By Reiss duPlessis

I saw him very differently than did the other guys. He was a “regular” guy, “one of the guys,” “not like the others,” “he’s OK.” They all, it seemed, sang his praises. Not me, I didn’t like him or his class and he taught me to hate one of my favorite subjects, mathematics and everything mathematical. The feeling was mutual. He did not hide his distain for me and I, though in the precarious position of the student feuding with the teacher, would not, could not, hide my dislike for him. It was made worse by the reality that he not only had my scholastic fate in his hands, he, I was supposed to believe, had my eternal fate in his consecrated hands as he was a priest and God knows, we had to respect or was it fear, the priests! Pray for me, folks, I did neither. It was a simple, straightforward reality, I did not like the man, roman collar or not!

My friends were not only surprised by my willingness to stand my ground with him, they, I think, began to question my right to stand up to him. “Aren’t you afraid? Maybe you don’t care what grade he gives you, but he IS a priest!”

“I don’t see what that has to do with it, he has to put his pants on the same way I do every day of his life!” Wow! Did I say that? I am on the wide open road to that place of eternal damnation. Oh well, if I’m going, why not run to the head of the crowd sending me there, grab the baton and make it a parade? Get out the rosary beads, run to Tuesday night novena and pray for my eternal soul but I am not going to back off. I can’t! I’m going to take him on and convince, at least, my friends, that he is not a nice man. He’s a .... well, I won’t, here, use the word this nice, Catholic boy used to describe a priest! Bless me father, for I have sinned!

“I understand you are fighting with Father Mac.” That over the horn-rimmed glasses, down the nose look, elevated to an art form by Father Gordon. “Humm, we have to talk.”

Oh boy, was I in for it. Father Gordon, my favorite teacher and the one I respected most, was about to turn on me. I guess I had better make up my mind... tomorrow, I’ll be in public school. The entire family tree will drop its leaves and years of a Catholic family’s tradition and pride will be washed away forever.

“There are some people to whose level you must never lower yourself.”

Whew!

Oh, did I mention, Father Gordon was, like me, over six feet tall? Father Mac was barely Five feet tall.

ALASKA

A fly buzzing on the window
imprisoned by panes of glass
looks outward towards gray skies
with now and then glimpses of pale turquoise
where rays of sun shine through.

White barks of Birch
drooping needles of black spruce
stately dark green trees
are reflected upside down in the lake.

As the sun sinks to melt into the horizon
winds begin to twirl and spiral through
the passes. Waves dance in step to
the music of the breeze,
their flourescent white caps
remind me of old time washboards.

It's so silent crackling logs
aflame in the wood burning stove
sound like children skipping
over crisp maroon, orange and brown leafs
and the monotonous hummm of the fridge
lulls us all to sleep.

Fairbanks, AK 8-24-90

She had often thought it would be nice to have another daughter. She never thought it would come to her in this way. The thought overcame her and she caught the edge of the table and lowered herself to the floor. Allie's happy, lilting voice echoed in her head.
"Buddy," she shouted into the phone, "if you come with me to purchase those gift certificates for all the teachers I'll have just enough time to squeeze in lunch with you. I'm flying up to San Francisco with my Mom and Dad and Robbie. Cassandra is in a soccer playoff. I am not staying overnight. I've just got less than a week to finish my Christmas shopping. What a dumb time to schedule playoff games. Dad has brought his plane in from Las Vegas and we have to meet by two o'clock if we're going to get to the game in time."
"Oh, Allie, she whispered into her clenched fists. I told you so many times you should get your pilot's license. Even though your Dad has been flying for twenty-five years, the time may come when you have to take over. The TV news is always telling about some tragedy in other places, people you can empathize with, but it's never supposed to be about your best friend and her Mom and Dad and darling little Robbie. I tried to call Scott's office but the school's attempts to reach him were ineffective. Someone needed to be with him when he's told his wife, son and in-laws have been killed making a landing on a rainy afternoon at a small airport in San Francisco and where was Cassandra.
"Oh, Allie, Christmas is coming upon us and next month is Cssandra's seventeenth birthday. It was always been such a special day for you. I hope we can make it a special day for her. She went to the Junior Prom and looked so lovely. We found just the right dress and I know it was just what you would have liked. Scott has been great, but he doesn't know how to be a mother. Becky has been closer than ever with her and they are both excited about going off to college next year. Cassandra is hoping for Vassar and with her grades should make it. She's working on Becky to join her there, but Becky wants to go everywhere. She called me from school last week. She wasn't feeling well so I went and fetched her, settled her down with a warm drink, cuddly blanket and she nodded off. I have finally decided to give her a key to my house. She can check in with us until Scott gets home. Allie, she had a steady boy friend for a while so I thought it was time to talk to her. She and Becky giggle into the night and it's no doubt about these fuddy duddy mothers. You are not to worry about her dear friend.
"Oh, Allie, I will never stop missing you. There have been so many changes in my own life. We were together for your dark days and I need you now for mine. It was twenty-eight years ago when we met at San Diego State. We spent four years as sorority sisters and roommates. I really treasure my bridal photo of you beside my three sisters and you made a fourth. I remember the pranks, the dances, the poor housemother and I can laugh and some tears still come. Please rest, my buddy, my friend, my sister. I can never take your place, but I'm going to make a damn good substitute."

Tim Glasby
Assignment #9/Cumulative Structure

“Ma, how old are you?”
“Why do you want to know that, Timmy?”
“Cause you’re so old."
“I’m fifty-two.”
“I’m ten. My friends say you’re too old.”
“Because their mothers are only thirty.”
“How old will you be when I die?”
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
“But Ma, Dad died when he was fifty-two, that wasn’t fair.”

“Ma, how old are you?”
“I was born in 1912. That makes me seventy- two. Why?”
“Cause you’re so old.”
"Seventy-two is old.”
“I’m thirty. I feel old.”
“That’s young. I can hardly remember when I was thirty.”
“How old will you be when I die?”
“That’s a stupid question T.J. Why would you ask that?”
“Cause you’re so old.”

“Ma, how old are you?”
“I’m ninety-five. You know that, Tim. Today’s my birthday.
“I’m fifty-three. How old will you be when I die?”
“I don’t know and why do you think you’ll die before me?”
“Cause I’m so old.”

A HAPPY MAN

The alienation from his family happened a long time ago. If he remembered it, he never told us about it. The only glimpse we were given was in his introduction of himself: “John Peabody. Of the Detroit Peabodys.” For him that said it all. Who he was, and who he is now.

A solitary man, he lived in a small residential hotel in the central city Not a big man. Perhaps five feet ten, with an erect bearing, a shock of white hair, and bright blue eyes.

Some people who live alone want to talk all the time when with others. But not John. He responded to questions and comments, and then lapsed into silence. But he must have been talking to himself, because occasionally a little audible phrase would come out, out of context, and he would look a little embarrassed.

In 1954 Hadley Conner sold his Arizona acreage in preparation for moving to Mississippi. Since he still had the packing shed, he leased it out to another company for the spring lettuce harvest. He apparently knew of the reputation of the other company, because he hired a night watchman. That watchman was John Peabody. He lived in a small room built in the corner of the packing shed. It had a small bed, chair, table and sink. A minimum in accomodations But I never hear John complain.

I would not be moving to Mississippi. I would have my job in the office until he sold the rest of his properties. John and I shared the time together. Sometime he would come over to the office where we had air conditioning and just sit quietly as I did my paperwork. Perhaps if we had been closer in age we could have shared experiences and I could have known him better. But I didn’t ask, and he didn’t volunteer.

The crew of the company leasing the packing shed were, all of them, “winos.” Even the foreman. They came to work with a paper sack which they placed on the floor near their feet. The sack contained a bottle of wine or a milk carton filled with cheap red wine. Its contents were sampled throughout the day. No one was really drunk, but their actions and attention were obviously impaired.

John had no sympathy for these guys, but he dutifully kept watch, and when the foreman did not respond to a problem, John would call me.

The lettuce was brought in from the field and put on a conveyer belt which ran the length of the shed. A wooden plow moved along the belt and pushed the lettuce into bins for trimming and packing in crates. The plow was pulled by a small steel cable which wrapped around a drum on the end until the operator pulled the handle to turn it the other way. One day the “operator” sampled his wine when he should have turned the handle. Of course the drum pulled the cable until it broke John called me.

We found another cable and installed it. Then when the conveyer started up again I went underneath to see if the cable needed tightening. That stupid guy again let it pull against the drum. If it had come loose it would have wrapped around my neck! I came out screaming words I didn’t know I knew.

I vaguely recall John standing there with a little half-smile on his face.

When the lettuce season was finished the crew departed. But before they left John made sure they pickup up their empty bottles. I spent a long evening and night draining the sump pool and changing the impeller which had become entangled with the lettuce leaves and trash they allowed to fall into the pool.

Then John and I had the place to ourselves for the rest of the summer. John would sit in the doorway of the shed with his record player and his Mario Lanza records, and light his pipe. I can see him yet.

On those warm Arizona evenings, with the clear sweet voice of Mario Lanza filling the building and out across the yard, “Be my love, for none one else can end this yearning…” John Peabody, of the Detroit Peabodys, was a happy man.

Fred Strong