To the Summer of 1980

 [Tom writes about the summer many Texans remember well. It's burned into our memory.]

Whenever I hear someone complain about the summer heat in Dallas, I have two responses:

If it weren't for these 100+ degree days, think of how many more people would move here. We'd have twice the population and it would be so much more expensive. When you live in one of those states where the temperature may hit 100 every 4 or 5 years, the place you never think of taking a nice summer vacation is Dallas in August. And moving there? Are you insane?

My other response is to reminisce about the summer of 1980. There were 69 days over 100 - 42 of them in a row. The high mark was 113 degrees which it hit twice - in June. I remember playing Frisbee golf on the SMU campus at 1 in the morning - it was 95. 

I was 19 and road my bike to summer school most of the time. When I needed it, I got to drive my parent's 1969 VW Beetle. Although it had no A/C, it did feature a black vinyl interior AND the driver's side window didn't roll down.

 The good ole' days don't get much better than that.

To BBQ

[Tom writes about a Texas staple. I've had his BBQ, along with our brother Kyle's, and I'm sure it's better than Sonny Bryan's.]

I'm not sure when it began, my love affair with BBQ and smoked meat. It may have been in my 30's when I found places like the original Sonny Bryan's or the now defunct Lorias near my first corporate job. How I had missed the smell and taste of good BBQ for so long is a mystery to me, but now, it is the reason I am not even close to being a vegetarian. 

Smoke transforms meat - elevates it to another dimension that is irresistible. The combination of pork ribs and smoke are akin to the perfect game in baseball. Nothing else can be done that is that simple and that delicious. You want them with just enough chew to remind you of the texture of meat but once it hits your teeth and that smoke envelopes your taste buds - I know what crack addicts feel like. 

Is it something primitive? Does it remind us of a time when we knew where our food comes from? Maybe. Whether that's the reason or just because it hits you in your gut literally and figuratively, it is sublime and exists in my head long after that last bite goes down and I go out in search of the next place.

The best BBQ places are not fancy - they aren't places with white table cloths - that would be ridiculous considering the food. They are salt of the earth places with people who want good food and usually more than they can eat - usually.

Next time you are on Inwood road, check out the original Sonny Bryans. It looks like you will not want to be in there when there is any kind of wind but you will see the most interesting people and have some of the best BBQ ever to pass over a pit of hot coals.

To Baseball

[By Tom Byrne. If you know the Byrnes, you know that if there is discussion about fishing, there is also discussion about baseball.]

Baseball is the Byrne family sports fabric. If you are not passionate about your team and you think using the word "hate" when talking about the Yankees is a little extreme - you'll have a hard time understanding the "discussions" around such topics as why the DH should be in both leagues and why should Jon Daniels be shown the door even after being the only Rangers GM to bring them to the World Series.

ET Byrne III & IV. 

My son, father and I have attended almost every home opener in Arlington for the last 20+ years. When they win that first game, it's like the world couldn't be brighter - we are on our way to the championship. When they lose, there is over analysis and arm chair managing all the way home.

Baseball was the first sport I knew and played in an organized league. It's the game of summer and being outside and no school. It brings together all the things we love in sports, heroes and goats and impossible, crazy stats and performances. I saw Nolan Ryan get his 5000th strikeout, Kenny Rogers pitch a perfect game and Bo Jackson hit a home run so hard and far that the the players in the field didn't even move when they saw it come off his bat.

But it is the time I have had with my family at the park that I remember most. The discussions on every aspect of the game, the way the field looks, the peanuts and beer, and if our expectations will meet the reality at the end of the season in September.

Above it all, though, was the look on my son's face when he realized he was getting out of school to go spend the day watching his favorite team play.

To Fishing

[By Tom Byrne, guest blogger, fisherman]

My family is a family of fishermen and women. Both my grandfathers were expert fisherman in two very different environments: the Louisiana Bayou and the Atlantic ocean. My siblings and I all learned to fish, bait our own hooks and gut and clean what we caught. It was like opening Christmas presents to find out what the bass were so happily feasting on just an hour ago.

The author and his father. And the catch of the morning.

We never needed a guide - we were smarter than the fish, we just had to be quiet enough to place that spinner or topwater where they couldn't resist.

Before we were old enough to stay home because of jobs, or girlfriends, or because we were too cool to go camping with our families, we would go to lake Texoma for two weeks with another family - the Wolfes. Four adults and eight kids running around, eating, making campfires, and fishing - lots of fishing.

Dad would try and wake you up around 5 to go fish. If you were able to get up, have a cup of coffee and head down to the rocky point, you got to see two things that I can still see clearly: bass chasing minnows on the top of the water and the silhouette of my dad waiting to cast his line while the sun rose behind him.

He says he wants to be cremated when he passes.

I asked him what he would like me to do with his ashes. My father was born in New York, but has close ties to Louisiana and Texas.

"I'm not sure" he said.

So I told him my plan: I'm going to take your ashes to the point at Texoma and toss them into the lake at sunrise.

He smiled a little and said, "Not a bad idea."

To Pecan Pie

J[Tom's pecan pies are legendary. I'm pretty sure he's not allowed in the door at Thanksgiving without them. We love him, but there are limits.]

There a three kinds of pie I love: cold, room temp, and warm. The best of them all is pecan. But not just any pecan - it's the Prudhomme family recipe for roasted pecan butter pie. It's such a small difference in a traditional pecan pie recipe but what a difference it makes. 

A cup of pecans are roasted until dark brown or almost black. Then place into a food processor and turn it on until they turn into pecan butter. The other slight variation is using dark Karo syrup. 

It looks and tastes like it has chocolate or liquor in it but if you let your mouth enjoy it - which is not easy - you can detect that smokey flavor of the pecans and dark Karo. 

Chantilly cream on top (whipped cream with Gran Marnier and brandy) adds to the experience. If you ask my mom, she would say I don't even have to make the pie, just the cream.

I have never varied this recipe since I first made it - it's perfection. And if I have a choice for a last meal before I die - this is what I am having for dessert.

To The Long Road Trip

[Tom Byrne continues his guest blogging with another great American theme.]

Not the 4-5 hour trip that's easy to do between lunch and dinner. Not the 2 hour commute because traffic is so snarled on every one of the routes you normally take.

This trip take you to a place you haven't been to before or it's one you would normally take by plane because you just don't have the time.

Our mom. Behind her, our trusty VW van and our little orange fiat.

You see things you can't see from 8 miles up - the roadside stand with cantaloupe so fresh it had to be bought. The gas station that isn't a gas station any more - it's an artist's studio with wooden bowls that shine.

This is a trip where for two hours you just count off the miles waiting for something around the next bend. You come into town with a little cafe that you stop in for a bathroom break and find they have the best pie you have eaten in a long time. The hills come right down to the road on your right and the blue winding snake of a creek is to your left. This is a trip that used to take 6 months to make and someone died along the way. And now three states in one day is just a half tank of gas. Or you go from one end of Texas to another but the landscape is so different you MUST be in another country.

This trip is the one you take when you are going to see someone for the last time and you think about them the entire way and you never want to go back home. You just want to pile them in the car and keep driving.

To Figs

[Today's post is a guest writer, my brother, Tom Byrne. He knows a lot about good writing and food and I'm a little jealous I did not think of this topic, but I'm so glad he did.]

Every time I see or hear mention of the word figs I think of my grandmother. She would make the most amazing fig preserves and my mom would go see her and would bring me back a jar. Food was my grandmother’s love language and you could not feel more loved or love her more than to enjoy something she made for you to eat.

The recipe was simple: 6 pounds of figs, 6 pounds of sugar. Cook them down until the sugar is melted into a dark syrup. Place in mason jars and wait as long as you can hold out - weeks preferably. When you can't stand it any longer, pop the lid and spread on a toasted bagel. I don't know of anything that really tastes better.

So every year I go down to the tree on the side of a neighbor's garage and pick as many as I can get before the birds descend. They are so ripe you just have to touch them and they come off in your hand. Some years I put them up - some years their isn't enough rain and I just eat what I can get on my granola or just right off the tree.

The fig has a delicate taste when fresh - like eating a flower.  But when I open that jar and smell and taste that sweet smokey fig, I'm transported to Lafayette, sitting at my grandmother's table with her at the stove cooking something that will warm me.

To the Door He Could Have Walked Through But Didn’t

He looks up from the chocolate chip cookie in his hand, smiling, and says, “At least you had a car.”

Silence, after the word “car,” filled the room. No, “filled” is wrong because it suggests it took time, even a couple seconds, for it to be complete. This was instantaneous. The way light shocks a room with the flick of a switch. Everything suddenly visible: a chair slanted away from the table, a small blue plate next to the couch, the clock.

Robert and I had been talking about our high schools. We were as far from adolescence as we had ever been, sophomores at SMU, and we believed we had fully infiltrated adulthood. We were sitting in my apartment, eating cookies and falling in love with our friendship, turning every now and then to write in a notebook a line for a poem. My typewriter in the corner.

He hated my 1-room apartment, reminds him of a place he lived growing up. I thought it was cozy; he said crowded. I said simple; he said distressing. I said “just right.” For him, that phrase was nonsense. When is anything “just right”?

But just then, we were talking about not being rich. About being poor. I wasn’t pretending to be; I thought I was. Not live-in-the-street, have-no-food poor. Not dirty-face poor, not movie-poor. But struggle-poor. Have-to-budget-carefully poor. Practical-gifts-like-insurance-for Christmas poor. I was not, I insisted, like the girls I went to high school with, driving brand-new BMW’s or Cameros. I drove an old Dodge Colt, no A/C, vinyl seats.

“At least you had a car.”

Robert and me, 1986

He could have left. If the tables were turned, I probably would have. In fact, I may not have even been my own friend. The lines I drew were thick and deep, divides I refused to cross. Not Robert. He just pointed, “See this? Did you forget this? This is here.”

The apartment had one door. Maybe he glanced at it. If there had been a fire in front of it, he would have grabbed my hand, and we would run through it, the only exit.

He did.

To the Turkey Chili Recipe From Anne

First, you are simple. Brown the turkey. Add the vegetables, beans and spices. Wine. Broth. Simmer. One pot, one knife, one spoon, one cutting board. And for that small effort, we have a most satisfying dinner.

Second, you are equally good in the crock-pot. Not everything translates to a slow cooker, so I was happy to discover that cooking you in the crock-pot while I am away all day, lecturing about ethos, meeting with a student to say the essay needs more work, meeting with colleagues to discuss the continued exploitation of our adjunct faculty and how to fix that, while I am doing all this, I know dinner is cooking. I will walk in the door and, as if by magic, I will be fed a delicious and substantial meal.

Third, you are turkey and not beef. I’m not a fan of beef. It’s not the taste of beef, really, but the idea of it: coming from a cow. I’m not opposed to eating animals, even mammals; I love bacon and pork chops. Perhaps it’s ontological. Cows are so big. And dumb. The way the wander, if allowed, across the plains, get rounded up by cowpokes. I prefer turkey.

Fourth, you go well with shredded cheddar and monterey jack cheese. All things that go well with cheese are loved as much as the cheese itself: a good cracker, french bread, pears, tortilla chips, red and white wine, parties.

Fifth, you make enough for two dinners and two lunches. The next morning, still sleepy, I plan my day and then I remember, “Chili for lunch!” It’s a better day when lunch is a warm bowl of chili instead of a cold sandwich. I am the adult I always thought I would be.

Sixth, and finally, you came from Anne. We were living in Michigan when she sent you in a letter. I can still see her handwriting, though I have long ago lost the letter. Anne is smart. And we were smart together. In graduate school, we talked books and patriarchy and power. We drank coffee in the afternoon and beer in the evening. We wanted to be professors, intellectual women. We were owned by the same vision for the future. Years later, after we have both become English professors, her house in New Orleans was flooded after Katrina. She lost everything but what she had taken with her in her Mazda. She tells me about seeing the water marks on the top of the wall, close to the ceiling. Even things stashed in the top of the closet were ruined. Her cats were gone. She doesn’t want to think about them. I sent you back to her. Recipes become bridges between lives. And every time I put the meat in the pan and chop the onion, I think of her. A prayer for the lives we lived, the lives we’ve lost, and the lives we have tonight.

To Snow Falling, the Moment it Stops and the Moment Right After That

[This is a re-post from last February. For a lot of reasons, I'm going to pause this writing experiment. I hope to still get 365 letters written in a year's time, but right now, I have to turn my attention elsewhere. I'll repost old ones and perhaps look for some more famous ones to keep the love coming. Thanks for reading!]

SUNY-Binghamton, New York, October, 1987. 10 PM at the Student Union, waiting for the bus. I’m looking out the window, and slowly, it begins. Like a school play. Bits falling, just a scatter, just a hint until, minutes later, the snow thickens. I think rain? but it’s not coming down like rain. It’s October. Snow? For me, moving from Dallas just four months ago, snow in October is as likely as snow in July. Snow? A young man approaches me and asks, “Is it snow?” He is from Central America. He’s heard about snow. We could walk out the door, feel it for ourselves, but instead we just stand there, together at the window. I’ve never felt a quiet like this.

January, Conklin Avenue. Moving into a house with Vanessa and Kim. Vanessa plays the Cramps and in the morning she eats cereal with water when we are out of milk. She wears dark blue jeans and Chuck Taylors. Black curls tangle around her eyes. She has no poker face. She speaks German and she doesn’t know it yet, but in the years to come she will be an ex-pat. Kim wears long wool skirts in January, thick, striped socks with her Birkenstock sandals. Fed up with the system, she dropped out of school and works at a co-op whole foods restaurant. She has a sister, but no real family. She says it doesn’t bother her.

I take the room facing the street. The room with the large picture window. I’ve never spent a whole winter up north before and now, deep into it, I find it terrifying. Dark. Cold. Dark. The smell of cold lingers on coats and hats when someone comes in from the outside. I smell it on Vanessa when she comes back from class. I’m sitting on my bed, which is just a mattress on the floor, watching the snow fall and fall again.

3 AM. I wake to the sound of the city plows on my street. I watch them go by, scraping the road clean. In 20 minutes, I can’t tell the plow has been there. The snow has filled in all the lines. The plow comes through again, and again, the snow fills it in. Across the street, a milk bottling plant. Shift change. Smoke breaks. People stepping out, looking down. In the top row of windows, I see the machines inside, running all night. Milk poured into the jugs. Snow deepens. Does it ever stop?

The truth is, I don’t want it to stop. It’s working. The world is quiet. The neighbors upstairs are quiet. The peace that comes with a day’s-long snow storm settles on the edges of everything: the top of the chain-link fence, a twig, eyelashes. When it ends, we will have to begin digging and driving, forcing our lives back out into the streets, the classrooms, the diners.

The snow. The moment it stops. And the moment just after.

The breaking. The sound of the breaking. The silence just after.

To Fish Tanks Full of Fish

I cannot leave a pet store without a visit to the fishes. The unnatural lights, the pink and blue gravel, the sound of the water pumps purring in the background. 

I love the tanks full of black mollies, like burnt bits of coal, like a dream I almost remember, like the bed sheets after I leave the room.

The Siamese fighting fish, fans of fins, the rush of anger, swirl of disdain, the shimmer that says, “I will never love you.”

The catfish, the Humphrey Bogarts of the fish world, drag their long whiskers across the the fake castle, and tell the other fish not to look back, have no regrets, and when they turn to the goldfish and say, “Play it again,” the goldfish just keeps swimming.

The bulging-eyed goldfish, the ones we watch to see what happens to their eyes, sure they cannot live much longer that way. Near sighted fortune tellers, if they could only speak. You’ve wasted the last third of your life. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. Your heart spoke to me when you walked in the door. Your past followed you in, crying behind you.

Save yourself they say. There are fish you have never imagined swimming in seas you’ll never visit. But that doesn’t mean your life is empty. We are here. Take us home. Listen to us sing as we push against the water. Our world weighs more than you can bear.

To the Letters My Neighborhood Mailbox Has Held (or, A Letter of Excerpts of Letters)

June 5th, 1956

Dear Hazel,

I have not forgotten about Julia’s birthday! I am making a scarf and then the baby got sick, but it will arrive shortly and I will make sure she knows all is well.

Sam did not get accepted to Ohio State and so he has decided to enlist in the Army, only Sarah doesn’t think they will let him in because of his feet. We would all like him to help with Tim’s business, but it’s hard to tell him anything. He’s a good kid, but ever since the accident, he’s been hard on his mom. Have you spoken to her? What does she say? She won’t tell me anything.

Coolcaesar at the English language Wikipedia [
GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)
or CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/)]
, via Wikimedia Commons

I’m planting beans late this year! Wish me luck!

Love,

Carole

September 27, 1965

Dear Ronald,

I hope all is well and calmer these days. I hear little on the news about what’s happening out there and wonder if the year will end peacefully, especially for you. Johnson says he says they will end the “war” soon, but Charles doesn’t believe him. Charles says he a communist, but I think he’s doing the right thing.

Anyway, we were hoping to travel to California for Christmas, but we won’t be able to make it this year. Sales have been low and December is the busiest time, so we will stay here and see if we can make up for the summer losses. Maybe we can some for Easter, but of course, you’re always welcome in Akron (ha ha!).

Have you read Hotel yet? If not, let me know and I will send it to you. I’ve read it twice now and know you would love it.You must before we visit again.

No change in things in Dayton. Do not call Linda anymore. She won’t talk about it and has decided it’s for the best. I can’t imagine what I would do and just hope it all work out.

Noona says hi.

LC

****************

March 13, 1985

Mr. and Mrs. Swinton,

Please find the enclosed documentation regarding the death of Angie Swinton. Please accept our condolences.

After reviewing the enclosed files, we have decided that Miss Swinton’s death would be ruled an accident. All known measures were taken and all procedures followed. As you must realize, cases such as this are both difficult and rare. We realize this is little consolation at this time of grief, and we assure you we have done our due diligence with this case.

If you wish to speak directly with someone from our staff, feel free to call (916) 387-6272 and ask for Mr. Weiss in our legal department.

Our staff send our deepest condolences.

Sincerely,

Marvin Pough

Chief of Surgery

****************

July 12, 2009

Grandma,

I’ve been meaning to write but work is so busy. I think I may get promoted soon, but I don’t know yet. I’ve been working overtime so that’s a good sign. I just hope I don’t have to change stores!

Things are good. James and I have changed our plans for getting married. We still love each other, so….

To Sweet Jane

When Lou sang about you, you were young. Life mysteries shimmered in front of you like gifts, like rubies, like beaded water on your lover’s back.

 

There was time then, bowls of it. You smoked them. No one understood you then and that was just the way you wanted it. You knew it was true. No one could understand.

Jack did. He read Rimbaud to you on Sundays with Patti Smith playing in the background. You wore his jeans. You were both so skinny. You had a yellow cat named Melody and she would purr when you spoke her name. You would say it over and over. “Melody. Mel. Mel. Melody.”

You thought love grew. You loved the metaphor--love is a life, is living.

Sweet Jane. Awww. Sweet Sweet Jane.

And then Margo changes the song. You’re not done with the rubies and bowls of time, but suddenly, they are gone. You wake up and there you are on a tightrope.

Don’t look down.

Jimmy’s not there. Jack is gone.

Sweet, sweet Jane.

You have never felt more lonely. The airy guitar behind you. The slow bass. You have forgotten how to daydream. One foot on the rope in front. One behind.

Don’t look down.

Jane, this is what I know: love doesn’t grow. It’s an ocean. It’s a ride. It’s a play. It’s the stage we play upon. It’s the audience we play to. It’s the clerk we give our money to when we walk away with the Camels we said we would quit smoking. It’s tomorrow morning when we quit. It’s tomorrow night when we light another. It’s everything we try to burn. It’s everything we burn. It’s the last chance we have and the first time we know it.

You think I don’t know you, but I do. You think no one understands. But everyone--everyone--understands.

Sweet.

Sweet.

To Mail Orders

I need a winter running jacket, good for windy days when it’s -10. I’m not going to run on those days, but I will feel prepared for the days when it’s 20 and sunny.

I need a dog bed for the old dog. One that will make her feel like she’s living the good life. Kind of the way I hope to feel when I am on a cruise when I’m 75. Settling in very nicely, thank you. I’ll just have a water, please. Your freshest.

I want a new phone. One that no one else has yet; not to be elite but because, when I am fumbling around with it, trying to figure out how to do what, the kid next to me can’t yank it out of my hands, saying, “Let me do it!” I never learn when the kids do it for me. And they always set embarrasing ringtones. I want one the kids don’t know how to work.

I want sunflower seeds. I want them to come from the southern edge of France. I want the package to smell like lavender. I want the order to come with a note from Minou, the woman who ships all the orders. She practices her English in her notes to Great Britain and the United States. She will tell me she would never leave France--jamais!--but the words in English are fascinating. Tumble, Sunday, Doodle, Gutter. Her sentences don’t make literal sense, but they are beautiful. I order more seeds than I can ever plant.

To Reggie Miller

http://onemanfastbreak.net/reggie-millers-five-greatest-moments/

They say it was Starks. It was Ewing. It was Spike Lee courtside talking trash.

 

Maybe it was the pressure. The 7th game in a 7 game series. The entire state of Indiana bearing down on you. The state that loves basketball the way that Texas loves football. The way Europe, the way the rest of the world, loves soccer.

The Knicks were slick, ruthless. Big city, Manhattan, Madison Square Garden. They called Indianapolis “Nap Town” because when out of town players showed up for a game, they slept in their hotels until game time.Nothing to do.

But who’s sleeping now, New York? Who is sleeping when Anthony Mason fouls Reggie in a tie game with less than 5 seconds left? Is Mason sleeping? Is the whole team sleeping? Is Pat Riley tucked away somewhere?

No one in Indiana is sleeping. Indiana is going wild.

I know because I’m there. At a bar in West Lafayette watching the game. Keith and I are getting married the next day. We are with with my family and they are cheering for the Knicks. I want to turn to them and say, “We are in INDIANA. RIGHT NOW. You are NOT ALLOWED.”

Reggie, you win. You fall to your knees, head on the floor.  The whole state is crying with you. The whole midwest, it feels, has beaten those self-aggrandizing, city slickers. It’s more than Indiana. It’s everyone west of the Hudson river.

Cheryl Miller

I’m sure you remember that day. I know you can close your eyes and go right back to that very moment. In Madison Square. The quiet in the Garden. The noise in your heart.

We know, though, don’t we, Reggie, we know what you’re really thinking, “Now, maybe now, people won’t think of me just as Cheryl’s brother.”

To Research Proposals

Proposal 1: For the research of the Male Confidence

Though empirical evidence suggests it’s obvious, no controlled studies have been done to determine the exact ratio of the average American male’s confidence-to-skill-set ratio. The researchers understand this is much like testing whether or not grass is green or water is wet, yet assumptions must always be questioned, especially when they are widely held. As a follow up study, because the authors are male, we need to determine if overconfidence is a problem, as the name suggests, or if it is, in fact, an asset. We suspect the former and will suggest that “overconfidence” be labeled, more accurately, “underdeveloped realism.”

Proposal 2: For the research of the Therapeutic Uses of Tequila

Wine, beer and to a certain extent, gin, have been the subject of much research, connecting these to health benefits that extend to pulmonary, nervous and endocrinology systems. However, much more research is needed into the distilled extract of the agave plant. Researchers hypothesize that those who drink tequila will, on average, have improved health in all of the above mentioned areas. However, if the research shows no improvement or even a decline, we will to ask the secondary question: how much the participants care, given the fact that they get to drink tequila? Due to the controversial nature of the study, the researchers have generously agreed to be the subjects of the study. You’re welcome.

Proposal 3: For the research of Dreams Delayed, Denied, Destroyed

Past research has been founded on the belief that delayed, denied and destroyed are all different ways that aspirations and goals may be limited or, in some cases, buried. We suggest this is mere tautology, but recognize the value of controlled subjects to determine the validity of our assumptions. We will take recent college graduates and over the course of six months, systematically and measurably, undermine their beliefs by either: 1) delaying them 2) denying them and 3) destroying them. At the end of six months, subjects will be interviewed to determine qualitative differences in subjective experiences.

We realize this seems cruel. We take no pleasure in this experiment. Our ethics board is urging us not to move forward with this. They will be our control group.

To The Steel Drum Band Practicing in the Room Next Door to the One I am Teachinng

A guy with a guitar and a few chords can sound kind of halfway decent without a lot of effort. Not great, but not awful.

 

This is not the case with steel drums. Steel drums take practice.

Many steel drums, a whole band’s worth of them, take even more. Exponentially more.

 

And you are all apparently very dedicated to the cause, showing up on Wednesday afternoons for the entire hour--maybe longer--of my writing class. 
 

One the first day, we were charmed. We all laughed when we had to shout to be heard and then suddenly the music stopped and we were still shouting. Anthony spoke up, I swear, just because he wanted to shout in class and it was ok.

But every day, the wall thinned, as if your music, the off tempo beat of that one drummer who just could not seem to get it right, shaved layers of plaster off so that, by the 4th week, we could hear the clatter of the drum sticks against the floor. We could hear the director clear his throat.

These became writing days. We would spend a few minutes talking, asking questions, but there was little need to try to have a conversation. Maybe we could do small group work, if they huddled together in two’s and three’s. But mostly we wrote.

Anthony wrote about politics. Barack Obama  was running for election and though he appreciated what it meant to have an African American president, he didn’t like him. He was torn, proud and confused at the same time. Nicole wrote a lot about coming to school, leaving her family in Columbus. Two hours away. On Thursdays she tells herself not to go home, to stay on campus for the weekends; she’ll make more friends. On Fridays she’s in her car headed south on 71. Her own bed. Her mom’s spaghetti. The familiar laundry soap.

One day, Dolores--who is in her 60’s and decided to go back to school, she loves being around “the kids”--isn’t there. Two days later I get an email from admissions that she has died. I find out it was an aneurysm. As the students enter the room, they can tell. Something’s wrong. We hear the drummers laughing softly.

We sit in a circle and I tell them what happened. Some get a little teary. Today is not a day we will work. I tell them they can stay and write if they want. They do. They pull out their notebooks and laptops and write poems, journal entries, letters. We look at her chair a lot. At first, we do it shyly, but then we just stare. Every once in a while, someone says, “Wow,” or “I can’t believe it.”

The drums pick up a bit. You’re sounding better now. The one guy, who couldn’t seem to get it, makes it all the way through. When they are done with the song, they cheer for themselves. A first. A good day.

To Third Party Candidates

Remind us again there is no black and white.

By Tom Arthur from Orange, CA, United States
(vote for better tape  Uploaded by Petronas) [
CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)],
via Wikimedia Commons

Remind us that conservative and liberal mean nothing without each other.

Remind us that we have a lot to lose in the the bifurcation of our national agenda.

Remind us we have some things in common.

Remind us of choice and freedom. Remind us what those look like.

Remind us that we can think more than we can see. Be the Picasso in a world of Vemeer.

Complicate it for us.

You draw tiny but enthusiastic crowds. You get no air time, even on your hometown local station. They see you fringe. Radical.

Late into the night, you're writing emails to the faithful. You can't yet admit defeat, though you know it eminent.

Dear supporters,

We have several months to reach our goal of getting on the ballot in all 50 states. Shout out to Wyoming for being the first to verify that we made it on the ticket there!

The conversation has grown so small, the sound bytes so tight, the tweets so curt, that political dialogue sounds like nails on a metal counter. We must understand the mission here, the greater good.

We will not get elected. We will not be making policy. I can shake 10,000 hands but we won't even register as a blip on the screen.

But all change starts small. Keep talking. Be that one voice someone else can't forget. The one “what if”