Dan Kohlhepp gave me a terrific article about writing memoirs that appeared in the AARP magazine. I use it in my classes for writing prompts. If you click on the title above, it will take you to this link. You can even order the entire book if you wish.
What I would like to do is use any of one of the prompts mentioned in the article to get all of us writing. So here goes the first one, taken from this article:
Write two paragraphs that end with “You can’t get away from it.”
Saturday, February 21, 2009
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Here's the first couple of chapters of my revised Pithole story. My question is whether I should keep the first 14 pages, or just start right at the cabin where he sees the girl. Does this beginning work, or is it boring?
Please ignore the cover pages and scroll down to the text
Thanks - Dave P
THE LAST BEST HOPE
PREMISE: THE SOUTH HAS WON THE WAR AT GETTYSBURG. THIS STORY EXAMINES LIFE IN THE NORTHERN CONFEDERACY AFTER THE WAR
THERE IS A FOUNTAIN, FILLED WITH BLOOD
DRAWN FROM EMMANUEL’S VEINS
AND SINNERS PLUNGED BENEATH THAT FLOOD
LOSE ALL THEIR GUILTY STAINS
William Cowper, hymns, 1779
CHAPTER ONE: GETTYSBURG, JULY 1, 1863
EZEKIEL EDWARDS
The last Rebel soldier I had killed was staring at me. His arm draped across my chest like the embrace of a lover in bed. As the light dimmed, his eyes took on a fiery orange hue, and then a deepening purple, as tendrils of mist crept over both of us, finally separating me from that unblinking stare.
The fog reminded me of nights in my home in Salem, Massachusetts. But unlike the sea mist, this purple haze was heavy with the smell of gunpowder, and the stench of the dead and dying. Once more I tried to lift my head, to raise an arm and free myself, but a stab of pain shot through my shoulder. The weight of the pile of Confederates on top of me was slowly crushing me to death. A line of scripture came to my mind, “he saved others, himself he cannot save.” I drifted into a semi-conscious state.
And then, from deep in the pile of the dead and dying, I heard singing. I thought at first that it was one of the dying men singing.
“Help me, for sweet Jesus sake, help me!” I heard a voice cry out from nearby.
I felt an odd sensation on one of the fingers of my free hand. I felt something curl around my forefinger. I craned my neck and saw that a butterfly had landed on my finger, its wings dark as the approaching night.
And then the singing again—was it a chorus of men’s voices, or were they angels?
“Swing low, sweet chariot,” one voice began. And the others sang in reply, “Comin’ for to carry me home . . .”
The men moaning around me grew still, listening. This is my last chance to live, I thought. If only I can let them know I’m buried here.
I tried to call out to them, but with so little air in my damaged lungs, my voice made the sound of croaking toad. I choked on dust and blood in my mouth. I thrashed with my legs, trying one last time to free them, and another jolt of pain swept through my body. And I thought in despair, “Even the angels shall forsake me.”
The voice of the lead singer rang out again, his voice rich, deep, beautiful. He was closer to me now, just steps away. I spat out a clot of blood, and tried to shout out, but only a gasp of the words “help me” came from my lips.
And then the light of a lantern, and the voice of the lead singer, “Wait, I heard somethin’.”
The singing stopped. The light grew brighter. Fighting against the pain I waved my free hand and croaked my plea again. “Help me.”
The lantern light parted the mist, and I saw a company of slaves. They were gathering the injured Confederates. The leader stepped close, so close that I blinked from the light of the lantern. Then I saw his face, a kind and gentle face, with scars from some unknown accident or heathenish ritual. His eyes first expressed shock and fear, staring at me. “Help me.” I mouthed the words again, feeling as if there was no breath left in my chest. Please God, don’t let him turn away.
In the same rich voice I had heard singing, he cried out, “Here one!” He began to pull bodies of the man on top of me aside, “This man’s alive.”
The face of that great gentle Negro came just inches from mine, and his arms encircled me, and he began to lift me from the pile of men. I saw the faces of the other slaves now, gazing wonderingly. Joy and sharp pain filled me, as breath came back into my crushed lungs. He hoisted me up onto his shoulder and stepped away from the pile of dead men. He began to walk with me on his shoulders toward a wagon of injured men, stepping with strong legs over the rutted and blasted field.
Once again, he began to sing that song about the flight to freedom. The chorus of voices joined together in response. As I slipped into unconsciousness I thought perhaps they were angels after all.
CHAPTER TWO: OIL CITY, PA MARCH 1865
“Captain Edwards! Captain Edwards!” the boy shouted, “We’re coming into the station, sir!
I had been dozing, but his shrill voice woke me up, as always to that dull pinch of pain. My eyes opened fully, and I saw the grinning face and elfin eyes of the boy. Wincing, I smiled.
“We’re coming into Oil City, Captain!” the boy repeated, his eyes lit with excitement.
“Jesse, get back here,” the boy’s mother said from the seat behind him. She was an auburn haired beauty with clear blue eyes, dressed in a deep green woolen coat that set off the rich hue of her hair. Some fine gentleman’s wife, I mused—polite, but not interested in a scalawag like me.
“He’s fine, ma’am,” I said to the woman. “It’s time for me to be up and about my business.”
“I’m sure you are a man of many talents,” she said, as the train lurched and brought her close to me. Did I see a twinkle of mischief in those bright eyes?
I stepped into the small lavatory and leaned towards the hazy metal mirror as the train lurched to a final stop. I patted my pockets for the one that held the spoon. Again I felt the padding of the greenbacks sewn into my vest, a reassuring weight against my ribs. Things were going well for me on this trip. Just a short jaunt up to Pithole and I could have a nice dinner and a good long rest.
I uncorked the bottle of medicine, and poured a spoonful of laudanum, taking care not to spill a drop. I lifted it to my lips and took it down, feeling if only in my imagination, the warm glow spread from my belly up to soothe the pain in my shoulder.
“Just one tablespoon until we get to Pithole,” I said, pointing my spoon at the fuzzy image of a gaunt sandy haired man in the mirror. The words of Saint Paul came to mind, ‘For now we see through a glass darkly, but then we shall see face to face . . .’
“So keep that in mind,” I admonished him. I lifted up the bottle to the light and saw it was more than half full. Good. I was keeping to my dosage quite well. I looked at myself in the mirror again and said, “Now get to work. They’re waiting for you.”
I stepped from the compartment, gathered up my haversack in my good hand, and headed for the door. As I stepped into the queue of departing travelers I smiled. The effect of the narcotic gave me that first boost of a sense of well-being. I was ready to start my new venture in life.
“Jesse told me you were heading to Pithole to work a lease,” the boy’s mother said, brushing an auburn wave of curls out of her way with a gloved hand as she awaited my response.
“Yes, some mates from my unit came from Titusville. They have already begun working on the hillside of the Holmden Farm. I expect to join them in just a couple of hours.
“The last stage to Oleopolis leaves right now,” the woman said, glancing out the window to see the sun hanging low in the winter sky. “You might make it before nightfall.”
“Oh, I’m confident I will,” I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a tattered stagecoach schedule. “My associate mailed this to me in Salem just last week. According to this I should have plenty of time.”
She looked at it as the line inched forward. She bit her lower lip, a fetching gesture, and said, “I’m afraid this is a schedule from last November. I think it might be a bit out of date, what with the rail line about to open an -- ”
“My Uncle is the Richest Man in Pithole!” Jesse interrupted. “His name is Soloman Stoddard, and he’s got millions of dollars!”
The woman laughed, “Jesse exaggerates, Captain Edwards. “But he does have and Uncle who is in the oil business now. If you happen to meet him, tell him Lydia sends her greetings.” She paused to steady herself as she stepped down onto the platform – I caught a glimpse of a well turned ankle. “And you may even meet my fiancée as well. His name is John Wilkes Booth. He’s an actor. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
“I’m afraid not,” I answered, thinking she must be a pretty war widow and not yet remarried. Our eyes met for just an instant as I stepped down close to her, and I thought she blushed slightly, then the bustling crowd on the platform separated us. Had she intentionally fled my stare?
A man stood on a muddy lane just off the platform, shouting, “Stage to Oleopolis! Stage to Oleopolis! Fifty Cents!”
As Jesse and his mother headed down the platform in the other direction, she gave me one parting word over her shoulder, “Hope you make it to Pithole before dark, Captain Edwards.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m sure I will!” I said, tipping my hat to her.
Her son turned back towards me, “Captain Edwards, be careful! There’s a murder a day in Pithole City!”
His mother jerked him back towards him, shaking her head in exasperation. I headed for the open door of the stagecoach. I pressed the fare into the hand of the driver. He tossed my haversack above to the cargo hold. For the first time I noticed a pungent odor in the air. As the driver latched the door to the coach I asked him. “Pardon me sir, but what’s that smell?”
“Why, that’s the smell of the grease, sir. That’s the smell of Oil!”
I looked out the window as the stagecoach made its way along the river. To one side stretched the railroad line being built, and two riders sat close on that side, pointing at the work. “I thought they were much further along,” one of the men said.
“Pitiful,” his associate answered.
The only other passenger was a lumberjack, with his long axe and a bag of tools. He wore tall leather boots which looked expensive, and I saw him glance at my footwear and sneer.
We had only traveled a few rods further when one of the railroad men shouted out the open window, “Say, driver, stop the coach for a moment. We need to talk to the bridge crew.” I recognized the accent: a Tidewater drawl.
They stepped down from the coach into the miry mud along the road. Across from me in the coach the lumberjack pulled out his timepiece, looked at it, and scowled. “We’ll miss the stage to Pithole for sure now. Railroad men!” He spat a stream of tobacco out the open door into the muck.
Glancing out the open door, I saw the railroad men clamber up to the gang of men sawing beams for a small bridge. In the fading sunlight, I first took them for former Union men in their dark woolen uniforms. But in the silence of the evening I heard them singing softly. And then I spotted the overseer with his whip. The workers were slaves. If only . . . I thought. But I pushed that idea away as useless. We had lost the war, and this was the result.
The singing stopped as the railroad bosses conferred with the slave master. It grew uncommonly quiet. I noticed the lumberjack was also watching the slaves and railroad men, and it brought back to mind the slaves who had rescued me at Gettysburg. I mentioned this to the lumberjack, “Slaves seem to often sing of trains and chariots and such.”
The lumberjack lifted and eyebrow. In a quiet voice he responded, “They are speaking of a different railroad.”
“Like, ‘This train is bound for glory’ – that speaks of heaven.
“No.”
“‘I looked over Jordan’”
“The Ohio River.”
Comin’ for to carry me home. I thought to myself with growing awareness. It was a message sung in code. I was about to ask him another question.
The lumberjack raised an eyebrow, put a finger to his lips. I knew what he meant. We were in enemy territory.
The stage coach driver had let the horses forage for grass that poked through snow along the berm of the road, and they had pulled us closer to where the railroad men now were speaking in heated tones to the slave driver. It was something to do how many boards they were sawing a day.
“Massa we can’t” I heard one of the slaves say.
And then came the crack of the whip, a muffled cry. And another lash of the bull whip. I reacted without thinking, leaning forward to launch myself out the door and at the slaver with the whip.
But before I cleared the door I was yanked rudely back into the coach, the lumberjack had horse-collared me. His dark eyes met mine in the fading light. “Push it back,” he said. And in the impotence of my rage I knew what he meant. Pick a fight you can win.
We missed the stage from Oleopolis to Pithole by just a few minutes. We could see it clattering along the ridge-top on the long roundabout road that the stage coach drivers used. It would take several hours to follow it on foot. But the lumberjack knew a shortcut.
“But I wouldn’t recommend it,” he said. “I follow the unfinished rail line and ford the Pithole creek a few times.
“This looks more I like a river than a creek,” I said to him.
“It’s deep, and it’s fast, and the water is as cold as ice. That’s why I’m wearing these tall boots.”
“I forded many streams below the Rapidan during the war. I was often below enemy lines.”
“I got two good eyes, Captain. I can see you still bear scars of that war. These are not the gentle streams of Virginia. This water had ice across it just this morning, and the bottom is caked with oil from the wells of Pithole. It’s rocky, slippery, and as cold as December. Take my advice. Go back to town. There will be another coach in the morning. . . “ He put his axe on his shoulder and stepped out into the stream. The water came almost to the tops of his fine tall boots. He crossed the rushing torrent, more than once putting his axe in the water to steady himself against the current. When he got to the other side he stopped, and shouted something, but it was lost in the roar of the water.
In just a few moments, he vanished from sight. I pondered what to do. Perhaps with a walking stick I too could ford the stream. My feet would get wet, but they would dry out. I’d had wet feet before. I’d survived that.
I found a fallen beech branch still with its snake-like silver skin. I snapped an end off it, and made a passable walking stick. I launched myself out into the stream. But the slimy bottom was a surprise. Still at the edge I fell to one knee, and almost went under completely as I grabbed to get both hands on my stick, which snapped in half and floated away in the icy torrent. For a moment I imagined myself carried along like that stick, crashing head first into rocks and over waterfalls. I would have to go back, or hike the cliffs. Perhaps if I climbed over a couple of them, I could reach the roadbed of the unfinished rail line and the walking would be easier. Surely it couldn’t be that far?
Each cliff seemed to sap my energy more. My hands became bruised, my palms bled as I struggled to find handholds in the rock faces. On the fourth such rock face, I stopped at a small opening in the rock to catch my breath, my shoulder throbbing. The moon had begun to slip beneath the trees on the far side of the ravine. I tried to gauge how much time had passed. Surely it was time for another dose of Laudanum? I pulled the warm bottle from my vest, and fumbled for the spoon. My aching fingers lost their grip and the spoon clattered away below me, catching the light at it bounced from rock to rock, and then disappeared in the icy torrent below. I cursed. One false step and that would be me . . .
I lifted the bottle to my lips and was about to take a swallow when I heard an angry growl. In an instant I leapt away from the opening in the rock, expecting the teeth of a black bear to sink into my flesh from behind. I clambered up the rock face and flung myself over the cliff top and onto the damp ground above. Another low growl came from below, but I didn’t hear a bear pursuing me. I rolled to my feet, and stepped cautiously back into the woods. Then I realized I’d lost my medicine. For the second time in as many minutes I cursed out loud. Words from the Book of James came to mind, “The tongue is a raging fire, who can contain it.”
A sense of resignation came over me. I had no pack or gear for sleeping outdoors, only clean clothes for living in the town of Pithole. Wonderful. I looked around for a low pine tree where I might at least find refuge until dawn, which would be many cold hours away. An owl hooted. I turned toward the sound, and I spotted the light of a cabin through the trees a ways deeper in the woods.
I surveyed the scene carefully as I approached, a habit developed while behind enemy lines. A few horses stood tethered out back, and to my surprise, a small covered carriage rolled out of sight in the trees. There must be a road nearby. The cabin was the work of some earlier lumbermen or pioneer, and looked surprisingly well built and inviting. A wisp of smoke rose out of the chimney, and the smell of roasting meat made my mouth water. Perhaps I could find not only shelter, but a meal?
I saw shadows in a back window, moving about in the light. Old habits die hard. Instead of approaching the front door, I circled quietly around back, closer to that window. What I thought were two figures as I approached appeared to be just one. Perhaps one of them had left the room. But as I got closer, I could see that the two had not separated, but become one. They stood in a lovers embrace, the man in shadow, the woman closer to the light.
At first I noticed her hair – a shimmering cascade of auburn curls, highlighted with golden hues from the reflected candlelight. My breath slowed. Turn away, an inner voice told me, but my limbs disobeyed, and I stepped closer still. After all, I reasoned, they wore their outer cloaks, so this was not some married couple in bed. But as I watched, it became evident that he was slowly undressing her, and I became more entranced.
I remembered my wedding night, before the war. My hand at the top button of my bride’s dress. Her hand reaching to mine, “No.” she had said.
“It’s all right. I’ll be gentle.”
“Please, stop.”
Had that been the moment we began to part?
There was movement in the room in front of me, pulling me back to the present. The man took her overcoat from off her shoulders, and my eyes were drawn to the fine texture of the freckled skin of her throat. For a moment I thought of the pretty widow at the strain station. This could well be her younger sister, now in the first bloom of her maidenhood.
From the shadow behind her, the man’s gloved hand now reached to the top button of her dress, and it was enclosed in the milky white hand of the woman, freezing that motion in time. I leaned closer still and I saw her mouth part slightly—was this passion? Or was she going to protest to the man to go no further? I took one more step, knowing I shouldn’t. Yet it had been so long since I had been with a woman, and this woman was so stunningly beautiful. Turn away, part of me said. But I couldn’t.
My lust betrayed me when a dry twig snapped as I leaned forward. Through the hazy glass the woman’s eyes met mine, and she screamed.
I staggered backwards, dead foliage making even more noise, and I turned to run away, feeling both fear and shame at being discovered. I circled back towards the front of the house, following a moonlight path that would lead me back to the cover of the woods. But as I stepped past the porch, something moved in the shadows there. Before I could raise an arm to fend off the blow, the cudgel struck the back of my head, and drove me forward towards the frozen ground. The pain was so intense I felt like I’d been shot with a minie ball. “The wages of sin is death” I thought, and passed out.
I have a recipe for Super Bowl Venison Fondue that I would like to share. Not only is my cooking advice suspect, my use of photos may actually confuse the story line.
Super Bowl XLIII Venison Fondue
Each winter in the mountains of Western Pennsylvania, hunters and their friends, relatives, and other like-minded football fans gather together around their television sets to enjoy venison in the Swiss-tradition of fondue and to watch the Pittsburgh Steelers compete for the Super Bowl. This year Ben and Debbie hosted the Super Bowl party at their barn which is really at lot nicer than it sounds since it doubles as Young Dan’s studio apartment.
Every one arrived early with at least one appetizer and a six-pack of beer. My contribution was venison fondue.
Ingredients:
· ¼ pound of venison loin or steak per person cut into bite-sized cubes
· Fresh mushrooms either small whole mushrooms or sliced large ones
· Steak rub if you want to season the venison
· dipping sauces for dipping after the meat has been cooked. Your sauces may include :
o Sour Cream Mustard Sauce ,
o Béarnaise Sauce ,
o Hollandaise Sauce,
o various barbeque sauces, and/or
o horseradish sauce.
Equipment:
· A traditional fondue pot with 2-3 cups of canola oil or peanut oil and Sterno or other heating fuel, or
· An electric fondue pot that can be obtained at Kohlhepp’s True Value Hardware.
· Fondue forks (color indicators makes it easier to identify your fork)
Instructions:
· Trim the fat to the meat and cut into bite-sized cubes. Season venison cubes if desired and keep refrigerated until 20 minutes before serving.
· Slice the mushrooms and lightly rinse
· In your fondue pot, heat the oil over low range temperature to about 375 degrees F. (Or you can also use an electric fondue pot and follow the directions for heating from that manufacturer.) The oil needs to be hot enough so that the meat sizzles and browns quickly as it touches the oil.
· When the oil is ready, bring it to the table and place it over your heating unit. Each guest will cook their meat and attached mushroom with a fondue fork or skewer and hold it in the oil until the meat is cooked.
· Here are some cooking guidelines: 30 seconds for medium rare, 1-3 minutes for medium to well done. These are rough guidelines since it really depends on the temperature of the meat and oil and the size of the cube.
· Then, transfer the cooked meat from the fondue fork to the plate and with another fork, dip the meat into the various sauces served. In the meantime, you can place another piece of meat into the hot pot and continue to cook while you eat.
END NOTES
Sour Cream Mustard Sauce - 1/2 pint sour cream - 3/4 cup mayonnaise - 1/4 cup prepared mustard - 1 Tbsp finely chopped onion - Dash of hot pepper sauce
Combine all the ingredients, mix well and chill until serving.
Béarnaise Sauce - 3 green onions or shallots (minced) - 2 Tbsp wine vinegar - 2 egg yolks - 1 tsp dried tarragon - 1/8 tsp salt- 1/8 tsp dry mustard - Dash of hot pepper sauce- 1/2 cup (1/4 lb) butter (melted)
Cook onions or shallots in wine vinegar until the liquid is mostly absorbed and the onion is tender. Using a blender or food processor, place the onions, egg yolk, tarragon, salt, mustard, and hot pepper sauce inside and blend for about 5 seconds.
Slowly add the melted butter. Watch the sauce thicken right away. If it becomes too thick, add a small amount of hot water. This makes about 3/4 cup.
Hollandaise Sauce - 3 egg yolks (room temperature) - 1 1/2 Tbsp lemon juice - 3/4 cup butter (melted) - 1 Tbsp hot water - Dash of cayenne pepper - 1 Tsp prepared mustard
Combine the egg yolks and lemon juice in your blender or food processor. Melt the butter and heat it until it bubbles but not browns. Add hot water to the egg yolk and lemon juice.
Turn on blender to high speed and immediately pour in hot butter in a steady stream. Add the salt, cayenne, and mustard to the blender. Blend mixture until well blended for about 30 seconds.
This recipe of Hollandaise is served warm over vegetables and poached eggs, but of course is just wonderful with meat fondue. This version will not curdle because it is only heated by the warmth of the butter. Any leftover sauce can be reheated gently in the top of a double boiler - but over hot water, not boiling.
Make about 2 cups of sauce.
I cant' get away from writing ideas that nag at my soul; however, I have been remiss in acting upon them. Two signs occurred this weekend that definitely aren't serendipidous- they come as reminders that to write is to breathe. Thank you, Meg, for reminding me of this wonderful site, and thank you all for your comments about my story, "Las Tres Mujeres". I must develop this into a book about how I have always yearned to be brown. It's my destiny. You're right, Jayne, "Everyone has a story to tell."
Jufrida,
Wonderful to hear from you again on the Blog. I can't wait for you to start writing again. Post anything that you compose.
A moment ago the young girls zoomed past me. They must be rushing to the lake. They did not see the oncoming truck. He didn't mean to hit them. Death, you cannot get away from it.
The late winter sun is throwing golden flashes of light off the eyes of the baby. Her laughes fill those in the grocery line with delight. What is so funny? Life, you cannot get away from it.
Anonymous who took up the gauntlet of my writing challenge is actually my brother, Mark. Way to go, Mark. Who else is going to give this a try?
The smell of . . .
cheeseburgers cooking on the grill,
freshly baked chocolate chip cookies
Grandma’s bread right from the oven
Thanksgiving turkey brown and juicy
homemade vegetable soup simmering on the stove
spaghetti sauce, rich with garlic and basil
Food—you can’t get away from it.
The numbers on the digital Weight Watcher’s scale . . .
up one pound
down three pounds
up one half a pound
down one quarter of a pound
up two and a half pounds
Fat—you can’t get away from it!
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