Fiction Alert! This story is fiction. It does not depict any real person or actual event.
Introducing Sharm Wilson
What will happen to Sharm? Is she doomed? Where is she going, walking these dark hallways?
In this bizarre tale, Sharm Wilson takes you on a bizarre journey, a slice of her life. She speaks her mind but seems to be trying to tell it like it is. Her off-the-wall language about her off-the-wall experience fosters the questions: What will happen to Sharm? Is she doomed? Where is she going, walking these dark hallways?
The story, like most pieces of fiction that writers write, stems from an incident in my own life, but it is greatly—and I emphasize “greatly”—embellished. And I am eternally grateful for that. Now just read the story and see what I mean!
Walking down Dark Hallways
Sharm was sleepwalking again. Oh, forget about it, I’m Sharm, and I’m not going to pretend again. I’m going to tell this story as myself. So if you don’t like it, that’s ok by me. Just don’t read it.
But ask yourself this, would a fakity fake bother to write all those words without some meaning. Hecky darn, don’t we all yearn for meaning? I just want to tell a little story here: so read or don’t. It’s totally up to you. I’ll try to keep it as clean as possible. I never intended for this to happen, but it did, and I wish so much that I could go back and make all the bad stuff go away, but then who don’t? Right?
At the Y
I was walking to my room at the Y, down the dark hallway. I shoved my key into the lock, opened the door, and went inside. I was so tired after a full day’s work at the salmon factory. (Oh please don’t expect me to tell you which salmon factory. If they knew that someone like me had been working there, they would probably arrest me.)
Anyway, I sat down on my bed and began to think about what I should do the rest of the evening. I decided to light up a joint to get me all relaxed. I knew pot was not allowed in this fine establishment, so I also lit an incense and a tobacco ciggy and went on with my tokes. Just as I was getting a good buzz, a knock comes at the door.
I moved the incense closer to the door, picked up my tobacco ciggy, tried to look as straight—meaning non-stoned—as I could, and then opened the door.
“Hello, Ms Wilson,” a matronly looking gal addressed me. “How are you this evening?”
“I’m ok,” I managed to spout out and then she laid it on me. “There have been complaints from other residents. Are you smoking marijuana in your room?” Feeling a little strained, I took a big puff off the ciggy and then announced, “Oh, no! I’m just smoking my regular Marlboros. I burn incense when I smoke because I like the smell of sandalwood better than tobacco. Is that a problem, ma’am?”
“Oh, no! You’re allowed to smoke in your room, for now. After September, I’m afraid even smoking cigarettes will not be allowed. So you might want to find a new residence, if you continue to smoke after September,” she explained, all the while seeming to buy that I was only smoking tobacco and not wacky tobacky.
“Well, thanks for letting me know. You know, I’ve been meaning to quit anyway. So maybe this is just another reason to do that.” She gave me a knowing look, an understanding look, and left.
It wasn’t five minutes later that another knock came at my door, and it was the cops, who pushed their way inside, found the four pounds of pot, and arrested me for drug dealing.
Tarnation, I had never dealt in drugs. Sometimes I had a lot of pot for personal use. They could never prove that I was a dealer so they had to let me go. But by that time, I had no job, no place to live, and so here I was walking down another dark hallway to another room in a dump called the Cozy Inn.
But I considered myself lucky. I had my freedom. I had the opportunity to look for work. And so when I found a job at the Cozy Dinner, I decided to turn over a new leaf, keep on the straight and narrow (I know that’s a cliché), and keep out of trouble.
Then Bruce came along. He was kind of cute, seemed to have lots of dough, and he started telling me stories about Vietnam. One time he and couple of buddies were captured and taken to a place where they were interrogated.
He thought they were going to become POWs, but that night he and the other two guys decided to break out of the little hut they are held in. They succeeded, made it back to their unit, and lived happily every after—they lived to be discharged from the Army with all their body parts in tact.
One night Bruce and I had just made out in the back seat of his station wagon down on River Road. He was a great lover—oh the stories I could make up, I mean tell, about his loving making! But then as we were getting our clothes back on, a big bang came down hard on the top of the car.
“Get out of there! You creeps! Step out of the vehicle!” a voice rang out loud and stern.
We could see the shape of a very large man, banging on the top of the vehicle, while he seemed to be encircling it, running fast.
Bruce opened the back hatch and yelled, “What the hell do you want? Who are you?”
The man suddenly was upon Bruce beating him with a huge flashlight. He kept beating and beating until Bruce lay a crumbled mass of flesh and bone, unrecognizable. Then the man spotted me.
He grabbed me like I was a sack of flour and headed for his own vehicle, where he dumped me inside on the passenger side and then entered the driver’s side.
I was so scared. I knew this was it. The day I would leave this world. The day I would be killed like an insect. I was shaking but suddenly I became very calm because I knew nothing mattered anymore. I was dead. And nothing mattered anymore.
What happened next is nothing short of bizarre, miraculous, out of this world,—oh crap, you decide!
Along Came Gerrod
“My name is Gerrod Slater,” Bruce’s killer started telling me about himself. “I’ve been looking for that sum-bitch for thirteen years. He killed my mother and sister while my father was serving in Vietnam. His name is not Bruce Slater; his name is Anton Norman. He would have killed you too, I’m damned sure of it.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked this new acquaintance.
“Like I said, I’ve been on his trail for 13 long, goddam years. I need to thank you for slowing him down. When he started making the moves on you, he kind of slipped. He stayed in the town a little too long. And I was able to follow him, check out his history, and then when I saw him on you pretty regular, I was able to catch him.”
Gerrod started his car and peeled out, leaving Bruce/Anton, leaving the night behind. The last night I would spend with Bruce. My mind was a chaos of images: but maybe I won’t die, but what do I do next?
Gerrod drove for several miles and then asked me, “Where do you want to go?”
“Oh, I’m staying at the Cozy Inn, next to the Cozy Dinner, where I work,” I said.
“Yeah, I knew where you worked, wasn’t sure where you stayed, though, but I know Anton lives in Darrtown with his wife and three kids. Wait, did I say, lives — I mean lived,” chuckled Gerrod.
“What are you going to do? How do you plan to get away with murdering Bruce?” I asked Gerrod.
“Well, you know, I hadn’t planned that far,” he said. “My only plan for the past 13 years has been to catch him and kill him. I guess all that planning took up my mind and I have no clue what to do next.”
“Won’t the cops be coming for you?” I asked. “If they come for me, what do you want me to tell them?”
“Look,” he said, giving a look that scared the crap out of me, “I don’t care what you tell anybody. I don’t care if the cops come for me. That’s just another story, another day. You get it. I reached a goal tonight that nobody can ever take away. Look, I’m free. You see, I could kill you too, and by all rights, I should, you are the only person on the planet who can put me at the scene of that scumbag’s death.”
I Ain’t No Rat
“Oh, yes, I see your point,” I said, as I started to exist the car. “I see I’ve asked too many questions. I hope you have a good life, whatever happens. Glad I could help you catch Bruce. Good-bye,” I said as I started to leave.
“Hey, wait!” Oh, God, he’s finally come to his senses, he’s going to kill me too.
“What?” I asked.
“Look, you seem like a nice young lady. Don’t go messing with the likes of Anton Norman again. You got your whole life ahead of you. Make something out of yourself,” advice from a guy who just slaughtered a fellow human being; still it made of lot of sense.
And Now?
That all happened five or so years ago. What have I done since? I’ve made up my mind to do as little as possible. All I really want is to live a life that doesn’t have my heart in my throat from time to time. Can you dig it?
I didn’t rat Gerrod out. Why should I? Just more crap that I’d have to suffer. I want to be as far away from law enforcement as possible, unless I’m being assaulted, robbed, or something.
But then that’s why I keep a very low profile now—just try to keep my waitress job and small apartment maintained. Took Gerrod’s advice about getting too close to handsome strangers.
Haven’t found the perfect answer though, and if you have a suggestion, I’d like to hear it.
Fiction Alert! This story is fiction. It does not depict any real person or actual event.
Tipi for the Twenty-First Century
Lucinda Robertson returns to school to complete a master’s degree. She encounters a fellow student who seemed so interesting and sensually attractive but turns out to be full of a bizarre kind of deceit.
I think I should explain here, that the flesh represents ignorance and, thus, as we dance and break the thong loose, it is as if we were being freed from the bonds of the flesh. —Black Elk, “Wiwanyag Wachipi: The Sun Dance,” The Sacred Pipe: Black Elk’s Account of the SevenRites ofthe Oglala Sioux
After fifteen years, three children, a failed marriage, and five years of moping around a tiny apartment on the south side of Muncie, I decided to return to school at Ball State University to finish my master’s degree in architecture.
I needed only six graduate credits, but my advisor suggested I take some undergraduate courses in English composition and math. He also advised me to audit some architecture courses, claiming that a lot of new material had been added to the curriculum, since I had studied here twenty years ago.
So as advised, I enrolled in English Composition 111. During the first meeting the professor put us in groups of four or five students. Our assignment was to interview each other and write a short essay based on the interview. I was grouped with two freshmen and a senior. The senior began the conversation.
“I guess the first thing is to find out each other’s names. I’m Sled Wheat.” He turned to me, and in his leadership tone asked, “What’s your name, ma’am?”
“I’m Lucinda Robertson. And I know I’m the oldest student in the room, but you don’t have to call me ‘ma’am’, do you?” I responded.
“Oh, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. There are a number of non-traditional students on campus now, and I’ve met many of them in my classes, but I didn’t even think you were a non-traditional, you look so young,” he schmoozed.
“Well, thank you, I think . . . I mean, well, are you a non-traditional?” I queried.
“Oh, no, that is, not in the ordinary meaning of the term. I’m somewhat non-traditional in that I’m a year younger than most seniors,” he said.
After the girls had introduced themselves, we paired off and began the interviewing. Sled Wheat was my partner, and he soon got into fairly personal matters.
“Do you think your ex-husband missed you that much and moped around those five years?” he inquired.
“I doubt it, since he was the one who left. I do have to admit I was lucky he helped me financially. My job at the bookstore couldn’t support me and our three children. But then Harold wasn’t stingy with money, just his love. And I wanted his love, not just his money. I’m sorry I babbled on about that. That can’t interest you. I always get down in the dumps when I talk about love. Let’s talk about our majors. What’s yours?” I replied.
“Psychology with a minor in classical studies,” he said.
“That sounds deep. And like a lot of work. Do you graduate this year?” I asked.
“Actually, I finish all my course work this quarter. But I’m hanging around for winter and spring to catch up on some courses I wanted to take but never had time for. How did you ever get into architecture?” he continued.
“I just always design stuff, kind of, in my head—mostly buildings, and usually buildings that look like tipis—and then I draw them as close as I can to my vision. My art teacher in high school was impressed with my drawings and suggested architecture as a major in college. I’ve always felt that was the right choice, even though I didn’t finish my master’s. I only have about 6 hours to finish. I didn’t expect to have to take undergraduate courses in English and math, but it’s kind of fun being in classes with all these young students,” I explained.
“Are you seeing anyone special right now?” he asked.
“You mean dating-seeing, like a boyfriend?”
“Well, yeah.”
“No, I haven’t had any relationships since Harold—well, one, but it didn’t go anywhere. I don’t know—I guess I’ve been hurt too much. I know that must sound sappy and like I’m sorry for myself, but in high school I got my heart broken really bad; I had a steady, Ed Jackson. He’s part Oglala Sioux, like me, and we studied our heritage together, we read everything we could find about our Lakota people; after we graduated we spent the summer on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota; we both have relatives there. He wanted to take part in the Sun Dance, but for some reason they wouldn’t let him, but we did participate in some other religious rituals. Anyway, I thought he loved me as much as I loved him, but then he dumps me and starts going with Kate Sooner. Kate had a reputation . . . you know, like she was kinda loose. I’d hear guys sniggering about her, saying stuff like, ‘see Sooner for a nooner’ and ‘I’d rather Sooner than later’ or something like that. Anyway, I freaked out, when Ed dumped me for her. I didn’t trust any guys for a long time. And by the time I met Harold, I had avoided relationships until I made it almost impossible for Harold to begin one with me. I think I must have something in my nature that makes men have difficulty committing to me permanently,” I explained, likely imparting too much information.
“Well, it’s probably not you. It must be them. Harold was probably intimidated by your strength, and Ed, well, if you were both in high school, you could probably blame that on youth. It seems that women are usually more stable earlier than men in relationships. That’s true I believe, and they disconcern [He actually used that “word” a lot. Later I found out it wasn’t really a word. I should have told him, I guess. Oh, well, surely someone in graduate school would set him straight.] the compatibility of psychological and physical make up which is highly ambiguous at best. But that provides the motive for devising a philosophical code of life. What do you feel is your own personal code of life?” he rambled on.
“I just want to live and let live,” I, becoming a bit uncomfortable, replied.
“Yeah, but that’s not always possible. You can’t always find that you can disconcern every detail of your existence. You have to take a stance, like with your son. Why don’t you suggest to him that he get his own apartment or live on campus in a dorm? That way your daughters couldn’t hassle you all the time about coddling him,” he now was becoming my advisor.
“But I don’t want him to do that. He has no money, no job. He’s just a freshman. If it weren’t for his scholarship, he wouldn’t be in school at all, and his scholarship only pays tuition. You said yourself that you still live at home with your parents, and look at you, you’re 21. My son has plenty pressure on him just being a student. You know that. And I don’t coddle him. He does a lot for me—he helps clean the apartment, and he usually does the grocery shopping. The girls are just too eager to be mothers. They’re practicing by bossing me around. Besides, what’s this got to do with a life code?” I was becoming a bit annoyed.
“It shows what your life code is. You are obviously over-influenced a great deal by your son—well, your children. Here you are at school primarily to upgrade your employment in order so you can buy a house because your daughters want a nice place to bring their children—children that they don’t even have as of yet. And your son does a little cleaning and grocery shopping for you, and you think that’s enough to warrant your still supporting him,” he pontificated again.
“Don’t your parents support you—didn’t you say you still live at home?” His impertinence was becoming annoying.
“I do, but I do have a job that covers the expenses for my recreational activities. I think there is a significant difference in the dynamic of my situation,” he rebutted.
“Well, I think I have enough to write my essay now. Thanks for the information,” I said, trying not to sound as disgusted as I really was.
Annoyed by this young man’s arrogance, I took my notes, turned away to begin writing. Sled turned his attention to the two freshmen girls in our group and talked with them the rest of the time. After about twenty minutes, the professor ended interview time and instructed us write our essays.
Since I had already been writing for that twenty minutes, I decided to revise what I had. As I read through my paper, I realized that the tone was bitter. I decided that I should not judge this Sled Wheat so harshly; after all, I hardly knew him.
So I filtered out the bitterness as much as I could. I could tell my writing needed some fine tuning. I decided it was a good thing I was taking a composition course.
By the end of the class period, I felt tense and tired; it had been a long day, and I couldn’t wait to get home to relax. Out in the parking lot, as I was unlocking my car, I heard a voice call out, “Lucinda.” I looked around, not many people have that name, and the voice sounded vaguely familiar.
“I wanted to tell you I enjoyed talking with you, and well, if you don’t have to get home right away, maybe we could continue our conversation; how about walking over to the Dug-Out, have come Cokes or something?” I will never know why I said yes to this suggestion.
We went for Cokes. And every Tuesday and Thursday night after class Sled suggested we continue our conversation. Usually we’d walk to the Student Center, or we’d go to the Dill Street Bar and Grill. We found we had a lot in common.
He told me that his mother’s father was part Hopi, and he had started studying the Hopi religion. He believed that the Native American religions were more natural and compatible with human life than the religion of preachers like Billy Graham.
I told him that I had been scared silly listening to preachers who promised sinners hell-fire and damnation. I could never figure out if I was a sinner or not. So I had just stopped listening to anything religious until I had started researching my Lakota background. We liked Mexican food—the hotter the better.
Sled had broken up with his girlfriend recently, and he, therefore, felt he understood how I felt about my marriage break up. He seemed so mature and intelligent and at the same time awkward and naive, and I think that combination of qualities endeared him to me.
I began to enjoy these conversations and looked forward to them, and when he didn’t appear in class one Tuesday night, I was disappointed and worried. But at Thursday’s class he told me he had to take his mother to the airport; her sister in Arizona had suddenly fallen ill.
He usually insisted on driving his mother places, because he didn’t trust his father’s driving. But he said he had really missed talking with me Tuesday night and asked if I was busy Saturday. He invited me to take a drive with him to Brookville Lake where his parents own a cabin.
The lake was beautiful. The cabin was more like a mansion than a cabin, I thought. Sled pulled out two beers from the refrigerator and said, “Let’s go sit on the deck. We can watch the boats. And maybe see some fish jump up out of the water.”
“So you and your family spend a lot of time here?” I asked.
“Mom and Dad come down almost every weekend. I come when I can. Especially when I think Dad isn’t really up to that long drive. I do worry about them driving. It’s certainly an irrational primal fear. I know Dad is healthy enough and a capable driver, but I almost lost my mother once in a car accident, and that latent fear motivates me to try to protect her,” the little psychiatrist offered his self-analysis.
“You care a great deal about your mother, don’t you? I admire that in a son. Daniel and I are close, but he doesn’t worry about me, which is good, because I couldn’t stand the thought of my child trying to protect me. I hated it when my parents tried to protect me,” I said.
“Well, my mother is the most important person in my life. Everything I do I try to think about the effect it could bring to bear on her. Of course, I don’t live the life of a celibate monk, and she knows it, but I do try to consider everything carefully. That’s part of my code of life.” Sled stopped talking and took a long drink of beer.
I stood up, walked to the railing of the deck, took a sip of my beer, and looked out over the lake. A warm breeze flustered the water into tiny ripples, and I enjoyed the feel of it on my face. I hadn’t been out of Muncie for several months, and this was turning out to be the most pleasant trip I had had in many years.
I took a deep breath, and felt Sled standing close behind me. He leaned against me, put his hands on my arms, and rubbed up and down. I leaned back against him. I felt nervous. All the time we had spent together was time spent talking. Now we were touching.
Sled lifted my hair and kissed my neck. I moved against him. He moved up to my face, and he took my mouth with his. Our tongues searched each other for a long moment.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time now. I hope you don’t mind too much,” he said.
“No, I don’t mind at all.” I wanted to be composed and cool, but inside I was trembling, and as I looked into his deep blue eyes, I fell in love. Some little voice kept taunting me, “you foolish woman, you foolish woman”—like a chant, but I ignored it; I ignored it because it was so warm and wet, swimming in those eyes.
“I want to make love to you, but I guess I’ve been a little bit afraid that you’d reject me, and that would crush my masculine ego. But I don’t want you to feel pressured. You know? Like I got you down here to trap you? I’d still enjoy being with you even if you don’t want sex with me. I wanted you to know that. I think about you a lot when we are apart, and I do really care about you,” he confessed, and I was captivated.
“Thank you for saying that. It makes me feel better. I think one of the worst things a woman can feel is that a man is interested in her only for sex. It’s not that we don’t want a man to be interested in the sex; it’s just that when sex is the only thing, it destroys even the sex. I’m babbling, I must sound idiotic—does that make sense?” I was becoming flustered.
“Perfect sense and I’d say men feel that way too. And I would assert that sex is only good between really good friends, and we have become the best of friends, wouldn’t you say so?” he inquired.
“Oh, yes, I would definitely say so,” I brazenly lied.
Then Sled leaned in close to me again. I felt his body against mine. I felt his hair, let it stream through my fingers. We kissed again, a long kiss, soft and sweet and warm; then he led me to the giant bed in the master bedroom.
“Oh mother, oh God, oh mother, oh sweet Jesus!” Abruptly, he pulled out, stood over me, just stood for a moment, dripping cum on my belly; he rubbed his eyes and looked at me as if he was seeing me for the first time, and said in a strange tone, “That was a real trip, lady.” And he went to the refrigerator and brought us two beers.
Sunday I worked on my architecture project. The assignment was to design a living space for the twenty-first century. I got out my old designs to search for ideas.
I had come to the conclusion that the only real way to move into the twenty-first century and be environmentally correct was to look back to the American Indian way of living and incorporate some of the features of the tipi.
I hoped it wasn’t racial pride that led me to believe that, and when I read about the feasibility of many Native American customs in my textbook, I felt I must be right.
So as I thought about the project, I knew I would have to do something with the idea of a tipi as living space.
I had thought a lot about Sled’s idea about a “code of life,” and I figured that mine was to love and be of service to those I love. I had long thought that the isolated nuclear family caused tension and stress that could be alleviated with an extended family concept.
Not only could children remain part of the family unit, but others could be brought in to form a family of friends who love one another.
It seemed to me that with such a change in attitude there would be no homeless, no abused children. Vast communities of loving extended families would cover the globe, and peace would finally arrive on earth.
What an idealist! Or was I just naive? No matter. I liked the idea. I guess my ideas were just throw-backs to the sixties, but after all I was influenced by hippies and civil rights activists.
It occurred to me as I worked on my “tipi for the 21st century” that maybe I could conduct an experiment to test my idealism; maybe Sled could be part of it.
My tipi project included a main building, with surrounding compartments, and each compartment as well as the main central building would have a central area that contained a huge fireplace ventilating upward like a tipi opening; the fireplace would serve as a gathering place for all the family members.
It would also serve as the place to cook meals as well as to keep each compartment warm. I wasn’t yet sure about other details such as sleeping arrangements and building materials; I had to research that. But by Sunday night I was truly excited with my ideas and plans, and I couldn’t wait to tell Sled about them and get his ideas.
I arrived at class a little early on Tuesday hoping to talk to Sled before class. I had tried to call him a couple of times Monday, but I never found him home. So I was doubly excited and terribly eager to see him.
But class had started by the time he arrived, so I couldn’t talk to him. When class finally ended, I got up and looked around, but Sled had left. He hadn’t even waited to speak to me at all. I was shocked, so I ran out to see if I could catch him. He had vanished. Wednesday I tried calling and could never find him home.
By Thursday I had begun to panic. I could not understand why he would deliberately avoid me. What had I done? I thought we were friends, lovers; what was going on? Instead of going into class, I waited at the door for Sled. He arrived ten minutes late.
“Sled, can we talk?” I said.
“Oh, hi, how’s it going?” he replied listlessly.
“Well, I’m a little confused. I haven’t heard from you. You bolted from the classroom Tuesday before I could even say hi. Is something wrong?” I asked.
“No, nothing. I’ve been pretty busy, but nothing’s wrong,” he said.
“I have some things to tell you about my tipi project. Remember? I told you a little about it on the way to Brookville Lake,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. I’d love to hear it, but I really have to run. I don’t have time right now. Maybe next week. It was nice talking to you. Really gotta run,” he said, bolting from me, again leaving me confused.
And that’s what he did. And that’s what he did every class night. He arrived late to class and ran as soon as class was over. I felt so confused. Just totally baffled. Everything he had said to me since that first night he asked me to go for Cokes had indicated to me that we were close friends. We had shared so many details of our lives.
I thought he was a fascinating individual, full of spirit and courage. And I thought he felt the same way about me. Once in a while the nasty thought occurred to me that all this young man had wanted was a sexual encounter with me, and every time I thought that I dismissed it as a silly idea.
That just didn’t make any sense. Why would a young man pursue a woman twice his age only for a sexual encounter? I reasoned that our relationship had to be based on more than sex; it had to include friendship—hadn’t he said so?—and I wanted his friendship back. I thought that if he would just tell me what I had done wrong, I could make amends and we could continue.
So I kept calling and finally reached him the day before our last Thursday class meeting; I asked him if we could just talk for a few minutes. He said he would have some time right after class on Thursday. So after class we went for coffee at the Student Center.
“Sled, I really miss you. I know you’ve been busy, but I feel like I’ve done something wrong. And I wish you’d tell me what it is, so I can fix it. I thought we were good friends, and even good lovers, I just don’t understand what’s happened.” I didn’t want to do it, but I started to cry. I tried to catch the tears before they ran down my cheeks.
“It’s not you. It’s . . . well, it’s something I realized about our relationship and quite frankly it made me sick. And it’s really me as much as it is you. I think it affects us both. But I am willing to accept my part of the perversity,” he began his confession.
“Perversity? What do you mean? Do you think there is something perverse about our relationship?” I responded, incredulous.
“Well, I’ve thought about it a lot, and I realize now exactly what our attraction was. At first I tried to disconcern myself to it but now I am facing it . . . it’s Oedipal. You see, you love your son a great deal and feel very close to him, and I love my mother and feel extraordinarily close to her. So it’s your latent sexual attraction to your son that attracts you to me, and the same for me.”
“You mean . . . you would like . . . to have sex with your mother? And so you think . . . having sex with me has something to do with that?” totally incredulous, I stammered.
“And the same for you, even though you try to disconcern yourself to it, you have a latent . . .” Before he could finish, I stood up, and for a long moment, I gazed at his beautiful, deceptive face. Then stunned and amazed, I turned and walked away.
“I loathed my mother with a furious passion for her incessant buzzing over the trivial details of a stupid, little dance. I despised the dress of putrid pink, and the asinine dance steps that made no sense, and I could never remember them.“
Fiction Alert! This story is fiction. It does not depict any real persons or actual events.
The Prom of Absolute Perfection
Rob Morris had annoyed me by asking me to the senior prom. He was always acting out as the class clown. But he was still very popular; he was liked by not only the “in-crowd” but was well tolerated by the “jocks,” and he seemed to have the admiration of almost everyone else. I despised him, but since no one else had asked me to the stupid dance, I gave it some thought.
It was like on the first day of spring that my mother, Merrywether—yes, that’s my full name too—started needling me, asking me if any young man had asked me to the prom yet. She literally kept buzzing with ideas for the perfect dress, the perfect hair-do, the perfect make-up, the perfect blah, blah, blah.
It made me wanna puke every time she had some perfect piece of crap to talk about. Every day before school and after school, she would bust into my room and offer me perfect prom advice. She never failed to mention that her senior prom had been the high point of her entire life; she simply cherished and adored every moment of it.
My perfect mother had attended her perfect senior year high school prom with the perfect man she would marry, my father—Garland Whitfield, III. My father did not remember anything about that perfect prom except that it provided the occasion for his first kiss with the perfect girl of his dreams.
After being raised by Garland and Merrywether Whitfield, the perfect couple, as their yearbook had labeled them, I was not the perfect daughter. I was morose, melancholy, moody for most of what I can remember of my childhood.
I’m sure I caused my happy, perfect parents untold agony, except for the fact that they were incapable of recognizing agony. I had two brothers and three sisters. All I can remember about them is that they were all perfect.
Every transgression of mine—from skipping school to cussing out teachers to shoplifting—received that same hopeful prediction that that I would grow out of my misbehavior after I met a fine, young man to settle down with, and then start giving them those perfect, beautiful grandchildren.
So, my parents were perfect; did I mention that? I was not. But I am telling this story primarily about the prom because it happened. The prom is the reason I am here today—serving life in prison without the possibility of parole.
Well, of course, that is not exactly true. It’s what I did at the prom that stuffed me into this fine institution. But I have begun to digress, I guess. Or jump too far ahead of this tale.
That Special Kiss
Okay. Now, readers, you must be bummed! No doubt you were waiting for me to report how wonderfully romantic the prom was, how gracious and manly that certain prom date was, and how I fell head over heals in love with that Rob and am now living the good life, after that special kiss that convinced me life was for marrying that special guy and giving your perfect parents perfect, beautiful grandchildren.
No, sorry! That’s not what happened. This is:
After much stewing over it, I decided I would go to the prom with that Rob. My mother had made sure I had the perfect dress and that I knew how to dance all the right dances. Day by day, I grew more and more angry.
I loathed everything I was doing. The dress made me cringe. The dancing made me want to puke my guts out. All the blathering bilge about female duty, female honor, female position in the community had dumped me into a deep rotting stupor of blind and utter hatred.
I loathed my mother with a furious passion for her incessant buzzing over the trivial details of a stupid, little dance. I despised the dress of putrid pink, and the asinine dance steps that made no sense, and I could never remember them.
Every night I had vivid nightmares about marrying that Rob Morris, spawning off a dozen little snot-nosed bratty monsters scampering around the house, all the while my perfect parents gushing and cooing in happiness over all the things that were making me wish I were dead.
That dreaded day finally arrived, and by God, I was ready for it. But not in the way my perfect parents, my perfect prom date, my perfect school had thought. My hatred had exploded in my head so many times I had no idea what I was doing, thinking, or going to do—well, no, not exactly!
Control Nuts!
Before I lay it out for you exactly what I did, I have to say this! All you gun control nuts can go straight to hell! I did what I did because of who I was/am, not because I could get my hands on a gun and do it or because my friend’s parents owned a gun to protect their family.
If I had not been able to get a hold of a gun, I would have probably driven my car into the prom dance hall and probably have done more damage than I did. So, go fuck off! for blaming the goddam gun! blame me! the one who committed the goddam crime!
Sorry for the spoiler, but here’s what I did: I stole the revolver from the desk of my friend’s father. I had often studied with her, and I knew her father kept a gun in his desk drawer. I guess she just enjoyed knowing that she was sharing a secret with me. I had no idea I would consider such a theft at the time she showed me the gun.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, the image of that weapon lying there in the drawer deeply engraved itself in my mind’s eye, and four years later, I spirited that gun away after my friend and I had studied for our senior year finals.
My mother had assembled the perfect evening bag, filled with everything the perfect female prom date would need, including my wallet with a few bucks and my identification, perfume, lipstick, compact, and comb.
She instructed me that at least twice I should excuse myself to the ladies room and freshen up with those make-up items: she’d always add, “be sure to comb your hair real nice after a few dances.”
I emptied out all that crap and I tucked the gun away in that evening bag. Back then they did not check bags when people went into buildings.
Popping Off at the Perfect Prom
“So, Merry, you look great tonight, could you go for a glass of punch?” my prom date Rob Morris put this inane question to me.
“Hell, no!” I snapped, pulled out the gun, and popped him in the head. He fell. I stepped over him and moved on to the punch table and popped everyone around it. People started scurrying for cover.
There was much screaming, everyone was screaming—but the music kept blaring, and a couple was still dancing cheek to cheek until I popped them.
I stopped, reloaded, and then I started popping anyone in sight. I felt so calm. I was starting to feel even calmer. But the screaming grew louder, the dancers kept on scattering out. I kept on popping people—here, there, everywhere—until finally I began to hear the sound of sirens.
Like kernels of corn staring to pop, cops popped through the door, into the hall, and I popped a couple cops before one cop popped me. I guess I fell . . . but I don’t remember anything after that, until I woke up in the hospital, shackled to the bed, restraints on my hands and feet.
I had killed a total of 81 people: 74 students, 5 teachers, and 2 cops. I did remember popping people with the gun, but at the time I did not recognize who any of them were. Only later, however, I found out that I did know them all, except for the cops.
My perfect parents got me the best public defender they could find, or so I have heard. And then they vanished from my life—which was certainly okay by me. I never really knew them, never had any idea what made them tick, and I never had any desire or reason to find out.
I avoided the death penalty just in time by a last minute confession. I had begged that stupid ass lawyer all along to let me confess, but the idiot wanted to claim something was wrong with me: “diminished capacity,” “mental illness causing inability to be responsible,” or some crap to that effect.
She just wanted to make a name for herself with a big fancy trial. All I wanted was what was coming to me.
Here I Sit, Paying
Hells bells, I knew I was the only one responsible. I couldn’t blame it on anyone or anything, because I was the one who committed the goddam crime. I knew exactly what I had done, and I thought I knew exactly why.
However, that “why” has become more screwed up confused in my mind as time moves along. I have been here in federal prison for twelve years. As I said earlier, I will be here until I die; I have no possibility of parole, unless, of course, some goody-two-shoes shit- for-brains politician smelling a passel of votes takes up the cause of people like me.
I have and will continue to have a big bunch of time to think, to ponder, to consider, to wonder, and to try to connect the many unconnected dots in my mind, and just generally to wallow in sorrow. I do spend a lot time reading. The prison library has become my best friend.
I hate what I did. I hate, loathe, and despise myself for killing all those innocent people. And for what did I do it? Because I chafed at trying to live up to the standards of perfect parents? That’s bullshit! Hell! Garland and Merrywether were not perfect. I now give them kudos because they never ever claimed to be perfect.
I now know that I just imagined that they thought they were perfect. Maybe it was because of my own personal failures that I imagined other people thought they were perfect, and that they thought I was just a screw-up. I can see now that it’s likely that only I thought I was a screw-up.
I still don’t know why I committed that crime. But I do regret what I did—deeply regret it! And most of the time, I keep thinking that is the one and only thing I have learned in this life: that I did a bad wrong and I now deeply regret it. I don’t even know what I might be thinking next.
I guess it just depends on what I can learn about how to live. And this might sound odd, even unbelievable, but I really do take some comfort just knowing that I am paying for my god-awful crime spree . . . but then I’ll turn gloomy again, when I realize that my “paying” will never bring back those poor souls that I with so much malice popped at the prom that awful night, that awful prom night.
This story narrates the strange events that occurred during the summer session of my final year of college. I was left with two emotional reactions that caused me to be stunned and confused. Even today years later, I remain amazed that I managed to graduate and continue living a fairly normal life.
Fiction Alert! This story is fiction. It does not depict any real person or actual event.
Laid Back Summer Sessions
During my senior year of college, I enrolled in a course in linguistics, “The Structure of American English.” It was summer session. I loved summer sessions; they were much more laid back than the academic year, and the big pay off was that I would graduate a whole year earlier by attending summer sessions. For some reason, I’ve always liked getting things done early.
The prof was a doofus but that wasn’t going to stop me from getting my three credits for the course. The class was really quite fun, and I learned a lot. Especially from one of the students. Her name was Rosaleigh Tompkins.
Rosaleigh was almost 6 feet tall and a little chunky, but she was brown-skinned beautiful. The prof was always referencing “Black English” and then asking Rosaleigh if she would substantiate his whitey take on that area of language.
One day just out of the blue, I decide to ask Rosaleigh what she thought when the doofus prof kept picking her out for Black English support. I must say here that such cheek was way out of character for me, but I was just so curious. I mean this jerk had no idea if Rosaleigh was an expert in Black English. He had no idea where she grew up, with whom she associated, or if she even spoke that nebulous language.
“Excuse me, Miss Tompkins, but could I ask you perhaps an impertinent question?”
“Wow, that sounds ominous, Miss Grace!” said Rosaleigh. Then she quickly added, “Dat be da right name, huh?”
I laughed so hard, and then Rosaleigh began to laugh. And I said, “Somehow I feel like you know what I’m going to ask you? I’ll bet others have asked the same thing.”
“No, but there is something in your face that tells me you might know something these others fools don’t,” she replied.
“Well, barring sounding redundant, let me just ask, here goes, how do you feel about being constantly asked about Black English by the prof?” I said.
“Do you have a couple of hours? I’d love the chance to unload about that. Seriously, my apartment is about four blocks from here. I make a mean cup of java. Would you care to join me?” she said.
We walked the four blocks to her apartment which was over the bookstore on High Street in the little town of Oxford, Ohio, home of our Miami University. I found out how she felt about the Black English thing, but because of what happened next during the visit to her apartment, the information fades into the background . . .
We talked for several hours sitting on her sofa. She plied me with wonderful snacks, her mean java, and several glasses of tasty wine. I never felt so comfortable, so warm, so involved as I did that day.
During one of our many effusive spells of laughter, we began to kiss deeply with such passion. We spontaneously stripped off our clothes; Rosaleigh led me to her shower where we lathered each other’s body, washed each other’s hair, then stood laughing like loons under cold water as it stripped off all the soap suds.
We dried off quickly with gigantic bath towels that were soft and comforting. She led me to her bed, and we spent what seemed like an eternity of pleasure exploring each other’s bodies. She did things with her vagina that I had no idea could be done.
I was not a virgin at this point in my life. I had experienced loss of that status with a man, a professor who was married and had no intention of changing his marital status. I was devastated when that affair ended and never considered falling in love again, especially with a woman.
But that one afternoon with Rosaleigh spoiled me for relationships with men. Or at least that’s what I felt until I had left Rosaleigh’s apartment, drove back home to my small town in Indiana, and my family.
Driving home, my mind seemed to break into two pieces. There is no way my father, mother, and younger sister would ever understand what I had just experienced. I had just made passionate love with a black lesbian. The race issue alone was enough that I could not possibly invite Rosaleigh to my parents’ home.
My family would never accept my just being friends with a black girl. And that she and I were lovers would not be possible for them to comprehend.
I kept envisioning my father and my sister pelting me with accusatory questions: my father says, what in the hell is the matter with you, Guilda? how could you do such a thing? how will you ever get a job as a teacher if you go around with those people? my sister sniffles and wants to know, how could you do this to Mommy and Daddy? how will I have any friends left if this gets out? All the while my mother is sitting off in a corner weeping her eyes out.
Almost home, I think I have returned to some kind of normalcy. Mommy wants to know why I am so late; that’s easy, I had to go to the library and look up some stuff for class. No problem.
Meldings: Minds and Bodies
Rosaleigh and I melded mind and body for two hours almost every day before our first class. Our love-making was the high point of my life the first four weeks of that fateful summer session. Then things started going a little haywire when Rosaleigh expressed to me that we would become a couple, get married, and live happily ever after.
“What do you mean, when we go back to Saint Louis?” I asked her about a week before the summer session’s end.
“After we graduate, we will go to Saint Louis, where I’m from. There’s an underground queer community there. I’m an activist for getting queers their rights,” she said.
We had been so busy with the pleasure of love-making and wild, general philosophical tenants that we had never talked about the real world. Now Rosaleigh was filling me in on what she had been concocting in her mind.
“I don’t think I can go to Saint Louis,” I said.
“Of course, you can, you can’t stay here, in this environment, nobody understands our way of life here. Eventually, we’ll have to go San Francisco. But first, I’ve got to do what I can to help out our people in Saint Louis.”
Lovers Yet Strangers
Rosaleigh seemed like a complete stranger to me at this point. I had no idea she was making such plans. My plans were pretty flabby, but I knew I could not do what she was planning. I could not leave my family this way. They would never understand, and they would never get over it. I could only imagine the pain and anguish they would experience.
At this point, I realized something important about my family: even though they were provincial bigots, they had feelings, and I could not be the culprit that would so deeply hurt and destroy these people I loved, who loved me, who raised me, cared for me, and made my very life possible.
In addition to my dad, mom, and sister, I had uncles, aunts, and cousins. Plus the many friends of the family who had shared in the glories of my many academic achievements. I couldn’t let all those people down.
At one point I considered telling them about my lovely black lesbian. But I just couldn’t imagine that they could wrap their minds around the situation. So I decided that I’d look for an occasion to make a joke that involved my situation and see what their reaction would be.
One night we were all gathered around the TV watching a comedy routine. Daddy loved comedy, Mommy tolerated it, and Pepper loved anything Daddy liked. The routine began with the words, “Two queer negroes walk into a wedding chapel in Las Vegas.”
I immediately piped up: “Hey, Pepper, would you attend my wedding if I was getting married to a big black dyke?”
“Eeww . . .” Pepper whined. “Daddy, what’s a dyke?” Pepper was only sixteen at the time. We can forgive her for not being acquainted with the term, “dyke”; after all “big black” were enough to turn her stomach.
“Pepper Jane, you’re better off not knowing that kind of shit!” my dad gruffly responded.
“Guilda Elane Grace, what the hell is the matter with you?” Daddy spit out the question he had so often addressed to me over the years.
“I was just joking. It’s a comedy routine, for Christ’s sake,” I tried to defend myself. “Can’t I offer my own take on a little joke?”
No Joke, It Would Kill Me Dead
“Guilda Elane, you shouldn’t joke about such things. It would kill me dead if you ever did such a thing,” Mommy added with her usual maudlin take on matters.
“Guilda, you’d better change your ways or you’ll never get a job as a teacher. You may be getting a college education, but you could take a lesson from your sister. She’s got more common sense in the tip of her little finger than you have in your whole body. You’d better do some changing in your head, young lady. I’d hate to think that all this money I’m spending to get you an education is going to waste. But goddamit, it looks like it is,” he shouted, his face turning red as he stormed out to seek his consolation somewhere I was not.
So, guess I had my answer. Rosaleigh and the queer life had to go . . . but how? Try as I might to convey these facts to Rosaleigh, I could not. She was adamant that we would be together always, and she based her belief on the fantastic love-making and incredible conversations we always experienced with each other.
Every time I left her apartment, she would say the same thing, “One day, my little Guilda, we will not have to part like this,” and she would give me kiss that made me almost believe her.
Still, I had never considered myself a lesbian. I knew that I still wanted to marry a man someday. Rosaleigh would always poo poo such an idea, and I would tell her over and over that I knew that was true. I would tell her how special she was and that I would never forget her, but I knew that someday I would want a man, a penis, a real marriage, and a traditional life.
I stewed and worried and thought and rethought how I could break off my affair with Rosaleigh. I had no idea how to do it. Partly, because I didn’t want to do it. My vagina was in love with her with all its heart, even while my brain said, you can’t keep doing this.
Which Hand?
I was not a praying person at the time, but my pleas to some invisible Being seemed real and continuous: I begged to be let loose from this conundrum. But over and over my mind keep saying, you just don’t have a clue what do you, do you?
But it turned out that I didn’t have to do anything.
The weekend before the last full week of classes, Rosaleigh flew back home to Saint Louis to attend one of her queer meetings. But then on Monday, Rosaleigh was not in class. We sat there waiting for class to begin. The prof was now late as well. The students began to fidget, and grumble, and some were preparing to leave, when in he ambles.
The prof looked quite serious as he announced, “I’m so sorry to have to announce this, but one of our class members was killed over the weekend. Miss Rosaleigh Sasha Thompkins— you might remember her, she was our expert in Black English—was killed in a riot on Saturday in Saint Louis. Sorry I don’t have more information about that. She offered such an important contribution to this class. And I’m so sorry to announce this. So let’s have a moment of silence in respect and memory of this student.”
I was stunned! I sat there during the moment of silence and wondered, “What the hell is this?”
On the one hand, I was devastated; I had thought I would have at least until the end of senior year to figure this out, while enjoying my love affair with Rosaleigh; now she was gone. What would I do? On the other hand, I was relieved that I did not have to face the eventual break up.
The speaker in “Two Tramps in Mud Time” dramatizes his encounter with two unemployed lumberjacks who covet the speaker’s wood-splitting task. He also features a philosophical take on the situation that leads him to continue chopping, instead of handing the job off to the two tramps.
Introduction and Text of “Two Tramps in Mud Time”
The speaker in Robert Frost’s “Two Tramps in Mud Time” fashions his dramatic performance, focusing on his brief meeting with two unemployed lumberjacks who seek to take over the speaker’s wood-splitting task. Calling them “tramps,” the speaker then provides a fascinating philosophical discussion about his reason for electing to keep on performing his chore, instead of letting these two needy individuals finish it for him.
It is likely that at times true altruism might come into play as a part of spiritual progress. And it also likely that the speaker would condescend to this idea. But the speaker may also have been annoyed that his “aim” at the wood was interrupted by the snide remark voiced by one of the mud tramps.
Two Tramps In Mud Time
Out of the mud two strangers came And caught me splitting wood in the yard, And one of them put me off my aim By hailing cheerily “Hit them hard!” I knew pretty well why he had dropped behind And let the other go on a way. I knew pretty well what he had in mind: He wanted to take my job for pay.
Good blocks of oak it was I split, As large around as the chopping block; And every piece I squarely hit Fell splinterless as a cloven rock. The blows that a life of self-control Spares to strike for the common good, That day, giving a loose my soul, I spent on the unimportant wood.v
The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day When the sun is out and the wind is still, You’re one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to speak, A cloud comes over the sunlit arch, A wind comes off a frozen peak, And you’re two months back in the middle of March.
A bluebird comes tenderly up to alight And turns to the wind to unruffle a plume, His song so pitched as not to excite A single flower as yet to bloom. It is snowing a flake; and he half knew Winter was only playing possum. Except in color he isn’t blue, But he wouldn’t advise a thing to blossom.
The water for which we may have to look In summertime with a witching wand, In every wheelrut’s now a brook, In every print of a hoof a pond. Be glad of water, but don’t forget The lurking frost in the earth beneath That will steal forth after the sun is set And show on the water its crystal teeth.
The time when most I loved my task The two must make me love it more By coming with what they came to ask. You’d think I never had felt before The weight of an ax-head poised aloft, The grip of earth on outspread feet, The life of muscles rocking soft And smooth and moist in vernal heat.
Out of the wood two hulking tramps (From sleeping God knows where last night, But not long since in the lumber camps). They thought all chopping was theirs of right. Men of the woods and lumberjacks, They judged me by their appropriate tool. Except as a fellow handled an ax They had no way of knowing a fool.
Nothing on either side was said. They knew they had but to stay their stay And all their logic would fill my head: As that I had no right to play With what was another man’s work for gain. My right might be love but theirs was need. And where the two exist in twain Theirs was the better right–agreed.
But yield who will to their separation, My object in living is to unite My avocation and my vocation As my two eyes make one in sight. Only where love and need are one, And the work is play for mortal stakes, Is the deed ever really done For Heaven and the future’s sakes.
Robert Frost Reading “Two Tramps in Mud Time”
Commentary on “Two Tramps in Mud Time”
The speaker in “Two Tramps in Mud Time” is dramatizing his encounter with two unemployed lumberjacks who would like to relieve the speaker of his wood-splitting task. He offers an interesting take on why he chooses to continue his chore, instead of turning it over to these two needy individuals.
First Stanza: Accosted by Two Strangers
Out of the mud two strangers came And caught me splitting wood in the yard, And one of them put me off my aim By hailing cheerily “Hit them hard!” I knew pretty well why he had dropped behind And let the other go on a way. I knew pretty well what he had in mind: He wanted to take my job for pay.
The speaker in “Two Tramps in Mud Time” is busy cutting logs of oak; he is suddenly accosted by a couple of strangers who seem to appear out from the muddy ground. One of the strangers calls out to the speaker telling him to hit the oak logs hard.
The man who called out had lagged behind his companion, and the speaker of the poem believes he does so in order to attempt to take the speaker’s work. Paying jobs are lacking in this period of American history, and men had to do all they could to get a day’s wage.
The speaker complains that the sudden call out from the tramp has disturbed his “aim” likely making him miss the split he had planned to make of the log. The speaker is not happy about the intrusion into his private activity.
Second Stanza: The Ability to Split Wood
Good blocks of oak it was I split, As large around as the chopping block; And every piece I squarely hit Fell splinterless as a cloven rock. The blows that a life of self-control Spares to strike for the common good, That day, giving a loose my soul, I spent on the unimportant wood.
The speaker counters the criticism of the tramp by detailing his own proven ability to split wood. He describes every piece he cut as “splinter less as a cloven rock.” The speaker then begins to muse in a philosophical manner.
Although a well-disciplined individual might think that philanthropy is always in order, today this speaker decides to continue cutting his own wood, despite the fact that the tramp/strangers desperately need cash and could well use what they would earn by cutting the wood.
The speaker, who normally might be amenable to allowing the two unemployed men to take on the wood-splitting for some pay, is now put off by the remark and continues to concoct reasons for continuing the work himself.
Third Stanza: Musing on the Weather
The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day When the sun is out and the wind is still, You’re one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to speak, A cloud comes over the sunlit arch, A wind comes off a frozen peak, And you’re two months back in the middle of March.v
In the third stanza, the speaker muses over the weather. It is a nice warm day even though there is a chilly wind. It’s that Eliotic “cruelest month” of April, when sometimes the weather may seem like the middle of May and then suddenly it’s like the middle of March again.
The speaker seems to reason that he had no time to turn over the job because by the time he explained what he wanted done and how much he was willing to pay them, the weather might take a turn for the worse and then the job would have to be abandoned.
Fourth Stanza: Weather Still On Edge
A bluebird comes tenderly up to alight And turns to the wind to unruffle a plume, His song so pitched as not to excite A single flower as yet to bloom. It is snowing a flake; and he half knew Winter was only playing possum. Except in color he isn’t blue, But he wouldn’t advise a thing to blossom.
Then the speaker dramatizes the actions and the possible thoughts of a bluebird who ” . . . comes tenderly up to alight / And turns to the wind to unruffle a plume.” The bird sings his song but is not enthusiastic yet, because there are still no flowers blooming.
A snowflake appears, and the speaker and the bird realize that, “[w]inter was only playing possum.” The bird is happy enough, but he would not encourage the flowers to bloom yet, because he knows there is still a good chance of frost. Beauties of nature are always contrasted with ugliness, warm with cold, light with dark, soft with sharp.
Fifth Stanza: The Philosophy of Weather and The Pairs of Opposites
The water for which we may have to look In summertime with a witching wand, In every wheelrut’s now a brook, In every print of a hoof a pond. Be glad of water, but don’t forget The lurking frost in the earth beneath That will steal forth after the sun is set And show on the water its crystal teeth.
Water is plentiful in mid-spring, whereas in summer they have to look for it “with a witching wand.” But now it makes a “brook” of “every wheelrut[ ],” and “every print of a hoof” is “a pond.”
The speaker offers the advice to be appreciative of the water but admonishes his listeners not to dismiss the notion that frost could still be just beneath the surface and could in a trice spill forth showing “its crystal teeth.”
The speaker seems to be in a Zen-mood, demonstrating the pairs of opposites that continue to saddle humankind with every possible dilemma. His philosophical musing has turned up the perennial truth that every good thing has its opposite on this earth.
Sixth Stanza: Back to the Tramps
The time when most I loved my task The two must make me love it more By coming with what they came to ask. You’d think I never had felt before The weight of an ax-head poised aloft, The grip of earth on outspread feet, The life of muscles rocking soft And smooth and moist in vernal heat.
In the sixth stanza, the speaker returns to the issue of the tramps. The speaker loves splitting the oak logs, but when the two tramps come along covertly trying to usurp his beloved task, that “make[s him] love it more.” It makes the speaker feel that he had never done this work before, he is so loathe to give it up.
Likely, the speaker resents deeply that these two would be so brazen as to try to interrupt his work, much less try to usurp it. The speaker is doing this work not only because he will need to wood to heat his house but also because he enjoys it. That anyone would consider relieving him of performing a task he loves makes him realize more intensely that he does, in fact, love the chore.
Seventh Stanza: Likely Lazy Bums
Out of the wood two hulking tramps (From sleeping God knows where last night, But not long since in the lumber camps). They thought all chopping was theirs of right. Men of the woods and lumberjacks, They judged me by their appropriate tool. Except as a fellow handled an ax They had no way of knowing a fool.
The speaker knows that these two tramps are likely just lazy bums, even though they had earlier been lumberjacks working at the lumber camps nearby. He knows that they have sized him up and decided they deserved to be performing his beloved task.
That the speaker refers to these men as “tramps” shows that he has little, if any, respect for them. The fact that they might have been lumberjacks does not give them the right to judge the speaker and his ability to split wood.
That they thought chopping wood was only their purview further infuriates the speaker. He suspects they think he is just some fool noodling around with tools only they could wield properly.
Eighth Stanza: Who Really Has the Better Claim?
Nothing on either side was said. They knew they had but to stay their stay And all their logic would fill my head: As that I had no right to play With what was another man’s work for gain. My right might be love but theirs was need. And where the two exist in twain Theirs was the better right—agreed.
The speaker and the tramps did not converse. The speaker claims that the tramps knew they did not have to say anything. They assumed it would be obvious to the speaker they deserved to be splitting the wood.
They would split wood because they needed the money, but the speaker is splitting the wood for the love of it. It did not matter that the tramps had “agreed” that they had a better claim.
The speaker suggests that even if they had the better claim on the job, he could think his way out of this conundrum in order to continue working his wood himself. He did not owe them anything, despite their superior notions about themselves, their ability, and their present needs.
Ninth Stanza: Uniting Love and Need
But yield who will to their separation, My object in living is to unite My avocation and my vocation As my two eyes make one in sight. Only where love and need are one, And the work is play for mortal stakes, Is the deed ever really done For Heaven and the future’s sakes.
The speaker philosophically reasons that he has the better claim to his wood-splitting and is, in fact, more deserving of his labor then the mud tramps. His task is more than just wood-splitting. He is striving in his life to unite the two aspects of human existence: the physical and spiritual. He has determined to bring together his “avocation” and his “vocation.”
The speaker is convinced that only when a human can unite into a spiritual whole his need with his love can the job truly be said to have been accomplished. The two tramps do not understand this philosophical concept; they want only money.
The speaker is actively striving to unite his love and his need together into that significant, spiritual whole. Maybe sometime in future the two mud tramps too will learn this valuable lesson of conjoining love and need. But for now they just need to scoot along and leave the speaker to his chores.
Original Song: “These Letters” with Prose Commentary
My original song “These Letters” is a rather uncategorizable love song: it does not exactly fit into the lost love category, nor does it fit into the romantic, idealism of most love songs.
Introduction and Lyric of “These Letters”
The singer and the individual addressed in the song have apparently had a friendly, loving relationship in the past—even likely lived together experiencing the life that the singer suggests with images in the song. However, the addressee at the time of the song remains at some distance from the singer. The fact that they have been exchanging letters reveals that a spacial distance exists between the two parties.
The singer does not reveal the reason for the two being apart, but the fact that she hopes the addressee will return to her leaves open the question for the addressee’s departure and even whether the addressee will ever return. The singer expresses the wish and hope that the addressee will return, and by that expression of that wish/hope, she is implying that the addressee many not ever return.
Interestingly, the mention of being “far apart” is not clear that the singer is referring only to distance in miles, but it is obvious that a spacial distance exists because of the very title of the song. The song cannot be considered a “lost love” song because the singer expresses her love for the distant individual and that she hopes the addressee will return to her. Whether the two reunite remains a mystery because the theme of the song is simply that letters are not sufficient to maintain a close relationship.
These Letters
First Verse
Here I sit with knitting needles Winter drawing near. Mind on fire with old desire Wishing you were here. So I’ll make this sweater To send to you With the love that’s in my heart And I’ll tell you that I long for you ‘Cause we’re so far apart.
Second Verse
The wine in the cellar gets better and better. I wish you could taste some with me. I try not to show The young plants as they grow How empty and sad I can be. The tomato vines hung so full this year I wish you had been here to see. I’ll send you some pictures and strawberry jam And my hopes that you’ll come back to me.
Chorus
These letters can’t take your place, my Love. I hope that you come back to me. No, these letters can’t take your place, my Love. I hope that you come back to me.
Commentary on “These Letters”
Because the title of the song is “These Letters,” the singer is placing great emphasis on that form of writing. But she is letting the recipient of her letters know that she finds such correspondence insufficient to maintain their relationship. While letters cannot take the place of the missing individual, she singer adds her hope their the addressee will return to their her and their life together.
First Verse: A Distant Relationship
Here I sit with knitting needles Winter drawing near. Mind on fire with old desire Wishing you were here. So I’ll make this sweater To send to you With the love that’s in my heart And I’ll tell you that I long for you ‘Cause we’re so far apart.
The singer begins by noting where she is and suggesting what she is doing: she is sitting somewhere, likely in her home, with a pair of “knitting needles.” She then alerts the addressee and her listeners to the fact that the winter season is coming soon.
The fact that the coldest season is nearly upon her prompts her to reveal the reason for her sitting with knitting needles: she is knitting a sweater for the individual, whom she is addressing in the song. She then tells the individual that she is sending the sweater to him/her. She adds the unexpected element that she will also be sending love the person.
Love resides in her heart for the person she is addressing, and she wishes they were not “so far apart.” She reports that she will tell the individual that she “long[s] for [the individual]” because of the vast separation.
Second Verse: Hopes for Return
The wine in the cellar gets better and better. I wish you could taste some with me. I try not to show The young plants as they grow How empty and sad I can be. The tomato vines hung so full this year I wish you had been here to see. I’ll send you some pictures and strawberry jam And my hopes that you’ll come back to me.
The singer then reveals that she and the individual whom she is addressing have made wine together. Their wine gets “better and better” as it rests in the cellar. This set of imagery “wine” and “cellar” implies that the singer and the individual reside in the country, in a bucolic setting as opposed to city living, where cellars are not common, nor is wine-making.
More evidence for the country living is that the singer next mentions the growing of the grapes for the wine, which likely represent other plants that the singer and her friend have formerly grown together.
Now that she and the individual have distance between them, she singer is “empty and sad,” but as the cultivates the garden, she attempts to put on a happier face for the sake of the plants, as plants can be sensitive to the mood of their caretaker.
She then tells her friend that the tomato harvest was especially good this year. And again she expresses the wish that her friend had been there to experience those full-hanging tomato vines. The singer then alerts her friend that she will send the individual pictures—likely images of those garden plants, particularly the tomatoes that grew so abundantly.
In addition to the pictures, she will send “strawberry jam”—another indication that the singer lives out in the country where she has the space to grow strawberries. And again, this singer expresses “hopes”—this time, somewhat more than a mere “wish”—that the individual will return to the singer.
Chorus: What Letters Cannot Do
These letters can’t take your place, my Love. I hope that you come back to me. No, these letters can’t take your place, my Love. I hope that you come back to me.
The chorus which is offered only twice expresses the fact that the two individuals have been exchanging letters. The singer makes her feelings known that letters are not sufficient to maintain the loving relationship that the two had earlier experienced.
The chorus itself even repeats the fact that the letters are not enough. The singer remains hopeful that the now distant former friend and likely housemate will return to her and their life together.
This love song “Dreaming of You Again” features an individual who is musing on his continued feelings for and thoughts about a loved one from whom he has had to separate.
Introduction with Lyric “Dreaming of You Again”
The chorus of “Dreaming of You Again” features a sequence of statements regarding the visions that appear to the individual in his dreams about his beloved: first, he envisions “what could have been”; next, he sees “what would have been,” and finally he insists that he envisions “what should have been.”
Clearly, the individual’s feelings remains so strong that he feels that the two former partners do belong together, although they likely never will again unite. Still, he has his dreams.
Dreaming of You Again
Written by Ron Grimes and Linda Sue Grimes. Performed by Linda Sue Grimes.
Introductory Note by Ron Grimes: This is a song I wrote in 2003. Linda put the song to music. This video was created on January 1st 2023. The scene of us walking along the river was captured January 1st 2023 at Henry Horton State Park in Tennessee. We walked along the Duck River.
Chorus
Dreaming of you again, making up what’s true again Seeing now what we saw then Visions of what could have been—Dreaming of you again
First Verse
Growing quite accustomed to these crazy little dreams of you Just a way to pass the time These crazy little dreams of mine—Dreaming of you again Your face lights up my darkest night, stay with me, hold me tight Show me now what we knew then Help me find that joy again—Dreaming of you again
Chorus
Dreaming of you again making up what’s true again Seeing now what we saw then Visions of what would have been—Dreaming of you again
Second Verse
We both knew you had to leave, you had to grow, you had to breathe It hurt me so to see you cry The night you said your last good-bye—Dreaming of you again Wish you peace and happiness, hope you’ll always have the best And me I’ll have these dream of you Dreams I’ll always hold on to—Dreaming of you again
Chorus
Dreaming of you again, making up what’s true again Seeing now what we saw then Visions of what should have been—Dreaming of you again
Commentary on “Dreaming of You Again”
Dreams figure widely and often in love songs. One of the most popular love songs of the early Rock and Roll movement of the late 1950s and early 1960s was the Everly Brothers’ “All I Have to Do Is Dream.” This song “Dreaming of You Again” offers a unique twist on the dreaming function, as it makes an affirmative claim held by the composer of the lyric.
Chorus: What Could Have Been
Dreaming of you again, making up what’s true again Seeing now what we saw then Visions of what could have been—Dreaming of you again
The singer begins by offering a chorus that sets the stage for the rest of the piece. He has been dreaming about the individual he is addressing, creating mental pictures about what the couple felt and did with some speculation about what could have become for them in future.
First Verse: Crazy Dreams Repeating Themselves
Growing quite accustomed to these crazy little dreams of you Just a way to pass the time These crazy little dreams of mine—Dreaming of you again Your face lights up my darkest night, stay with me, hold me tight Show me now what we knew then Help me find that joy again—Dreaming of you again
The composer begins by offering a chorus that sets the stage for the rest of the piece.He has been dreaming about the individual he is addressing, creating mental pictures about what the couple felt and did with some speculation about what could have become for them in future.
Chorus: What Would Have Been
Dreaming of you again making up what’s true again Seeing now what we saw then Visions of what would have been—Dreaming of you again
Again, the composer repeats the refrain, chant-like, revealing again his visions as well as that they also belonged to his belovèd. This time he claim that those visions would have been reality, if they had remained together to build a life together.
Second Verse: Had to Leave to Breathe
We both knew you had to leave, you had to grow, you had to breathe It hurt me so to see you cry The night you said your last good-bye—Dreaming of you again Wish you peace and happiness, hope you’ll always have the best And me I’ll have these dream of you Dreams I’ll always hold on to—Dreaming of you again
The composer then offers a glimpse into the reason for this couple’s split: the one had to leave to grow and breathe. The lack of specificity allows the listener to fill in the blanks. But such a situation is not unheard of.
Sometimes opportunities do not exist for both partners in one location; thus, they have to separate to reach their goals. It does seem that both partners are sad about the situation.
Nevertheless, the composer has accepted the departure and now hopes that his partner finds the fulfilled life for which the individual had to leave. He wishes his belovèd peace, happiness, and all the best in life. Finally, he asserts that he will continue to engage in the dreams that bring his beloved back to him. He makes peace with the simple enjoyment of dreams instead of reality.
Chorus: What Should Have Been
Dreaming of you again, making up what’s true again Seeing now what we saw then Visions of what should have been—Dreaming of you again
Lest the composer demonstrate too easily the giving in to the way things are, he states that now his dreams are envisioning how things should have been—not merely that they “could” or “would.”
His affirming that they “should have been” is likely offered to rouse new thoughts in the distant former belovèd. If the departed individual is made aware that the composer still thinks they should have remained together, what kind of fire might that thought kindle in the mind of the addressee? Of course, the composer does not address that issue, so the listener can only speculate.
Other Videos by Ron Grimes
Ron in Tennessee – YouTube I am grateful to God for the beauty and gifts of nature, and for all of His blessings.
Into my garden of weeds Come, Eternal Gardener— Teach me to plant and prune fine foliage. Show me where to set the lilies and tulips And where the roses should grow. Guide my choices of herbs and vegetables. Give me knowledge of fertilizer and fences.
Into my garden of words Come, Eternal Poet— Make my poems exude divine ardor. Fashion my thoughts to bow at your feet. Make my images spout living waters From an enlightened fount To refresh all who dip a cup.
2 In My Spiritual Garden
In my spiritual garden I walk with you when the sun is medicine And the rain suckles the beets and corn. I walk with you between the rows of memories Where love holds you between peppers and tomatoes.
I walk with you along the fence And touch your hand and step across Thinking of you as I pick the peas, Still thinking of you as I weed The beans and cucumbers.
I walk with you and with every silent step And every moment of your absence That would weaken the faith of one Less in love, my love grows deep Like the roots of the bamboo and my love Grows straight like the stalks of asparagus.
In my spiritual garden I will always grow you In the medicine sun and the suckling rain.
3 Divine Gardner
After we scoop the soil over the seeds & sprinkle the water & pluck the weeds,
you will tend the growing & tempt the eye with green & yellow peppers, & tempt the tongue with onions & corn, & invite us to taste your flesh in cucumbers & tomatoes.
I will stand at the edge of the garden, my lips & tongue tending the silence I learn to thank you with.
4 My Divine Beloved
When spring comes Tilling the ground I will plant seeds And think of you You are earth You build my body.
When spring comes Showering young plants I will sing with raindrops And think of you You are water You carry my life.
When spring comes Warming my limbs I will brown my skin And think of you You are fire You inflame my heart.
When spring comes Swirling on the wind I will lean into it And think of you You are air You clear my mind.
When spring comes Rising from winter’s tomb I will sing devotion And think of you You are my Divine Beloved You revive my soul.
5Your Divine Love
My heart is a lake I swim in, But I want to float in the ocean of your love.
My mind is a sky I fly through, But I want to soar through your omniscient love.
My soul is an undiscovered star, But I want to find it shining in your flaming love.
My dream spreads out in all directions, Searching for the boundary of your Divine Love.
6 Cosmic Beloved
Though my heart is fickle And strays from you, You never stray from me. Your love for me Never waivers.
You came to me in youth’s naiveté And married my folly, And for a time I slept without rest In the arms of a splintering sorrow Deep within a cave of madness. When I emerged from that black night, You greeted me as my daughter. You blessed the rest of my life With a holy union when you became My true mate with whom I rest In the cave of a peaceful heart. And you greet me as my son.
When I go off from time to time To carouse with the lesser lights Of poets and painters and dabblers In pursuit of knowledge, You become each one of them So you can stay by my side—
In the hands of a less skilled artist, the love theme of this lyric often trots out a tired cliché, but Sara Teasdale’s speaker makes it fresh and new.
Introduction and Text of “I Am Not Yours”
Taking the theme of deep and lasting love, the speaker in Sara Teasdale’s “I Am Not Yours” employs the poetic device of hyperbole to convey her emotion. Three riming quatrains using the traditional scheme of ABCB unfold the poem’s drama.
I Am Not Yours
I am not yours, not lost in you, Not lost, although I long to be Lost as a candle lit at noon, Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still A spirit beautiful and bright, Yet I am I, who long to be Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh plunge me deep in love—put out My senses, leave me deaf and blind, Swept by the tempest of your love, A taper in a rushing wind.
Commentary on “I Am Not Yours”
While lovers are prone to exaggerate in artistic endeavors the level to which they have become part of their love one, this speaker on Sara Teasdale’s “I Am Not Yours” dramatizes a very different approach: a series of negative exaggerations that emphasize the positive.
First Quatrain: No Romantic Exaggeration
I am not yours, not lost in you, Not lost, although I long to be Lost as a candle lit at noon, Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
The speaker directs her words to her beloved in an extraordinary manner, by claiming that she is not possessed by him and that she has not lost herself in his charms. While lovers are prone to exaggerate in artistic endeavors the level to which they have become part of their love one, this speaker dramatizes a very different approach.
Thus this speaker then changes her direction as she proclaims that even though she is “not lost in [him],” she desires wholeheartedly that she might become so. She, therefore, states that she would like to be as is “a candle lit at noon.” A candle at noon would barely show light at all as it would meld with the natural sunlight.
The speaker then asserts that she would like to become part of her beloved as “a snowflake in the sea.” The oceanic presence of her beloved has engulfed her heart in such as way that she can liken herself to the smallness and malleability of a flake of snow melting in the ocean.
The original claim that she does not belong to the addressee has now been set on its head. Although literally it will always be true that she is not his and she is not lost in him, her desire for that blending has caused her imagination to conjure such a state in a majestic manner of metaphorical supremacy.
Second Quatrain: Total Melding of Body, Mind, Soul
You love me, and I find you still A spirit beautiful and bright, Yet I am I, who long to be Lost as a light is lost in light.
The second quatrain confirms that the speaker is, indeed, loved by the target of her desire. As she claims, “I am I,” she hungers for annihilation of self, that is, to melt into her lover. Her drama continues the seeking after total blending of body, mind, and spirit with the beloved.
The speaker continues to wish for that complete melding with her lover, as she has shown from the beginning of her drama. She wants to be totally consumed in the love she feels for him: to be “lost [in him] as light is lost in light.”
Third Quatrain: Annihilation of Separation
Oh plunge me deep in love—put out My senses, leave me deaf and blind, Swept by the tempest of your love, A taper in a rushing wind.
The final quatrain finds the speaker essentially begging for the awareness of her wish to experience complete emersion in her beloved. She pleads, “Oh plunge me deep in love.” The speaker desires to exist so close to her beloved that she has no need to hear or see.
His love and affection will be her only awareness and guide. She begs that all her sense awareness become “swept by the tempest of your love.” Again, the speaker returns to the candle metaphor. She wishes to be so completely subsumed in him that she becomes a “taper in a rushing wind.” No longer is there a separation between the two lovers.
Avoiding the Tired, the Obnoxious, the Clichéd
The theme of this love lyric is a common one for lovers; pop lyrics use it over-abundantly. The idea of becoming so consumed by love that one wishes to melt into one’s lover has long been a cliché; the serious artist who employs this theme works to dramatize it in fresh, original ways.
That freshness is achieved by Teasdale in her opening remarks, “I am not yours, not lost in you” and in her use of light as the substance to which she compares her desired union with her beloved.
She avoids all of the tired and obnoxious sexual connotations that usually appear in portrayals of this theme. This lyric’s elocution remains so elevated that it could be interpreted as a devotee’s prayer to the Divine.
Sara Teasdale’s “Barter” is a lyrical musing on the importance and value of beauty, stressing the indispensability of giving oneself up completely to any moment of loveliness that happens to appear before one’s consciousness.
Introduction and Text of “Barter”
Sara Teasdale’s “Barter” was first published in 1917 in her collection titled simply Love Songs. It is likely the poet’s most anthologized poem, for it remains one of her most crystallized expressions on loveliness, self-surrender, and sublimity.
In “Barter,” the poet has created a speaker who professes the belief that beauty is all encompassing in all of its aspects including its presence in nature, or in love between individuals, or in the soul’s quiet musings. To purchase such a rare commodity, one must be willing to pay any price.
Barter
Life has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And children’s faces looking up Holding wonder like a cup.
Life has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit’s still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night.
Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been, or could be.
Commentary on “Barter”
The title “Barter”offers the first hint that the controlling metaphor of the poem will be that of commerce in the marketplace. The speaker then moves from description of worldly things of beauty to exhortation in demanding the audience’s complete surrender in order to acquire that beauty.
First Stanza: What Life Possesses
Life has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And children’s faces looking up Holding wonder like a cup.
In the opening line, the speaker establishes the controlling metaphor for the poem: life is similar to a marketplace where its products are myriad forms of beauty. The speaker thus is personifying “Life” as a vendor, who is selling “loveliness.”
The speaker then begins a catalogue of examples of the things that are lovely, that is, they are “[a]ll beautiful and splendid things” such as ocean waves that whiten as they beat up against “a cliff,” fire that soars, sways, and sings, and the faces of little children as they look up in wonderment. The structure of the stanza features a quatrain with the rime scheme ABCB, and the final two lines are a rimed couplet. This structure is repeated in the remaining two stanzas.
Second Stanza: Things of Beauty
Life has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit’s still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night.
Opening the second stanza, the speaker repeats the line “Life has loveliness to sell,” creating a chant-like rhythm and continuing the commerce metaphor. Then again following the same structure, the speaker offers another catalogue of the items for sale that are beautiful.
The four senses of hearing, smell, sight, and touch are represented. For hearing, there is music with its “curve of gold,” suggesting both melody and shape, along with value and warmth; this auditory image melds aesthetic and moral value: music soothes and inspires while gold glitters and is long lasting.
Representing the olfactory image, the “[s]cent of pine trees in the rain” brings to mind a pungent oder, wherein rain further enhances the scent by drawing out the resinous sharpness of the trees.
The sense of sight finds its ocular image in the “[e]yes that love you,” and the tactile image in the “arms that hold.” The human element brings to the poem an aura of intimacy and love, as these two images engage the emotion involved in the human acts of affection and protection.
The final couplet moves from the physical to the spiritual level of existence. The spirit (soul) also is afforded the quality of beauty in this marketplace. “Holy thoughts” offer pleasure to the soul as the stars offer loveliness to the night time sky.
Third Stanza: The Vital Importance of Experiencing Beauty
Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been, or could be.
In the final stanza, the speaker moves from announcement and description to a direct command. Replacing the incantatory “Life has loveliness to sell” is the command to spend all that you possess in order to purchase this commodity called “loveliness.” Further commanding, the speaker insists that her listeners continue to purchase and give no thought as to how much is the price.
Conjoining color, sound, and time, the speaker commands her listeners to find it prudent to have lost “many a year of strife” for acquiring the amazing experience of “one white singing hour of peace.”
In the final couplet, the speaker presses forth her most intense commanding statement: for even a moment of the highest bliss, give up yourself entirely, including all you have been and all you could ever be. For this speaker the importance of experiencing even a brief moment of joyful beauty is worth all one can sacrifice.
Such a suggestion implies that the speaker believes that most beauty is lost through the human acts of non-observation and non-involvement with the things of this world that are indeed lovely if one looks with seeing eyes and an open loving heart.
Linda's Literary Home 
