Kent

He hopped off his bike and took the paper to the porch where Lois Holdaway was  standing.  Thank you Kent, she smiled and off down the sidewalk he continued.  He tossed the paper on the porch of the next house and the next 10 houses on his route.  His papers never missed a porch.  He was a master of his trade.  If he had live in New York, he could have been a Peanut Vendor at Yankee Stadium.  But Kent didn't live in New York.  He lived in Orem, Utah, a small city located beneath Mount Timpanogos in central Utah.   His next paper flew into the outstretched hand of Dwayne Finch, the best baseball player to ever play at Orem High School.  You could have been a great pitcher Dwayne yelled with a smile.  But he knew that was not true and so did Kent.  Kent went on, 2 more porches, 2 more perfect deliveries.  Kent prided himself in his perfect throws.  No one ever looked for one of his papers. It was always right there on the porch, right where the customer wanted it.  Ten more porches, ten more perfect strikes.

The next house was Doris Hamilton's, a handicapped lady who lived alone.  Kent would always get off his bike and walk the paper to her door.  He would knock lightly and say "paper Mrs Hamilton" and deliver it personally.    She always said, "thank you Kent" and tried to  hand him a tip.  He never accepted it.  He never ask for or accepted a tip from her for his service.  He knew she was poor and needed to keep her money.  It went that way all along his route.  His customers loved him.  No one could recall ever missing a paper.  If there were a world's record for consecutive deliveries or un-missed deliveries, Kent would certainly have owned it.   He had many years  (I was never sure of how many) with out one missed delivery or one complaint.

I got my paper route when I was 13 years old. Fifty-four customers.  I knew Kent because he was our paper boy.  I didn't know how long he had been doing it but it was for as long as I could remember.  My pick up location was the same as his.  On my first day, he took the time to show me how to fold and bag the papers.  After he finished his route of 200 customers he came to my route to make sure I didn't have any problems.  I was barely half through when  he arrived and helped me finish. I struggled with my route.  I hated the cold. I hated getting up early on Saturdays and Sundays. I hated that dam paper route.  If it hadn't of been for Kent I would have been fired in the first week.  He helped me.   You'll catch on he would say.  It really is easy.  Kent loved his route.  It was his life.  It seemed to be part of him.  In fact it seemed to be him.

One day I ask my mom how old he was.  He didn't go to school.  He didn't seem to have any friends.  I'm not sure, she said.  I think somewhere around 30, but I'm not really sure.  I don't know if anyone knows.  Why is he so little I ask?  I was only thirteen and small for my age but he was a head shorter than me.  He spoke with a tiny voice that was something just above a squeak.  Oh he had plenty of volume but he sounded like  you might think a doll would sound.  He was toe headed and wore big horn rimmed  glasses.  His nose was turned up so that you could see his full nostrils and his skin lacked pigment.  He didn't look like a midget, just a skinny little kid waiting to grow up.  A human ugly duckling that would never turn into a swan.  My mom just answered, I'm not sure of that either.  He's just little.

All the kids made fun of him except me.  My mom would have tanned my hide if she caught or even heard of me making fun of him or any one else.  I think that's why he helped me.  He wasn't afraid to talk to me.  I always wanted to ask him why he was so little but the manners my mother taught me would not allow me to ask.  It might embarrass him  Looking back, he probably would have been more than happy to tell me.

My stint as paper boy didn't last long.  As I remember it, about 2 months.  When the first winter snow hit, I quit. Kent continued to deliver the paper until one cold day in December when I was a junior in high school.  Where's the paper I heard my dad say.  Oh Cecil, haven't you heard, Kent passed away yesterday.  Oh, my dad said as if it was something that happened everyday.  My dad wasn't callous, he just could not show emotion.  I stood in our big front picture window looking at Mount Timpanogos and shed a tear for Kent from both me and my dad.

Handicapped Parking

One of my pet peeves is the abuse of "handicapped parking". It galls me when I see someone using the space and they obviously are not handicapped in any way unless you count "mentally handicapped". But the worst of the abusers are the people who some how get the "handicapped" card or sticker and in no way need it. They use their "parent's" card or car and take advantage of the system. I have often thought of various ways to "teach a lesson" but since I am not a "handicapped parking" officer it is not my place to issue punishment. I just boil over silently when I see it happen. One time a friend of mine screamed at an abuser, "how do you qualify as handicapped, no brains?" The person just walked on without looking or responding. I wanted to flatten her tire but I didn't. Just recently I came across an interesting situation. What qualifies a person to be handicapped enough to get the parking pass? You would think that a heart transplant patient might qualify and to be sure, he or she does. However, if that person has recovered from the operation, does he or she still qualify? I have a friend that had a heart transplant. He has recovered nicely and in fact plays golf. We both played in a tournament in Palm Springs last summer and shared the same room. It was an interesting weekend. He had a ton of pills he had to take. He was well organized and took them exactly the same time each day. All of this information is really secondary and is just to show that he is handicapped but yet he can play golf. He does have the "handicapped parking" pass and used it where ever he went. I became confused. Who could deny a heart transplant patient "handicapped parking"? Why does anyone who can play 36 holes of golf in 3 days deserve a "handicapped parking" pass? You tell me. What do you think?

The Bus Stop

Ann Lamott has inspired me to write this story on a warm Sunday summer evening as I sit on my patio sipping a refreshing glass of ice water. Ann is my new best friend. I fell in love with her in the pages of "Traveling Mercies." Her story pulls at my heart strings and touch the core of my being as no other author, though, there are several other favorites as Ann Tyler, Alice Hoffman, Rebecca Wells, etc., but Ann is different, and perhaps I am different too. I suppose I am. I am a new person each dawn, carrying with me the same ideals and habits, yet reborn anew. Each day I am on a different bus, and where it takes me I do not know, but I hop aboard and am ready for the adventurous ride. Oftentimes it goes around in circles like a dog chasing it’s tale, and many days it takes me to an enchanting destination of new found wisdom and love. Yesterday, Saturday was one of the later days as the bus took me on a heart filled journey when we visited our daughters lovely home to celebrate Ed’s birthday. Our son Craig has done a lot of landscaping work in Julie and Gary’s vast park like back yard and he asked his grandson Alex, age 5 to give me, ‘grandma’ a tour of the grounds. Yes, I am great grandma, but that is too much for little Alex to understand, so I am just ‘grandma’ and I love it. Alex and I were on an exciting adventure as he guided me down about 25 wooden steps (without hand rails yet). I said ‘Alex, grandma must be careful and walk slowly so as not to fall.’ His reply was, ‘it’s okay, I will help you.’ OMG! Did I mention he is a charming remarkable sweetheart of a little boy. He is smart and kind with expressive eyes as big as baseballs as he tells his five year old tales. So Alex gives me this guided tour of the lovely and enchanting new garden as we travel along a creative rock path. Among other lovely things, there is a quiet little meditation area with a wicker chair where I can picture myself sitting and dreaming the day away. As we approach the end of our tour, Craig meets us as Alex runs for a pair of plastic gloves and is bubbling over with excitement to show me the owl poop. Yes, that’s right, dried owl poop! He tires his best to put his five little fingers into the five fingers of the gloves. There were several attempts and I am overcome with laughter for as hard as he tries he kept coming up with two fingers in one hole, and an empty hole in the glove. He finally gave up and wore them as they were and took me to the poop. I think that was the best part of our stroll for him. After all, he is a five year old little boy and different things excite them than do an old lady. What an adventure the bus took me on that summer Saturday, and what a fantastic memory to behold of time spent with this dear little boy. And I thought my writing well had vanished for the summer, taken a vacation, until I picked up Ann’s book "Bird by Bird" and read that a writer should write 300 words every day, (and I knew that), but had become lazy. Thank you Ann for giving me the kick in the pants I needed . If I could ever capture and tell a story as captivating as you do I would be a happy soul. Ann and I do have something in common though, we both walk with the Lord each day. Betty McCallister 8/23/09

Process

Yesterday I met with my writing teacher. She was consulting with me on the manuscript of a memoir I have been crafting for fifteen years. Two intense hours of page by page, line by line critique that have given me a focus for the next revision. I was reminded yet again, that creating an artistic work takes time, patience and commitment. Writing is only part inspiration. The rest of it is hard work. It isn't easy. It is a process. I can't wait to roll up my sleeves and begin. I love fine tuning. It is the same way with theatre. Rehearsing a play is akin to the writing process in that the director may begin with a vision - an idea, a hook, a theme, an insight - and then over six weeks or so, has to work to shape the play to communicate this vision as clearly as possible. Clarity for a reader or for an audience is important. That's not to say that a final product is not subject to varying interpretations. Of course a reader or member of an audience comes to the work from his or her point of view and life experience. The artist, be he a writer or theatre director cannot be worried about what might happen to the work once it is made public. All the artist can do is craft the clearest articulation of his vision possible. The rest is out of his or her hands. The artist must love the process - messy as it is. It is a labor of love. Rushing it, may lead to a premature birth. In rehearsal, I often tell my actors that this is the time to risk, to try new things and to fail. Fear of failing inhibits the growth and discovery process necessary in rehearsal. This same idea may be applied to the writing process. One of the most inhibiting factors to a writer is fear of failure. Every artist must define for himself what this means and face this fear with great courage. Committing to a writing practice is essential to overcoming this fear. Exercising those muscles, staying in shape, and practicing the craft help to develop self confidence. This is why being in a writing group is so helpful. It is why actors continue to study their craft in acting class. Practice. There is no replacement for it. Loving the process makes this commitment a joy rather than a chore. I believe loving the process is the key ingredient to being an artist. I came away from my meeting yesterday knowing that I probably have a year's worth of work to do on my memoir before it will be ready. What a great feeling.

faster horses......horse pucky

Old Grizz, my super 3D alter ego, or as those who know me say "the only part of me that can write" ........(that's a long way around the bush) ........says "the only Philosophy that is worth a dam is from the song by Tom T Hall where the skinny cowboy says the best things in life are "faster horses. younger women, stronger whiskey and more money". Whew, that's a mouth full. Well I happen to know that at least the horse part is a bunch of hooey. You may get the faster horses but you have to know how to bet em. (if you don't bet em what does it matter if they are fast or not?). So as the old saying goes, "if you got em (fast horses) bet em" or something like that. So I did. An old track tout gave me 9 horses at Santa Anita and said if you want to make money "Parlay, young man, Parlay". Don't get excited. I didn't say, "party, party", I said , "parlay, parlay. So, knowing good advice when I hear it, I rushed right down to the corner phone booth and called a bookie I knew. Gimmy $200 on "old john in the first, parlay that to "old Mary" in the 2nd, old Henry in the third, old pud nuts in the 4th and old Ginny in the 5th and make it for every dam horse to win. You notice how I go for the "old" horses. Well, john won, Mary won. Henry won, pud nuts won and my heart was about to burst, but what burst instead was my ego............ Ginny lost. Lesson learned? Not me! I went for the last four. Gimmy $200 on Big Dan in the 6th and (of course parlay, I had only parlayed once and parlay, parlay means twice), Big Bubba in the 7th, Big Horace in the 8th and finally Big Donald (playing my Trump horse) in the 9th and every every dam horse to win. Did you notice I changed to "Big" horses. OK, here we go again. Dan won, Bubba won and Horace won, but my "Trump" horse was a true "Beetle Bomb". ....My Trump horse was a loser. The point of this whole story? Faster horses is not the answer to a better life............. I had 7 winners and 2 seconds and lost $400 bucks. Next week I'll get into the younger women thing. That otta be a hooter.

They Danced by Betty McCallister

Betty McCallister 8/1/09 They are all sitting around in the same community room with blank stares upon their worn and wrinkled faces. Mostly gray haired ladies of the day, and night, along with a few bald headed stately men, each with their hands neatly folded in their laps and droopy eyes with shoulders slumped. Staring, that is what they do at St. Bridget’s Home for the Aged. Lots of staring. There is a television to watch but most are not really interested, yet they stare anyway. A few might exchange conversation with another about their lives lived, fully aware these days that their future appears grim. Numerous thoughts circle around in their minds and the constant question emerges, "will he/she come to visit me today, or are they too busy with their families. I hope they come, and if they do, it puts a smile on their forlorn faces. Then on a low-keyed Saturday afternoon she does come, this rather large statuesque blond haired entertainment lady, decked out in a long flowing pink dress with a red flowery hat. She springs through the door liken to an angel, laden with various pieces of equipment. All senior spectators are overwhelmed with curiosity. Something different grabs their stoic attention. What now??? What it is is music! Beautiful music from days gone bye which they all recall in memory. Each song stirs the souls of these nearly forgotten folks. Faces come alive, toes are tapping and hands unfold with a clap or two. Some kind of wonderful is happening at St. Bridgets. A few tears stream down cheeks, tears of joy and sadness mixed together as the melodies tamper with their emotions. Some begin to sing along. Nostalgia fills the musty room. Then the big blond disk jockey angel gal puts on the Tennessee Waltz, and as Patty Page sings her heart out, a gentleman rises from his chair and asks a little white haired lady to dance, and dance they did. His legs are long and lanky, his steps are smooth as he hold her tenderly in his arms and glides her gracefully across the floor to the melodic sounds, "I was dancing with my darling".... It appeared he had waltzed many darlings in his bygone years as he was so statuesque and polished. A man who usually sat comfortably in a corner of the community room chatting with the few other men about their heroic days of yesteryear, came alive that Saturday afternoon at St. Bridget’s Home For the Aged. He waltzed like he was going for the gold. His pretty little partner glowed like she was 18 again and at her senior prom. They danced with delight as the audience beamed with gaiety. Is this a dream I am, or is for real? A few more joined in the dance as the afternoon faded into twilight. "Gonna take a sentimental journey".... ‘Please come back’ big blond lady was their plea as she departed . ‘You brought such pleasure to our lives when we thought it had slipped into neverland’. She tipped her blossomy hat and said she would be back, oh yes she would. Music was her true and dear companion and sharing it was her reason for being.