15 minutes

I've just finished a project in which I interviewed the top academic performers in the Wausau area.

It was illuminating. As I started interviewing these teens, I was impressed with their work ethic, their maturity and their optimism. I expected all that. You don't get to be a 4.0 student at any level without some belief in yourself and future, that it will someday all pay off for you. Most can see it pay off in tangible ways already, by getting scholarships, acceptance to schools such as Yale, etc.

But what surprised me overall was their intellect. Not at how sharp they were, but in really, how ordinary it was. I expected a sort of imbalance, which I have seen in the past in genius-level people. They have trouble relating to others, or lack sense of humor, or whatever. It's a stereotype, I know, and one that this project has basically shattered in me.

All of the kids were bright, of course, but they also were funny, interesting, curious. The one thing that set them apart, and some of them outright said it, was their long-term commitment and discipline toward studying. They had difficulty in some classes, but they worked at it, and overcame the problems they faced.

It's a lot different than what my approach to life. I've always sort of worked on the theory that what "I'm good at" comes naturally, and what "I'm bad at" does too. So I've always done enough to get by at the things that I'm bad at, and concentrated on what I'm good at, but in a haphazard sort of way. I've never really applied a specific kind of thoughtful discipline to anything, except maybe for running and journalism. I've also had a sort of Eeyore attitude toward it all.

These kids studied every night. Usually no matter what. If they didn't like something, they either powered through it or made some kind of game out of it to make it more fun.

I started thinking about that, and my approach to writing. I'm talking about my own writing, such as this blog, and other kinds of fun or creative type of writing that I've always wanted to do but never really have.

I need to take a more disciplined approach to it, which I always knew. I've started to do this by trying to write 15 minutes a day. I say try, because I haven't been too successful regarding it. But I plan to continue trying for that minimal amount of effort. The hope is to build on it, and slowly, the drip will fill the pail.

Only in Wausau

Shortly after moving to Wausau more than a decade ago, I began to notice that there were plenty of strange people around. There were mumblers walking and talking downtown. The biking guy who I would see everywhere, never wearing a shirt and carrying a liter bottle of Sprite, when it was 30 degrees out. The shufflers trudging like zombies along Grand Avenue, moving with their heads down and ignoring all passersby and traffic.

One of the photographers at the paper called them "The Broken People," and I believe that the high number of these people is directly due to the fact that Wausau is the county seat. This is where physical and mental health care services, such as they are, are. There is a methadone clinic here, and low-income housing options for those who have trouble negotiating mainstream society.

It's sort of sad and cool, heartening and heart-wrenching all at the same time. But overall, I'm glad to live in a city that cares at least a little bit about the welfare of troubled human beings. And I think, for the most part, most people who are healthy, fit and able tend to look out for the unfortunate souls that live in our midst.

The thing about the Broken People is that they tend to disregard general safety, pedestrian and traffic laws. They cross busy highways without looking, ride bicycles the wrong way on a four lane thoroughfare and in general do whatever they can to disrupt the flow of everyday life. I kind of like that.

A couple of weeks ago, I ran across something new. Actually, I almost ran over it. I was driving back to work from my lunch, running late as usual and thinking about a story or an interview. I took my general right turn off of Seventh Street onto Scott, and, holy cow, there was a  plump guy sitting in the middle of the street, with a woman standing over him. I first slammed on the brakes and then drove around them.

Did the woman hit the guy, I wondered. It didn't look like it. As I passed the two, I caught the woman's eyes, and there was a pleading look. I was tempted to keep going; I had deadlines to meet. But I couldn't.

I pulled over, grabbed my phone and walked back to the duo.

"He can't get up," the woman said. I looked over to the right and saw a minivan parked nearby, running. Clearly she was the first to stop, and she was looking distraught and desperate.

The guy was sitting in the street, slush and ice surrounding him, dabbing at some bleeding sores on his face with a tissue. "I'm OK," he said.

Clearly he wasn't. I don't think he was drunk, but perhaps he was a diabetic having a low-sugar episode, or he either took took too much or not enough of some sort of medication. His face looked a bit like raw hamburger, or as if had been pecked by crows. It was bleeding in several places. He had a fat face, a bit swollen. He wore shabby clothes, old-person's post-cataract surgery sunglasses and a baseball cap.

"I'm OK. This happens all the time," he said.

Really? You collapse in the middle of the street all the time?

"Look, you've got to move," I said. "You can't stay here. You'll get run over."

"I'll be OK in a minute."

"Maybe I should call someone."

"Oh, no, no," he said. "I'll be fine. You two just go. It'll be OK."

"Look," I said. "I'm not going to leave you here in the street. You've either got to get up, or I call 911."

"No! No, don't do that."

Meanwhile cars and trucks were coming around the corner, slamming on their brakes, and then veering around us. I envisioned all three of us getting clocked by a garbage truck. Maybe they would put us in the same hospital room, in beds next to each other.

"Here, help me up," he said.

The lady grabbed his right arm, I grabbed his left, we pulled and he was dead weight, like a bag of wet sand. "Push with your legs," I said. "We can't lift you if you don't help. And I'll have to call an ambulance."

He gave another effort, and he was standing. "Just lean me against that car," he said. We did.

"Oh thanks," he said. "I'm good now. It's just that I've been real depressed lately." As if that explained everything.

"I know," I said. "But you can't just collapse. Do you need some help?"

"No, I'm fine. I'm good. Thank you both. You've both been very kind. I'm all right now."

"Well, OK," I said. "I've got to get going."

"Yes, yes, so do I," said the woman, and she virtually sprinted to the minivan.

"If you're sure you're going to be OK?" I asked the man.

"Yes, yes. Thanks so much. You've been very kind."

I went back to the office. I thought about the guy, and was angry that he would put himself in jeopardy, and us too. I was angry that he wouldn't get proper help, but thought nothing of asking us for our unprofessional help. But mostly I was worried. I mean, I couldn't force him to go to the hospital, and I wasn't ready to give him a ride or adopt him or whatever.

So I called the line we use to get the duty lieutenant at the Wausau Police Department when we're making our daily calls at work. I told the officer on duty, who I knew, what happened. He said he would send a squad around to check on the guy.

I have no idea what happened. I still feel a little guilty, and a little angry.

Fourth week, 1000 Words Wausau

This was a hard one. The words:

Instrument
Escort
Geezer
Coincidence

Bending spoons
A carpet of rotting foliage


My first try was an attempt to use the phrase "bending spoons" in a way that wasn't completely obvious. It wasn't an utter failure, but, as Kris said, "This was the weakest of the four."

Joe sat at the table, bending spoons.  He knew it drove Ma nuts, but he insisted he couldn’t eat soup with straight spoons.

It wasn’t a coincidence, that habit of Joe’s. Pappy was the same way. When Pappy was a dentist in Blue Hollow, he customized all of his instruments. Folks who came to Pappy to get their teeth pulled or cavities filled were real worried when saw that odd stuff. But he was finished with them, they were patients for life. 

Ma said Pappy worked for years that way, and he bought this farm with the earnings, helping other people deal with pain.  She said he was a genius, but nobody really noticed that part. They just thought he was nuts. Pappy was an old geezer when the revenuers came, and escorted him out his office and threw him in jail. “Just because he didn’t have a piece of paper on the wall,” Ma said. “And he was better’n all those schooled city dentists.”

 Pappy went screaming crazy after that, but when he came to live with us, he just sat facing a wall. 

When Ma came in the kitchen and saw all of Joe’s spoons, she went nuts herself, and kicked Joe and me out of the house. We went into the woods.  We walked through a carpet of rotting foliage, and  Joe wondered if he would be like Pappy when he got old.

“I don’t know, Joe,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of ya.”

So I gave it another try. It works better, both Kris and I think, although it's schlocky. I think I may have been inspired by a Viagra commercial.

“Would you like to take a walk with an old geezer?” Thomas asked.

Virginia looked up from her book, studying her husband over her cheaters. “No,” she said with a smile, “But I’ll go with you.”

They strolled through the neighborhood, falling into familiar steps and route.  They found themselves in Memorial Park. Its trees had shed their leaves a couple of weeks ago, and they stepped across the carpet of rotting foliage.

“I love this smell,” Virginia said, “Reminds me of us.”

Thomas knew. They met at the resort in the Catskills, him performing as a magician, her playing in the 30-instrument house orchestra.

“You were so awkward,” Virginia said. “Remember?” 

“Of course,” Thomas said. “You looked so sophisticated, carrying that violin case, wearing that gown. And I just fooled people by bending spoons. I could hardly speak to you. “

He remembered how she slipped in the wet leaves and how he ran to her. She had gotten up, and was brushing the leaves from her dress. She had shrugged at the damp spots. “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Nobody sees my back.”

Thomas escorted her, her arm in his, to the formal dance. He remembered how the words, almost without thought, slipped out of his mouth, “Can I meet you after?” She nodded, and he felt a new life begin.

“It wasn’t a coincidence, you know,” she told him now, with a smile.

“What?”

Virginia took a step, slipped to the ground.

Suddenly, it was 40 years ago.

The end of an era (1000 Words Wausau)

Lounge

Miracle

Coconut

Ring

As many as six

For which I haven’t the skills

 The end of an era

The whole staff of the White Bear Press met in St. Paul at Luigi’s Lounge, the old-school steakhouse/nightclub.

 The seven of us, four men and three women, sat in a half-ring in a high-backed leather booth. We imagined we looked like an early ‘90s version of the Rat Pack, or a modern incarnation of the Algonquin Circle.

Gary was our editor, only because he had a master’s from Columbia University. Ill-equipped to be a supervisor, it was a miracle he got the job.  He was a fast-talker from New Jersey, and he loved irritating moneyed Minnesota conservatives, such as the publisher, Gene, who spent most of the year on his yacht in Florida.

 “I’ve been hired for a position for which I haven’t the skills,” Mike told us when he got the job. “So all I ask of you is that you write as you see best, and I’ll keep the boss off your backs.”

 Luigi’s was Gary’s going away party. The column about gay rights was the breaking point. Our table slowly began to fill with empty glasses. We all drank hard liquor, because that’s what writers drank. Phil, the photographer, was harassed for ordering fruity-coconut drinks. “Hey, I like ‘em,” he said.

Mike ordered drinks two at at time.  He had as many as six empty glasses in front of him, and he showed no effects of the alcohol.

Mike went on to work for a website that covered fishing tournaments, and he’s still there today. I loved that guy.

 

Another 250 words

This 1000 Words Wausau thing is definitely inspiring. So much so that I exceeded expectations and wrote another one this week. Unprecedented! Here's my second 250 words, which I officially sent off:

1000 Words Feb. Week 2

swish

metallic

jungle

crumple

just a pose

Did love begin in that way?

-------------------------------------------------

Old ways love

 When I was 13, Mom started pushing me into the ball toss games at the New Year celebrations.

 “Mom! Do I have to?” I’d ask in English

 “Yes, Hlee, this is what we do. You never know, you might find your husband. It’s how I met your father. In the village, I started the ball toss a lot earlier than you are now,” she said in Hmong, almost singing the words instead of speaking. “By the time I was 16, I had your older brother and sisters.”

 I barely remembered my father, but whenever Mom talked about him, I’d see the vision of him crumpling in the jungle, hit by a communist bullet, as the rest of us ran for the Mekong River and safety.

 It was weird, standing in America, a few yards from Xai, tossing a tennis ball back and forth. His hair was shiny black in the auditorium lights, and the coins on his vest clinked together in a metallic melody. My skirt swished with each throw, and my hat felt like it was about to fall from my head.

 For me, it was just a pose. I didn’t really believe in the old ways. I was going to go to college, become a nurse. I loved Mom, and I knew what she did to bring us here. She got no respect for it. I wanted more for myself and for her.

 But now I have to wonder, did love begin in that way?

1000 Words Wausau -- Week 2

First draft. Too long. Hmm. Too trite? Too easy?

swish

metallic

jungle

crumple

just a pose

Did love begin in that way?

When I was a little kid the whole family, cousins, third cousins, all the Norwegian side of the clan, would pack into the little town hall on Main Street, spread corn meal on the tile floor and have a party.

Floyd would be on the accordion, Laverne on the drums, and Loretta would play the guitar and sing. My favorite was “The Flying Dutchman,” in which three people would dance together, swinging each other around by hooked elbows with a swish of skirts and clomping of patent leather dress shoes. By the end of the night, the place would be hot and humid as a jungle, and smell of stale beer, cigarette smoke and hours-old sloppy joe hardening in a slow cooker left on for way too long.

Grandma loved to dance. She’d be out on the floor swirling and twirling to the polkas long after I had crumpled down in a corner. We knew the evening was about to end when Laverne would tap a stick on the edge of  a drum with three sharp metallic tinks. Then he and Floyd and Loretta would launch into “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.” Grandma would skip over to Grandpa and ask him to dance, and he’d shake his head no. But that was just a pose.

They would be out on the dance floor swaying cheek to cheek. It made me wonder, Did love begin that way?  I never learned the answer. I grew up and away from those kinds of dances. But Grandma and Grandpa proved that love grew that way.

1,000 Words

As part of my 1,365th attempt to become a real writer, I've joined a club in Wausau that has been formed under the leadership of University of Wisconsin Marathon County English assistant professor Jill Stukenberg.

It's called 1,000 Words Wausau, and each week Jill emails a bunch of people a set of words and phrases and they try to write 250 words using them. It can be anything, poetry, a letter, fiction, etc. I picked up the little booklet from December's work at Janke Book Store, and I really liked it.

So, I've completed my first week's assignment. It actually fun. And because I'm all about repurposing and using one thing to help bolster another, here it is (the words Jill assigned are in bold):

The Coop

Grandpa would bring the cards out later in the evening, well after supper. Out in the barn, the cows would have been fed and watered, stalls cleaned and the straw put down. In the house, in the kitchen, Grandma would have put supper leftovers in the fridge and the dishes would be done.

 We’d all sit at the table, and Grandpa would deal the cards, first to Grandma, then to me. The game was King’s Corners, and I would do everything I could to beat Grandpa but I never could.

 Grandma would tell stories, weaving out in words the tableau of her childhood. “There never was any money,” she said. “But we didn’t lack for nothing. We had music, and singing, and Saturday nights we would dance. Oh, we’d have some parties.”

There were some pretty sad versions of her childhood. Grandma’s younger sister died at childbirth and “Mama became a ghost,” she said. “Just sitting at the window in a greedy silence. It was almost as if she died herself, but kept on breathing.”

 I loved the way those stories would dig into the past. My favorite was how Dad was conceived. “We had been going together for about a year,” Grandma said. “And Emil would come over and help me with the chores. It was winter, and cold. The coop was warm, and his hands were so soft.”

 “In the coop?” I asked, imagining the smell of birds.

 Grandpa smiled. “Nobody had a car,” he said.

Note: I just had Kris read this, and I wish I had done that before I sent the version off to Jill. "There are a lot of woulds and coulds in here," she said. Also, she suggested that I set the story in the present.

"Grandpa brings the cards out later in the evening, well after supper."

"I think that would be a lot more powerful," she said.

My science-oriented wife is a hell of a good editor.

'Whenever my hypos get such an upper hand...'

In my latest self-improvement plan, Version 329, I am taking a writing course.

This class is offered through "The Great Courses," a company that offers classes on DVDs, and is sort of the modern version of the mail-order college class. The company advertises in magazines such as Smithsonian and The New Yorker, so of course I was suckered in by the idea. Kris bought me the class for Christmas. Its title is "Analysis and Critique: How to Engage and Write About Anything."

It's taught by Professor Dorsey Armstrong, an associate professor of English at Purdue University.

This all doesn't sound that appealing does it? I must admit that I was pretty excited about getting the course, even while I was pretty dubious about it at the same time.

Turns out that the class is actually kind of interesting, although I've only watched two half hour lessons.

I was kind of hoping that it would be a video of an actual class, but instead it's produced especially for the DVD viewer. Professor Armstrong stands in a kind of cheesy set, with pillars and some drapes, and she uses her arms emphatically, but again, this isn't about production values or acting ability, but what she has to say. And I like it.

So far she's talking about reading critically, looking for key words that identify mood, time, place, etc. Nothing earth shattering. But...

Professor Armstrong asked me to examine the first couple of paragraphs of "Moby Dick."

The second paragraph:

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off -- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.

That passage sets the tone of the book, Armstrong said. It shows the time period in which the book is set -- "coffin warehouses" -- and lets the reader know that it will not be without humor.

I found it to be an incredible piece of writing, because (holy shit!) Hawthorne was describing me! Replace sea with "going for a bike ride" or "taking a long run," and you've got a pretty dead on description of my feelings. I might be living in 2013, and far away from any adventure that involves a sailing ship and great white whale, but I still get the "hypos" that makes me want to knock people's hats off. Or grab their ties, or push them into a puddle.

Next on my reading list: "Moby Dick," and maybe it's high time for me to get to my own sea, somehow, someway.

Neighbor Dan

My neighbor Dan broke his collarbone a couple of months ago, while taking a nasty fall on a patch of ice.

We are friendly neighbors, but not overly so.  We talk in snippets here and there as we're both coming or going.

He's a Packers and Brewers fan, like we all are, and he likes to go out and have a few drinks, like most of us do. I like the fact that he's a responsible drinker, like too few us are, which I found out last summer when I noticed his truck wasn't parked in his driveway.

"Where's the truck?" I asked him. "Is it in the shop?"

"No," he said. "I might have had a couple too many last night. It's still at the bar."

Dan is a fisherman. That's not his job -- he works as a customer service rep at a health insurance administration company -- but it's who he is. He's particularly passionate about ice fishing, which I find intriguing. He can't exactly describe why he loves sitting on frozen water waiting for a walleye or whatever come by and bite his line, but he does. He's got all sort of interesting equipment and clothes, which he is constantly loading and unloading in his two-wheel drive Chevy S10.

But what I love most about Dan is his talent for understatement.

I found out about the collarbone in typical Dan fashion.

"Hey Dan, how's it going?" I called out as he was coming out of his house one evening.

"Hey Keith, not too bad," Dan said. "Broke my collarbone, though. Fell on the ice."

I knew that he didn't fall which ice fishing, because this was very early in our winter, and water was still open. We had had one snowfall, and the subsequent melt left little patches of ice scattered here and there: Mother Nature's booby traps.

Dan and I talked about the injury a bit. He was off of work for a while, he said. I told him I would do whatever I could to help, and that at least I could shovel his drive when needed. "If you need anything else," I told him, just ring the bell. "Kris and I will do what we can. Except I won't help you get dressed. You'll have to figure that out on your own."

In a subsequent conversation, he went into more detail about the injury. He had to keep his arm in a sling, because there's no cast for a broken collarbone.

"It's taking longer than normal for it to heal," Dan said. "I must have turned or something when I fell. There are fragments in there. The doctors call it a corkscrew break. I saw the x-rays, the bone is twisted. I'm not gonna lie, it's been pretty painful."

This was weeks ago. Dan's thanked me profusely for clearing his driveway, and even gave me a gas card to show his gratitude. I told him he didn't have to do that, I kind of like shoveling, and if the snow is deep, I have a snowblower. "Still, I really appreciate it," Dan said.

I talked to him this morning. He's back at work, and he's got an appointment with his doctor today.

"This should be the last one," he said.

"Wow," I said. "It's a cautionary tale."

"Yep," he said, nodding slowly. "It's been an experience."

Writing

So I've had this love/hate relationship with writing, and this blog was supposed tip the balance to the love side. It's had mixed results.

I'd love to say that I've just simply been too busy to write. But I haven't been too busy to keep up with "How I Met Your Mother," a television show that I'm ashamed to admit that I watch.

I'd like to say that it's all about work, that it consumes my energy, creativity, and by the time I get home, I am sapped of any will at all to look at a computer, much less sit and think of something profound to say.  That's not true either. I get tired, but there always can be some words. 

Maybe if I were to go all confessional, I might say that it's classic laziness that keeps me away from here. But that ain't quite right either.

If I want to look the truth right in the eyes, I guess I would have to say that I haven't written because I don't like to write. Well, it goes a little deeper than that. The reason I don't like to write is because I don't really like my writing. 

This is a self-confidence, self-esteem thing, and I guess that it's been with me for all my life. I don't like my writing because I think it's crap, just like it almost hurts to look at a picture of myself because I feel so homely when I do. When I read my own words, I cringe. 

Here's the thing, I've decided not to care about any of that anymore. So once again I've made this little promise to myself to start blogging steadily, for what, the umpteenth time? I started out this blog in an effort to write about my exercise misadventures, and I've done some of that.

If you like that stuff (and I'm pretending that someone is reading this), please check out my blog at Wisconsin Outdoor Fun. That's a work-related blog, and I'm making a special effort there. It's located here: http://blogs.wisconsinoutdoorfun.com/blogs/wof/wofuhligblog/.

You should know, dear imaginary audience, that although I am making a special effort to update this blog, I'm also making an extra special effort to keep that one updated. Why? I've got a secret plan.

You should also know that in the past I've used this personal blog as rough draft for that blog, and that will likely continue. And sometimes, I will take posts from that blog and throw them in here. So if you read them both, you might notice overlap, and get sick of me, and who can blame you? I'm sorry about that, imaginary reader. It's not that I don't care about you, I do. But I can't afford to care so much so that I don't do anything anymore. Does that make sense?

If you're going to read only one blog. Read that one. You'll help with my special plan.

Anyway, this blog also should be different from that blog. That one is work work, and it will have somewhat of a more professional tone. Not that this is going to vastly unprofessional or anything like that. Can't afford to go all the way there. But this will be fun work, I hope, and it will be more personal, and I'm envisioning that it will be more about the struggles for creativity, trying to stave off depression, and trying to become a real writer. There might be some swearing, too. No nudity though.

What does all this mean?

Damned if I know.