Blog 14 - write about a photograph

My friend Vinnie stands tall and relaxed outside his home. He looks into the camera. His curly blond hair is long the way it was worn in those days. He wears a flannel shirt and jeans and stands with his hands behind him. The black and white photograph has the year 1971 written on the back in my handwriting. That is the year that both of us were 19.

That summer, we would ride around in his red Datsun station wagon or my red Oldsmobile convertible with our friends looking for something to do. Sometimes Vinnie would take us on one of his “shortcuts.” When he did, we knew we were in for a long ride. One time, he drove us around on dirt roads for a couple of hours. He just kept making left and right turns. We didn’t know where we were. Vinnie knew, of course. Then all of a sudden we came out onto a highway we all recognized. Not only that, but we were across from a Native American trading post. What fun! We went inside. There was nothing there that we could afford. We felt as though we were in a museum. After a while and because it had gotten late, we took the highway home. It only took us about 20 minutes because actually we were only two towns away. This is a typical “Vinnie” story.

Eventually, we all went our separate ways. Vinnie married and had two children. I moved back to New York. Years later, we were reunited. I don’t remember who contacted whom, but I learned that everyone was getting together. Vinnie looked and seemed the same, just older. His hair was still curly, but grey and shorter, and he was still his laid-back self. He is now divorced, his children are grown, and he has a granddaughter. We remain friends and have the same nice connection.

Blog 13

My Portable Permanency

There are a few things I always need to bring with me before I leave the house - money, keys, glasses, phone, tissues. The list can get long, but the most important thing is my pen. My pen is an extension of my hand, my mind, my thoughts. It puts out to the world my innermost feelings. Granted, sometimes I only write a shopping list, reminders or appointments, but these are a part of me as well, and very important. Oh, there are other modes of expression - eyes, face, voice, hands. It has been said that body language is the most revealing; however, writing is the most permanent. Oh, yes, there is white-out. I always have that with me too, by the way. That way, if my expression is not exactly correct, I just change it. Then my correction becomes permanent. I may have changed, but my writing has not. Therefore whenever I want to remain permanent, that is, forever and unchanged , I just take out my pen and write.

Blog 12 - Notes regarding revision

I am partial to my first essay about my friend Pam. I like how it turned out. At first, it was very emotional for me to tell this story, but I was able to move through the pain and put it in perspective. Writing this helped me put less emphasis on the accident and more on her and our friendship. I initially thought that I would make more of a metaphor out of the train ride, but I think it would just be a distraction to interject different stops and make connections to the story. I received some positive feedback about beginning and ending the story with the train ride. I read this story at the National Day of Writing and I like how it sounded. I was able to express my feelings and the story was interesting and powerful. I will change the names before I send it out and maybe the title if I can think of a new one.

Blog 11B

Essay 2, Draft 1 - I was born a writer

From as young as I can remember, I made up stories and told them to anyone who would listen. There was no end to them. As soon as I could speak in paragraphs – three years old – I made up and told these stories. I loved it. I remember sitting on my grandmother’s lap in the front seat, with my grandfather driving and my mother in between telling them this ongoing story. There was no beginning, and there was no end. It didn’t even matter if they were listening. They had been talking, when all of a sudden my mother realized I was telling a story. She seemed surprised that I was so creative. My grandmother seemed to enjoy my story telling also.

When I was in the lower grades, I would make up songs and sing them to my younger brothers. I would make up the lyrics and the tunes. These were stories set to music. I loved this. I used to wonder if it was possible to run out of tunes. Would there ever be a time when there would be no more new melodies, I remember thinking. I also remember collaborating with my cousin and writing songs with her. What fun!

I remember the recognition I received in fourth grade for a story I wrote. We had to write a fiction composition. Well, I made up a story that I and my friends were making a snowman when the snowman started to move. I know a take-off from Frosty the Snowman. Only, this time the snowman didn’t come to life. It was only a lost pet bunny that jostled the snowman while surfacing from beneath it. My fourth grade teacher read it aloud to the class. She said it was excellent, and I felt so proud. It was very important to me to be a good writer and I believed I was well on my way.

I wrote my first book when I was in fourth grade. It was a novel. I made up characters, gave them personalities, and made up scenarios. I loved this. I had a toy typewriter so I used it to compose my book. I would balance it on the nightstand and type away.

I idealized Lois Lane, the savvy newspaper reporter for The Daily Planet. I saw myself as a metropolitan journalist. Others did not see me that way, however. I remember at the parent-teacher conference in eighth grade we were discussing high schools and I said I wanted college prep so I could become a journalist. However, this was in 1965 when the resurgence of feminism was only just beginning. Both my teacher and my mother said that I should take a commercial course to prepare myself to work in an office. I did. I was sure to take typing in high school and learn it well. Afterward, I did get a job as a typist at the phone company. I hated it - all of it. I hated the typing pool, I hated the corporate environment, and I hated the rigid office hours.

I saved my money and three years later quit my job and sent myself to college. I attended the local community college and took a liberal arts curriculum. I did very well and loved it. I had to quit after the first year because I needed to work to support myself. Too bad!

I tried college again when I was age 25 after being laid-off from my office job. This time I attended Pace University in lower Manhattan. I majored in English. Again, I did very well and again I loved it, but again, I had to support myself. I quit full-time study and continued part-time after work. I still enjoyed it, but I was tired. I also had moved to northwestern New Jersey which was about 60 miles from the college. Eventually, my energy and money ran out.

I then wrote for a local newspaper near where I lived in New Jersey. I would cover local meetings. I was not particularly interested in the subject matter, but I was glad to write. I loved seeing my name in print. I made a small scrap book of my articles.

My life demanded that I attend to other things. I worked as a legal secretary which paid the bills. This also gave me an opportunity to write, although it was not really the kind of writing I like to do. With regard to other occupations, I tried working at a library as well as financial counseling. I also looked into grief counseling, addictions counseling and getting ordained. None of these worked, and I believe I was not meant to do any of these things. I once heard a monk speak about becoming a monk. He said people would ask him how he arrived at this, and he would say that he had been “born a monk.” As soon as I heard this, I intuitively knew that I had been born a writer, although I really didn’t believe that I would have another opportunity to pursue this.

When it was time for my nephew to look at colleges, I encouraged him. I visited colleges with him and realized how much I missed pursuing my dream of writing. I looked into it and realized that I had the money and the time to attend the local community college. This college had a degree program for paralegal studies. As I had been working in private law offices for about 35 years, I thought if I go back to college, I would do best in paralegal courses. Well, I did especially well and graduated with honors. This was two years ago.

While pursuing this degree, I especially loved any opportunity that I had to write. I looked into transferring to a four-year college because if I did so well in paralegal studies maybe I would do well in the love of my life – writing. Well, I was right. I am again an honors student. I love what I do. I have been writing-away in all my courses, whether it was poetry, plays or fiction in my creative writing class, writing about literature, creative non-fiction or any research paper. I love to write. I now have credits that put me into my senior year, and I am looking at graduate schools. My nephew has since graduated. He is the first college graduate in the family, and I expect to be the second. Writing is the love of my life and I don’t intend to ever be stopped again for the simple reason that “I was born a writer.”

Blog 11 - draft 2

Essay 1, Draft 2 - Pam

“Rahway,” the conductor announces as we pull into the station. I usually don’t pay attention to stops if I’m not getting off. Rahway is different. I hear that name. That town can’t help but remind me of my best friend in high school, Pam. Pam was from Rahway. “Norway?” I asked when I first met her at Sparta High School. She sat behind me in my home room. “No, not Norway - Rahway,” she explained with a smile as if tolerating a moron. She also was new in the school, having just moved from Rahway (not Norway). I had just moved from the Bronx. Who wants to be new in high school. Who wants to move from the Bronx to Sparta, New Jersey. I had never even heard of Sparta or Rahway or Hopatcong, the town to which we just moved for that matter. “Lake popcorn?” people in the Bronx would ask, “Where are you moving to?”

Anyway, I was a junior; Pam was a sophomore. Everyone else at that school knew each other since grade school. I had to come into a new school - wherever the heck it was - leave my normal life in the Bronx and try to make some friends. “I need a favor,” the girl behind me said. I turned around and there she was - a perfect stranger, like everyone else in the classroom. “I don’t have a locker yet and I would like to use yours as I have too much to carry.” I care? I should let her use my locker - and give her my combination? No, not the combination. I’ll let her use my locker (it’s the right thing to do) but not the combination. Maybe being from the Bronx influenced that, or maybe I wouldn’t have given her my combination no matter where I was from. Anyway, this is how we met. Then we exchanged names and where we were from.

I sized her up as we walked out of the classroom together. Good, a little heavy, not too perfect. She wasn’t too cool either, which was good because I never was. She crammed her books into my locker as my brother Ken was also sharing it. She put her coat in also.

This is how I met my best friend in high school. Lesson number one - helping someone can lead to a wonderful friendship. Also, being untrusting can lead to a wonderful friendship. We had to connect every time she wanted to use the locker - not having the combination and all. So we saw each other all the time. This went on for months as the school really didn’t have enough lockers.

* * *

I felt someone poking me under my right shoulder blade. Pam, of course. Remember, she sat behind me. I turned around. “You’d never guess what happened last night.” Surely this was another story about her sister. Linda was a trip. She was older, drove a car already (an old one for that matter that always broke down), and always did crazy things. This time she broke down on the railroad tracks. Was the train coming? No. That would be too much drama. But her sister did leave the car on the tracks to get her father (as this was before cell phones) who had to come and get the car off the tracks before the train came. I got all the details from Pam. I can’t remember them now, 40 years later. But what I remember was Pam’s mischievous smile. She would have loved to have been responsible for this devilment. Our home room teacher took attendance and made announcements while Pam told these stories and I listened. Pam had a new story every morning. She never had to repeat any because her sister did crazy things all the time.

From these stories, I knew her whole family. She had a younger brother Bryant who was in junior high, parents, and of course, Linda. When I did finally meet them, they were just as she had described.

The school year was as expected with the requisite new-kid-in-high-school stress. Of course, I was also experiencing culture shock. In the Bronx, I would hear planes outside my classroom window flying low to and from the Queens airports. In Sparta, I would hear cows grazing in the adjourning fields. “Mooooo!” my four younger brothers mimicked as our father took us to register at our respective new schools. “Mooooo! “Mooooo!” We didn’t think we were in Kansas, or the Bronx, anymore.

Also in the Bronx, I took the subway to school. Here, I took the “School Bus.” Yes, it was yellow with “School Bus” written across the front. It helped that my brother Ken also went to the same school so we could make fun of the bus together. It came to a corner near where we lived. There were no sidewalks, no traffic lights and no pedestrians. We just stood in the street, or road as it was called, waiting for the “School Bus” as there was not very much traffic anyway. Pam came from a different town, so we met her every morning at my locker.

Pam certainly wasn’t like the city kids I used to know. She was naive in her own way, and very quiet. She was a gentle soul. I would meet her for lunch and otherwise throughout the day. The only class we had together was geometry, the first class of the day, which is why we had home room together. She provided a certain stability in my life. It was important to me to have someone close who was emotionally consistent.

The following year we each had more friends. She had Kathy. I had Helen, Karin and even a boyfriend Tom. My brother attended a different school. I was getting comfortable in this new school in this new town in this new state. I could share anything with Pam, and Pam shared everything with me. I graduated and got a job at the phone company.

Of course, Pam and I kept in touch. I remember going out on the lake in her boat. She lived on Cranbury Lake in the nearby town of Byrum. This was a little different from walking along the Bronx River, or on it when it was frozen or not frozen enough, which is why I once fell in. I remember visiting her once with Tom and on another occasion going Christmas shopping. Of course, when the time came she invited me to her graduation.

* * *

Her graduation was the last time I would see her, but there was no way I could have known that at the time. She made sure I had a ticket, and I made sure I was on time. I met up with her family at the stadium. We sat high in the bleachers. The weather was beautiful. She looked good in her cap and gown. We were all in an exceptionally good mood. After the ceremony, we went to the White Elephant, a restaurant in her home town. She was delighted I could come, and I was delighted I could be there. Besides her parents, brother, sister, and me, her new boyfriend Andy was there. I met him for the first time. I already knew she loved him, but seeing them together made it clear that they loved each other very much. It looked like this was the real thing, and I wondered if they would marry.

There was something surreal about that evening. Her sister agreed with that later. I remember when we were saying goodbye it was as if Pam didn’t want me to leave. Everyone was already in their cars, I was in mine, and she wouldn’t leave my window. I remember when I was getting into my car and giving her a hug I thought I should tell her that I loved her, but we just never did that.

Life went on - for the next 10 days. I went to work and then went out with my brother and my neighborhood friends after work. My mother told me that Pam called a couple of times, but always when I was on my way out the door. Then afterwards I would forget. I wasn’t in the habit of making notes to myself like I do now. Lesson number two - call people back right away. But most importantly, I always thought she would be there.

About a week and a half after Pam’s graduation, I came home from work. It was a Friday, and I was beginning a two-week vacation. It was the Fourth of July weekend. I was making myself dinner. I was standing at the stove when Ken came out to me while reading a newspaper and shaking. “Isn’t this your friend Pam?” he asked knowing the answer. I screamed! One of my brothers thought I had burned myself on the stove. I couldn’t believe it. It read, “Girl Killed in Crash.” Andy had been driving. They were coming home from his house the night before, he had been drinking although he said that was not a factor, had crossed over the yellow line on a curve, although he said he only went over about a foot. Although he tried to correct it, they got hit on the front driver’s side anyway. It was the other driver’s fault, Andy said, because he hit him. Pam was not wearing a seat belt, although Andy said that didn’t matter as he held her tight. I was furious with Andy although I knew Pam would not want me to be. He lived, having been extricated from the car. She died of a ruptured spleen while being admitted to the hospital. The ambulance squad said afterward that she had asked for her mother.

And there you have it. Just like that she was gone.

My body still reacts to the thought of her sudden, violent death. I was taken completely off guard. They say that people die the way they lived. Well this was a little too dramatic for Pam. It really didn’t fit her. Her life and our friendship was easy, but her death was harsh.

I feel angry that her death was more powerful than her life. I feel gypped that the first thing I think of when I think of her is how she was killed. I wanted to be able to speak to her about her accident. I couldn’t call her. It was as if I kept expecting her to call me and say, “Guess what happened to me the other night. I got killed in a car accident,” and proceed to give me all the details. I felt so cut off from her. She was just gone. I wondered what she wanted when she last called. It is a luxury to reflect on one’s life. She didn’t have that opportunity, and I didn‘t have that opportunity with her. I felt jolted by her accident. I wondered what it was like to be jolted into death. It was such an abrupt and violent ending.

I remember the man I met on the way to her wake. It was Sunday (the Fourth of July) and I had to drive to Newton, a town I didn’t know very well. I had to find High Street. I cried the whole way which took awhile on account of holiday traffic. I stopped to ask someone directions. He was elderly and sitting on his porch. He was so relaxed. I wonder if he was placed there just to comfort me. I asked him where High Street was. He told me and then asked if I was going to the hospital or the funeral home. When I told him he said that that was too bad because from the hospital you come out and from the funeral home you don’t. I proceeded to tell him what happened and he listened. He was kind. Later that week, I did see Andy in the hospital. He came out of the hospital like the man said and went on with his life. I understand he married soon afterward. My friend Helen summed it up for me. She kept saying, “You loved her! You loved her!” She helped me put into words what I was feeling.

* * *

It has been some time since this all happened. When I think of Pam, I think of her accident, and then, I think of her love. I remember her gentleness and smile, and I think of the calming effect she had on me. Her memory is equally as calming.

The train pulls into the station, my station, Dunellen. I get off and begin the short walk home. One thing I know I will do when I get home is return my phone calls.

Blog 10 - 2nd Essay

The focus of my second essay will be changes in New York City as a result of the terrorist attacks and my reflections on what New York was like prior to and after the attacks. Downtown was a place where I went to college and worked; I had a very positive life there. Now it is a terrorist site, and my feelings are the opposite.

I will tell stories about the following:

1975-1980 - attended Pace University

1977-1980 - worked at Supreme Court of New York, Southern District of New York, and Court of Appeals

1975 - worked on Maiden Lane

1982 - worked at 5 World Trade Center

*********
2001 - visit to Ground 0

2001 - miss the skyline

2001 - New Yorkers have that Vietnam look in their eyes
They lack attentiveness and appear disoriented

2003 - visit my brother in New York - “we can pull the fire alarm but it won’t bring our cousin back”

Blog 9 - Reflections re First Essay, etc.

With regard to the first draft of my first essay, I will rewrite my impressions of Pam's boyfriend, and reword the reference to my alcoholic home. I will consider which names to fictionalize, but I do want to leave the names of Pam and Ken as is. I want to look at how I uses dashes and whether I want to include another section break.

In my next essay, I want to be mindful of how my essay, if published, would impact others. I will write about my childhood up to the end of 5th grade (I realized in my freewriting that this is the period of time I always go do) and write about how that influenced my view of God and how that view changed as an adult.