Category: Exercises

posts relating to writing exercises or prompts from others

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Among my souveniers

So … it’s been a while, I know. While I’d like to apologize for that, I’m not going to. I’ve been busy. New plays, new work challenges, new friends. It’s been a while, but much of it has been new. All new. And that’s a good thing. Really. It’s a very, very good thing.

I started a project last week. I have a rolling file, full of all kinds of stuff. You know, bank statements, after-visit printouts from the doctor, school photos of friends’ kids. The stuff of life. The stuff, at one point, I figured I’d probably like to keep. And although I’m sure a list of the stuff I kept would interest all of you. I’m letting you know that I was pretty surprised by the stuff I let go. It was mostly cards. Lots of cards. Opening night cards, Christmas cards, lots of sentiment.

Some of it was really old, like the ticket stubs to my first Broadway show (Kander and Ebb’s The Life) Some of it was funny, like the card from a director friend telling me to “Break a nostril,” on opening night of Noises, Off! the first time I did the play. Some of it was sweet, like the note of extreme gratitude for stepping into a role with lots of lines and very little rehearsal. It was all real. It was all hugely felt, I’m sure. And I enjoyed looking at it one more time before I let it go. It started me thinking about all that stuff in the closet behind me. Who’s going to want that when I’m dead? I mean … why am i keeping it in the closet? I’m not going to use it. And I’m certain that Abel Ganz poster, which hung in my apartment for so many years, while at the time was really special to me … well … it no longer holds that much meaning. So, what do I do? (Look out closet, I’m gunning for you.)

My wife says I’m a purger. I think she’s onto something. I just don’t really keep stuff around very long.

I have this recurring dream. I might have mentioned it before. It’s kind of a nightmare in terms of the anxiety it causes. It’s always pretty much the same. I won’t bore you with the details, but the log line for the dream is:

Grant discovers he has an apartment he never moved out of, and owes 20 years’ back rent.

I’m not making this up. It’s a pretty nice place, near a river … in an unnamed town, and the long-benevolent landlord has died and his estate is asking for a shit-ton of rent. And the apartment is full of stuff that I didn’t know I even had. Maybe that’s where all the stuff I purge is accumulating.

Today I pitched a lot of stuff into the recycle bin, and piled up quite a pile of receipts onto the shredder. I’ll run them through later … closer to the day we pull our recycling out into the street. Here’s the last thing I want to share.

I came across a piece of construction paper. It was probably from an exercise with a work team a long time ago. It was probably pinned to my back, and it was probably prefaced by a speech that went something along the lines of, “Write on everyone’s paper a word or phrase that best describes that person.” It might have been an exercise in awareness building … you know, the whole “How others view you,” type deal. I don’t really know. But here’s the words and phrases in no particular order:

Brilliant strategist—vulnerable  😉

Grounded in what he does best

A crack up — in a good way

Notices everything

Honesty

Teacher!

Straight forward

Knows his stuff and a delight to be around — the one to trust with celebrities

Guru — oracle — speaker of truth

Incredible storyteller

Brilliant writer

↑This too

So … thank you. All of you, whomever you are. I really, really appreciate it. But today, I’m letting it go.

 

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Something of worth, part one

I’ve been carrying around a couple piece of jewelry for the past few weeks. When I cleaned out my backpack before heading out to the beach for the week, I stumbled across them, and put them in a safe place. My intent was to take them to the jeweler to be repaired. I still haven’t done that.

Funny how hard it is to recognize classic writing exercises when they are staring you in the face. (Or you are holding them in your hand.) It’s an old saw. Find an object and write a story about it. The fact is, though, these two objects have been rolling around in my mind for three weeks. Maybe my amendment to the exercise is to find an object, carry it around for three weeks, and THEN write about it.

Both the objects are rings. One belonged to my father, one belongs to my wife. Both are shrouded in stories.

My dad wore an azure-blue star sapphire, set in a manly silver setting with two diamond chips on both sides. I don’t know why my mother bought a ring like this. Nor why she gave it to my dad, but I do remember he loved it, and that was rare. My dad took delight in many things, but seldom cherished anything.

Sapphires themselves are kind of native to Montana. During one of our few family outings, the four of us went to a sapphire mine and picked over a bucket of stones. My mom threw a chunk of what she was convince was Coke-bottle glass over her shoulder and we spent a good part of the afternoon sorting through road gravel to find it. Turns out, it was a blue-green hunk of corundum, which my sister now wears as a cut stone in a setting my mom chose. Given their relationship, I’m pretty sure that ring irritates my sister from time to time.

We didn’t find my dad’s stone. Maybe my mom gave the ring to my dad one Father’s Day. She might have said something hokey about the diamond chips representing my sister and me. I really don’t remember how, or why, that ring came into the family. I do remember how the depth of the blue jumped off my dad’s chubby fingers. And the milky-gray, sparkley star inside the stone mimicked my dad’s eyes.

In doing a little research, I’ve found that real star sapphires are rare. They are most likely blue. They are cut in a way that a six-pointed star appears to be inside the stone, and that star shape will move, but continue to show up, no matter how you hold the stone. Star sapphires are also frequently replicated or faked. There are many stones in the world with the star “painted” into a less-valuable material, like agate. One of the tests for authenticity is to make sure the image of the star remains, no matter how you move the stone. But clever counterfeiters can create synthetic material that mimics the star and sell it as real. So taking the stone to a gemologist is the only way to tell.

I came across the ring when we were culling through my mom’s stuff in preparation for my eldest sister Cherie’s move into the house I grew up in. I remember that day as being busy, and filled with strongly concealed emotions. My sisters were mostly concerned with my mother’s shoes. I sat on the living room floor with my week-old neice strapped into a car seat nearby. She had recently discovered her feet, and she squealed with delight every time she managed to snatch one up and pull it to her chest. My dad’s stuff was down to a few boxes. This was stuff my mom had saved, having parceled out the rest the year before. It contained my dad’s dog tags from WWII, his discharge papers, his wedding ring, a photo of his high-school track team, a copy of the speech he gave at his graduation, and a few other things my mom couldn’t bear to part with.

I’d never wear the ring on a daily basis. I’d probably never wear it even for special occasions. I did wear it recently in a play. (I had to wrap the band with tape … my dad had huge fingers.) Not an everyday ring, but something the King of France would wear.

The stone is loose.

And I have been reluctant to take it to the jeweler for more than a handful of reasons. Practically, I don’t have any reason to wear the ring, so why pay to get it fixed? And I don’t have anyone to give the ring to, once I’m dead, or ready to give my stuff away. Emotionally, I don’t want to know if the stone is fake.

Mostly, I don’t want to let the color of the star out of my possession.

Even to get fixed.

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It all depends

Upon your point of view. That POV thing, that’s a stickler, especially if you’re writing about yourself. I’d wager a dollar on the fact that the majority of the copy edits being made to my book will be all about point of view. It’s a little weird. Not only do you have to figure out WHO you are, but actually WHEN you are. From there, things get a little more complicated.

So last week at our writer’s workshop. One of the best things about my job, might I add, is a built-in group of caring writers. We worked on an exercise in which the POV shifts from first to second to third person.

Here’s what has to happen in the story: A guy takes his dog for a walk and ends up getting shot. For this story, we used Ben Bernanke and a Mexican hairless named Bunting.

Here’s where I landed:

I didn’t actually see it happen. It was that fast. One minute, one moment, really, I was walking Bunting and the next second I had a hold of a leash that was tethered to a massacre.

Bunting was minding his own business. At least, that’s what I assume was the case. He and I have a pretty good routine. Maybe it was the unfamiliar walk, or the smell of the ocean air.

At any rate, Bunting and I set out on an innocent walk along the beach when the other dog—was it some kind of wolf? They are all some kind of wolf, I guess. But this was more wolf-like than Bunting. OK. I know, just about every other dog is more wolf-like than a Mexican hairless. That’s beside the point. This German Shepherd-looking-attack-Nazi dog just came out of nowhere and throttled my little dog.

It was that fast. He—the other dog—I think it was a he—isn’t it odd how we assign aggression to males? Anyway, HE grabbed my baby Bunting by the neck, gave a quick shake, and … it was over. At least it was over for Bunting. The Nazi and I were another matter.

***

You grab at just about anything you can, a leash, a collar—this dog had nothing—no distinguishing item of any kind. Not even a collar. You grab, and you twist, and you shout. Oh boy do you shout. Your dog lies dead at your feet. His killer turning his blood lust on you. And suddenly, you are all hands! Your body is tense. If you could only relax into the fight, like something you do everyday, but no you are as stiff as a … well, a stiff. The dog can sense this, you know this. Your blood is up. That’s probably what the animal can smell—its large, dark, flaring nostrils find your own, coursing, carotid artery on their own.

Your mind fades as the Nazi-dog-out-of-nowhere sinks its teeth in first to one side of your neck—the wound—then the other side of your neck—the kill. You think, This must be what it feels like to be attacked. Except you aren’t feeling attacked. You are feeling cold. Calm, cold, no fear—just you, the dog at your throat, and the cool, numbing cold of the world you are leaving.

***

Ben’s mind went first. You could see it in the way his eyes just faded out of focus. Only a minute into the attack, blood coursing out of the open wound in his neck, Fritz waited. Jaws locked. Until just the right moment. Then, as easily as he had dispatched the Mexican hairless, he gave a solid yank on its human prey and a strong, forced twist.

The sound of Ben’s neck breaking echoed up the bank. That was what caught Officer Hernandez’s ear.

He charged, the officer, just fast enough to arrive at the scene as Ben was finishing bleeding out.

“Fritz,” he called. “Heel!” And the dog let go of Ben and trotted to his side. Hernandez slipped the collar over the dog’s neck and buckled it under its bloody jowl. Some of Ben’s blood slipped onto Hernandez’s sleeve. Shit, Hernandez thought, I’ll have to explain that now. Fritz sat, then downed at Hernandez’s side.

Hernandez exhaled, drew his service revolver, and walked calmly up to Ben’s body. “Stop,” he said, barely audible. “Police,” he said in a dull, clear voice.

Then he discharged a bullet into the forehead of Ben’s lifeless body.

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Extracted from Smelter City Boy

This is a fiction version of a story I cut from my manuscript this week. Some of you may recognize the thinly veiled references to my time as a summer camp administrator.

Vesperae

August, 1991

“What does vespers mean anyway?” Audra asked.

“Vespers comes from the Latin vesperae, or evening star,” Hardy said.

“Yeah,” Emilia added, “it refers to the brightest star in the evening sky, which is actually a planet.”

“Well, not really, Emilia. It refers to the first star in the evening sky, but you’re right about the planet. I think it’s Venus or Jupiter. Somewhere in the middle of the 17th century, it came to mean an evening religious service.” Hardy knew vespers at Camp Chesterton wasn’t religious, but it had a sacred tone to it.

“Like in The Sound of Music, Maria is always late for vespers, but not every meal,” Emilia said.

“Kind of like you Dallas girls,” Hardy said. He didn’t mean it, and they knew it.

“At Chesterton we have vespers every Sunday night about all sorts of things. This is the first one of the term. The senior girls always get to do it, because they know so much about it. You’d know about vespers if you and Candace had been at camp forever like the rest of us.” Emilia had a way of comforting people and excluding them at the same time.

“What if it rains, Hardy?” Emilia was a worrywart.

“Well, you know something, Emilia, what if isn’t. . .”

“Part of your vocabulary,” she finished his sentence.

“That’s right. If it rains we’ll have the program in the dance pavilion, like we always do. You know that.”

What if was Hardy’s job at Camp Chesterton. He was constantly thinking what if, but these seven teenage girls didn’t need to know that.

“But what about the cortège?” Emilia asked, her voice on the border of whining.

“The what?” Claire asked.

“If it rains we’ll just have to take it to the river after the program. And stop calling it that,” Hardy answered. “It’s not a cortège, it’s a floating thingy that holds little slips of paper with lit candles on its corners. A cortège is a funeral procession, Emilia. We could call it a flotilla if you want, but we still wouldn’t be correct. A flotilla is a collection of boats.”

“What are we writing on the slips of paper again?” Amanda wanted to know.

“Jeez! Pay attention, Mandy!” Emilia snapped.

“Girls! Girls! You’re both pretty!” Hardy blurted. That put a stop to the bickering and made the girls laugh.

The fact that Emilia took herself so seriously was no laughing matter, however. Hardy liked Emilia. She was scrappy. But the girls thought she was bossy. Since the activities calendar was published, Emilia had been masterminding the vespers program. Although these girls had only been at camp a few days, Hardy knew most of them had spent many summers together. Senior girls brought an acute sense of camp history with them. Hardy often joked that they packed more baggage than other campers. Emilia had been an outspoken member of this group since she was eight years old. In years past, it seemed the entire camp went through an adjustment period of two or three days before they learned to listen to Emilia with only one ear. Five of the girls were doing that already; the two new girls, Audra and Candace, were still adjusting.

“Well, Hardy, I’ve only explained it, like, a hundred times!” Emilia said.

“Well, Emilia, maybe you should explain it, like, once more in a civil tone, and then maybe we can move on with the rest of the program,” Hardy mimicked Emilia. This raised her hackles. She looked at her shoes, and then straight into Hardy’s eyes.

“I just want you to know that you’re not the only cynic in the room,” Emilia said. Hardy knew she’d heard that from her father, a popular history professor at UT in Austin. The comment bugged him enough to stop talking. His initial reaction was to deny it, but she had him pinned. Was it cynicism? Or wit? Emilia’s language skills weren’t always as sharp as her tongue.

“Okay, Mandy, it’s simple,” Emilia said. She wasn’t necessarily cynical, Hardy thought. Emilia was condescending. He wondered if she understood the difference.

“The whole program is based on the concept of balance. You know, there always has to be a little bit of bad with the good, and, like, every cloud has a silver lining and stuff like that. I was in The Sound of Music this year at school, and there’s a line in there about how every time God shuts a door he opens a window, and I think that is an excellent thing to say. So, you and Claire are going to do a dance that is about going through a bad time and being reborn with a new opportunity. Get it?”

Emilia hardly breathed when she spoke. She was at that age, Hardy thought, when everything is said on the same breath, with the same amount of importance. Forest fires and corn flakes were all spoken of in the same rushed manner.

“Yeah, I get it, Emilia,” Mandy said, “but I don’t get what the paper is for.”

“Okay. Every camper and staff person is going to get a piece of paper about the size of a recipe card. Hardy will get us 200 pieces of paper—300 just to be sure. Then, I am going to tell them that they are to write what they hope for on one side of the paper and what they fear the most on the other side. We’re going to play a CD while they do that. Then they are all going to put the pieces of paper in the cortège, and we are going to put it in the pond and have a moment of silence while the cortège floats across the pond and out into the river.” Emilia inhaled, and Hardy seized his opportunity.

“That’s it? That’s the end?” he asked, trying hard not to sound critical.

“What do you think?” Emilia looked solemn and sincere.

Hardy knew not to say much here. This was their program. As much as he wanted to say that the whole idea sounded like a lot of work, he knew that wasn’t his place. His role in this whole thing was administrative only—scheduling, procurement and accountability. For the latter, he looked to Dave and Nancy, the camp owners.

“Sounds good,” he said.

***

“What will it take to clear an area big enough for the entire camp at the edge of Lodge Pond?” Hardy asked Miguel, the head of the camp’s maintenance staff, a few days later. “The girls want to do the vespers program there. At the end of the program they want to float a sort of flaming raft thingy across the pond. We also need a place for two Dallas girls to dance, and Doony is going to do a solo with her guitar. Oh! And there’s a play, I don’t know what we’ll need for that; the girls haven’t written it yet. I’m supposed to see it tonight,” he said.

Miguel didn’t blink.

“I’ll need a new or sharpened blade for the sickle-bar mower, and a few hours notice to haul the benches from the dining hall and riding arena. If you want anything to float across the pond, you’re going to have to open the flow-gate. You’ll need the sound system plus about 50 yards of extension cord,” Miguel didn’t miss a beat. “And you’ll need about ten citronella torches that are full and burning about an hour before the show. The mosquitoes are hatching down there and the place is really buggy at dusk. You better pray it doesn’t rain. That will make the mosquitoes worse, and that little boy… it’s thunderstorm season, Hardy.” His voice trailed off.

Hardy knew Miguel was talking about a boy named Patrick. He had recently witnessed his babysitter get hit by lightning and fall off the roof of an office building in San Angelo. Only a handful of adults at Chesterton knew about the accident. No one knew why he was on the roof or why his parents had sent him to summer camp.

“Do you have any idea about the floating vessel?” Hardy asked. He tried to get back to the point of the shopping trip, although he shared Miguel’s soft spot for special kids.

Miguel squinted and looked at the sky. “Stop at Wal-Mart and pick up a six-pack cooler. That’ll float. We can weight it with sand so it won’t tip over. We can test it tonight after lights out.”

***

The weekend activities at Camp Chesterton started for Hardy on Wednesday, when he made his weekly shopping trip into town for supplies. This Wednesday, his list included a vessel that would hold 300 slips of paper and some candles without tipping over. Hardy found this amusing—the thought of the entire camp’s hopes and fears sinking before their eyes. He had grown fond of getting away from camp. These past couple of years it seemed like he had become tired. He worried that he was placing too much emphasis on his summer job—concerned that if his entire life revolved around camp, maybe too much was passing him by. Going to town on these rushed afternoons helped clue him in that life was being lived all around him. It lifted his spirits some but made him anxious at the same time.

Hardy loved the anonymity of Wal-Mart. He could buy swim caps, a case of corn oil, tempera paint, Twister and 50 rolls of film without the clerk batting an eye. Touring the aisles with a bulging cart, he picked up a six-pack cooler, plumber’s candles, duct tape, four tiki-style torches and a gallon of citronella oil. Miguel had said ten, but they were expensive. They broke the vespers program budget, but Hardy knew he could use the tiki torches at other functions, so he didn’t mind paying for four.

After dinner, the senior girls gathered in the drama building for rehearsal. Hardy got the distinct impression that everyone was fed up with Emilia.

“The play is stupid, Hardy!” Emilia said, walking into the room.

“Do you think that’s fair, Emilia?” Hardy asked.

“Well, it’s just going to about ruin the whole thing!” she said.

“It’s Wednesday, Emilia. The performance is Sunday. Never underestimate the power of fear and panic.” Hardy was losing his patience with Emilia. He wondered if that was cynicism, or wit.

Claire and Amanda, Dallas girls to the core, arrived five minutes late. There was a tacit understanding of Dallas girls at Camp Chesterton. They always looked good; their hair was perfectly coiffed, and their clothes fit properly if not a little too snug. They hardly ate at mealtimes and were known to be extremely polite, but were always five minutes late. Yet no one was more dependable than a Dallas girl. They had an inherent false-sincerity that made their speech sound important, yet casual. They could read children’s books aloud better than most girls their age, and every single one of them had taken dance lessons. Claire and Amanda’s eyes were slightly narrowed.

Hardy did the best thing he could—divide and conquer. He sent Claire and Amanda to the dance pavilion to work on their dance, and Doony off with her guitar to the bathroom. He asked Audra and Candace to stay with him, and he told Emilia to go to the back porch and write her speech—alone.

“I can’t call it a floating thingy, Hardy,” Emilia said before she left.

“Call it a vessel,” Hardy offered. “Or a craft.”

“I like vassal,” Emilia said.

“Vessel,” Hardy corrected her. “A vassal is something completely different.”

Emilia was right. The play was stupid. Audra and Candace weren’t adept at handling Emilia, so by the time they got to rehearsal they were fairly freaked out. The play was 15 lines long. In the play, a little girl is afraid of nightmares. Her mother tells her to go to sleep and all her dreams will come true. Curtain. End of play. Hardy encouraged the girls to stretch the material out so that the play lasted about 12 minutes. He asked them questions about plot. Why is the little girl afraid? Can she describe a nightmare? Why does falling asleep mean all your dreams will come true? He knew the girls had a shot at making a good play by answering these questions. Later, he would steer them toward incorporating fear and hope into the dialogue.

He couldn’t just come out and say that most people’s hopes are the basis of their fears. That we all hope for something, and fear is bred when we don’t think we’re going to get what we hope for. He knew that fear could paralyze you in the middle of the night—especially if you think your hopes are all wrong, or that you’ve been wasting your time hoping for something you know will never come.

“Hardy? Where are you?” The shortwave radio Hardy was required to carry cackled to life, startling him. It was Nancy’s voice.

“I’m in the drama building with the senior girls. We’re rehearsing. What do you need?” he asked.

“Well, there’s a thunderhead coming up the valley, and I think Patrick will have to come to the office. Tell the seniors to head home, then go to the pool and have B.J. blow the whistle on the free-swim.” Nancy’s voice caused Hardy to shift into calm by reflex. He knew the most efficient way to get things done, and although Nancy was urgent, panic wasn’t necessary.

“Girls, you’re going to have to head home. It’s going to be a real gully-washer. Look over your lines and I’ll stop by tonight and see the play again. Ask your counselors for help,” he said, as he flipped the switch that turned off the outdoor floodlight.

“B.J., let’s shut her down,” Hardy said, once he got to the pool. The campers knew this was coming—the sky was turning purple. Many of them were already out of the pool, shivering in their towels. B.J. blew his whistle, and Hardy stood at the pool gate as the campers lined up in front of him.

“Okay, campers, listen up! Go to your cabins quickly and get into some warm clothes. Counselors, maybe this would be a good night for a fire in your fireplaces but no outdoor campfires tonight—sorry guys. We’ll be by with snacks in a little while. Those of you in tents best drop the flaps for the night. I need to see B.J. and Patrick. You may go.” As the campers started to leave, Hardy called out, “Goodnight Camp Chesterton!” Several campers called out, “Goodnight Hardy!”

B.J. was the head of the swimming department and counselor of Patrick’s age group, known affectionately as the middle-aged boys. This could be a difficult group of kids. The older boys were fairly independent, and the younger boys were easy because they played so hard, but the middle-aged boys, the 10- to 13-year olds, could be a handful. Patrick was barely 10. Small for his age, he was either teased or doted on by the older campers.

“Beej, Patrick is going to stay with me for awhile,” Hardy told both of them. “Could you cover the pool? Nancy will most likely bring snacks to the boys.”

B.J. looked at Patrick and said, “We’ll see you after the storm, Pat. Stick with Hardy, you’ll get an extra granola bar,” he winked at Patrick, who remained staring at the ground.

“B.J., send someone with warm clothes,” Hardy said.

“Sure thing,” B.J. said, trotting toward the pool cover.

“C’mon Patrick, let’s go build a fire in the office—that ought to warm you up. Have you got all your stuff?” Hardy didn’t expect an answer. He knew they had to get moving, or they’d be caught in the downpour. The oncoming storm had driven Patrick nearly comatose. Hardy put his arm around Patrick’s shoulders and pulled him close to his hip. “C’mon big P,” he said as they approached the gate, “let’s get that fire started.”

A distant boom of thunder echoed through the valley. Patrick tensed and looked down at the ground. Hardy squatted in front of the boy and tried to make eye contact. “Patrick, I’m here and you’re here and that lightning was miles away. But I’m not going to lie to you partner, it’s coming closer. Now we’re going to the office, and we’ll light a fire, and B.J. will send you some warm clothes. Do you think you can walk, or do you want me to carry you?” Patrick remained staring at the ground, so Hardy whisked him up into his arms and pulled the gate shut behind them.

Once they got to the office, Hardy deposited the towel-clad boy in front of the fireplace and threw a Presto log onto the grate and lit it with a kitchen match. He grabbed his radio and pressed the talk button.

“Nancy, I’ve got Patrick here at the office,” he said.

“Tell him to hang in there!” Nancy said. “His mom’s number is on the desk blotter,” she added. It hadn’t come to that yet, but tonight—with the sound of heavy rain on the metal roof—Hardy thought even he could stand a little mothering. As he headed for the desk, there was a knock on the office door.

“Here’s some clothes, Hardy.” It was Johnny Slocomb, one of Patrick’s more responsible cabin-mates.

“Thanks, Johnny,” Hardy said.

“Is he going to be okay?” Johnny asked, staring at Patrick who stood sentinel at a Presto log fire.

“Sure thing, buddy. He’ll be just fine. Do you need an umbrella?”

“NO!” Patrick cried. “No umbrella! Are you fucking nuts!? Umbrellas are lightning rods! Jesus Christ!” Patrick had spun around and was shouting at them. He had dropped his towel and stood by the fire in his swim trunks.

“Good!” Hardy shouted back, surprised at the edge in his voice. “Thanks for the tip, Patrick. What would we do without you?”

Patrick fell silent and turned back to the fire. Johnny was too afraid to say anything. “Thanks for the help Johnny. Now go back to your cabin, and Nancy will be by with snacks in a little while,” Hardy was talking louder than necessary. Johnny looked at Patrick and then back at Hardy. Hardy smiled at him.

“Holy shit!” Johnny said as he turned to leave.

“Did I miss something?” Hardy asked. “Is it Swear Word Day at Camp Chesterton?”

Johnny muttered, “Sorry, Hardy,” as he pulled the office door closed on his way out.

“Let’s get you dry,” Hardy said, throwing a couple of real logs onto the fire. Patrick stared at the floor, motionless. “Patrick, you’re going to get cold if you don’t put on some dry clothes,” Hardy reasoned.

No response.

“C’mon, buddy.” Hardy added an edge to his voice, as he wrote Patrick’s home phone number on the palm of his hand. Patrick stood silent, then stepped behind a chair and changed clothes. When he stepped back in front of the fire, Hardy picked up the wet swim trunks and towel and hung them on the doorknob. He returned to Patrick and sat on the hearth, between the boy and the fire.

“Want a stick of gum?” Hardy asked. He thought this might draw a response. Gum was forbidden at Camp Chesterton. Hardy only used the gum ploy in extreme cases. Patrick shifted his gaze from the floor up to Hardy. Just then, lightning flashed, and the room went dark. Patrick’s face went from calm to panicked and he pushed Hardy hard in the chest, nearly knocking him into the fire.

“That’s a pretty good shove Patrick!” Hardy said, as he stood and crossed to the desk, secretly praying there was some gum in the top drawer. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Hear that?” Hardy asked. “That sounds like it’s fairly far away.” He lied as he fumbled in the desk drawer for gum. “Here we go!” he said, producing an old pack of Juicy Fruit. “Now let’s get warm and enjoy our gum!” Hardy said as he tried to act like that wasn’t as stupid as it sounded.   Lightning flashed again, this time a little longer than the last. It turned the golden hue of the little office blue for an instant, changing the shadows from warm to hostile. Hardy thought to himself—for the first time that night—a lightning storm was damn scary.

Patrick rushed at him, and Hardy braced himself, thrusting the gum between them like a switchblade. Either the boy was going to hug him, or tackle him—both seemed entirely possible. Patrick knocked the gum away and grabbed Hardy tight around the waist, burying his face in Hardy’s belly.

“Whoa Big P! That was close, huh!?” Hardy said just before the thunder boomed and rattled the office windows. Hardy covered the boy’s ears. Then he pried Patrick free and swooped him up into his arms. They moved to the chair and sat down by the fire, Patrick curling into a tight, trembling ball on Hardy’s lap. Hardy hoped the lightning would pass over the camp quickly.

“Hardy?” Patrick’s voice was weak. Hardy could hardly hear him over the rain.

“Yeah, partner?” Hardy asked.

“Do you like the rain?”

“I love the rain!” Hardy said, too cheery. “I like the fact that it cleans the dust off of things and helps the forest grow. I love the smell of the forest after it rains, and I like to go down to the river and watch the water rush. Rain is good for business!” Hardy was saying stuff that was so stupid it surprised even him. “What about you? How do you feel about the rain?” he asked.

“It’s okay,” Patrick offered.

The next thunderclap came almost before the lightning. The boy curled even tighter in Hardy’s lap. The rain was falling in sheets on the roof. That meant a short storm. In twenty minutes, it would seem like it hadn’t rained at all.   “It’s the lightning I hate,” Patrick said. “I hate it! I hate it! I…”

“Okay, Patrick. You can hate it. It’s okay. But hating lightning isn’t going to stop it from happening. We’re pretty high up in the mountains, you know, and these thunderstorms sound closer to us than they are. I know that doesn’t help much, and it probably scares you even more, but I think you need to know that by coming to camp, well, you’re downright brave, Patrick. Downright brave.” Hardy’s voice was failing him. He knew it wouldn’t be long before his emotions took over.

“I don’t mind the rain, but I hate the thunder and lightning.”

“Well, Patrick, that’s…” Hardy didn’t know what to say.

“It’s all bullshit, Hardy!” Patrick cried as the lightning flashed farther away.

“I don’t think so, Patrick. I don’t! I don’t know if you can understand that you can’t stop stuff like that from happening, partner. Your job now is to stay here and get on with it. You can’t hold back lightning. And cursing at thunder isn’t going to help. We need the rain, Patrick. It helps things grow.” For a while, that was all Hardy could muster. Moments passed as the two looked into the fire. Finally, Hardy said, “We need you, Patrick.” The room became silent and the slowing patter of rain lulled them.

The thunder boomed in the distance, farther down the canyon.

***

Vespers was going well. The play wasn’t bad, and the Dallas girls danced well. Doony’s song, about contrasts and balance, had been a big hit.  As country music floated across Lodge Pond, Hardy looked around at the 200 or so people surrounding him and joined them in finding a flat surface to write upon. He looked at Emilia, her head bowed with a mixture of reverence and concentration. Then he stared into the blank piece of paper in his own hand.

Emilia looked up from her note cards, bit her top lip, exhaled and launched into her speech, which was a mystery to Hardy. Emilia had made so many revisions and additions, that he’d given up editing it altogether. It was a tense moment for Hardy, but Emilia shone with pride and confidence.

“On the four corners of the vessel are four candles,” Emilia said. “Each one signifies part of what will protect our hopes on their journey down our river. Each will also light the way for our fears to leave us.” Emilia paused as Doony lit the first candle. “The first candle stands for utility. What are we, if we are not useful to each other? The second candle stands for trust. We trust each other and our parents, our counselors and our leaders to guide us through any rough water we may encounter.” Doony lit the second candle, and the first candle blew out. Hardy knew that Doony could figure it out. She was a smart girl. “The third candle stands for faith, whatever you consider that to be. Every one of us believes in something. Our faith in each other is the foundation for our hope. When we lack faith, we plant the seeds of fear. The last candle,” Emilia paused for dramatic effect, “stands for community. We are all part of a camp family, and even when we aren’t at camp, our family holds us up and keeps us safe. We are all part of the family of humankind. Recognizing this is the easiest—and sometimes the hardest—thing we can do.” Hardy’s scalp tingled. He wasn’t sure if it was rain, or Emilia’s speech, but something was getting to him, and he started to smile. “Tonight, as we send out our hopes and fears let us take a moment of silence and summon our usefulness, trust, faith and community to help make the world a more balanced place.” As Emilia finished her speech, she nodded to Hardy to change the music, then she placed the vessel near the water and campers started filing forward to drop in their slips of paper.

Once he hit the proper buttons on the sound system, Hardy glanced at Dave and Nancy, at Miguel and B.J. and finally at Patrick. Patrick looked at him, then at the sky. He smiled and winked at Hardy, who smiled back. Everyone in the camp, child and adult, was considering what Emilia had just said.

This was no time for cynics, Hardy thought. And although he felt like laughing, he started to cry.

On one side of his slip of paper he wrote:

I hope for rain.

On the other side he wrote:

I fear the thunder and lightning.

Hardy breathed in deeply. As he exhaled, it was as if a wet shirt was being pulled from his body. Then he looked up, and between two big fluffy thunderheads, he saw the evening’s first bright star.

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Power to the poems

I studied poetry in college. Yup. Me and poems. We’re pretty close. Can’t write one worth writing. Well, that’s not true, I probably could, if I took the time. But I love reading them. I love reading them out loud. I love reading them to my wife. I love reading them to anyone who will listen. Chances are, if they have come from a reputable source (like an actual book of poetry, for example) they have been labored over. And I mean labored. Many of my stories started as ideas for poems. Some of the stories I actually struggled with in the form. And I mean struggled. But the worlds of the stories weren’t perfect enough to be poetry. I kind of understand that now. I didn’t when I was writing poems, though. It’s a hard habit to break, I think … the poetry gig.

Which brings me to my third or fourth poetry seminar when I just kept putting the same poem in front of my classmates. It was a poem about Anaconda. Nothing specific about Anaconda, just images. Things I remembered. Bits and pieces I felt worth noting. I remember one of the lines was “Cruise past restaurants where soup is best on Fridays” you know … stuff like that. The class hated it. The teacher (I won’t name drop, but if you have any inkling of the faculty at the University of Montana in the early eighties, you’ll know the folks. Many have prizes. Many are famous.) told me, “Stop writing this poem. You don’t know enough about it. Put it away.” Then she recommended I commonplace a whole bunch of Phillip Levine.

Of course, I didn’t really put it away. I’ve pulled it out every few years and tweaked things. Added a line break or two. Changed some of the music. Written some of the images into stories. In the actual activity of doing that, I’ve discovered more than I ever could have about that poem. That place. That poet.

So here’s the deal … something another poetry professor taught me, in probably a more poetic way:

Nothing is ever finished.

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Have you seen this woman?

I wrote this 10 years ago. It’s about an encounter I had in Pendleton, while I was working for the Missoula Children’s Theatre in the summer of 1984. I wonder if this woman is still there.

War Bonds

She wanted to know what it was I wanted. I’d never been here before. It was a forgotten place on the main street of the little town I was traveling through. I had to stop here for a week, though, because that was my job. It’s what I did.

I never told this to anyone, but I’m afraid of old people. Especially old people who are obviously trying to look younger than they really are. I don’t get it. I hope, secretly, that I will never get old, when I see someone grasping at straws trying to stay young.

This woman had the most curiously colored hair I had ever seen. I think it was magenta with pink highlights. She was on the other side of the counter from where I sat. I was looking at the plastic-covered menu. The plastic was yellowish-brown with age, and read Club Cigar. This was apparently the name of the lunch counter where I had chosen to eat lunch. I thought it would be interesting.

The Club Cigar was a smoke shop on one side of the room and a lunch counter on the other. The woman was a fixture behind the lunch counter. She had curiously colored hair and was wearing a waitress uniform that appeared to be forty years old. Her black skirt tailored to be slimming, the white blouse top was starched so tight it looked like it would break if it was ironed one more time. The woman appeared to be eighty trying to look forty. Trying to look thirty? Twenty? I couldn’t tell.

I was looking at the menu and the counter beyond the menu. The counter was a different color yellow than the menu. It had been bright yellow linoleum when it was installed, but now it had faded to a pleasant shade. Faint outlines of boomerang shapes remained in the linoleum. It looked like a pattern of linoleum I had seen before—maybe on my mom’s kitchen table.

I always ordered the same thing in a place like this. I remembered my father telling me about traveling food. He had said, “When you are on the road and you are eating in a strange place, always order a grilled cheese sandwich.” His reasoning for this was that it was hard to mess up a grilled cheese sandwich. Without looking up from the menu, I told the ancient woman before me that I wanted a grilled cheese sandwich.

“And what to drink?” She asked.

I looked up, and for a moment my gaze caught hers. She was looking past me to the other side of the room. There was no one behind me. For a moment I thought she might be blind, but she wasn’t. She was looking out the door behind me. Out into the empty street. But then, a second later, she focused her attention on me. She looked at me.

Eye to eye.

“Well … ,” I began to tell her I wanted a Diet Coke, but I couldn’t. She was looking that deeply into my eyes that I couldn’t go on. I felt like a president sitting for a portrait. This ancient woman was looking so hard at me that she at once knew more about me than I wanted her to know. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink. I couldn’t say a word.

For a split second I was a teenager and she was on roller skates. I wanted a grilled cheese sandwich and a vanilla coke. I wanted a dime for the jukebox, so I could play my favorite tune. I wanted the courage to ask my girl to give me my class ring back that she had wrapped with yarn and wore around her neck on a shoestring.

A second later I was a soldier and she was a hot dame. I wanted a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee. I wanted to look in the paper to see what Rommel was doing in Africa. I wanted to ask her if it was all right for me to stay until she closed up and maybe we could make a night of it. I could borrow a car and we could drive out past the stockyards and park.

I was a cowboy, just in town for the Roundup. I wanted her to wait for me to go to the rodeo and win enough money so that she could go away with me. We would travel all over the country bustin’ broncs. She could stay in the motel and make it homey while I went out and won big cash prizes. We’d hit all the big rodeos. Calgary, Dillon, Cheyenne, Billings, Laramie, Denver, Provo, Vegas, Santa Fe, Artesia, Amarillo, Muleshoe, Quanta, Dallas, San Antonio.

I’d be back, and I’d have a ring. I’d ask her to wait for me until I came back. “Don’t change a thing,” I’d tell her, gazing at her uniform and her swooping red hair. “You look just like Rita Heyworth,” I’d say. “I’ll be back,” I’d tell her. “Wait for me.”

“I’ll have a Diet Coke,” I said. She turned away from me and started making my lunch.

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From the archives

I wrote this as an exercise in a workshop a few years ago. I think it’s true, but I’m not really sure:

Screwed

It sounded horrible. Us neighborhood kids could not get over just how bad it sounded. We heard wails coming from somewhere down the street. Intrepid investigators that we were, we went from house to house, starting at the top of the block, and stood in front of each, listening very carefully.

It wasn’t coming from the Curry’s house on the corner. No sound ever came from that house. The sound was still coming though, only this time it sounded less like people, and more like someone’s dog was being stepped on. Kind of a squeal. And then another one.

It wasn’t coming from the Vine’s house, although the Vines had five kids and you never really knew what any of them were up to. They were all smart kids, and it could have been that one of them was doing some sort of experiment on one of the other ones.

It wasn’t in the next two houses, because we would have known. Those were our houses, and we were the ones who had noticed the strange sound in the first place.

The sound was getting fainter, splitting in two. When it had started, it sounded like someone was being whipped, a girl most likely, being whipped, it had subsided and split into two sounds, one was kind of a grunting sound, like someone was moving something heavy and the other was sort of whining.

Repetitious. Grunt, whine, grunt, whine, grunt, whine.

It was coming from the Boyer’s garage. That’s for sure. There was no doubt in our minds.

The five of us stood on the sidewalk at the end of their driveway and listened to the sound. The Boyer’s next door neightbor, Mr. Andreoli … Jack … was a nice guy, but he didn’t like us kids hanging around his yard. When he came to the door, my first instinct was to run, but I knew he had seen me and the four kids I was with. So we stayed. He came to the door with his finger to his lips, like he was shushing us. He closed the door and walked across his lawn toward us.

“That’s Taffy,” he whispered. “They must be mating her in the garage with another pure-bred cocker,” he said. “We need to let them be and not make any sound for a while now. Go on and play.”

“Is she hurt?” Danny asked. His dog, King, had been hit by the milk truck. Danny was the one who thought it was a dog in the first place.

“Oh, no. No. Well, no, not really,” Mr. Andreoli said. “She’s being screwed, and she doesn’t like it.”

“Screwed?” I ask later in our backyard. “How can one dog screw another dog?”

“Don’t be so stupid,” Danny said. “They were screwing, like, you know, like screwing like people.”

“Screwing? Like with screw drivers and stuff like that? What, are they building something?”

I really want to get to the bottom of this screwing thing. I’ve heard it before from other kids, and I just don’t understand what the big deal is. It sounded like work to me. Why would work hurt so bad?

“No. You know, screwing like when your dick gets hard and you stick it in a girl,” Danny said. He was totally serious. Every time my dick got hard I just left it alone. I didn’t know I was supposed to stick it anywhere.

“Where do you stick it?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. My brother didn’t tell me that. But if you do it a lot it makes the girl have a baby.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Yeah, I thought they came from the hospital, but now I know that when you screw, you make a baby, and only a boy and a girl can do it after screwing a lot. Then the girl gets fat and goes to the hospital and the baby pops out. It must hurt a lot, because Taffy sure was wailing.”

“So, Taffy has to go to the hospital?” I ask.

“You are so stupid! Taffy is a girl dog getting screwed by a boy dog so she can have puppies. I think I’d rather have a puppy than a baby,” Danny said.

“Yeah, me too,” I say.

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First love

I wrote this a while back, during one of AHA!’s writer’s retreats. This one is mostly true, with some stretchers.

Dolly and Ray Berzanti were friends of my dad’s from before he married my mom. Ray delivered mail by day, and tended bar at the Ranch House in Butte at night. That was how my dad met him. My dad’s studio apartment in Butte was above the Ranch House on Broadway. But that was many years ago. Dolly was a waitress at some lunch counter near Hennessey’s Department Store. They were utterly devoted to two each other, and to bourbon. But that’s not really all that important. What’s important was what Ray Berzanti did when he wasn’t delivering mail or tending bar. He was a sideman for many of the better jazz bands in and around Silver Bow County. A retired sergeant from the U.S. Army band, he had played with some of the greatest swing orchestras in history. After the war, he played first chair with Les Brown and his Band of Renown. But now Ray just some Italian guy from back east, stuck in a shit hole bar in a shit hole town. His clarinet playing was limited to pickup gigs with the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus or an occasional dance band job at the Elks lodge.

He didn’t need the clarinet any more. At least that’s what he told my dad that afternoon across a high ball Dolly had mixed in glasses with golden pheasants on them you got when you filled up the car at the Conoco Station. I sat looking through the stacks of heavy photo albums, turning over the pages of Ray’s life with his horn. There he is shaking hands with Glenn Miller. Here’s Tommy Dorsey and Doris Day. Bing Crosby. Emmet Kelley. Evel Kneivel, Butte’s favorite son. The photos showed a young, handsome man with bright eyes and a big-hearted smile.

“What do you think?” my dad asked me.

“It’s a really good horn,” Ray said. “I think the kid is going to love it.”

Dolly and Ray didn’t have any children, so I could forgive him the fact that he talked about me as if I wasn’t right there in his living room, flipping through his life.

“What do you think?” my dad asked again.

“Well, I’d need to play it, but it sure is a beauty, that’s for real,” I said to both Ray and my dad.

“Yeah, it’s a good old horn,” Ray said. “Solid wood. Never been split. I cleaned it after every use, and I oiled it once a month without fail. I’d say that horn is nigh onto 40 years old.”

I was sucking on a new number three reed we’d picked up at Gustafson’s Music on the way out to Dolly and Ray’s. It was almost soft enough to play.

“What about you, Ray? Don’t you want to keep playing it?” I asked. My fingers were running up and down the keys, flipping pads and levers as fast as I could muster. I was warming it up. Getting ready to play.

“Nah. My music days are behind me kid,” Ray said. Behind his sad expression I caught a glimpse of what it must have been like to play with Glenn Miller or even the U.S. Army Band.

“It’s going to need a total re-padding,” I said. “That’ll cost about $150. But that doesn’t have to be done right away.”

“This kid’s wise,” Ray said. He knew no one ever bought a used clarinet without re-padding. It just wasn’t something you did. You could never get a clarinet to be truly yours if it had someone else’s pads on the keys. The pads respond to your pressure, your unique touch. Over time, they develop their own way of closing with the lightest flick of a finger.

Ray’s clarinet was well worn. The pads were burnished brown and hard around the edges, just like they should be. I could tell just by looking, this instrument had been praised, rather than abused.

I placed the reed on the mouthpiece and tightened the ligature. I ran my fingers over the keys, flipping the pads hard. The lack of wind caused the horn to pop and snap to life. Resting the instrument above my right thumb, I started on a low E and played a smooth chromatic scale all the way up to high F.

The clarinet wailed.

It was sad in the low register, sassy in the mid-range and clarion in the high notes. It was so much better than my plastic piece of shit I’d been playing since fifth grade.

This was a serious horn.

This was a serious relationship.

I was in love for the very first time.

I was in love with the sound as much as with the feeling of playing something that had a piece of history I would never be a part of. At that moment, I was in love with my dad. I was in love with Ray. I was in love with Dolly. I understood with a single, effortless chromatic scale, just how courageous music could be.

And, for a brief second, I was even in love with the thought of what I could make of myself.

Twenty years later, I’m having a similar conversation with a similar parent and a similar young musician. I’m in a shit hole job, in a shit hole town and I need to pay the rent.

Only this time, I tell the kid about the horn. I tell the parent about Dolly and Ray. I tell them about the circus bands, and the big bands and the solos I played in high school. After a brief transaction, I let my first love go.

But the sound of the horn, from that first low E to the fleet, singing high F, well … I keep that for myself.

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I miss my gay, Jewish dog

It’s the final night of Hanukkah. As some of you know, we bid farewell to our beloved wheaton terrier, Bucky, this past year. Since this final week of the year is such a time of reflection, today, as I roam the house I feel his presence and miss his nuzzling.

There is no doubt in my mind Bucky was Jewish. Whenever we would do anything remotely observant in our house, he would become animated. For many years, when he could, he’d dance on his hind legs when we lit the Hanukkah candles and sang the blessings, one front paw in my hand, the other paw in Alana’s. For many years we’d sway and sing, remarking that Bucky must be celebrating with us.

Alana’s brother, David, is a Cantor. When his family came to visit, we’d have Shabbat dinner, and there was always an ample amount of song to accompany the meal. Bucky would dance by the table, skipping around and sniffing the air, as if something ancient and familiar was stirring his imagination.

Bucky also had a fondness for other dogs of the same gender. He was loathe to hang out with females, and often treated our Gracie (the other household wheatie) with diffidence, but whenever there was a male dog around, Bucky would follow him. He stalked (and mounted) males at day care. He was affectionate and physical with male dogs. He obviously enjoyed their company.

So today is for you, my sweet, gay, Jewish, departed dog. I miss you more than I can say.

Treadmill

September, 2011

I’m fairly sure the first time I saw a treadmill, or anything like a treadmill, was at the end of the Jetsons. Oddly, it was like the end of the Flintstones, which at the time reminded me of the Honeymooners. Anyway, at the beginning of the Jetsons, George is on his way to work, he drops off Elroy at the Little Dipper grade school, his daughter Judy at Orbit high school and, after a lengthy exchange in which his wife robs him of his wallet and leaves him a dollar, he drops her off at a shopping mall. He parks his flying car and gets on a treadmill-like moving walkway that deposits him at his desk at Spacely Sprockets.

At the end of the Jetsons, we see George taking a moving walkway into his house, getting sat in a chair by Rosie, the robot maid, getting slippers from Elroy, a pipe from Judy and a leash from Jane, his wife. At his point Astro, the huge blue family dog grabs George and takes him for a walk … on a treadmill. Of course there is a cat nearby and Astro gets distracted, starts running on the treadmill until George loses his grip on the leash and starts defying gravity by spinning around and around on the treadmill by himself, while Astro and the cat sit nearby smiling. George shouts, “Jane! Get me off this crazy thing!”

It wasn’t until I was an adult that the irony of the metaphor sunk in.

My 33rd birthday gift from Alana was a membership to a gym. Part of the membership package was an hour-long session with a personal trainer. One-half hour of which was on a treadmill. I’d never been on a treadmill before, yet there I was in the Princeton Athletic Club in downtown Portland walking briskly, just like George.

I got a lot of attention on the treadmill. I don’t know why. It turned out that the Princeton was nicknamed “The Princess” by most of the gay men in the city. And, quite unbeknownst to me, to walk on a treadmill at the Princeton was to put yourself ‘out there’ for all the gym-gawkers and lurkers to remark on.

I didn’t mind it. In fact I was flattered at the time to think that any gay man would be bold enough to say “Lookin’ good!” as he passed me huffing and puffing at 4.5 MPH and a four-degree incline. My wife told me to certainly enjoy the positive reinforcement, but to avoid acknowledging any pass that was, as she put it, ‘overt’. So, I continued to walk on the treadmill with my eyes fastened on the television, trying to pay attention to CNN and not the timer on the treadmill.

One day, during a cool down, a particularly bold man walked by and said, “Nice ass” as he passed. I must have been particularly bold myself that day, because I said, “Thanks!” without even thinking about it. The man quickly scurried away. What ensued was definitely not ego-boosting. I became anathema. Poison. No one wanted to be near me. Gone forever were the furtive glances. No more titters. No conversations in hushed tones.

I had become treadmill roadkill.

For a couple of months now, I’ve been taking my dog, Bucky to physical therapy. Bucky is what the veterinarians consider an ‘old, old, dog.’ It’s a nice way of saying, “We’re surprised this dog is still alive.” He hasn’t been the friskiest dog for a couple of years, and the vet suggested we consider water therapy to build his muscles so he can get in and out of his bed and the house when he needs to. Aside from daycare once a week, it’s really the only exercise he ever gets. Water therapy involves a glass booth with a water-tight door that fills with just enough water to make your dog buoyant, but not floating. The floor is an underwater treadmill. Once the tank is filled to the appropriate height, the therapist switches on the treadmill and the dog starts to walk. The speed of the treadmill and the length of the walk is determined by the therapist and the dog with the goal of walking twenty minutes total, and as much as ten minutes at a time. The resistance of the water builds muscle.

Bucky took to this activity as if it were second nature. Certain breeds will not sit down in the water nor will they let their noses get wet. As soon as the therapist hit the start button, Bucky held his head up higher than he has in the past few months and started walking with a swift, even pace.

Part of the joy (and part of the pain, I guess) of having your dog be your dog is watching them accept new and unusual challenges. Throughout his long life Bucky has never been overly curious, nor has he ever been an excitable dog. In fact, he remains quite shy. But not unfriendly. Long ago, a friend hit the nail on the head when he said, “That dog has a lot of soul.”

But watching him twice a week for three, five-minute increments, accept the challenge of participating in the treadmill of life has helped me redefine what Bucky has.

He may have a lot of soul, but he also has a stout heart.