Silence

The snow had been falling within the whispers of the winter gusts of wind. As dusk settled, the wind died down, but the snow kept coming. Ice eventually got into the mix. Our little house was warm and my sister and I were excited about Christmas that was approaching. We wondered if Santa Claus would still come even if dad wasn't around this time. He was away on deployment and we were all anxious for his return; but we knew he wouldn't be back in time for Christmas.

The temperatures had been dropping all day as the snow accumulated on the frozen ground. Over time, the icy mix froze electrical wires somewhere. Unfortunately, unsurprisingly, and unpredictably, the lights went out. As our heating system was also electric, our once warm little house became chilly very quickly. My mom didn't show it very much, but she was worried. The telephone still worked, so she called several of our family's friends. One of her friends, whose husband was also deployed, invited us to come with her to the Army base. She was employed by the base and had access to some warm shelter. My mom loaded us into the van and we headed over.

The place we were staying was a standard wood building that had been built during World War II. There were dozens and dozens of these buildings on base. We all went into the one we would be staying for the night: my mom, her friend, and, now, four very excited and curious children.

The lights were out on this section of the base, so we entered into a dark hall. The wooden floors that had been stepped on by thousands upon thousands of GIs creaked under our feet. My mom's friend found an old kerosene heater and lit it up. The old office we were staying in quickly warmed; the fuel gave a comforting scent which mixed with the typical "Army smell" of axle grease, dusty wall lockers, Kiwi boot-shine, and canvas. It still is a familiar smell that always reminds me of dad.

We found cots and blankets to set up a sleeping area. We kids decided to play hide-and-seek in the long, two-story building while our mothers conversed over freshly made instant coffee. Every corner of the structure was dark and musty. Every metal wall locker and desk banged noisily as we tried hiding. Every chair we moved out of the way screeched mercilessly, revealing our carefully planned hiding tactics.

"OK, that's enough! Time for bed."

We brushed our teeth with ice-cold water and marched straight to our cots, like little soldiers. I crawled under the olive drab wool blanket. The heater hissed, giving off its blessed warmth. The cot's old canvas sagged under me and I went to sleep.

Restaurant Kitchen Vignette

"You're married?" shrieked the annoying blonde girl. She spied his ring while he was getting a drink at the soda fountain; she had been refilling the pitchers with water. "Yeah," he said, rather annoyed. "What are you, like, twelve?" The look of incredulity on her face was baffling. "I wish," he chuckled. In an instant, he thought of what he was doing when he was twelve years old. No real worries. Will mom let me go to my friend's house to play Nintendo 64? I don't want to do homework. Maybe a few fears. I don't want to get in another fight. I wish my mom and sister would not fight so much. I hope I don't get suspended from school. "No, seriously, I thought you were, like, nineteen. How old are you?" she asked, almost spilling the pitcher of water over the ice. "Twenty-eight," he replied. "Oh, my God, wow," she said, walking back to the front to serve the customers.

Library

I can't imagine life without the ability to read. From a young age, I was a prolific reader. Weekly trips to the library were the norm, as well as utilizing my school's library constantly. I remember that, as an elementary school-aged child, picking up a minimum of five books per library trip, then getting home to begin a reading marathon. As I grew older, the books became thicker and more complex, but my voracious literary appetite didn't subside. Even in high school, when students were assigned summer reading lists, I would read the majority of the list even when we were only required to read two. When I started college, I intended to pursue physical therapy. The core classes kicked my butt, so I switched to English Literature. I loved it. I loved the variety that I was required to read. I had to face up to genres and authors I thought I didn't care about. Sure, numerous times it was overwhelming. Multiple readings and so many papers to write. So many. Then, I got a job as a library assistant at the University's Library. Talk about a dream job! I worked several evenings per week doing typical tasks: helping students find books, ordering books and journals for faculty, and supervising student workers. Of course, there was a lot of downtime. The vast majority of students were there just for the internet. My favorite time was when it closed. The last student logged off, gathered their things, and shuffled out. I locked the front door and began my rounds (Ha! How medical). I would make sure books were aligned on the shelves, periodicals were organized, and that stray books were found. I liked looking for an old book at random. I liked the feeling of the old, rough binding; the cracking sound of the spine for not being opened in a long time; the suprisingly soothing, musty smell of the yellowing pages. I would go to the inside back cover and look at the checkout card, just to see when it was checked out. There's a sense of discovery, nostalgia, and wonder when you hold a book that hasn't been read, or perhaps even handled, for decades. I would always think about the person who would borrow the book. Why this book and at that particular date? I wonder if they were like me. Maybe on that day, they decided to stop procrastinating and check out the book they needed. Or, one morning, they decided they really wanted to know the subject at hand: Danish fairy tales, Civil War battlefields in Tennessee, how to cook for 200 US Marines, ancient Greek epics, architects in Mexico, and so many others. So endless. There is too much to read and not enough life to do in.

Let's start again.

I had been resistant and rebellious in starting a blog of any sort, because I always thought it was rather egotistical to think that people would want to read anything from a random person. I find myself spending so much time on a computer at work and at home, I think that it was only a matter of time before I started to blog. I studied English Literature in college. Reading and writing is a great love that I had growing up. Some of my best times growing up was when my dad took me and my sister to the library. I enjoyed wandering through the aisles, looking through the shelves at old books, and wondering what they could all be about. In college, I wrote a lot. I had to. I chose Literature as a major, because I thought, “Hey, I like reading and writing. Why don’t I study what I like to do anyway? Then become a teacher or something.” Needless to say, it didn’t work out that way. I’ve had a series of jobs that have had nothing to do with my studies. My coursework and numerous rejections (professional and literary) burned me out of writing for a long time. Oh, sure. I’ve had some great ideas; a few good plotlines; even a growing novel. None of that helped, because they’re all in my head or on a scrap of paper somewhere in my house. A question that my wife asks me, now and then, to infuriate me (I think) is: “Why don’t you write like you used to do?” That gets me. It gets me right in the heart, because I don’t have a verbal answer. All I have is that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that says, You haven’t done anything. It hurts. So, I am writing this blog to give myself a deadline, a tangible goal that I can complete. I’ll attempt to post something of value every week. Hopefully, it won’t be too random. I will share my thoughts, writings, photos, critiques, and reviews. Muses, let's start again.