So, after studying writing for the last several years I have been asked to teach a class on script writing. I am excepting the challenge because it makes me uncomfortable. It forces me to organize my own meandering thoughts and present them in a coherent manner. Wish me luck.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Sarah's Home
Some people swore that the house was haunted. The years of neglect and the occasional vandalous abuse by scared children or bored adults, would help give the impression of evil or at the least a haven for those who do evil deeds. Broken windows, overgrown shrubbery, dying fruit trees, and a high-backed weathered rocking chair strangely placed upon the porch waiting to give comfort and ease to someone, all added to the dark mood.
Sarah, a long slender figure dressed in a heavy coat to fight the chill, stood admiring the finely scalped wood trim that separated the falling eves and the rippled shingles. A few nails, some paint, and flowered, yes flowered curtains could give life to this house of shattered souls.
Although her own past had dark times she regretted, to many could’ve, woulda, should'ves, a sordid past with moments that could have added to this sorrowed landscape. Perhaps, just maybe, this single house could help her heal and give the world something positive to judge her by. But why was she worrying about them again. Her past loomed on her shoulders and perhaps added to the roundness they now had. As a young girl she would watch as her older brother, Benjamin and his friends, would torture and kill birds, cats, and any other small animals they could get their hands on. What was it she saw in their eyes, their acts, and their hearts, which she found so intriguing?
Tulips, daisies, and roses, that’s what this yard needs. If there is any life left in the fruit trees they would add beauty in the spring with their colorful blossoms and sweet fragrance, and preserves in the fall to tantalize the taste buds.
Sarah now stood on the porch admiring the doorknob, a tarnished finely detailed brass lever probably handmade by an old artisan. She gently took hold of the knob and easily turned it, the door swung open with the expected creeks and groans. The oak wood floor looked solid, the large rag-tied carpet dim with dust, and the furniture unmoved for years looked somehow new compared to the outer appearance.
In the kitchen plates, silverware, and blue tumblers were on the table, as though waiting for the family to sit and enjoy mother’s Sunday roast. Even napkins were folded and carefully placed with the silverware. The smell of a thanksgiving feast with fresh potato rolls, would be a pleasant addition, and fresh flowers oh lots of fresh flowers to color the scene.
Sarah had longed for a home she could call her own, a place to care for, to clean and beautify. A home with a strong family, lots of children, and friends, yes friends to sit on the porch and drink tea with. Friends with hobbies they loved and husbands to gossip about.
It would be dark soon, and with no electricity or even a flashlight, the house would be scary once again. Funny she thought how darkness means danger. Undaunted, Sarah found the stairs and surveyed the bedrooms finding her new bathroom with rose flowered wallpaper. What a wonderful place!
The sound of a dog and the laughter mischievous boys awoke Sarah from her thoughts. She stood in the shadows of the upstairs window watching as they approached. Sarah remembered the pain evil deeds leave behind. It will stop now.
As the boys approached the house, rocks, slingshots and destruction in hand, Sarah ran down the stairs across the dusty rugs and creaking floors, finding the door still open she rushed into the yard to face the evil doers.
Some say the screams could be heard all the way to Tower Street a full mile away. Others heard the laughter of Sarah as she watched the boys run, scared to death by the tall ghost with a flowing coat, coming out of the house, boys tripping over each other trying to save themselves, trying to find the gate first and escape the certain agonizing death.
With paint, nails, and time, Sarah changed the house into a home, found a husband and started a family. Friends, lots of friends came drinking tea and gossiped as she sat in the high-backed rocker. Her good deeds erased the past, and three scared boys earned money mowing lawns, trimming trees, and planting her tulips. Sarah had been a stranger when she came to our town, she taught us all how to be a loving neighbor, to find the light in the darkness. Thanks to her kindness and the beauty it brings we transformed all the homes in our town, one house at a time. Nothing was ever the same again after that.
Sarah, a long slender figure dressed in a heavy coat to fight the chill, stood admiring the finely scalped wood trim that separated the falling eves and the rippled shingles. A few nails, some paint, and flowered, yes flowered curtains could give life to this house of shattered souls.
Although her own past had dark times she regretted, to many could’ve, woulda, should'ves, a sordid past with moments that could have added to this sorrowed landscape. Perhaps, just maybe, this single house could help her heal and give the world something positive to judge her by. But why was she worrying about them again. Her past loomed on her shoulders and perhaps added to the roundness they now had. As a young girl she would watch as her older brother, Benjamin and his friends, would torture and kill birds, cats, and any other small animals they could get their hands on. What was it she saw in their eyes, their acts, and their hearts, which she found so intriguing?
Tulips, daisies, and roses, that’s what this yard needs. If there is any life left in the fruit trees they would add beauty in the spring with their colorful blossoms and sweet fragrance, and preserves in the fall to tantalize the taste buds.
Sarah now stood on the porch admiring the doorknob, a tarnished finely detailed brass lever probably handmade by an old artisan. She gently took hold of the knob and easily turned it, the door swung open with the expected creeks and groans. The oak wood floor looked solid, the large rag-tied carpet dim with dust, and the furniture unmoved for years looked somehow new compared to the outer appearance.
In the kitchen plates, silverware, and blue tumblers were on the table, as though waiting for the family to sit and enjoy mother’s Sunday roast. Even napkins were folded and carefully placed with the silverware. The smell of a thanksgiving feast with fresh potato rolls, would be a pleasant addition, and fresh flowers oh lots of fresh flowers to color the scene.
Sarah had longed for a home she could call her own, a place to care for, to clean and beautify. A home with a strong family, lots of children, and friends, yes friends to sit on the porch and drink tea with. Friends with hobbies they loved and husbands to gossip about.
It would be dark soon, and with no electricity or even a flashlight, the house would be scary once again. Funny she thought how darkness means danger. Undaunted, Sarah found the stairs and surveyed the bedrooms finding her new bathroom with rose flowered wallpaper. What a wonderful place!
The sound of a dog and the laughter mischievous boys awoke Sarah from her thoughts. She stood in the shadows of the upstairs window watching as they approached. Sarah remembered the pain evil deeds leave behind. It will stop now.
As the boys approached the house, rocks, slingshots and destruction in hand, Sarah ran down the stairs across the dusty rugs and creaking floors, finding the door still open she rushed into the yard to face the evil doers.
Some say the screams could be heard all the way to Tower Street a full mile away. Others heard the laughter of Sarah as she watched the boys run, scared to death by the tall ghost with a flowing coat, coming out of the house, boys tripping over each other trying to save themselves, trying to find the gate first and escape the certain agonizing death.
With paint, nails, and time, Sarah changed the house into a home, found a husband and started a family. Friends, lots of friends came drinking tea and gossiped as she sat in the high-backed rocker. Her good deeds erased the past, and three scared boys earned money mowing lawns, trimming trees, and planting her tulips. Sarah had been a stranger when she came to our town, she taught us all how to be a loving neighbor, to find the light in the darkness. Thanks to her kindness and the beauty it brings we transformed all the homes in our town, one house at a time. Nothing was ever the same again after that.
Monday, June 28, 2010
To Long & To Short
I have lived longer than I ever thought I would. Not that I have some terrible disease, just never looked much beyond the 40th year. Well hear I am past that and moving on.
I have decided one thing we seldom look to is our long distant future. We do spend time walking backwards searching the past for something to change. It never will. I need to forget the past look and run headlong into the future and give my lovey "The Babe" all she so richly deserves.
I have decided one thing we seldom look to is our long distant future. We do spend time walking backwards searching the past for something to change. It never will. I need to forget the past look and run headlong into the future and give my lovey "The Babe" all she so richly deserves.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
The Worst Band Ever.
The Worst Band Ever
I’m not one to criticize anyone’s taste in music, some folks like hippity hoppity music, or uninterruptable screaming, even violins by candle light. Myself, I like most music, if I can understand it, but I can care a tune in a bucket or even in a saddlebag. Nevertheless, that one night a long time ago, I played with the worst band ever.
In high school I started playing the drums in a local rock & roll top forty band. The music was usually no more than three chords and the girls liked drummers, hence a large part of my enthusiasm. We did pretty well and played almost every week end at a dance or party of some kind. After a time the entire band moved on to lives and different parts of the world, but we remained friends at Christmas dinners and an occasional birthday party.
Then one night Arnie called. Arnie Bigler had been the guitar player and after all these years was still always finding one place after another to perform. This night he had found a new singer, a woman we’ll call Shirley, sang country western, her husband played the bass guitar. I never minded playing this type of music, it’s pretty simple, but Shirley gave heartache a new meaning.
After a couple of nights of rehearsals, we loaded up the van and drove for an hour to a dusty old building where pick-up trucks were lined up in the gravel, like trophies on display.
The owner was nice enough, a big man with a gentle smile always at the corner of his mouth. He looked at us for a moment, I could see he was sizing up the “group” he had never heard. He invited us in and pointed to the corner where we could set up. Looking at the crowd, noticed a lot of cowboy hats and shiny belt buckles, I knew we were in trouble. They knew country music, and I knew we didn’t.
I set up my drums and we began to play as the crowd anticipated a fun filled festive evening of good old country hits about mom, jails, and heartache. One by one, they stopped stomping their feet and even quit singing along. After about 30 minutes, we had played all the songs we knew and began to repeat them. Two by two the crowd began to leave, and the nice owner, a little embarrassed, ask us to stop playing. In fact, he asked us to leave. Our two week booking had lasted about 75 minutes.
The worst band ever, surely was Shirley and the boys.
I’m not one to criticize anyone’s taste in music, some folks like hippity hoppity music, or uninterruptable screaming, even violins by candle light. Myself, I like most music, if I can understand it, but I can care a tune in a bucket or even in a saddlebag. Nevertheless, that one night a long time ago, I played with the worst band ever.
In high school I started playing the drums in a local rock & roll top forty band. The music was usually no more than three chords and the girls liked drummers, hence a large part of my enthusiasm. We did pretty well and played almost every week end at a dance or party of some kind. After a time the entire band moved on to lives and different parts of the world, but we remained friends at Christmas dinners and an occasional birthday party.
Then one night Arnie called. Arnie Bigler had been the guitar player and after all these years was still always finding one place after another to perform. This night he had found a new singer, a woman we’ll call Shirley, sang country western, her husband played the bass guitar. I never minded playing this type of music, it’s pretty simple, but Shirley gave heartache a new meaning.
After a couple of nights of rehearsals, we loaded up the van and drove for an hour to a dusty old building where pick-up trucks were lined up in the gravel, like trophies on display.
The owner was nice enough, a big man with a gentle smile always at the corner of his mouth. He looked at us for a moment, I could see he was sizing up the “group” he had never heard. He invited us in and pointed to the corner where we could set up. Looking at the crowd, noticed a lot of cowboy hats and shiny belt buckles, I knew we were in trouble. They knew country music, and I knew we didn’t.
I set up my drums and we began to play as the crowd anticipated a fun filled festive evening of good old country hits about mom, jails, and heartache. One by one, they stopped stomping their feet and even quit singing along. After about 30 minutes, we had played all the songs we knew and began to repeat them. Two by two the crowd began to leave, and the nice owner, a little embarrassed, ask us to stop playing. In fact, he asked us to leave. Our two week booking had lasted about 75 minutes.
The worst band ever, surely was Shirley and the boys.
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