Bold Ones (Excerpts 2, 3)

2

Norman Hector Wheatfield was born in a northern town on the border between civilization and the thick wilderness. It was not so far from the city that his family could not make the trip, but it was quite a trial to do so. Norman and his parents made the trip infrequently. This did not bother Norman because he did not have many friends there. He felt embarrassed by his shabby clothes and thick beard. They were not commonplace under the bright lights. Out in the country, he had friends whose uniforms were more similar, and they too rarely felt the need to go under the razor. It was more comfortable, but he was a special person. Norman was special in the sense that he was interested in all kinds of people. His country friends never bothered with the fast-paced city. His few city acquaintances would never have considered a night out in the bush with a fire and six beer cans. The fact that Norman had the appetite for both of these things was a peculiarity. The truth was, that despite his social kin in both country and city, alone in the woods was where Norman belonged. That was the place where he felt as though he was being himself.
It was one particularly cold spring when the rivers stayed frozen longer and the ground stayed covered with snow past the sacred spring planting due date that his life began to take shape. In a miraculous and treacherous act of nature, one cold front here, one extra frost there, everything that could have been his life was distinguished from what ultimately would be his life. Looking back it is difficult to know whether it was that cold weather, or the chaotic genetic make-up of his ancestors, or whether it was some kind of divine intervention, but it did not matter really because his destiny had become more clear and, even though I was a thought that had not yet escaped lips, mine was surely carved out in this frigid winter.
The two things his small family lived on were various crops and sheep and both were struggling the year Norman was born. Norman’s father, Harry, and his Mother Margaret were poor but they valued things that people today don’t understand. Today we value ends, disregarding the means; Norman learned that it was the means that make a man. Today people want to be famous, when people used to want to be great actors that would become famous as a result of a special skill. Of course, being an actor was far from the mind of Norman as a young man. He had only seen a few black and white films and did not particularly enjoy them. But the end, fame, is more important than the means, acting, these days. For the Wheatfields, means were all around them. You had to get up early. You had to work hard all day. You had to pick up skills quickly. You had to always be getting better at those skills you’d learned. You had to quit complaining because that was wasted energy. The only end the were worried about was surviving. They valued the effort it took to clear a field to grow corn. They valued the hard work it took to put a decent trap together and catch beavers, weasels, and other vermin that would wreck the measly crops they could grow. They had a few goats for milk and an old International Tractor to plow the field. They put effort into their tasks and in a way they defined their existence through the work they continually suffered. It was hard, but then again, life was hard and they grew accustomed to this fact. The forest gave and the forest took. The richness of the pines, the spires they created all around his parents’ simple home, could be so statuesque and protective, but they could pour acid into the soil from their needles and they would never bear fruit like the trees of the tropics.
The trees gave way in some places to shallow creek and riverbeds and one spring project was to use nets to catch the annual travel of fish through them. Usually this was smelt. The meats were smoked and kept for food. Norman’s family had scarce resources but they made do by being perseverant and fostering a sense of obligation to do things well. This was something Norman brought with him everywhere he went years after leaving his childhood home.
However, things changed the year Norman turned ten years old. The creeks were dry from an arid fall and winter meaning little smelt was available and the long stay of snow on the ground made it impossible to plant crops by the normal deadline. It was going to mean a very difficult and hungry year without the fish meat and with the low expected yield from the crops that were usually their main source of sustenance. It was that frigid and dreary year that Norman’s mother developed a fever and struggled with malnutrition, eventually passing away in the middle of the night. She clung to life only briefly while Harry tried to nurse her back. Margaret died on the coldest day Norman had ever, and would ever, live through. In that freezing prolonged spring, Norman’s compass was spun and his life confused. The usual time for rebirth had brought him his mother’s death and put a barrier between he and his father. It was a complicated dissolution of a relationship, one that never mended and was never explained to me in great detail. He was a private man, my grandfather; he was a great teacher, but poor at sharing his feelings, or his past. I know only that which I was forced to pry out of him.
After Norman’s mother died, his father did him one more kind thing before vanishing into the background of his life; he bought a rifle and be bought a dog. The dog’s name was Gus, and the rifle was Winchester. Harry had named the dog, the gun had come with a name. Sometimes called “The Gun that Won the West,” the Winchester was a classic and I still have it, although I couldn’t tell you the last time I used it. I bet Norman would be disappointed.
Soon, likely due to his melancholy, Harry had grown tired of Gus and the care he required and decided the dog would be Norman’s responsibility. One morning while Norman was sleeping in a little longer than normal. Harry, the Great-Grandfather I never knew, walked into Norman’s room with the dog abruptly and tied Gus to the bedpost. Then, almost symbolically, slammed the door as he walked out. Harry was heartbroken and lost, I think, he could not care for Norman and he could not care for the dog, Gus. Instead he turned to drinking, a bad familial habit, and he spent many days slumped in a chair dousing himself in his homemade moonshine whiskey.
Gus and Norman got along right from the beginning. Gus sat patiently waiting for Norman to wake-up that morning when Harry had unceremoniously abandoned them. When Norman came round after the commotion, he saw his new partner and felt the first feelings of comfort since losing his mother. At least, this is how I interpret the story. My grandfather would never have said something like that.
But Norman began to understand why his father had been moved in the first place to invest in a dog. It knew how to hunt. Gus was a hunting dog. Norman never knew the breed from which Gus heralded, he just knew that he was all black with a bit of shaggy hair, long legged and lean. And he was a hunting dog. He could run fast and he could smell like a bloodhound. He knew how to track the bigger game like Elk, Moose and Bear. These were the types of things you hunted to support a family and these were the types of things that it took serious teamwork to best in a fight to the death. So Norman learned to be an alpha dog, learned to be a leader and he learned the way of the hunt, the art of war. Gus was his right hand man, obeying Norman’s orders and driving prey towards the unforgiving clatter of Norman’s rifle. His gun packed .375 Holland and Holland magnum cartridges, known to down elephants or lions. Or at least that’s what safari types liked to brag about in the magazines Norman would read. When Gus and Norman were on the trail of some game, it was generally not very sportsman-like.
As Norman grew older, the fishing, done by himself and his father, came to an ominous halt. Harry was a drunk and stayed in his study all day reading and listening to the radio. His pain had morphed into a depressed narcissistic stupor. All he cared about was washing away his own sorrows, disburdening himself from the cruel world that had stolen his wife. He had checked out and abandoned Norman emotionally. Again this is my, somewhat biased analysis, my grandfather simply told me that, they stopped talking and his that his dad had been a “bloody souse.” Harry was a shadow of the man who had instilled work ethic, pride and fortitude in his son. The man, who had taught his son to fire a rifle, track a coon, and command the respect of a working dog, was gone. He had died the night his wife had, that dark frozen night.
Norman, who found he could subsist by eating meat acquired from exploits with Gus, eventually grew up and wanted to move on and away from his father’s demoralizing existence. He was sick of bringing scraps of food to his father who would say nothing while he weakly chewed the flesh and swigged his jug of death. This went on for a number of years, while Gus was still young and capable of hunting. Indeed, this was the beginning of something important for Norman. He learned that he could not rely on people the way he could rely on his trusty friend Gus. His mother had been too weak, and his father was, in what Norman considered a pathetic way, weaker than even she had been. If he needed a friend, if he needed a partner, if he needed help, and if he needed a shoulder to cry on, Gus was always there, just like his parents were supposed to be – only they had been too weak. So when Gus was finally too old to hunt anymore, and when the Great War began, Norman left his father and motherland in the north. He left the wilderness life and decided to see the world, and to fight to protect the way of life he believed was pure and righteous. Norman Wheatfield, my grandfather, became Lt. Col. Wheatfield and he bled for his ideals from the day the war began until the day it ended.

[I tried to adjust the tone of this so that it showed more and told less, still needs work, also I changed the bit about fish that was inconsistent]


3
Long after my grandfather’s home and parents had passed he bought a lot way back in the woods. He bought it so that he could teach my father the things he’d learned from his early life, minus the drunkenness and sorrow. He figured his son ought to learn the philosophy of hard work, of creation, and the great pride that comes with knowledge, and finished products. This cabin was to be a monastery committed to such enterprises; only there had been one problem. My father had me when he was 17-years-old. His adolescence was ended abruptly when he married my mother. My grandfather was a man who believed in the sanctity of marriage and the responsibility of a man to care for the mother of his children. He also believed in the high honor in being a loving husband and a doting father. Yet because of these types of ideals, my father felt the need to begin work to provide for my mother and for me. And in one fell swoop the cabin was no longer the training ground grandfather had envisioned.
I think my grandfather thought that he had waited too long to set this academy up for my father. Why wait till the man was in his late teens to try and teach him how to be a man? I imagine he thought he had been foolish, and I’m sure he thought he’d exhibited some of the weakness, the lack of insight, he’d seen in his own father. That weakness of character that lead to poor leadership, bad examples. He despised that part of the human condition. A father needed to look ahead, see the hurdles and guide his sons, or daughters, towards them with confidence and wisdom. I always thought that my grandfather felt like he had failed my father, and it always bugged him. My grandfather never took it easy on himself. If there were to be any great expectations then they were to be self-imposed and self-expected. My grandfather told me that Gandhi had said to be the change you wish to see in the world. My grandfather said, “Demand of yourself that you be the change.” He could not abide wishing things so; he was a man of action – an officer after all.
So when I was five years old, my grandfather came to visit, as he often did, to take care of me while my parents were working nights. He had a nice pension, and he had time. But most of all, I think he saw in me a second chance to be the kind of mentor that he demanded that a true man of honor be. He’d failed my father, but I was an opportunity to mend things, to teach both my father and I a lesson.
The day I saw the cabin for the first time was a Thursday in August. It was Thursday because both parents were working the beginning of four nights on, followed by four nights off. My mother was a registered nurse at a local nursing home for seniors and my father was floating between temp jobs at factories through out town. My grandfather arrived in his pick-up that was filled with various important gadgets, rescue devices and survival gear. For the lieutenant colonel the war would never be over. I always was a bit nervous around my grandfather when I was small because of the way he walked into a room. He commanded, he led, he engaged. It was slightly scary for a 5-year-old. So when I saw him arriving I did my usual hiding behind the door that lead into the kitchen as he marched in the front door.
“Allll-right, where’s my little man. I’ve business to discuss with him!” He announced as though he were reporting for duty. I got a rush from this sort of thing, I was nervous but I was enraptured by his style. It was so different from everyone in my life. My mother was caring, comfortable, matronly. My father was slightly distant, tired but caring, and seemingly happy to let my mother do the majority of the parenting. My grandfather was of a different breed. He stated his business, took the lead – an alpha.
“From what are you hiding, you silly bugger. I’ve got a surprise for you, Gerald.” It’s still funny to me to remember him calling me Gerald. It’s my name, of course, but every single person in my life has always called me Gerry. Hell, I think of my self as Gerry. But I was Gerald to my grandfather. “It’s your goddamn name!” He’d insist. “You go have it changed in a court of law and I’ll bloody well call you Gerry, until that time you’re bloody name is Gerald.”
Lieutenant Colonel Wheatfield found me hiding behind the door and tugged my arm as I resisted. He dragged me easily into the hallway and forced me to straighten up by placing a hand in my stomach and a hand between my shoulder blades and forcing them together. I was too little and relented without any fuss.
“Now then,” he began, “Why do you look so scared, Gerald?” I couldn’t answer. I was still too unnerved by him. It was a little while before I felt confident speaking to him. “Look, just use your head, son. There is nothing a rational man ought to fear but that fear itself. That fear will make you stupid and weak, and then you’ll make a mistake, and then you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. If it doesn’t kill you, of course.” This was how he treated a 5 year-old. No goo-goos or ga-gas, the dialectic had already begun. No time to waste with silly pleasantries.


“Don’t you get it, Gerald. You don’t need to be afraid of me, if you think about it. I’m here to protect you, it’s my bloody duty, and I promise that if something is going to happen to you, it’s going to happen to me first.” This was something he reminded me of constantly as we’d cross a downtown street corner and he’d remind me that we were holding hands so that we’d both die if we were struck by on-coming traffic.
“Ok, Ok.” My grandfather eased up on the serious talk. “I’ve got a surprise for you, lad. Something for you that we’ll both have a hand in taking care of. It’s a wonderful thing, it’s going to be a lot of fun, but a lot of work.” He gave me his charming, warming smile and I smiled back and got wide-eyed as my young mind thought about what it could possibly be. “Does all this sound like something you’d be interested in?”
I finally spoke, nervously, “Yes, Papa.”
“You’re, sure?” He grinned again, contagiously so.
“Yes, Papa. But I what is it?”
He enjoyed this, I think. He liked that I was wary of committing to something I didn’t yet fully understand.
“Well, here’s what I’ll tell you. It’s absolutely fun, and it’s going to be something you’ll really like. But I just need you to promise that when the time comes, you’ll be a man, and help me with some of the work.”
I was five, I didn’t know what being a man meant. I hardly knew what being a boy meant. But, for whatever reason, I knew a little about the handshake. Who knows why, but I did. I probably picked it up from my grandfather.
Anyhow, in that moment he reached out his hand and said, “Let’s shake on that promise alright, Gerald?”
I took his hand and shook it, laughing at pretending to be a grown-up. “Now, now,” he chided, “Handshakes aren’t funny. They’re serious. And now we’ve got to trust each other because we’re gentlemen. Are you a gentleman, Gerald.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Good to hear,” he acknowledged, “but I can see that you’re a bloody rascal too! A real scallywag!” He roared, as he picked me up and I screamed with laughter. He always broke from his seriousness long enough for me to know that his stern outside always covered a fun and loveable inside. He always taught me the virtue in both modes of living.
We proceeded to the pick-up, and walked around behind it to see a small grey cage, with some mysterious creature squeaking and clawing inside. I hid behind my grandfather, figuring I’d take him at his word that whatever that thing was would get him first and me second.
“Now, don’t be frightened, Gerald. This is our new friend. I have the great honor of introducing you to William” He opened the cage and a chocolate brown Labrador retriever bounced out and on to the grass beside us.
“Willie!” I shrieked and began rolling on the ground with my new pal.
“No, goddamn it. It’s William. It’s perfect name. He’s named for William of Normandy, William the Conqueror. Why bastardize the name, Gerald? It’s a great name!”
I didn’t hear a word of it. He’d told me later in my life that he’d tried to get me to reconsider William rather than Willie. But I was infatuated, and that, after all, had been the point. Either way, the history of the British Crown meant nothing to me as a five-year-old, and continues to mean very little to me now.
“Alright,” he said, essentially to himself, “Since you shook my hand, and you’re a gentleman, we’ll call him…Willie. Bloody hell.”

A Matter of Principal

I was assigned to write a piece about an authority figure when I was in a Senior Level Writer's Craft course. It was mainly undirected by our teacher so we were allowed to do it any way we pleased so long as it fit the theme of authority, obedience, etc. This was many years ago for me, perhaps 7 or 8, so I decided to take what I had written then, and re-interpret it from my new perspective. I think I will try doing this with a number of the pieces I wrote for that class as a way of getting practice writing about other things that at one time had inspired me. Anyhow, here is the first of that series entitled, "A Matter of Principal."

In a world consumed by CEOs, presidents, police officers, administrators, kings and millionaires, one wouldn’t think that there would be enough space for another rule-making, power-driven ego-maniac. But there is. There always is, especially at school. Especially when your sense of self is just forming and your awareness of freewill and responsibility make the ideal of an authentic existence seem like a lot of work and struggle. This angst associated with this epoch of human development can sometimes make it seem that teenagers are evil and must be stopped before they have everyone around you wearing 1.5 million earrings covering their body and in-between that mess an entire truck load of inky tattoos. And some of these teenagers might be prone to wearing their pants in such a way that their backside is acutely visible. Imagine this atrocity of human flesh! The only person capable of dealing with this type of controversy, such fiendish horrors is the revered and respected principal. Principal McTaggart was the one who took self-directed and self-serving actions and took orders from no one.

He was the totalitarian leader of the institution that prides itself as being one of the few truly free worlds: the schools that educate the children. But the idea of a totalitarian existence protecting a free and open society just does not compute – it’s an absurdity to try and reconcile these claims. And indeed some may think it odd that a place that preaches and teaches democracy should not take steps to apply the very democratic processes they promote. Principal McTaggart, however, never considered these rules as rules meant for him. He had a position of ultimate power. After all, school boards often struggle to get things done at an effective and reasonable pace; whereas, McTaggart, with his tyrannical style, made sure that things happened quickly and that his influence was seen in every project put forth by the staff, students, and administrative underlings. Schools need to get things done quickly sometimes and without any questions asked. The solution had to be arbitration.

McTaggart was aware that his power was nearly unrestrained. In what other institution could the person in charge believe so strongly in freedom of speech and expression, reside over the teaching of these values to his students, and then penalize those who take the opportunity to use their freedom. McTaggart’s administrative might put him in a place where he could rule over free expression and open thought.

On a normal day, McTaggart would walk into the school with his briefcase under his arm, ready to begin issuing orders and scorning those in opposition to them. He would walk into the school and see a fifteen-year-old laughing with some friends, dancing about like an idiot. With one effortless extension of mental prowess he whipped the boy with his position of power. Crack. “Hey, you either cut out that racket or we’re going to have a meeting in my office about disruptive behavior. Indoor voices, gentlemen.”

He’d wipe his brow with a handkerchief, wait for one awkward moment and let his sincerity sink in. Looking at the young man menacingly, he could turn and walk away with the satisfaction that the intimidation of the young man had been complete and effective. His power had been proven yet again, and it wouldn’t be the last time…or so he thought.

McTaggart would have been rightly shocked, perhaps even jumping into action, upon seeing a girl with hear baseball cap on. This was the ideal opportunity to reveal his strength once more – a teachable moment. Again he aims himself at the victim and cracks the whip for a second time, “Hat off, Miss. You know the rules as well as everyone else. I don’t want to have this conversation with you again or there’ll be consequences.”

But of course, this was undoing of McTaggart’s power. Of course she had known the rules about hats, and of course everyone else did, but they began to not care about the fanatical enforcer, the despot school administrator. The tighter he gripped the students, the more they slipped through his grasp. It was not the case that this happened quickly, but it was an evitable conclusion to his frantic greed for power. If reminding that girl of the rules was what he must do to constantly remind her of his control over her, then it was clear he had already begun to lose them.

Slowly, but surely, this power recedes as students grow older and the power imbalance lessens. The phenomenon is like a puppy that is never allowed on the furniture because it is an unworthy underling of its human master, and then as it ages and becomes an old wily creature, the dog manages never to leave the couch. The master gives in over time and allows his subordinate to have some equal comforts. And despite McTaggart’s best effort to ride in opposition to the maturing and, increasingly empowered, student body, the students had become desensitized to his whip; they had developed an emotional callus that protected from its sting.

He did not, at first, realize his power and influence was dwindling. He thought he had fought through the tough times and had created obedient pawns to act as means to his ends. However, by the time the girl he once scolded become an 18-year-old, she would always be wearing her hat, and snickering at the up-tight principal as he walked by. The boy who had violated the unofficial indoor voice policy was now being recognized for his Rock Star potential as a singer and guitarist, while continuing to constantly entertain his cohorts up and down the hallways. They had been alienated by McTaggart, and hence become rebels. People who wished to do exactly those things that would cause a stir, McTaggart’s pressures had pushed them to the brink and now they thrived on the attention they received for their cultural norm-bending behavior. They were anarchists now who loathed administrators because they all had the stench of the heartless, uncompromising McTaggart.

Although McTaggart wins the battles in the early going, when the students are young and

impressionable, he cannot win this battle forever. Ultimately, the maturing young adults and teenagers win

the war that he begins. They wear what hats they please, they laugh at the things they find funny, they

dance and amuse themselves in the hallways. In principle, no principal should be able to change that,

despite McTaggart’s best and futile efforts. And that’s the real world; the world of free individuals who

won’t be treated this way, and who may in fits of temper become as malevolent as any man who would

wish to sculpt them into useful objects for his own vain desires.

Inauguration

This is the first post I'll make on this blog. It more of an explanation than anything else. Perhaps this could be the beginnings of a manifesto of sorts. In this place I wish to get out the stories that I think of on a daily basis. I know other people paint, draw, garden, sculpt, etc, etc. But, unfortunately I'm no good at any of that. Writing is a thing that I think I have a little skill at, and if not then this will serve as a training ground to make myself into a better writer, because I'm sure I'm a good imaginer. I spend likely too much time just day dreaming and considering what ifs. It's actually quite pleasant to think about a future just like the present only one major difference and then seeing how the relationships of characters will unfold within the confines of those parameters. Its like what I know about fractals (i.e. not much). Fractals are chaotic fragmented geometric shapes that are made by endlessly applying certain parameters and outside of them letting anything go. I'm sure that this description makes the pure math majors cringe but it is how I envision it. And this is the way I envision writing as well. We take the random chaotic nature of the present as we see it and we change something, we apply the parameters that our creative minds are able to drum up. Then we see what beautiful shapes are made, only this is where the metaphor ends because they aren't shapes, they're conflicts, journeys, relationships and messages with themes and poetic expression.

So in this blog I will occasionally alter the parameters of the world in order to see the interesting things that manifest as a result. I'll try to be as genuine, open-minded, and creative as possible and I hope other people who are interested will help me to craft some interesting narratives. Most of my ideas are short stories currently, with the exception of a few ideas that I have lengthened into novel like form. I'll begin posting them and begin the process of crafting them into something more interesting as soon as I can.

I hope this venture is of interest to at least one kindred spirit, but if not I'm going to do this anyway. So there.

Enjoy