My Storytelling Story
When I lived in Hawaii my friends took me to a wind swept mountain ledge. There they told me the legend of a man who had once tried to throw himself to his death at this spot, but the wind had thrown him back to safety. They continued with more stories of others who had tried to end their lives at this spot with the same result. Then my friends showed me how you could lean into that crazy-strong wind - over the edge of the cliff - without falling. It was totally insane - so I had to try it. The thoughts, the feelings, that moment, I have never forgotten. Flight, exhilaration, ecstasy - everything in my visual range was altered. It was as if a polarizing filter had been dropped over my eyes. The greens were greener. The colors of the flowers were more vibrant. The sky was more clear and a deeper blue. What a thrill. That's how storytelling makes me feel. Whenever I sense my telling has helped someone else to feel, think, or see the world in a new or different perspective - I feel the same rush of thrill. I feel validated. I feel alive. Is storytelling my life's quest or my drug of choice? In my heart-of-hearts I truly believe God placed me on this path.
Class Favorite - English 418R Spring 2011
The Legend of Shotgun Village by Teresa B. Clark
No one ever intended for the place to become a village. How could any place with one saloon, a boarding house and a few cabins be considered much of anything? Yet, John Dodge was known to be an honest man, who didn’t water down his liquor. He put out a decent spread of food as well, so he naturally drew the ranch hands. Where there’re people there’s safety, so others came to build nearby Of course, Almira Dodge was a natural draw as well.
John had lost his wife early in life, but not before she had given him his precious daughter, Almira. In the early years, it had been easy to keep her hidden from the roving eyes of the ranch hands, but Almira was all woman now and there was no hiding her anywhere. With skin like cream and hair as warm as the golden sunset, Almira Dodge was hard to miss.
John had no intention of raising his daughter to be just a saloon girl. He’d seen to her educating himself. Seems he’d done a mighty fine job of it too. Folks said she could carry on a fully intelligent conversation with anyone who came in the place, from ranch hands to ranchers, to the big money people who came in from the East on their way to visit the Yellowstone. Fact is, they say when you were talking to Almira Dodge it was to forget they were in a saloon at all.
Every fella’ who came in the place was eyed over as a potential suitor for his daughter by John. He was not about to give his daughter away to just anyone. They had to have a heart and decency behind the trail-worn faces. Fact is no one came close, except Chase Stockton.
Chase Stockton cut a dashing figure what with those sky blue eyes and coal black hair of his. What’s more, he was a hard-riding, rope-tossing, big-hearted cowboy with a sure shot. Chase didn’t make love to his whiskey like most boys did. Fact is Chase didn’t drink at all he just came in to grab a bite to eat now and then. Chase was a born leader. Wherever he went, folks naturally followed. Ranchers up and down the valley vied to have Chase as their foreman. He had a way with even the surliest men that inspired confidence and trust. If Chase was leading a round-up not a single head – man nor beast would be lost. Chase had taken to resting his pale blue eyes on Almira Dodge and John was not going to step in and block the view.
To John, the sound of their mingled voices was the closest thing to pure happiness he’d heard this side of heaven since he lost his own true love. If he’d done the choosing himself, he couldn’t have done better for his daughter than Chase Stockton.
Of course, that was before the trouble, before cattle started coming up missing all over the valley. Ranch-hands too and not just any ranch hands, boys known to ride with Chase Stockton. The rumors spread like wildfire. Any man who rides with a bunch of boys who turn to rustling must be guilty. After all, everyone said he was a natural born leader. The wanted posters came out next, “Chase Stockton and his dirty band of rustling thieves – wanted – dead or alive.” When Chase came up missing, the rumors were accepted as fact. If he weren’t guilty, he wouldn’t of run. That’s all the proof anyone needed.
Now, there were a handful of people in town, John and Almira among them, who believed in Chase’s innocence. After all, it was conceivable Chase had left to save his neck. He was no fool after all. Cattle-thieving has never been taken kindly to in the West. At best it’s a hanging offense and with a bounty on his head, no one was going to sit down for a friendly chat with the accused. They’d shoot first and ask questions later. Leaving was the only thing Chase could have done. One thing they were sure on, Chase would never stoop to thieving cattle, no matter what his men did.
The clouds hung low in the sky, late one night, when sleep would not come to Almira. The midnight air was thick with an incoming storm. Almira stood by her open, 2nd floor window and breathed it all in; the heavy air, the wild roses beneath her window. There wasn’t a star in the sky. She felt restless and edgy. The sky was hanging so low she couldn’t see the moon or the stars. It was the calm before the storm, there was no breeze, but the bushes stirred. Almira leaned out her window and was stunned to discover a man, still mounted on his horse, pressed up against the saloon in the narrow space between the roses and the building.
“Who’s there?”
“Shh, it’s me, Chase, don’t say a word, just listen.”
“I didn’t steal no cattle, girl, I swear. I never knew nothin’ ‘til people started talking. But when the wanted posters came out, I got scared and I ran. But Almira, life is not worth living without you by my side, so I’m coming back for ya’. Be ready for me tomorrow at midnight. We’ll get married in the first town we come to, I swear. I know it’s not the way your pa would’ve wanted it, but the dust will settle, I’ll clear my name, he’ll still see his grandbabies.”
They whispered on through the open window, under an ominous sky. When he turned to go, Chase stood up in his stirrups and reached up to touch her outstretched hand. She leaned out as far as she dared, but their fingertips just missed. One strand of golden hair cascaded over her shoulder and into his face. Chase pressed it to his lips, breathed it in real deep then rode off into the oncoming storm.
No village is complete without its resident drunk, and even this no-name, no-account village had one. Brent Pickett had passed out earlier in the evening behind the saloon, smack-dab, facedown into the wild roses. He would have stayed there all night too, until he heard Chase whisper Almira’s name. He sobered up real quick what with those horse hooves right by his face. He witnessed the whole touching seen and waited through the tender farewell. Then he leapt to his feet and ran to tell the Sheriff everything he’d heard. Here was his chance to clear Chase’s good name, and help old man Dodge in the process.
The Sherriff heard what he wanted to hear; Almira, Stockton, midnight. After all, there was a bounty on that boy’s head and he was up for claiming it. He threw Pickett in a cell to sleep it off then he gathered his posse. Late next evening, just about closing time, the Sheriff and his pose stormed the saloon. They roughed up the innkeep a bit, trying to learn what he knew. He swore he knew nothing at all, and it was true, Almira had seen to it. A few of the boys hauled off Dodge and threw him in the cell with Pickett so he couldn’t raise an alarm. The rest of the men stormed up the stairs and burst into Almira’s room just as she was slipping her daddy’s likeness into her saddlebags. The packed bags and open window were all they needed to know that fool drunk had gotten at least part of the story right. They lunged at Almira, bound her hand and foot, and tied her to the bed. Then they pulled back the trigger on a sawed-off-shotgun and placed it firmly against her ribs and rigged it so it would fire if she moved.
The cold barrel of the gun pressing heavily against her chest felt like a knife. It grew heavier with each passing moment. Eternity passed with every tick of the clock.
Tick…
Tick…
Tick…
She prayed Chase would forget about her and ride on. She prayed he’d sense something was wrong and turn back.
Tick…
Tick…
Tick…
The clock struck midnight and then one and there was still no Chase. The posse started to relax. They pulled out some liquor and cards and took up a quiet game in the corner.
Tick…
Tick…
Tick…
Almira heard the steady footfall of a horse on gravel long before the posse did. She held her breath, hoping against hope he’d hear the posse before they heard him. It was a quiet night, voices carry. But the horse kept coming.
Tick…
The sheriff crouched low and whispered, “You boy’s hear that?” They did. Triggers pulled back on every gun in the room, they dropped to the floor and slithered towards the open window like the vipers they were.
Tick…
Tick…
“NO!”
Almira’s cry - cut off by the blast of a sawed-off-shotgun - shattered the stillness. Chase’s horse needed no prompting to rear and run.
News of Almira’s sacrifice spread through the village like wildfire. Some folks even got to saying the village had found a name, Shotgun Village. By afternoon, folk’s sympathies had swung full circle back to Chase. After all, no man would face death for a woman unless his heart was pure, and now that woman was dead. And no woman would lay down her life for her man, unless she knew his love was true. Pickett and Dodge were released around noon. Dodge was near inconsolable, except for knowing Almira’s sacrifice had not been in vain, Chase had gotten away. But even that satisfaction proved false for just about sunset, Chase came riding into town, screaming like a mad man for the Sherriff to come out and face him like a man.
They say the Sherriff didn’t hesitate, didn’t even break his stride, just gunned down Chase Stockton in cold blood on the streets of Shotgun Village. After all, there was a bounty on the boy’s head – dead or alive.
The sheriff never got to claim the reward money though. Seems Chase’s body came up missing before the undertaker could even measure him for a casket. Rumor was,
John Dodge buried Chase and Almira in a lover’s embrace in an unmarked grave on the rise above Shotgun Village. There was still a bounty on Chase’s head and John wasn’t going to risk anyone knowing where they lay. Rumor was, he planted wild roses over the place no one could find the grave or disturb the young lovers again.
Folks never forgot Almira and Chase. Fact is they say if you walk out along that rise above Shotgun Village, just about sunset, with the one you love, you may just see Chase and Almira standing hand in had amidst the wild roses. And they say if you see them, your live will never die.
No one ever intended for the place to become a village. How could any place with one saloon, a boarding house and a few cabins be considered much of anything? Yet, John Dodge was known to be an honest man, who didn’t water down his liquor. He put out a decent spread of food as well, so he naturally drew the ranch hands. Where there’re people there’s safety, so others came to build nearby Of course, Almira Dodge was a natural draw as well.
John had lost his wife early in life, but not before she had given him his precious daughter, Almira. In the early years, it had been easy to keep her hidden from the roving eyes of the ranch hands, but Almira was all woman now and there was no hiding her anywhere. With skin like cream and hair as warm as the golden sunset, Almira Dodge was hard to miss.
John had no intention of raising his daughter to be just a saloon girl. He’d seen to her educating himself. Seems he’d done a mighty fine job of it too. Folks said she could carry on a fully intelligent conversation with anyone who came in the place, from ranch hands to ranchers, to the big money people who came in from the East on their way to visit the Yellowstone. Fact is, they say when you were talking to Almira Dodge it was to forget they were in a saloon at all.
Every fella’ who came in the place was eyed over as a potential suitor for his daughter by John. He was not about to give his daughter away to just anyone. They had to have a heart and decency behind the trail-worn faces. Fact is no one came close, except Chase Stockton.
Chase Stockton cut a dashing figure what with those sky blue eyes and coal black hair of his. What’s more, he was a hard-riding, rope-tossing, big-hearted cowboy with a sure shot. Chase didn’t make love to his whiskey like most boys did. Fact is Chase didn’t drink at all he just came in to grab a bite to eat now and then. Chase was a born leader. Wherever he went, folks naturally followed. Ranchers up and down the valley vied to have Chase as their foreman. He had a way with even the surliest men that inspired confidence and trust. If Chase was leading a round-up not a single head – man nor beast would be lost. Chase had taken to resting his pale blue eyes on Almira Dodge and John was not going to step in and block the view.
To John, the sound of their mingled voices was the closest thing to pure happiness he’d heard this side of heaven since he lost his own true love. If he’d done the choosing himself, he couldn’t have done better for his daughter than Chase Stockton.
Of course, that was before the trouble, before cattle started coming up missing all over the valley. Ranch-hands too and not just any ranch hands, boys known to ride with Chase Stockton. The rumors spread like wildfire. Any man who rides with a bunch of boys who turn to rustling must be guilty. After all, everyone said he was a natural born leader. The wanted posters came out next, “Chase Stockton and his dirty band of rustling thieves – wanted – dead or alive.” When Chase came up missing, the rumors were accepted as fact. If he weren’t guilty, he wouldn’t of run. That’s all the proof anyone needed.
Now, there were a handful of people in town, John and Almira among them, who believed in Chase’s innocence. After all, it was conceivable Chase had left to save his neck. He was no fool after all. Cattle-thieving has never been taken kindly to in the West. At best it’s a hanging offense and with a bounty on his head, no one was going to sit down for a friendly chat with the accused. They’d shoot first and ask questions later. Leaving was the only thing Chase could have done. One thing they were sure on, Chase would never stoop to thieving cattle, no matter what his men did.
The clouds hung low in the sky, late one night, when sleep would not come to Almira. The midnight air was thick with an incoming storm. Almira stood by her open, 2nd floor window and breathed it all in; the heavy air, the wild roses beneath her window. There wasn’t a star in the sky. She felt restless and edgy. The sky was hanging so low she couldn’t see the moon or the stars. It was the calm before the storm, there was no breeze, but the bushes stirred. Almira leaned out her window and was stunned to discover a man, still mounted on his horse, pressed up against the saloon in the narrow space between the roses and the building.
“Who’s there?”
“Shh, it’s me, Chase, don’t say a word, just listen.”
“I didn’t steal no cattle, girl, I swear. I never knew nothin’ ‘til people started talking. But when the wanted posters came out, I got scared and I ran. But Almira, life is not worth living without you by my side, so I’m coming back for ya’. Be ready for me tomorrow at midnight. We’ll get married in the first town we come to, I swear. I know it’s not the way your pa would’ve wanted it, but the dust will settle, I’ll clear my name, he’ll still see his grandbabies.”
They whispered on through the open window, under an ominous sky. When he turned to go, Chase stood up in his stirrups and reached up to touch her outstretched hand. She leaned out as far as she dared, but their fingertips just missed. One strand of golden hair cascaded over her shoulder and into his face. Chase pressed it to his lips, breathed it in real deep then rode off into the oncoming storm.
No village is complete without its resident drunk, and even this no-name, no-account village had one. Brent Pickett had passed out earlier in the evening behind the saloon, smack-dab, facedown into the wild roses. He would have stayed there all night too, until he heard Chase whisper Almira’s name. He sobered up real quick what with those horse hooves right by his face. He witnessed the whole touching seen and waited through the tender farewell. Then he leapt to his feet and ran to tell the Sheriff everything he’d heard. Here was his chance to clear Chase’s good name, and help old man Dodge in the process.
The Sherriff heard what he wanted to hear; Almira, Stockton, midnight. After all, there was a bounty on that boy’s head and he was up for claiming it. He threw Pickett in a cell to sleep it off then he gathered his posse. Late next evening, just about closing time, the Sheriff and his pose stormed the saloon. They roughed up the innkeep a bit, trying to learn what he knew. He swore he knew nothing at all, and it was true, Almira had seen to it. A few of the boys hauled off Dodge and threw him in the cell with Pickett so he couldn’t raise an alarm. The rest of the men stormed up the stairs and burst into Almira’s room just as she was slipping her daddy’s likeness into her saddlebags. The packed bags and open window were all they needed to know that fool drunk had gotten at least part of the story right. They lunged at Almira, bound her hand and foot, and tied her to the bed. Then they pulled back the trigger on a sawed-off-shotgun and placed it firmly against her ribs and rigged it so it would fire if she moved.
The cold barrel of the gun pressing heavily against her chest felt like a knife. It grew heavier with each passing moment. Eternity passed with every tick of the clock.
Tick…
Tick…
Tick…
She prayed Chase would forget about her and ride on. She prayed he’d sense something was wrong and turn back.
Tick…
Tick…
Tick…
The clock struck midnight and then one and there was still no Chase. The posse started to relax. They pulled out some liquor and cards and took up a quiet game in the corner.
Tick…
Tick…
Tick…
Almira heard the steady footfall of a horse on gravel long before the posse did. She held her breath, hoping against hope he’d hear the posse before they heard him. It was a quiet night, voices carry. But the horse kept coming.
Tick…
The sheriff crouched low and whispered, “You boy’s hear that?” They did. Triggers pulled back on every gun in the room, they dropped to the floor and slithered towards the open window like the vipers they were.
Tick…
Tick…
“NO!”
Almira’s cry - cut off by the blast of a sawed-off-shotgun - shattered the stillness. Chase’s horse needed no prompting to rear and run.
News of Almira’s sacrifice spread through the village like wildfire. Some folks even got to saying the village had found a name, Shotgun Village. By afternoon, folk’s sympathies had swung full circle back to Chase. After all, no man would face death for a woman unless his heart was pure, and now that woman was dead. And no woman would lay down her life for her man, unless she knew his love was true. Pickett and Dodge were released around noon. Dodge was near inconsolable, except for knowing Almira’s sacrifice had not been in vain, Chase had gotten away. But even that satisfaction proved false for just about sunset, Chase came riding into town, screaming like a mad man for the Sherriff to come out and face him like a man.
They say the Sherriff didn’t hesitate, didn’t even break his stride, just gunned down Chase Stockton in cold blood on the streets of Shotgun Village. After all, there was a bounty on the boy’s head – dead or alive.
The sheriff never got to claim the reward money though. Seems Chase’s body came up missing before the undertaker could even measure him for a casket. Rumor was,
John Dodge buried Chase and Almira in a lover’s embrace in an unmarked grave on the rise above Shotgun Village. There was still a bounty on Chase’s head and John wasn’t going to risk anyone knowing where they lay. Rumor was, he planted wild roses over the place no one could find the grave or disturb the young lovers again.
Folks never forgot Almira and Chase. Fact is they say if you walk out along that rise above Shotgun Village, just about sunset, with the one you love, you may just see Chase and Almira standing hand in had amidst the wild roses. And they say if you see them, your live will never die.
Professor's Pick - English 418R Spring 2011
Virginity by Teresa B. Clark
I lived in Montgomery County, Maryland in the 1960’s and 70’s. By the time I reached Junior High the rumor was our county had the highest drug rate in the nation. The world was in turmoil. Living just 10 minutes out of DC we were constantly aware of demonstrations, and riots. The lifestyles of my greater community were on a collision course with the values I was being raised with. When the “Mormon” temple was built near the beltway in 1974 – the flood lights of curiosity focused on the LDS community. All of a sudden I was in the position of defending my faith every day. “Hey, I hear Mormons have horns – are you horny?” “How many wives does your dad have?” (I heard it all, believe me.) Lifetime friends were accosting me at the bus stop about the stupidity of eternal marriage. “Live with one person forever? No way!” Kids I had grown up with were trying to force me to smoke pot, or get drunk. My high school had a student body of approximately 2500. My class contained around 650. Myself included, there were about 5 LDS kids in attendance. By the time I reached High School, I was a freak of nature and everyone knew it. I didn’t put out a sign, mind you, people just knew. They knew I didn’t drink, or smoke or do drugs or have sex. They knew I didn’t wear halter tops or mini-skirts. They knew I was deprived and needed to be set free. I figured it was a matter of perspective. What they saw as restrictions, I saw as choices – covenants I had made with God.
I’ll never forget the day my tenth grade Sociology class got into a discussion about sexuality and the merits of having sex before marriage. Our teacher, Mr. Frace, served as a silent moderator. He’d point to whoever felt they had something to say then listen with the rest of us. Mr. Frace was a young guy, I’m guessing mid-twenties, and we didn’t know much about him. (But every girl in the room liked what they saw!)
This was a conversation I fully intended to stay out of. (Better to fly under the radar then bring attention to one’s self.) I’d already gotten plenty of grief for being a virgin from some in the room – I had no intention of adding fuel to the flame. Public knowledge of one’s commitment to virginity does not protect you – it makes you a target. (It’s like announcing there’s ripe fruit available for the plucking!) The classroom bantering continued back and forth. Most of the guys in the room were pretty sure they all needed to be well experienced, but were split pretty even on whether they wanted their future wives to be virgins or experienced. Most of the girls were agreeing with whatever guy they hoped to hook up with. I was trying desperately to stay out of it. There was no need to stand out on this one…but the sheer mathematical lunacy forced me to speak. (My hand shot up before I could stop it, my smart-mouth kicked in before I could govern it.)
“Hey guys – if you all want to be experienced with multiple partners, but you think you deserve a virgin on your wedding night, how does this work? What do you suppose will happen to all those girls you practiced with? Where will you find your virgins and will they want you?”
Whoosh! Every eye in the room turned on me. Mr. Frace raised his eyebrows. “Do you plan to be a virgin on your wedding night?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
“And what are your expectations in regards to your future fiancé’s virginity?”
“Well, it seems appropriate to expect the same from him. See, I view it as a gift we should probably open together.” There was a deafening moment of silence, then I was faced with an onslaught of anger and lashing out.
“You just think you’re so special don’t you?”
“Give me five minutes and I’ll have you begging.”
“Let me nail you, then we’ll see how you feel about it.”
The comments continued for a moment with no one backing up my position, until Mr. Frace stood up, walked from behind his desk, and said, “Stop.” He said it calmly, almost in a whisper.
“I have a confession to make.” Mouths shut, all eyes turned his direction. “I’m a virgin, my fiancé is too. We chose to save the gift for each other. We’re getting married over Spring Break. It’s a nice place to be, no regrets.” The bell rang and suddenly the room was empty. I slid out of the door into the busy hall. Mr. Frace followed me. He reached out and touched my arm.
“Thanks – your words gave me the courage stop hiding behind the assumptions.” It was a nice place to be, no regrets.
I lived in Montgomery County, Maryland in the 1960’s and 70’s. By the time I reached Junior High the rumor was our county had the highest drug rate in the nation. The world was in turmoil. Living just 10 minutes out of DC we were constantly aware of demonstrations, and riots. The lifestyles of my greater community were on a collision course with the values I was being raised with. When the “Mormon” temple was built near the beltway in 1974 – the flood lights of curiosity focused on the LDS community. All of a sudden I was in the position of defending my faith every day. “Hey, I hear Mormons have horns – are you horny?” “How many wives does your dad have?” (I heard it all, believe me.) Lifetime friends were accosting me at the bus stop about the stupidity of eternal marriage. “Live with one person forever? No way!” Kids I had grown up with were trying to force me to smoke pot, or get drunk. My high school had a student body of approximately 2500. My class contained around 650. Myself included, there were about 5 LDS kids in attendance. By the time I reached High School, I was a freak of nature and everyone knew it. I didn’t put out a sign, mind you, people just knew. They knew I didn’t drink, or smoke or do drugs or have sex. They knew I didn’t wear halter tops or mini-skirts. They knew I was deprived and needed to be set free. I figured it was a matter of perspective. What they saw as restrictions, I saw as choices – covenants I had made with God.
I’ll never forget the day my tenth grade Sociology class got into a discussion about sexuality and the merits of having sex before marriage. Our teacher, Mr. Frace, served as a silent moderator. He’d point to whoever felt they had something to say then listen with the rest of us. Mr. Frace was a young guy, I’m guessing mid-twenties, and we didn’t know much about him. (But every girl in the room liked what they saw!)
This was a conversation I fully intended to stay out of. (Better to fly under the radar then bring attention to one’s self.) I’d already gotten plenty of grief for being a virgin from some in the room – I had no intention of adding fuel to the flame. Public knowledge of one’s commitment to virginity does not protect you – it makes you a target. (It’s like announcing there’s ripe fruit available for the plucking!) The classroom bantering continued back and forth. Most of the guys in the room were pretty sure they all needed to be well experienced, but were split pretty even on whether they wanted their future wives to be virgins or experienced. Most of the girls were agreeing with whatever guy they hoped to hook up with. I was trying desperately to stay out of it. There was no need to stand out on this one…but the sheer mathematical lunacy forced me to speak. (My hand shot up before I could stop it, my smart-mouth kicked in before I could govern it.)
“Hey guys – if you all want to be experienced with multiple partners, but you think you deserve a virgin on your wedding night, how does this work? What do you suppose will happen to all those girls you practiced with? Where will you find your virgins and will they want you?”
Whoosh! Every eye in the room turned on me. Mr. Frace raised his eyebrows. “Do you plan to be a virgin on your wedding night?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
“And what are your expectations in regards to your future fiancé’s virginity?”
“Well, it seems appropriate to expect the same from him. See, I view it as a gift we should probably open together.” There was a deafening moment of silence, then I was faced with an onslaught of anger and lashing out.
“You just think you’re so special don’t you?”
“Give me five minutes and I’ll have you begging.”
“Let me nail you, then we’ll see how you feel about it.”
The comments continued for a moment with no one backing up my position, until Mr. Frace stood up, walked from behind his desk, and said, “Stop.” He said it calmly, almost in a whisper.
“I have a confession to make.” Mouths shut, all eyes turned his direction. “I’m a virgin, my fiancé is too. We chose to save the gift for each other. We’re getting married over Spring Break. It’s a nice place to be, no regrets.” The bell rang and suddenly the room was empty. I slid out of the door into the busy hall. Mr. Frace followed me. He reached out and touched my arm.
“Thanks – your words gave me the courage stop hiding behind the assumptions.” It was a nice place to be, no regrets.
I Still Remember
as told by Joe to Teresa Clark
Joe was an old man, his face covered with the kind of wrinkles you get from hard living in the out of doors. He never shared his age, but his story provided some clues:
"I remember a blanket I used to sleep under when
I was a kid. It was patchwork. Some squares had military insignias and bars. Some squares had pockets. Some were white and some were navy and some were olive green. It was real heavy and sort of scratchy. I don’t know whatever happened to that old quilt. I wish I had it now. My mother used to tuck me and my three brothers in bed every night under that one quilt. It seemed like the nights were always cold when I was a boy. It seemed like the wind would always blow. Wind and dust, that’s what I remember the most, it was enough to drive you crazy, the wind blew all the dirt away so the crops wouldn’t grow. The wind blew my father away too, when the crops failed he had to go look for work somewhere. He never came back either. Checks would come in the mail sometimes, but we never saw him again. My mother used to sing about good times coming back someday when she’d tuck us in. Her voice was clear and sweet, like her blue eyes.
Those eyes always welled up with tears when she’d tuck us in. Her fingers would run over the patches and pockets and stripes on our quilts as she’d tell us about Johnny, and Richard, and Ray, and Frank. They were her brothers and they’d run off to fight in the Great War. The ‘war to end all wars,’ she’d call it. None of them ever came home, just telegrams followed by boxes of worn uniforms and random trinkets. She made the quilt from their uniforms. I guess she got in a lot of trouble for cutting up those uniforms at first. But times were hard and the fabric was warm and it’s not like anyone was getting any use out of the uniforms. Turns out her parents ended up leaving it out so everyone could see it.
There was something special about that old quilt. She said she could just about hear the voices of her brothers when she slipped under that quilt. It’s just about the only thing she took with her when she got married. She told us her brothers and God would watch over us, just like the quilt kept us warm. Her voice would get all misty when she’d talk like that. I sure wish I could remember those stories. I sure wish I still had that old quilt. I think it would help me remember all those stories so I could keep sharing them."
Joe was an old man, his face covered with the kind of wrinkles you get from hard living in the out of doors. He never shared his age, but his story provided some clues:
"I remember a blanket I used to sleep under when
I was a kid. It was patchwork. Some squares had military insignias and bars. Some squares had pockets. Some were white and some were navy and some were olive green. It was real heavy and sort of scratchy. I don’t know whatever happened to that old quilt. I wish I had it now. My mother used to tuck me and my three brothers in bed every night under that one quilt. It seemed like the nights were always cold when I was a boy. It seemed like the wind would always blow. Wind and dust, that’s what I remember the most, it was enough to drive you crazy, the wind blew all the dirt away so the crops wouldn’t grow. The wind blew my father away too, when the crops failed he had to go look for work somewhere. He never came back either. Checks would come in the mail sometimes, but we never saw him again. My mother used to sing about good times coming back someday when she’d tuck us in. Her voice was clear and sweet, like her blue eyes.
Those eyes always welled up with tears when she’d tuck us in. Her fingers would run over the patches and pockets and stripes on our quilts as she’d tell us about Johnny, and Richard, and Ray, and Frank. They were her brothers and they’d run off to fight in the Great War. The ‘war to end all wars,’ she’d call it. None of them ever came home, just telegrams followed by boxes of worn uniforms and random trinkets. She made the quilt from their uniforms. I guess she got in a lot of trouble for cutting up those uniforms at first. But times were hard and the fabric was warm and it’s not like anyone was getting any use out of the uniforms. Turns out her parents ended up leaving it out so everyone could see it.
There was something special about that old quilt. She said she could just about hear the voices of her brothers when she slipped under that quilt. It’s just about the only thing she took with her when she got married. She told us her brothers and God would watch over us, just like the quilt kept us warm. Her voice would get all misty when she’d talk like that. I sure wish I could remember those stories. I sure wish I still had that old quilt. I think it would help me remember all those stories so I could keep sharing them."