1987

A Shiny Record

     I was on my way to my best friend's house, standing to peddling as fast as I could on my old Huffy dirt bike.  I had had it since I was eight and it was pretty beat up.  From the very first day I was jumping ramps and riding down stairs.  It was white with red pads on the handle bar and middle bar which have long since been taken off.  The older I got, the less cool it was to drive around with some baby protection- despite my mom's objections.  It had one hand brake and Huffy written in big red letters along the second middle bar.  I took off the kick stand one day after getting decent air and scratching my leg on the landing after my foot came off the peddle, besides, what kid puts that thing down anyway.
     I was running out out breath from riding hard all of the way there.  I looked over to see the high school track field which gave me a sense of relief, I'll be there soon I thought.  With that revelation, I slowed my pace and sat down on the seat.  Now I was weaving back and forth on the lonely road trying to keep it steady.

     I was in a hurry to get to Mike's house.  Earlier at school he told me to come over tonight for a sleep over and he would show me what he got for his birthday.  Then we could write a story on his Apple IIe.  I didn't have a computer, only a typewriter at home.  We liked writing stories on the Apple, it was easier because if you made a mistake all you would have to do is move back and correct it.  This would be cool.  As I thought about all that we could create, I turned into his housing development and headed up the steep winding street to his house.  

     Once I reached his house I jumped off my bike, and leaned it against the wall in the garage.  I ran inside, waved hello to his mom and headed downstairs.  When school started, Mike's older brother moved off to college, so he took his room down in the basement.  The computer was at the bottom of the stairs.  I found Mike sitting at the desk.

     "Hey, did you start without me?" I asked.

     "No, just turning it on, come on into my room and check this out," he said as he got up and headed into his room.  I followed and crashed on his bed.  I looked across the room and he was holding a small shiny disc.  

     "What's that?" I said getting up and checking out the additions to his Lego city he was working on in the corner of his room.  Actually, it wasn't his.  His older brother had built it.  There was  a half piece of plywood sitting across two sawhorses.  From edge-to-edge was a giant Lego city.  I began to add a wall to a building that was just getting started.

     "Have you every heard of a CD?" he asked.

     "No, what is it? I said.

     "It's like a record, but smaller," he said.  

     I turned around to see him placing the disk into a machine, close the tray and push play.  Just then the Boss filled the room.  

     "Nice," I said.  

     "Yeah, but I only have two CDs right now, Bruce Springsteen and Bon Jovi."

     I turn back around and continue working on the wall.  

     "You coming?" Mike asks from the other room.

     "Be there in a sec,"  I respond.  I placed the last brick to connect the wall to the adjacent wall.  

     "Make sure they are all the same color," he yells from the other room.

     "Don't worry," I say sitting down next to him at  the desk.   He puts the first floppy into the drive, presses enter and we wait.  Then a menu screen comes up and he chooses to begin a new story.  It thinks for a bit and then up pops the writing program.  We're sitting at a small wooden desk.  The computer is on the left hand side.  Across the back of the desk is bookcase that goes across the entire desk.  It has two shelves.  On the first shelf is a storage bin for the floppy disks.  It has a clear cover that swings up and back.  As Mike get's it ready, he's switching disks out.  On the top shelf is a printer that is fed by paper that goes all the way down the back of the desk and into a box of printer paper.  

     "What did we say this one was going to be about, " he asks as the square prompt blinks.

     "Since it's Fall and near Halloween, let's write a story about trick-or-treaters," I suggest.

     "Cliche, how about we write our own version of WarGames," Mike said.  

     "I haven't see that one,"

     "What, you haven't?"  Mike jumps up, runs upstairs.  I move over to his seat and start typing:

                    The night was like any other night, except this year, the  two friends

                    decided to finally go knock on the old, abandoned house that sat 

                    at the end of the street.  

     Just then Mike comes down the stairs.  "My mom is going to call my dad at work and see if he will stop at the rental store and pick up WarGames.  You have to see it.  It's about this kid who hacks into NORADs computer system and almost causes WWIII."

     "Sounds cool," I say as I continue typing.

                   "Why are we doing this again?  I mean there are plenty of other houses

                     on the street to to go get good candy."

     Mike pushes me over and erases everything I started.  "This is going to be about those crazy Reds," and he begins typing.  


1980's 

     I was sitting with my son at the breakfast table.  It was Saturday so there was no rush off to preschool this morning.  It was quite, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the crunching of my son's cereal as he scooped large spoonfuls into his mouth and slurped the milk off the spoon.  He was looking at the back of the breakfast cereal while I was drinking a cup of coffee and reading a good book.  I had finished my toast and egg and was just enjoying the slow pace of the morning.  Later I told my son we would head out to the park.  My wife and daughter had taken off earlier in the morning for a girls day with my sister and niece.

Here is the plot:

Tired of his current job and life, Phineus heads for a smaller town where he dreams life is going to be easier, idealizing how smaller is better.  Not adjusting quickly enough to his new home and job, he begins to doubt his decision to leave the big city.  Phineus is always remembering the glory days at his previous job.  He begins to criticize everything that goes on at his new school and fantasizes about the past.  Was it really as good as he remembers or is he not giving this new job a chance.  Visited by a ghost from the past, Phineus get a new perspective on life.- learning that the grass is not always greener on the other side.

I heard the creaking of the stairs, I turned and saw one of the primary teachers coming.  She was close to my aged with short brown hair.  She had a slender build and was average height.  I was unsure of her name, so I turned my head back to the director and listened to her explain severe weather procedures.  I heard something about putting all of the students in the basement but didn't catch it all.  I glanced around, Would all the kids fit down here.  I was too busy thinking about what I had gotten myself into, what was I thinking? EDIT HERE    That's what it is and I guarantee you nobody in this town truly understands what this school is about.  It's a status symbol, a keep my kid out of the public school option.  I justified the change by romanticizing about working with smaller classroom sizes and how open and free private schools could be- not restricted by strict state standards and ineffective teaching methods- institutionalized, is that what I called my last job?  Institutionalized charter schools.  I will be free to do as I please.
"Are you sure it's a good idea to show the new teacher our dungeon?" the primary teacher asked as she joined us toward the back of the basement.
"He'll have to see it sometime," the director responded and then droned on about the weather here in the city.
I've seen worse, I commented in my head, I didn't want to interrupt the director, she seemed like she was enjoying this mono-conversation.  I remember the old storeroom at my last school.  It was a large room next to the boiler and electrical room.  It amazed me that in all the years I had been there that the fire marshal hadn't written us up about it.  The room had four giant five tiered shelves in the middle of the room.  Each teacher had one shelf.  Mine was on the very top.  I guess they figured I was young, I could handle climbing.  I literally had to climb, well I guess I didn't have to, I could have gone into the boiler room and retrieved a step ladder.  But I didn't.  I use the shelf next to me to climb to the top.  Every wall in the room had junk piled next to it that spilled out into the aisle making it difficult to maneuver through the room, and piled way past my head.  There were supplies from years ago still sitting unused in the storage room.  The crazy thing that I never understood was instead of not asking for the supplies for a year while the extras where used up, teachers continued asking for more supplies.  When I inherited my classroom, and therefore getting a self with it in the storage room, I found that a quarter of my self was stacked with tissue boxes- remember I had the top shelf, so it was only the ceiling that limited the stacks. Guess what I didn't ask students to bring that next year?  Actually, I believe it was two years that tissues were not on my supply list.  In the back corner were brand new materials that sat boxed up and unused.  Sad, I thought one time.  How many schools can't afford materials and here these sit.  What did I do, I raided it.  Took what I could use and more.  The summer I left, the administrator had had enough and shared that the room was going to be cleaned.  Clean it or lose it, he said.
"Don't think too lowly of us, at least we know where everything is," the primary teacher brought me back to the room.  She smiled and went back upstairs.
"Well, that's about if for down here," the administrator said, "shall we head back upstairs?"  She didn't wait for my answer, but turned and headed upstairs.
Sure,  I took one last look around and followed her.   

I said goodnight to the last teacher.  It was raining outside.  One of those gentle fall showers, not the world is going to end pelting type, but a slow steady drizzle.  It had been like that all day come to think of it because I tried to avoid going over to the main building.  Every time I was about to head over, I made it to the door, looked out, and turned around stacking what needed to be taken over on the counter next to the door.  By the end of the day there was a pretty large stack waiting to be taken over.  When I finally packed my bags to head over, I threw my bag over my shoulder, grabbed the stack, ducked my head, and headed out.
I turned back toward the stairs to the basement, flipped the switch, and headed downstairs.  When I reached the bottom I placed the materials back on the shelf where I took them off earlier that morning and turned to go back upstairs.  Before I took a step toward the stairs, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a flash of light coming from the small basement bathroom.  I thought it strange because there were no windows so it couldn't be lightning coming from outside.  I turned and headed over to the bathroom.  The door was cracked open just enough to let a bit of light escape. I opened the small door and the flashing stopped.  It was difficult to see what was inside with only the small glow of the other room's light-bulb.  What little light there was spilled past my shoulders and into the room.  I could only see the front of the room, unable to see the far wall.  I reached for the light switch and gave it a flick.  It was one of those old ones that protruded from the wall and with age stuck so that it took a bit of effort in the flicking of the finger.  Nothing happened.  I turned it down and then back up again.  Nothing.  Great, did the bulb burn out?  I decided to leave it alone since I really didn't need to use the room.  I turned back around to head upstairs and it flicked on and off again.  I spun around on my heels.  What? I thought to myself catching the tail end of the flash.  I headed into the room and tried the switch again.  Nothing.  "This is simply impossible," I said out loud.  It was so quiet that the sound of my voice startled the room.  "This can't be happening!  What's going on here?"
Suddenly I felt a cold rush of breeze pass me, like the air had just kicked on in the bathroom and headed out the door.  But it was different.  It wasn't refreshing, quite the opposite actually.  It was troubled and heavy.  A chill ran up my spine and I trembled.  
Crash! I turned and a pile of pencil boxes had fallen to the floor.  My blood turned to ice and I couldn't move.

Another blurp:

I'm still trying to get used to the 'workroom'.  Calling it by that name implies there is room to work.  Not the case.  There is a good sized table set against the wall opposite the stairs.  The problem is the table is full of office supplies.  On the right hand side of the table is our lamanator, which takes up almost a third of the table.  Next to that in the middle of the table toward the back are small wooden storage bins containing paperclips, rubber bands, pens, markers, and an assortment of other office products.  In front of that is a small space to work.  On the left hand side of the table is the paper cutter and the binding machine.  Using these two takes an act of juggling because there is no space between then, the binding machine needs to be moved to cut paper.  The paper cutter scares me.  The guard on the blade has long since disappeared so I always try to avoid having to move it or even lift the blade very high.  I am afraid it will come thundering down on my fingers.  The space is tight but manageable.  What makes if impossible to work on is all of the stuff that gets piled on the table.  In a rush to get back to class, other staff sacks piles of papers, magazines, and other materials on the table with an optimistic hope of returning and putting the piles away.  Once again, not the case.
Tonight I am down here binding stories that some of my students put together this afternoon.  They were excited to finish their stories that were going to be shared with family members in a few weeks at an open house, and begged me to finish them before the next day.  So here I am, once again accompanied only by materials and the creatures of the basement.  The other teachers have a habit of flying through their after school duties and heading out.  I don't mind some much though.  I like the quietness and the fact that I am alone.  Often at my old school I would be alone.  The difference is about a  few thousand square feet.  The buildings I am working in would fit in one pod of my old building.  I was never afraid though.  Many times I found myself there in the middle of the night.  I found comfort in the silent, vast emptiness of the hallways lit only by emergency lighting, and the blackness that met the windows and doors.  I never liked a lot of light.  I would sit in my room with only a small lamp casting but a glow on my table- just enough light is what I like best.  The only time I can remember ever being frightened was walking into the back door early one morning, there were no other cars in the parking lot which was usually the case, and the elevator opened.  I stood frozen, my stomach was about to jump out of my chest as I waited for the doors to fully open.  Finding nothing, my nerves settled down.  Weird I thought.  Later that day I found out from another teacher who was in the habit of showing up early that it happens all the time.  Once or twice I actually said goodnight to the night cleaning crew as they left for the evening.  This only happened during report card time- I concentrate best when alone.

From the new inspiration:

I stood downstairs in the basement with only school materials for company.  All the other teachers had gone home and I stayed to finish up work I needed for the next day.  The basement was small and made me feel claustrophobic.  It was a typical basement that I remember from my childhood.  I grew up living in older houses where the basement smelled musty and old.  I felt the dampness on my skin.  Spiders had made their webs in the exposed floor joists above.  A light bulb dimly lit the room, it looked as though the old black soft material wire was dripping a dying star; turning so that I could catch the small glow.  I wondered how there weren't more electrical fires in old houses caused by the careless wiring.  This was the work room.  It wasn't anything like the place I was used to working.  I came from a school that provided a large open room that looked like a office supply store.  It was well stocked and we were never in need.  I was getting use to the change, even though it was costing me to buy what I needed.

I have been inspired!  Finally after many years of self-doubt and driving myself crazy, I have an idea.  I am sticking to my favorite style to write, personal narrative, but it's going to be fiction.  I figure that I will offend people but hay, that is for you to figure out if I am truly attempting to offend you or simply pointing out the truth as it appears.  I will continue to post my progress and maybe add some snippets.  So far tonight I have updated my blog from the University of New England's old email address to a current email address that I am going to use for my writing.  Here it goes, feel free to contact me:  inmatthewswords@gmail.com.

Writing

I was once told in a workshop that in order to be a great writer I must write everyday.  I agree, but have failed in such endeavors.  I need to carve time out of my day (or night) to begin building my book that I need to finish.  Why, because many years ago I said I was going to write a book.  My soul cannot rest until this is finally finished and I can move on with life, satisfying that once spoken claim.  So, this winter I will will create a manuscript for my book.  What happens to it, it doesn't matter.  I simply need to get it out of my soul.

Death's Cold Hand

Peace, Peace, longing for death's cold hand,
Come, come, take me where I stand.
An old widow languidly dies,
No one there, no one who cries.

Stranded, forlorn, tired and ready,
Her wrinkled hand no longer steady.
Quiet was the evening she made her flight,
Gone away, out of mortal sight.

The clock continued to tick,
She lied there steady as a stick.
People outside around conversed,
Death proceeded as if rehearsed.

All through life lived with pride,
Now empty at her side.
Like a quick little wink,
Life eludes her, a broken link.

Slowly, slowly, welcome it with ease,
Come, come, take me please.
Futile and vain to make a stand,
There is no elating death's cold hand.

Time

Sitting with my gaze upon the candle,
A sentry of dripping time.
The new falling over the old; replaced.
A towering flow of time and patience.
Each drop plotting its own course,
Never repeating simply crossing.
The colors blend like an old painters palette,
Stained from his sundry works.
Touched and it burns fleetly,
Unevenly, creating anomalous flow,
Leaving scars and pieces to never burn.
Wax pooling at the peak, waiting for its time,
To make its journey down across the past,
To make its own mark upon time.
Coming to an end, knowing it may have but
A short time to illuminate its glory before fading away
By the next, but knowing it has a task,
As another cascades over the edge.
Time passes at the burning of a candle.