the saxophone home to give it a “trial run.” I am going to focus on what I like. In some ways, I feel more adult than my friends. I do what shakes me. I leave the rest alone. Now, for the first time, I have a direction.

Before I met the band director, not much made sense to me. I was not connected to many things. That night, when I took the sax home, I made a lot of noise. The sound raised my spirits. It made me relax. I did not want to stop. Several weeks went by before the noise disappeared. After much practice, my rookie attempts left the house, and the sax’s rich, personal tone entered my room to stay. Now, when I play, I no longer feel alone.

***

“Go to sleep, Al. I am already in bed. It’s 11 p.m. I have to get up at 5 in the morning and get ready for work. My boss said I can’t be late. You can play that thing, tomorrow.”

“OK, Dad. Thanks for letting me bring ‘that thing’ home. Will you drop me off at school at 6 on your way to work? I have some stuff to make up.”

“That’s my boy.”

“This is the first time he ever wanted to go to school early and get work done. Heck, this is the first time he ever wanted to do homework. Henry, did something just happen to our little boy?”

“Shhhh. Go to sleep, Anita.”

In Al’s room, the saxophone sat on the chair by his bed.

Al thought to himself, “Thanks for coming home with us. See you in the morning.”

The hallway light fell on the lower half of the saxophone. Al thought he saw it smile.

***

Some musicians name their instruments. This gives them a personal relationship with their muse. B.B. King called his guitar “Lucille.” I call my tenor saxophone “Sophia.” We developed a thing. I don’t know what else to call it. I keep her shiny. When I make sure she has new reeds and the best key pads, she makes my notes clear and full.

She helps me talk. She helps me unlock mysteries about myself. All I have to do is play. I hear rhythms that are not written down. I don’t know where they come from. When people speak, their words have a cadence, a tone, and wind up in my head as notes. Where do the words in this journal come from? How can I place what I think in my head on these pages? Life is full of mysteries.

One day, my English teacher was talking in class. All I saw were colors. When people talk, there is a rhythm to what they say. When they are passionate about their topics, the colors I see are bright ones. When I talk about family or my pet dog, the emotions I feel hit me as colors, not notes. Some people have called me “not so bright” because of this. A school psychologist said I was “advanced” in some ways. Synesthesia and Sophia help me see things I never saw before. Now, I “hear” colors. They guide me to the notes I play in the music.

***

A week later when the band director got to school, he was surprised to see Al sitting on the floor outside the classroom door.

“My dad drops me off on his way to work in the morning,” Al said.

“Goodness, you have an inner fire,” the director said.

“Is music a language?”

“Yes, Beethoven said so, why?”

“I don’t do well with words. Could I do better with a language beyond words?”

The director laughed, “That will take time and a lot of practice. Will you be here every morning?

“I will bring Sophia, and we can play music before school starts. OK?”

“That’s great. You named your saxophone. Why that name?”

“I just like it. Does it matter?”

“It’s a powerful handle for any woman, let alone a saxophone.”

***

I read that Picasso painted every day. He told a reporter to look at his walls to read his journal. I could say, “Listen to my music. This is how I write. Let me play you an essay.”

Life is a game of second chances. Every performance is another opportunity for me to improve. I am not the music. I am a vessel. I am me. I do not want to be anyone else. If I try too hard to improve the music, I mess up. My secret is to stay me and not get in the way of the notes. I go with the flow.

I do not get excited about life. I keep things simple. I like going my own way. I don’t waste time. The more I play, the more freedom I feel. Remember the Doors? If they had a sax in that group, those songs would have climbed even higher, right? Talk about perception.

I am not like other students. My view of things is different. I won’t spend my life searching for paradise. Some people live on beaches looking for Nirvana. They want to find a microwave to cook instant happiness. They sacrifice their lives for easy answers. They do whatever it takes to avoid hard times. That becomes an empty life. I want understanding. I will work for it. I know how to live through hard times.

That is what “home” means, a place to grow, sweat, and carry on. Paradise is not a place to find. It is a feeling. Once I feel that moment, it might last forever. This could be my paradise, playing Sophia. I may have already found my Heaven on Earth.

When I play those melodies in the right way, at the right time, and for the right reasons, something comes over me. My soul expands. I am at the center of my universe. This is where I am supposed to be. I stop thinking. There is no fear. I dream the real me. This is all I want. Did John Coltrane experience this?

Other students think I am slower than they are. Well, I will spend my free time talking to Sophia. She knows me better. I play the notes that she puts into my head. My “job” is to listen to her. She teaches me to do what I love every day. I will never have to “work” a day in my life. Each night, I imagine falling asleep, listening to the Marshall Tucker Band playing “Can’t You See” with a heavy saxophone solo at the end.

***

Al could not open his textbook and find the same page the teacher was on. He was worried about failing this class, having students laugh at him, and not keeping up. It was obvious he was trying hard to do well. He failed this course in another teacher’s room last year and did not want the same thing to happen again.

He left his seat and went to the teacher’s desk. “I brought my sax to class. It calms me down. If I play it while everyone in class is writing, I might write better when I finish. It might be good for the others to write with music in the background. I won’t be loud, OK?”

The teacher could tell Al was scared of his reaction to this request and tell him to go back to his seat. Instead, the teacher agreed he could play his saxophone in front of the eleventh grade class and told the students that many writers compose creatively while listening to music. He leaned closer to Al so no one else could hear, “Come in after school, today, and you can make up the work we are doing. OK? It will be quiet, and I will help you do the class assignment.”

As Al picked up Sophia, there seemed to be no self-confidence anywhere in his body. He walked to the front of the class. Al smiled and took a deep breath. His teeth sparkled, his leg muscles straightened, his back arched, his shoulders squared, and his classmates, who assumed they were better than he was in every way, looked surprised.

As he put the strap around his neck, he began to talk. He looked straight at the other students. The more he talked about the music he was going to play, the more confident he sounded. His introduction was brief and to the point. The students were mesmerized by his fluid explanation. The musical rhythm came through the soles of his feet, up his legs to his shoulders, and into his mouth where he blew notes into the afternoon air. His fingers caressed the keys, and the tune blossomed into existence. His eyes closed, but he was relaxed and hit every note without strain.

When Al finished, the students applauded. The teacher in the next room came into the hall, looked into our class, went back to her room, and shut her door. The amazed students begged Al to play another song. From that day on, he was a changed young man. He walked with a limp, but now, his back was straight, and he held his head up.

***

I wanted to enter our school’s “Talent Show” and play Sophia for my friends. When I told them this, I could see the surprise on their faces. I never volunteered to do anything in class. I was always the last person to turn in my work, if I ever did any work. They were polite, but I could tell they thought I would not show up for practice and make excuses at the last minute for not performing. No one knew that I told the band director, three months ago, of my intentions to play with the other students.

***

“Al, that is great. I am glad to have you help us,” the band director said. “I can see that you mean it, and I can’t believe how much you have improved playing, since you first came to me in eighth grade with your parents. I have something you should wear just for this occasion, but don’t tell anyone. OK? Few people in school know that you have been coming into the band room before school to practice.”

“Having the discipline to practice every day is as important as having the musical talent. Let’s send a strong message to the audience when you perform. We want to show them the spirit you have released. They must know the purpose in your musical message, and this will blow their socks off.”

At the talent show, Al captured his big moment in a white suit that the band director let him wear for the evening, and even if it was a size too large, his dark skin accentuated the garment’s electricity. He always wanted to wear a white suit when he played, because the men who got out of the ambulance to pick him up and take him to the hospital wore white, and they saved his life. His dark shirt, white tie, and sunglasses made him a powerful presence, like he just stepped off a major blues album cover. As he appeared from behind the curtain with his Afro haircut, he looked like a celebrity and slowly walked across the stage.

When he stepped into the solitary spotlight, front and center, the audience was not sure who they were looking at, but when Al took off his sunglasses and smiled, the students in the auditorium gasped, fell silent for a few seconds, and then erupted in applause.

“It’s Al!”

“Can you believe that? It’s Al!”

“Go Al!”

With an unexpected assurance, he grinned so widely the people in the front row could see the gaps in his teeth. He put his sunglasses back on and stepped closer to the microphone. He looked directly up at the solitary spotlight and pointed. As he had done this many times before, he looked at the crowd, inhaled deeply, and swung the strap holding Sophia around to the back of his shoulder. When he exhaled, more than 1,000 adults and students in the audience leaned forward to hear every word he said.

“I want to dedicate this tune to my English teacher. Every day, he wonders if I pay attention in class. He tries not to show disappointment when I can’t turn in my assignments. Teach. I heard what you said about essays. They have introductions, bodies, and conclusions. I can’t use words good to express myself. Tonight, I hope you hear my thesis. My purpose for writing this tune is to say ‘Thanks.’ ”

“You make our class a family. You helped me improve in a lot of ways. Music is everywhere. Blank pages are filled with hope. When I write songs, I fall onto the pages and wiggle between the notes. This is how I say what I feel. You let me play my music in class, and I found harmony there. Thank you for giving me so many second chances. Every creation matters. Doesn’t it?”

He stepped back from the microphone, pulled Sophia around in front of him, and she came alive. At first, she was soft and gentle. Her beginning was open ended and slowly moved to the main point. Soon the body of the piece wailed and then screamed. When she cried, some in the auditorium did, too. Three times, the good listeners heard her say, “I know this is true?”

Al’s performance made everyone stand up and cheer for what seemed like five minutes. In the back of the auditorium, sitting by himself, Al’s teacher applauded, and his eyes filled with tears. The essay Al played that night was the only one his teacher ever wanted to sing. Al, even with all of his personal and physical issues, had become a rare musical talent.

The band director walked up to the microphone and told the crowd that he had never seen another student musician like him. He shook Al’s hand and asked, “Where did you get the inspiration to write this music?”

Al held Sophia tightly. “I learned early in life that our days are limited. I want to make the most of every one.”

“What do you mean?” the director said.

“There are many ways to tell the truth. Why settle for just one? Tonight, Sophia and I decided to tell you what that means in our music.”

He looked up at the ceiling. “Like that spotlight, I know there is a light inside each of us. I do not know what mine is for, precisely, but one way I can reach it is to play Sophia. Like people falling in love, we were strangers one moment and inseparable the next. It’s crazy, right?”

In English class the next day, Al said to his teacher, “Last night’s Road Show is what you meant the other day when you used that ‘E” word!”

“Epiphany?” the teacher smiled.

“Yeah, that’s it. Thanks for listening to me. Most teachers are too busy. They ‘see’ me, but they don’t ‘hear’ me. They don’t take the time. I’m just a kid. Who cares what I have to say? Do I matter? Does anyone matter? I look up at the night stars and wonder, ‘Why this planet?’ ”

***

I got a tape machine for my birthday last year. I recorded one of my songs on it. Man, when I played the tape back, I was happy. I heard myself. Those notes would not have been in the air, if I did not play them. At that time, I mattered, just a bit. I existed.

When I played my music again, I mattered more in this world. My heart opened wide. I heard a new message come out of those notes. That idea shook me. How much do I matter? 

Could I find more messages? Is there a purpose in being alive? Was I born for a reason? Will my music tell me the answers to these questions?

I forgive myself when I make a mistake, but I want to live for something. Passion matters. Together, Sophia and I will find out what that means.

Existentialism, and Me

NEH, Santa Barbara, Laramie, UNO, Existentialism, and Me

David Martin

“Sometimes, the truth is too simple for intellectuals.”

–Jean-Paul Sartre, French philosopher, 1905-1980

When I looked through the list of 1989 National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH) Summer Seminars for School Teachers, I was impressed by how many interesting programs there were. I studied the list for a month before deciding on my first choice. I would enjoy more than a dozen of the topics offered, but “Ethical Dimensions of the Modern French Novel: Gide, Malraux, Sartre, and Camus” kept rising to the top of my priority list. I wanted to attend that summer seminar at the University of Wyoming in Laramie.

I learned so much at the previous NEH seminar, which I attended at the University of California, Santa Barbara, in 1986 with Dr. Walter Capps. Alexis de Tocqueville and his book, Democracy in America, was the focus of that six-week enlightenment period, and I became so engrossed in the topic, I had to be dragged out of the library to go to the beach. As a result, I wrote the longest paper of my life.

My friends thought I would return to Nebraska burned like a beach native. I surprised all of them and myself, but in August, I barely owned a tan. I was either in the library or the computer room typing, instead of swimming in the ocean. I loved the reading, the writing, and the dreaming that went with this challenging program. Never before have I had that much time to concentrate and write on one idea.

An unusual coincidence of the seminar in Santa Barbara was the Statue of Liberty celebration in New York City. Tocqueville, a French attorney, taught me a lot more about the United States than I ever expected, and I wondered if the new French exposure in Laramie would be as educational. At that time, I had been to France once. On a one-day excursion by ferry from Dover, England, I spent fourteen hours in Calais. That was my only chance to step on French soil, and I hoped to get adequate time in Normandy to visit Omaha Beach, where my father was in 1944, but those plans did not work out.

I possessed a hidden desire to teach philosophy to my high school students. My traditional, conservative, 90% college prep school would not allow something as frivolous as this into its established nineteenth century curriculum, but I thought about including it in my American Literature class, the next year during a free unit. I wanted to squeeze a bit of philosophy into the Early American Revolutionary War Period, which already included a discussion of Enlightenment ideas and religious principles surrounding our separation from Great Britain. Some of the early French philosophers might appear there. After all, those upstart and rebellious Americans could not have won their War of Independence without the French navy getting behind Cornwallis at Yorktown.

The University of Nebraska at Omaha (UNO) asked me to develop an English Department undergraduate course. They wanted to expand their course selection and offer new topics to students. I gave them a list of six courses I might research, develop, and present. I was surprised when the department accepted the first course on my list, Existentialist Literature. I included seventeen titles in my required reading list. Some professors told me my class would not be successful, because what I proposed was too difficult, and not enough students would sign up for such an unusual offering. Quickly, seventeen students signed up, and only thirteen were required. The class was the most exciting one I taught, while teaching part-time at the university. I loved the experience, and the students had a good time, too. NEH, Santa Barbara, Laramie, UNO, Existentialism, and Me – we came together in a synchronistic wholeness, a personal mandala.

I was not an expert of Existential Literature, but I wanted to become one soon. Sartre, Camus, and the other writers I chose became good friends of mine. I did not want to let them leave, so I “invited” them regularly to dinner. We always had a good time. I hoped to become more knowledgeable about their way of seeing the world and learn more biographical information about these authors, their personalities, and their motivations for writing. I wanted to hear if they had more to say to me, specifically, and they told me a lot.

In the last thirty years, I struggled with many personal philosophical considerations. I searched for life’s meaning in my jobs, relationships, books, and soul. At first, this quest, was not a conscious one. Later, after hardships and personal loss, the search became a welcome journey, out in the open, one requiring effort and attention.

After graduating from college with a bachelor’s degree, I followed the American Dream and chased dollar signs for a decade. My first marriage needed those things, I thought. Didn’t every good American boy wish for more dollar signs and more toys? A successful business career in sales management, several promotions, raises, and cross-country moves followed, as I climbed the corporate ladder. Eleven years later, a divorce later, a career change later, seven relatives and close friends dead in a ten-month period later, a second wife and two more children later, my search got closer to significant revelations. These two seminars assisted me in that personal exploration. 

After returning to the classroom, I acquired a Master of Arts Degree in English Literature and was passionate to write. I read constantly. In one year, I devoured 150 books in twelve months. Most of them were about literature, philosophy, and religion. A quiet, introverted bibliophile, I am.

After our minister resigned and left town, unexpectedly, I ran our church for fourteen months. I am not ordained, but I considered earning a second master’s degree, this time in religious history. I don’t have the necessary qualities for what it takes to be a minister, but the studying, writing, and speaking were exciting. I was given permission, on a temporary basis, to conduct marriages and performed two of them. I was responsible for a friend’s funeral in the church, and in many ways, this fourteen-month period changed my life. It made me think about my existence more than I ever had before. Would my life be meaningful? Would I make a difference? Would it matter that I was?

Of all the existentialists, Jean Paul Sartre interested me the most. His writing genius was to say the profound, simply and clearly. He related to abstract messages. A philosopher is one who has visions, and what Sartre saw was spectacular and disturbing. He pierced the dead crust of tradition. He shook western society to its foundation. His existence focused on the here and now. To him, what went into words often died. What went into work lived. A philosopher is a reformer, an antenna of our time. Sartre felt which way the spirit moved and saw beyond the horizon.

Freedom was precious to Sartre and other existentialists. They told us to use our courage and take advantage of it. Most people like barriers around them, so they don’t have to be responsible for their actions. It is easier to blame someone else, an institution, a person, an idea, instead of accepting responsibility for what happens as a result of making their own decisions. If a person won’t accept the risk of being himself, he should go on about other people’s business. Subjective reason, intuition, freedom, and taking risks with the responsibility of that freedom, while creating his own life, defined the world of an existentialist.

What is crucial to people determines their priorities of consciousness. Individual experience shows what is important in our lives and how the world reveals itself. In the midst of existence, we establish the rules for how things work. I stopped waiting for others to help me. Now, when life situations are important, I become “911.” I can’t wait for any monosyllabic Gary Cooper to intervene and save me. Heraclitus taught us to make our destiny through our choices, values, and enduring the perplexity of existence. 

What is real life? Trying to create meaning in a cosmos, which appears to be devoid of objective meaning, is difficult. Educating ourselves, as we grow older, is a process of creating ourselves. With age, we learn to not depend on precedent, habit, and the authority of others, when deciding what is best. Our lives become individual classrooms. With this separate freedom comes an ominous responsibility for every act taken. To choose our lives, to act with freedom, to be ourselves is to become an authenticated person. For some, this brings disquietude, despair, anguish, nausea, anxiety, and boredom. These by-products challenge us.

Traditional philosophers from Aristotle to Hegel saw man as an abstraction, a category, an “essence.” Aristotle said man was a “rational animal.” Hegel explained mankind by saying we were part of a system, “thought objectified.” Existentialists reacted to this denigration of human beings and their rare qualities of individuality. Traditionalists, with their quantifying statistics of IQ scores, social classes, and age groups, don’t say anything about our uniqueness and specialness. Talking about people as blacks, whites, advantaged, and disadvantaged makes individuals invisible.

In most religions, essence precedes existence. There is a meaning to the universe, which stems from God before creation. Existentialists would say the reverse; first is existence, and then comes the essence of life. A person’s identity is defined as the person lives. It is not predestined. There are no moral absolutes given at birth. What is important is learned, as we go. Not choosing what is important is to live a life like a stone. By not making decisions is to deny one’s existential reality. No suffering means no rejoicing.

Sometimes, I am strong and confident, but like my children, I am also troubled by the dark. I am distressed by the void and absence of light in the world beyond my mortality. With darkness all around me, my small eyes provide a limited vision. I can see little in front of me. Night surrounds everything. With his eyesight failing, Goethe said, on his deathbed, “Mere licht” – more light. I wish I could see farther into the night. A lamppost in the fog, a beacon in the void, a lighthouse on a barren, rocky shore, Laramie at 7,200 feet – we need more ways to see. There is so much darkness and too little illumination.

General characteristics of existential thought:

  • All can live an authentic existence.
  • Living life to its fullest emotion brings satisfaction.
  • We must use our freedom to choose in life.
  • Awareness of death determines our lives.
  • Truth is determined by the will to believe.
  • Screw guilt.
  • With freedom to choose comes responsibility.
  • Beautiful music doesn’t come out of the hate bag.

Existentialism is a term applied to a group of attitudes current in philosophical, religious, and artistic thought, which emphasizes existence rather than essence and sees the inadequacy of human reason to explain the enigma of the universe as the basic philosophical question. The term is so broadly and loosely used that an exact definition is not possible. Existentialism has found art and literature to be unusually effective forms of expression.

The existentialist assumes that we and things, in general, exist, but things have no meaning, until we declare they do. Sartre claims the fundamental truth of existentialism is in Descartes’s formula, “I think; therefore, I exist.” The existential philosophy is concerned with the personal commitment of this unique existing individual in the human situation. It attempts to codify the irrational aspect of man’s nature, to objectify nonbeing or nothingness and see it as a universal source of fear, to distrust concepts, and to emphasize experiential concreteness. When people feel meaningless in this world, they experience discomfort, anxiety, loneliness, and a desire to invest experience with meaning by acting upon the world, although efforts to act in a meaningless, absurd world lead to anguish, greater loneliness, and despair. 

I am.

“Integrity is wholeness;

the greatest beauty 

is organic wholeness,

the wholeness of life and things,

the divine beauty of the universe.

 

Love that, not man apart from that,

or else you will share man’s pitiful confusions

or drown in despair when his days darken.”

 

-Robinson Jeffers, 1887-1962,

American poet, icon of 

the “Environmental Movement”

 

Just a Man

Just a Man

1997: 6.2  summer

by David Martin

“Life is no ‘brief candle’ to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for a moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations” (George Bernard Shaw, 1856-1950)

My father died July 3, 1994. He refused surgery and chemotherapy treatment for his lung cancer. After his quadruple by-pass heart surgery a few years ago, he swore he would never go to another hospital for an operation, and he didn’t. He chose to “ride the bug out.”

My father’s life was one battle after another, and I feel his World War II experience captured the rest of his life. Even though he lived to be 76 years old, his army combat in the European Theater from 1939 to 1945 changed him forever. His work, marriage, family, and children revolved around the memories he brought home of that war violence. For the rest of his life, he endured its physical and emotional scars.

Dad was not a great man by society’s standards. He was just a man like so many others who risked their lives to make the world a better place for all of us by ensuring our freedom from tyranny. Usually, he kept his emotions and memories locked up inside himself, but once in awhile, I could dislodge some information he kept from the rest of the family. He would begin telling me a small story of his experiences, but before he finished, he always caught himself, remembered that he was talking to a child, got embarrassed, and walked out of the house emotionally upset. I was a kid then, and he felt I wouldn’t understand what he went through during those times.

The most significant events of his life were those horrible days during the war. I remember Dad telling me the story of General Miltonberger, the commanding officer of the WWII Nebraska Division, feeding him and other soldiers a nice meal then talking all of them out of trying to join the paratroopers because he said they were good soldiers, and he needed them in his ranks, so they stayed in the 134th Infantry Division until the end of the war. He and his buddies were good soldiers and did their duty.

Dad told me about meeting Jack Dempsey in the fighter’s New York City restaurant the night before the troops sailed for England. Dempsey was surprised that he and a friend, two small-town Nebraska boys, went so far out of their way to find his restaurant and meet him that the ex-boxer bought them dinner. Because of this late night adventure, Dad was officially AWOL, but the Company Commander was glad to see him when he returned in time to sail on the troop ship that all was forgiven.

In World War II, the soldier death ratio was 1 in 48 US soldiers; in Vietnam, 1 in 1,113; in the Gulf War, 1 in 2,667. The basic difference in these ratios was the advanced medical help and rescue methods that transported the injured from the battlefield to medical hospitals. General Eisenhower had 91 Allied divisions to defeat the Germans, 60 of them American. Of the 4,454,061 US soldiers who embarked for Europe and Africa, 3,604 were lost at sea. In the first four months after the Normandy Invasion, Germany suffered 800,000 casualties. 

Dad received half a dozen different combat wounds. He returned to the states carrying half a dozen pieces of shrapnel the doctors could not remove, but the worst injury took place in liberating St. Lo, France. He was struck by shrapnel fire and was so wounded he couldn’t move. Medics placed him on a stretcher and tried to get him off the battlefield. He thought he wouldn’t make it to safety, because there were so many bullets flying through the air.

He was removed to England where he was hospitalized. Soon, the Army thought he was healed enough to return to duty. He became a company runner delivering messages to units up and down the frontline, and German snipers shot at him. One day, while returning to headquarters, he saw three soldiers kneeling beside a wounded, screaming, American writhing on the side of the road. A doctor amputated the wounded man’s leg to save his life. There was no morphine present to aid the soldier.

“The Battle of Bulge” in the Ardennes Forest was a desperate thrust Hitler threw at the Allies. Of the 600,000 Americans involved 80,987 became causalities. About 19,000 were killed and 15,000 were captured. Some 47,000 were wounded. Gen. George Patton’s 3rd Army rescued them. Dad was attached to Patton’s group, and he told me many stories about fighting during the winter there.

Louis Rhodd, a Native American friend from Rulo, one night crouched in an artillery shell crater. Dad jumped in the same crater for safety. There was so much noise at the time Rhodd didn’t know Dad joined him in that dark hole. He could see Rhodd but didn’t know how to let his friend know he was in there without scaring him. Rhodd might shoot him thinking that he was another German soldier, so he talked like a white man imitating and Indian: “Ugh, Indians heap big warriors. They make it hard on German pale-faces.” Rhodd was startled to hear someone talking in the night so close to him, but he laughed so hard at the ethnic references, Dad knew he was safe.

The stories flowed at times, and so many of them remained unfinished:

  • Two German soldiers came out of the forest dressed like GI’s and walked into the American’s chow line. They soon realized they made a mistake and tried to escape.
  • Dad swam the Rhine River three times in the winter to scout the enemy even though there was no way to get warm in the cold except to drip dry.
  • His unit broke through the German frontline in a surprise night attack and found prostitutes with the German soldiers in the fox holes to keep them from deserting.
  • “Lah We Lah His” (“All Hell Can’t Stop Us!”) was on one insignia of his uniform. This Pawnee Indian saying symbolized much of his attitude towards life.

Now the green fields of corn are laid by. The farmers prepare their machinery for fall harvest. I remember Dad working the corn harvest each year. Often, he would get only 3-4 hours of sleep at night. He had a tremendous capacity for physical work for such a small man: 5’ 10” and 140 lbs. His Army field jacket was a size 34. How he carried full combat gear that exceeded 100 pounds, ran, and fought still amazes me.

Dad loved his horses and Nebraska; he never wanted to move elsewhere after the war. He was a good cowboy, contrary, stubborn, and fiercely loyal to this country.

His last meal before going to the hospital was sweet corn, mashed potatoes, gravy, steak, green beans, and black coffee. He ate more than I did. I saw him eat that same meal a thousand times, and I was raised on it, too.

Only something alive can die, and Dad lived every day. He may not have been very organized, forward looking, or reflective, but he never let a joke pass him by. His sense of place was Richardson Country.

A few years ago, Bette Davis was on David Letterman’s show. He asked her flippantly, “How is it, getting older?” She coolly answered, “It ain’t for sissies.” Living is tough, and for Dad dying wasn’t easy either. He heart was strong until the end, but both lungs were cancerous and filled with fluid.

When I walked into his room at 9 AM, it was a beautiful, summer, morning. His eyes looked brighter than the day before. He joked and called Erin a “runt.” He looked around the room to see who was there, but he faded in and out of awareness. At 10 AM, things started to change. He panted.  His eyes rolled back a little; he became unconscious and was not awake after that.

His room, number 101, signified new lessons to learn on a different journey. His blue, finger tips foreshadowed the end. The blueness marched toward his face. Starting with the feet, it climbed to his knees, then to his waist. His biological systems shut down one at a time. His kidneys stopped.  Muscles twitched. I could hear pneumonia fill his lungs as he drowned from inside. Two oxygen tanks were not enough.

I stood at the foot of his bed. He took one slow, long gulp of air, then a second, and held it. His face turned scarlet, and his head slowly fell to his lower right side. He did not breath again. 

I looked out the window of his room and saw the earth as he knew it: grass, trees, and sky. His van faced the window. The American flag flew in a strong, summer breeze. A cottonwood stood tall. This trinity marked my father: a van to roam (a modern cowboy), the US flag (nothing made him more proud), and the tree (Nebraska’s state symbol).

Going through his military records after the funeral, I found a telegram to Mother from the US War Department saying her husband was released from the hospital and returned to active service on July 31, 1944. Fifty years later to the day, he died and was released from life. The curtain fell for the last time. He wore out, but he didn’t rust out. He never quit. He fought for life, every breath, to the end. He was just a man, but he was my father.

“The grave itself is but a covered bridge leading from light to light, through a brief darkness” (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807-1882).

Twisted Tree Message – Are You a Writer?

Twisted Tree Message – Are You a Writer?

We will creatively write on the topics below. I hope to see you at our Zoom meetings on January 9 (6-8 PM) and January 10 (2-4 PM) Central Time.  ~David Martin

Download the Registration form here.

  • When did you know you were a writer?
  • Why do you still write?
  • What topics call you to the page?
  • If you could write about anything, what would it be?
  • In one sentence, what is your message to your readers?
  • Does Fine Lines help you write and how?
  • How do you wish to improve, as an artist?
  • In the next twelve months, what writing goal do you wish to achieve?
  • Kathie Haskins says, “Our twisted trees look like her family tree.”
  • Do you see yourself in our twisted trees? What does that tell you?
  • Metaphors are a good teaching tool.
  • I turned to the only sanctuary I had left – within. Many people walk through life without saying what they really mean. Bury your sword and your vengeance. Keep calm, and write on.
  • I don’t want to die without knowing who I really am.
  • We are unlike others. It is enough to become our own twisted tree and celebrate our uniqueness. Hallelujah.
  • We never see the twist coming.
  • Kung-Fu: refers to the Chinese martial arts and so much more. “In China, it is any study, learning, or practice that requires patience, energy, and time to complete.” It can be a form of exercise with a spiritual dimension, supreme skill from hard work: fighters, painters, musicians, artists, and writers. Practice. Preparation. Endless repetition until weary and too tired to breathe. Cook. Janitor. Servant. That is the way, the only way, to acquire Kung Fu. Peace is found in the heart of the faithful.
  • Who are you?
  • Cardinal Rule for Writers – write every day. Keep writing. You don’t know the true story is important, until it’s gone.
  • The oldest things on Earth might be found in the Bristle Cone Pine Groves of the White Mountains in California. Some are up to 5,000 years old. The Methusala pine is 4,800 yo. All of them are twisted. The tree rings are similar to human fingerprints.
  • Raleigh, when I think of you, now, I feel you illustrated in your life what the Greeks believed: “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an art but a habit” (Aristotle). In your quiet and humble way, you gave me inspiration to continue building my home and my work as though I, too, were an artist. H. D. Thoreau would be most proud of you and how you made living each day a work of art.
  • Writing is like any other emotion: fear, cold, hunger, but feeling doesn’t mean we can’t control it. Laughter helps. Self-deprecation helps. Turn. Turn. Turn. Twist. Twist. Twist. Live in a lighthouse of your own making.
  • My fingers are thin and small. My body is weak and old. Still, I write. Words give me hope and strength. I am not a professional writer, merely a proud amateur who loves being a disciple. Writing is like a furnace. It either melts you or forges you.

Mondays with Martin: What My Students Taught Me

In forty years of teaching, some unusual classes have come my way. In elementary schools, middle schools, high schools, community colleges, universities, graduate schools, business workshops, and retirement homes, the students have been challenging and pleasant, unpredictable and insightful, unprepared and inspiring. The following sixteen English classes gave me a true education, because the students taught me how to listen.

JOURNAL WRITING — “BIC 101”

For this class, knowledge was needed in athletic taping. There were a lot of wrist sprains because so much volume was produced. Assignments were graded by the pound. Just like chopping boards in karate class where the person swung his hand through the object, the journal writer wrote through the pain. Students learned to quickly switch to the other hand, when their normal writing fingers fell quietly limp by their side. I read every page, and they knew it, because all the writing came back graded, stamped, or commented on. No one could hide in this class, and usually, I knew more about each student than the school counselors did. Frequently, a counselor would appear at my classroom door and want to talk about “Freddie” or “Lilly,” because I encouraged all students to write about what concerned them at school, at home, and in life. This was a great way to “back into class” and informally work with student issues, while teaching composition at the same time.

GENERAL ENGLISH — “Duck”

Slow learners with low metabolism traditionally filled these classes. They often exhibited symptoms of chronic jock itch. Alex asked to be excused to the restroom every time I assigned in-class work. The last time he was in my class, I said he could not leave to avoid the classwork, so he stood in the middle of the room, loudly cleared his throat of more phlegm than I thought any human being could possess, and spit a large volume of sputum twenty feet over the heads of students through an open window, as they gagged and laughed. He earned an immediate pass to the principal’s office and never returned. Now, every time I hear someone clearing his throat, my impulse is to lower my head.

REMEDIAL ENGLISH — “Little Birds”

Corrective surgery was performed on an out-patient basis. Much physical therapy was advised. Once, under all the rubble, I found an honor student, who had fallen in disgrace, because she was brilliantly disorganized. She regained her throne and earned a scholarship to the Kansas City Art Institute. The journal I encouraged her to keep became the right side of her brain, where she could impulsively place her many thoughts, feelings, and ideas. Enthusiastically, she opened it every five minutes to jot down thoughts worth keeping, and every evening before bedtime, she organized them, so logical order entered her world before she went to sleep. Her grades improved within one week’s time. We are all little birds with broken wings. We just need someone to care about us and help show the way through the fog of life.

ETHNIC LITERATURE — “From Around the World”

Diane arrived in class at 8:30 AM dressed in buckskin and tennis shoes with a United States flag draped around her shoulders, alternately singing the national anthem and saying, “I don’t feel well.” I soon found out she was drunk, because an agency was removing her daughter to a foster home and committing Diane to a psychiatric hospital. She won a second place award in a city-wide essay contest titled “One Nation under God,” when she addressed the inequalities her Mexican American brothers and sisters were experiencing in this country. She was scared while she wrote the paper and asked me, several times, if she should give it to the judges, because she was afraid of being deported. I told her to do what she honestly wanted to do. She walked silently up to my desk, laid it down without a word, and walked out of class. I was as proud of her, then, as when she received the announcement that she had won one of the three prizes. Ethnic writers are probably the only true original writers we have left, because their eyes haven’t experienced cultural assimilation. Conviction, determination, and resolution can surface in our students at any age. We must be ready when it arrives.

ACADEMIC ENGLISH — “The Price Is Write”

Most of these students were college prep types. If they didn’t know the answers, Mom and Dad bought them wholesale. 

HONORS ENGLISH — “Are You Ready?”

I had to throw out the teaching style that says, “Follow me, guys.” I was forced to bring in a new format, “There it is, ladies and gentlemen. Go get it. There will be a test afterwards and pro scouts from Yale, Harvard, Vassar, Dartmouth, Wisconsin, Stanford, John Hopkins, and UC-Berkeley will be here to time your SAT sprints with hand-held stopwatches, so be ready.”

ENGLISH METHODS CLASS — “4 Steps”

English majors may acquire the essence of all Teachers College education through four easy steps. Simply put into practice the following: make your students believe that you see them, hear them, understand them, and will try your darndest to help them every day.

COLLEGE COMPOSITION CLASS — “Check Them at the Door”

I don’t have to stand when I talk to maintain silence, but this class got very quiet, when a uniformed policeman showed up to finish his degree. He brought his partner to patrol the hall, while class was going on. Eventually, I had to ask both of them to check their guns at the door, because a female student who was a tank driver for the National Guard was becoming annoyed. She stood up in class and said, “This is not Dodge City. You should not wear uniforms to class, and it would be a good idea to leave your weapons in your cruisers.” They did.

JOB CORPS ENGLISH — “It’s Part of My Job”

My football coach liked to tell his team, “When you make a tackle on defense, keep your head down but your eyes up. That way you can see which way the ball carrier is moving, and you will protect yourself from injury.” — Many years later, I had to tackle a student in front of his barracks and sit on him until the police arrived. He began sniffing glue in his room, came to class very high, and tried to set the building on fire after receiving the assignment “How did you spend your summer vacation?”

LAMAZE ENGLISH? — “Tell the Paramedics to Go to the Second Floor”

As varied as my experiences have been, at least, I did not have to teach the English class my friend taught to a junior in her high school. This teacher got to deliver a baby in the girls’ bathroom next to her classroom between passing periods. The student was so small that none of her friends noticed she was pregnant, and even her parents did not know she was expecting.

ADULT NIGHT SCHOOL — “No Empty Cups”

This simply meant fifteen-hour days. Sometimes, it is known as the “red-eye” class or “Caffeine-College.” Every ten minutes, I changed what we did in class, and every thirty minutes, I asked the students to stand up and move to accomplish a class objective. This kept them from falling asleep at their desks. I talked to them while they moved and got to know them better when the class “shifted.” They didn’t know I was still teaching, as we laughed and told each other stories about our families and what happened during the day. Universal education never stops.

BUSINESS ENGLISH — “Everyone Uses It”

Teaching a toilet paper salesman to write is a unique experience. All he was interested in was figuring volume sales, analyzing the folding technique of “crunchers” and “wadders,” the numbers of sheets per visit, and studying Thomas Crapper and Mr. Whipple. Wizards come in all shapes and sizes.

HOSPITAL ENGLISH — “It’s Time to Operate”

Here we patch and mend like a M.A.S.H. unit. After a period of time, we send the students back to the front lines. I remember Tommy not being able to write anything of consequence, until he started to trust me. When this happened, he allowed himself to cry over his mother’s death, a year before. Between the tears, he was able to scratch out an essay that would have earned a B+ in any teacher’s classroom. He did all the other class assignments, but he came into my classroom every Friday afternoon for two months, sat in his seat, and reread that paper, while I worked on student grades. Most of the time, the room was silent. Once in a while, he would ask if he could reread the paper aloud, because he thought he made an improvement or two. When I asked to see the paper and reread it like it was a first time submission, I gave it an A+ grade. I handed it back, and he smiled, then cried, again. He thanked me for listening to him, as he left the room for the last time. The rest of the school year, I saw him in the hall, frequently, and he always had that letter folded in his shirt pocket.

STRAIGHTJACKET ENGLISH — “Never Close Your Eyes”

Instructors of these classes try to keep the students awake without allowing them to injure themselves, fellow students, or teachers. John was up, down, and “off the wall” every day, but he never changed his blank, expressionless face. When I asked him to write on the class assignment, he looked at me and said, “Why would I want to do that?”

TERMINAL ENGLISH — “Do Your Homework, Then You Can Eat Supper”

Here the patients will not recover in their lifetimes. Teachers of these classes are like nurses in coronary wards. They must be rotated regularly to prevent burnout and severe depression. Bernie was a favorite student of mine. He misspelled words like “was,” “does,” and “God,” but he is now an athlete at a state college. Once in a while, I will receive a postcard or an email from him. The last time he contacted me, part of the message went like this. “Hi, Teach. I may pass my English class this year. The new, young teacher likes me, she said, because I make her laugh. Thanks for your help last year in that writing class. Can you send $100? I am getting too skinny.”

CEMETERY ENGLISH – “Her Last Goodbye”

Mary had writer’s block, because she couldn’t forget that her grandmother died on the family’s porch swing. She was Mary’s favorite relative. Her grandmother was resting on the swing and asked Mary to fix her a cup of hot coffee. Mary went inside to the kitchen, made the coffee, brought it to her, and set it on the table next to the swing. She forgot to bring the sugar and cream and had to return to the kitchen for them. When she came back to the porch, her grandmother was sitting up straight with the coffee steam spiraling upwards past the smile on her face. Mary could see the light was gone from those loving eyes. Fourteen-years-old and without another person in the home to help, she had to deal with the rescue squad, the police, and the coroner. Mary went on to win a national writing contest when she got over her writing block caused by this personal situation. She asked me to go to the cemetery with her to say her last goodbye. Her mother and father approved, so we both took our journals with us and wrote in them as we sat by her grandmother’s grave. Mary still writes to me, all these years later.

Listening is the most important part of any conversation, and most of us do not try hard enough to master this skill. People who were born to be “radios” need good listeners. I wish more of us would develop this talent. The students in these classes taught me so much, and thank goodness, I let them teach me about life. One girl said, “You seem to care more about us than other teachers do. You hear what we are saying.” Surely, that is the best compliment I have ever received. In every class, each student was a unique, bipedal poem.

“I will do what’s right.

I will do my best.

I will show others I care.”

-Argyle, TX, Elementary School

Mondays with Martin: Laugh My Way to Health

David Martin

A recent health study determined there are three primary reasons people cannot cope in life:

  1. They have low self-esteem. 
  2. They live in the past. 
  3. They don’t laugh enough. 

This study concluded that we need a minimum of twelve laughs a day to stay healthy! I must be suffering from undernourishment. Imagine that – twelve laughs per day. Who does that? My wife and family believe I have no sense of humor, at all, so they are already in shock to hear that I want to laugh more. When I was young, I wanted to become a marine biologist, but I could not keep my grades above “C” level.

When we were children, at least once a year, my father took my brothers and me to the best barber in town for a shaving, I mean a haircut. Jim Sefried was a good man and a good barber. How do I know? He was so good that as children, we sat still long enough for him to cut our hair. The most unusual thing was that we did not squirm in the barber chair, because we were listening so hard for the punch lines to his funny stories. He was a master storyteller, and we were amazed that he could get the grown men and the young boys in the shop to laugh at the same darned jokes. I learned at that early age, if you want to teach someone a lesson, it is a lot easier if they are laughing first before you give them the message. A good laugh goes a long way. A long way to what? To better health, that’s what.

“Two Quarters or a Dollar Bill?” is one of the stories I remember him telling us. 

A young boy enters a barbershop, and the barber whispers to his customer, “This is the dumbest kid in the world. Watch, while I prove it to you.” The barber puts a dollar bill in one hand and two quarters in the other, then calls the boy over and asks, “Which do you want, son?” 

The boy takes the quarters and leaves the dollar. “What did I tell you?” said the barber. “That kid never learns!”

Later, when the customer leaves, he sees the same young boy coming out of the ice cream store and says: “Hey, son! May I ask you a question? Why did you take the quarters instead of the dollar bill?”

The boy licked his cone and replied, “Because the day I take the dollar, the game’s over!”

Recent studies have found that facts and logic do not persuade people to change their minds, even when they are wrong. The more facts that are marshaled to prove their error, the more tenaciously most people will cling to mistaken ideas.

Seth Mnookin, author of The Panic Virus, says, “Given the power of our prior beliefs to skew how we respond to new information, one thing is becoming clear: If you want someone to accept new evidence, make sure to present it to them in a context that doesn’t trigger a defensive, emotional reaction.” Studies at Yale demonstrated that emphasizing similarities in values prior to presenting the facts was much more likely to be persuasive.

Humorists have long been effective at pointing out the nonsense that frequently passes for wisdom or accepted truth. Think of Will Rogers. His humor was effective because it wasn’t aggressive; whereas, George Carlin’s more caustic wit landed him in court and antagonized many. If you would change people’s minds, don’t try to swamp them with facts. Lead with values that are shared, preferably wrapped in gentle humor.

“I don’t make jokes. I just watch the government and report the facts.” -Will Rogers

Most of the time, I am adequate at what I do, sufficient for what is required, but I am not remarkable in many things. My whole life has been marked by a consistent overestimation of my abilities. In the past, I would pursue real-life with crippling caution and my hobbies and goals with optimism that overreached the bounds of common sense. 

I regret my social phobias, but I do not regret my ambitions. Thanks to my father’s training, I rode my first horse at the age of five, knew how to swing a pitchfork, and started talking like a naughty adult with bad language to make myself feel older. At fourteen, I wondered if I should focus on my muscles, so I could work outdoors with my dad and be more masculine. Indoors, I thought I should improve my language and think more clearly, like my mother. Slowly, her influence took over my testosterone development, and I started reading widely for fun, as she did, and went to the library to help carry the books she brought home. This change in behavior taught me to be more thoughtful and strategic in my pursuits, but I still had a lot of my dad in me.

Today, I have too many commitments to manage. I listen to music, but never as much as I should to develop my own skills. I write something every day and “coach” students of all ages how to place their own ideas on the written page. These activities are more important than my hobbies and short-term ambitions, and they force me to prioritize my life. I enjoy what I do so much that it does not feel like work.

The future is something I have been planning for many years. I used to have clear goals for what was to come on the highway of life, but as time went along, those objectives shifted, as did my interests, but my passion for words and typed pages did not fade. Black-on-white ideas compete with my dreams. Tossing the right words on paper helps clear my vision, so I can see my chosen path as I proceed during life’s third act.

“Hello, God”:

A man climbs to the top of Mt. Sinai to get close enough to talk to God.
Looking up, he asks the Lord, “God, what does a million years mean to you?”
The Lord replies, “A minute.”
The man asks, “And what does a million dollars mean to you?”
The Lord replies, “A penny.”
The man asks, “Can I have a penny?”
The Lord replies, “In a minute.” 

Recently, I experienced writer’s block. The flow of words stopped. I didn’t expect this to happen, because I liked my topic, and I could see a happy outcome further down the page. Why did my writing freeze? Why now? Why here?

After enough time passed to enjoy two cups of coffee, I realized the previous flow of words related to my past life and how I fled from the “old me” with its pain and frustrations. I could write about those ideas for a long time. The past is history. My future was the mystery.

I started thinking about my son’s great Australian adventure when he led fifteen people into the Outback for three months, and they received a semester’s worth of college credit for their time and effort. One day, his group was tired and thirsty, after walking for twelve hours in the summer heat. They knew they were getting close to a small river, and some of them let their guard down. They were thinking so much about getting water to drink, finding cool shade, and relaxing that they forgot about the dangerous creatures that lived there. The nine most lethal and venomous snakes on Earth live in that region, and so do larger animals who can eat humans for lunch. Brad reminded them of this and to keep moving quietly, while remaining alert. 

A short time later, as the group continued down the narrow trail they were on, the day’s student leader walked around a large boulder, while the rest of the group trailed behind him in single file. Because their forward vision was blocked by the narrow turn of the trail, they lost sight of the leader for a few seconds. To their surprise, they heard him yell, “Oh, good grief! Everyone, stop where you are!”

Brad hurried to the front of the group. As he came around the boulder, he saw a massive crocodile lying across the trail, asleep in the sun, and five yards away from the river. Now, that was a trail blocker, and Brad had to deal with it fast to keep everyone safe. Usually, when there is one croc, there are more nearby. The group’s thirst would have to wait, because everyone’s safety was the primary consideration on each day’s journey. This time, the huge croc took over as their main concern. Sometimes, a writer’s block is a small thing compared to a life block. All things are relative. There are blocks, and there are blocks.

“My therapist told me the way to achieve true inner peace is to finish what I start. So far, I’ve finished two bags of M&Ms and a chocolate cake. I feel better already.” -Dave Barry

“My husband wanted one of those big-screen TV’s for his birthday. So, I just moved his chair closer to the one we have already.” -Wendy Liebman

“I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.” -Douglas Adams

Laughter is cheaper than a psychiatrist, and it is good medicine. It strengthens immune systems, diminishes pain, and reduces stress. Children laugh more than adults, and grownups who act childlike in this way live longer, have better relationships and achieve more happiness. A really good laugh every day lightens our burdens, creates hope, keeps us focused, releases anger, and lets us become more forgiving. Smiling is contagious. Count your blessings. Think positively. Adding playful people to our lives is good chemistry. Take a laugh break. Laugh at yourself. Laugh at situations. Let loose of the negative. Yes, there is such a thing as laugh therapy. There are laughter-based exercise programs, and humor in the workplace increases productivity. Ah, well, it’s not as bad as they say it is, and I wouldn’t be paranoid if everyone didn’t pick on me. People have one thing in common. They are all different.

Genealogy:

A little girl asked her mother, “How did the human race appear?”

The mother answered, “God made Adam and Eve, and they had children, so Mankind was made.”

Two days later, the girl asked her father the same question.

The father answered, “Many years ago, there were monkeys from which the human race evolved.”

The confused girl returned to her mother and said, “Mom, how is it possible that you told me the human race was created by God, and Dad said they developed from monkeys?”

The mother answered, “Well, dear, it is very simple. I told you about my side of the family, and your father told you about his.”

Aunt Nellie Schock was one of my favorite relatives. She got polio when she was six years old, was forever paralyzed from her waist down, and could never walk again without assistance. She learned to use wooden crutches to go from one chair to another, upstairs and down, and outside. She would sit under the big cottonwood tree in her front yard on a small chair that she lugged from the kitchen table, while deftly leaning to one side at just the correct angle, so she would not fall down, as she moved one crutch at a time. 

Always wearing full dresses that reached her shoelaces with full sleeves, the only skin not covered was her face and fingers. Her home in Falls City, NE, let the light breeze enter through the raised windows, while others equipped with blinds kept the sunlight and much of the summer heat outside. Before home air-conditioning, she was “the coolest” of my relatives.

She hired someone in town to construct a five-foot-wide fishpond in the shade of that large tree, and she fed her fish every day, while she talked to them. They became her little friends and seemed to know her shadow on the water meant mealtime. After months of conditioning, they were not afraid to eat out of her hand. Those swimming playmates were given names, and their unique colors and sizes helped her talk to them when she needed company. 

Like floating ideas, they would hide in the pool’s depths and then rise to the surface, when they felt her presence and the time was appropriate. Nellie and her swimming spirits bonded over the flakes of communion she scattered on the water, as they shared their time together. I always wondered if the size of that pond allowed these special fish to flourish more than their cousins trapped in fish bowls around town. Does the size of an individual’s world matter to our mental health and physical consciousness? “Time is but a stream I go a fishing in.” -H.D. Thoreau.

Newspapers, magazines, and books were also her friends. Nellie read, voraciously. She was a clipper of articles, a scrapbook queen, a collector of history, and a saver of mankind’s ideas. Often alone, she was never lonely. Most of her life was spent in meditation. When I think of her, I remember the following story.

The Mysterious Monks:

A man’s car broke down as he was driving past a beautiful old monastery. He walked up the drive and knocked on the front door.

A monk answered, listened to the man’s story and graciously invited him to spend the night. The monks fed the man and led him to a tiny chamber in which to sleep. The man thanked the monks and slept serenely, until he was awakened by a strange and beautiful sound.

The next morning, as the monks were repairing his car, he asked about the sound that had awakened him.

“We’re sorry,” the monks said. “We can’t tell you about the sound. You’re not a monk.”

The man was disappointed, but eager to be gone, so he thanked the monks for their kindness and went on his way.

During quiet moments afterward, the man pondered the source of the alluring sound.

Several years later, the man happened to be driving in the same area. He stopped at the monastery on a whim and asked admittance.

He explained to the monks that he had so enjoyed his previous stay that he wondered if he might be permitted to spend another night under their peaceful roof. The monks agreed, and so the man stayed with them again.

Late that night, he heard the strange beautiful sound. The following morning he begged the monks to explain the sound. The monks gave him the same answer as before. “We’re sorry. We can’t tell you about the sound. You’re not a monk.”

By now, the man’s curiosity had turned to obsession. He decided to give up everything and become a monk, for that was the only way he could learn about the sound. He informed the monks of his decision and began the long and arduous task of becoming a monk. Seventeen years later, the man was finally established as a true member of the order.

When the celebration ended, he humbly went to the leader of the order and asked to be told the source of the sound. Silently, the old monk led the new monk to a huge wooden door. He opened the door with a golden key. That door swung open to reveal a second door of silver, then a third of gold and so on until they had passed through twelve doors, each more magnificent than the last.

The new monk’s face was awash with tears of joy, as he finally beheld the wondrous source of the beautiful mysterious sound he had heard so many years before.

But I can’t tell you what it was. You’re not a monk.

Life has been busy at school. I feel like Gabby Hays, Roy Rogers’s sidekick, prospecting in Death Valley for my elusive vein of gold, as I plod over one sand dune after another leading my mule behind me, the one that looks at me and seems to say, “And you think I am the jackass?” 

Surrounded by thousands of students, literally, the few who are truly interested, good ones appear like a green oasis on the horizon, as I wipe the sand from my eyes. The struggle seems worth the effort, when I can talk to the curious and thoughtful, before they run away for classes, projects, extracurricular activities, sports, and jobs. I am lucky to have time with them, but I revel in those moments when I do. 

Today, we had a readers’ theater in creative writing class, when students volunteered to share their own work of the week. Some of their journal writings made me laugh, and some brought tears to my eyes. They were all good. The students know when a piece is worthy. They involuntarily clap, laugh out loud, and compliment each other. They are good audiences, 98% of the time. More teachers should see them read, perform, and listen to each other’s artistry. I am proud of these creative authors. Write on.

The field of science gives us seven reasons to laugh.

  1. Lowers blood pressure
  2. Reduces stress hormone levels
  3. Works your abs
  4. Improves cardiac health
  5. Boosts T-cells
  6. Triggers the release of endorphins
  7. Produces a general sense of well-being

The Prairie Wind: 

It was hot and constant. After two weeks of this natural inferno without rain, the ground cracked, the crops turned brown, and the small creek running through the farm dried up, Mom’s fingers remained hard and rough, as her face became blunt and raw. Dad never seemed to be in the house anymore. He was always outside helping the livestock survive.

I never saw so many turkey buzzards fly over our place before. Usually, when we saw them, they were too high to be noticed. Now, they were lower and often landed on the ground. This was not a good sign. Their ugly faces woke me up at night and became constant features in my dreams.

Lady was my first horse, and I rode her every day. We went down to the river to escape the heat. We both were eager to get into the water and cool off. She seemed to anticipate my next move on our journeys, almost like we were brother and sister, while growing up together. 

Once a thin, young coyote came to the stream to drink when we were there, and my pal noticed the loping animal before I did. It failed to notice us, because it wanted water so badly. Lady quietly moved over to me and stood next to my left shoulder, as we faced the wild creature that was only a few feet away. After the animal drank its fill, it turned and saw both of us. Surprised to see a human and a horse so close, it stopped in its tracks. Its ears shot up, and its back was arched in fright. It took a long, slow minute to determine that we were not a threat, and it quietly slipped back into the shadows of the Missouri River bluffs. Lady and I looked at each other, and in our own ways, we laughed together at what we just witnessed.

There are so many ways to see the world. Knowledge is good, but wisdom is better. Our exposure to this wildness will always remain with me, and the memories of this snapshot of another world just out of my sight reminds me there is so much we do not know about life. Someday, I hope we will understand its purpose, beauty, truth, and grace.

Mark Twain is known today as America’s favorite literary humorist. His stories, essays, and novels are filled with lessons learned while his readers laughed. He chuckled all the way to the bank in the nineteenth century, and we still read his great books today. During his lifetime, however, he felt he was plagued by tragedy and hard times. Many people he loved died early deaths. He was confident that laughter was necessary for him to go on in life after his tragedies to survive the days that followed. He told friends and readers that he was sure there was no laughter in Heaven. When people asked him how he knew this was true, he said there was no pain in Heaven, so laughter was not needed.

“If you love something, set it free. Unless it’s chocolate. Never release chocolate.” -Renee Duvall

“For those who like this sort of thing, this is the sort of thing they like.” -Abraham Lincoln