James River Crab Cakes (Part 3)

The third installment of my short story, which admittedly is in the nascent stages.  Still, it is fun to chop it into installments because it makes me look at each scene in new ways.  Thank you so much for reading.  

(click on the tag James River below if you want to read the first two parts...)

Saturday morning, I was out back of my house when Big Al moseyed up.  My dad and I had made a makeshift basketball court four years ago, hauling sand from the river bank and packing it till it was hard and even.  The basket was a five gallon pail nailed to a board we’d found and then attached to a tree nearby.  That court had part of me in every grain of sand.  My dad and I would play one-on-one when he’d get back early from the shipyard.  In the summertime I shot baskets out there for hours; I had never beat my daddy to twenty-one.  It’s hard to say who I admired most in those days, him or Michael Jordan.

That day, Big Al stood awkwardly at the edge of the court like a stray dog that won’t stop sniffing you ‘till you kick it.  I forced myself not to look but to focus on my shots.  But after missing three in a row, I got to thinking that I better kick him before he ruined my whole morning.  

 “What are you waiting for?”

“Nothing, my grandma just sent me to ask if I could have some of your mom’s recipes cause we heard she’s a pretty good cook.”  Thanks to the Annual James River Seafood Festival, my mama’s cooking had made us almost famous in the county. Her recipes were secret.   Her mama had gotten from her mama and so on all the way back to when grandmama’s grandmama cooked on the Perkins Plantation that was now the Yacht Club.  We weren’t in the habit of giving those secrets to white folks.

“She ain’t home.”  I answered. “You just fixin’ to stand there and watch me?  Don’t ya have anything better to do?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, well I’m just gonna keep shooting.  I’ll see ya later.” I picked up my ball. 

“Ya wanna donut?” Al called.

“What?”

And right then before my eyes Big Al produced two chocolate frosted donuts from the side pockets of his cargo short.  They were wrapped in napkins and some of the frosting peeled off with the paper.  Later, when I told my sister, Leticia, about it she couldn’t stop laughing for a good five minutes.  “Big Al and the donuts,” she’d say to herself and then start rolling with laughter again.  

“No thanks,” I said to him.

“Okay,” Big Al mumbled.  He shoved half of the first one in his pink mouth, leaving a smear behind.  He stood there a while more, taking huge bites of the doughy circles.  The way he chewed reminded me of the cattle we used to own, mullin’ over their cud till it makes you a little sick to imagine it.  Finally, he finished them both and lumbered off toward Whistling Plains and I got ready for work. 

Writing Prompts

One of the greatest hopes in every teacher's career is that you will get at least one student who really listens to you.   They not only listen but they understand.  They understand on a deeper level than most and they do something amazing with the knowledge they gain.  I have had a few of these extraordinary students, one of whom I’d like to write about today.   Day after day she listened to me chant, “Write, write, write!”  She understood that I wanted each and every student to learn how to use words to advocate for themselves and others.  She realized her potential as a great writer.  

Over Christmas break she wrote me an email asking me to help her with her new year’s resolution.  She wanted to write one short story every week. They would be rough drafts of course but every single week they would be delivered to my inbox and I would give her feedback.  I also gave her the prompt at the beginning of each week.  I collected these prompts from Writer’s Digest.com, teachers I admire, teachers’ blogs and websites, I take no credit for the prompts myself but I thought each week I might put a few out there and see which were your favorite.  Try them out and let me know what you think.  Please feel free to share your ideas and work here.  

Week 1-  At exactly midnight on New Year’s Eve you receive an email labeled “Open Immediately.” The really strange thing is that the email is apparently from your self at age 25. What does 25 year old you have to say to  you now that is so important?  Write a story about it:)

Week 2- A mad scientist captures you and tells you that he is about to change your life —he will heighten one of your senses, but it will make one of your other senses duller. It isn’t optional; he’s going to perform the surgery, but you get to choose which two senses.

Week 3 -Eleanor Roosevelt once said, "You must do the thing you think you cannot do." Write a narrative  about a time when you did something you thought you could not do. Be sure to include specific  details so that a reader can follow your story.  

Week 4- You have made a very important discovery–one that will make you famous throughout the world.  Write a story in which you tell about your discovery and how you made it. 

Week 5- Write about a time you or someone else lost something important. What happened?  How did everyone feel/act?  

Week 6-  Describe a time when you were ill or injured.  What did that experience teach you about yourself and your life?  Make sure to include the details of who was there and  how they reacted.

Week 7-   One day, while hanging out on the beach, you notice a boat slowly drifting to shore. It eventually lands near your spot. A person, draped in pirate clothes, yells to you from the boat, “I have a treasure map and I need help. Are you in?”

Week 8- Describe the most beautiful smile you've ever seen.  Be sure to include where and when you saw it and describe the person and the reason they were smiling.  

Week 9-  You decide to run for president of your high school class only to find that your opponent is running a smear campaign about you, trying to make you look bad so people won't vote for you. Worse yet, your opponent has been telling everyone that he/she will drop a bombshell announcement, revealing your darkest secret, in front of the entire school during your first debate. The debate is here. Write the scene where the bombshell secret is announced and describe how you react to it—remember, the entire school is watching. 

Week 10- Create a written snapshot of the moment in which you are living...for 15 minutes stop and listen until the silence is deafening...Look around you and notice every detail..  The stains on the walls or furniture, the labels on any boxes or bottles, stickers, magnets.

Fifteen Dollar Decisions

Here is the sort of kid I was:  When I was 12 years old my sisters and I were each given $15 to buy whatever we wanted at the bookstore.  I distinctly remember debating between “Book of Virtues” and “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff (and it’s all Small Stuff.") I decided on the Book of Virtues.  One entry from that tome haunts me even today.  It was entitled “The Sin of Omission”  Here are the words I still have etched on my conscience, 

“It isn’t the thing you do dear but the thing you leave undone 

that gives you a bit of heartache at the setting of the sun.” 

 (Pardon any misquoting. I was 12 when I committed this to memory)

There is a great deal of truth in this, I do regret not taking opportunities to love, to laugh, to forgive.  However, I also regret unwise and unkind things that I have said.  And when I contemplate either type of regret I am bogged down by this millstone like weight around my heart.  The weight of failure. 

How do I accept the fact that I will mess up?   It depresses me to think that no matter how hard I try, one day I will look back and see a slough of sins and silly mistakes.  I believe that we only get one shot at this life and I resent the fact that I can’t get it right the first/only time.  Ok, so maybe that is pride, I mean only Jesus got it right the first time.  Still, I can’t shake that sense of feeling like I could be doing better, more, deeper things with each day I am given.

So what would I do differently?  Trying harder doesn’t seem to help.  I recently found a wish list from last year and of the many wishes that have come true (such as the birth of a healthy baby girl) none of them were borne of great effort on my part. Actually, giving birth is kind of a good example because it took every ounce of strength I had and more but it wasn’t like I had a choice... in the end it was totally outside of my control.  

Is it a sin to regret things?  I mean I know that we need to repent and let God change us when we sin but I wonder if we can truly regret anything.  I mean, isn’t God ultimately in charge of everything? Did Joseph (from the Bible) regret bragging to his brothers about his dreams?  If he hadn’t have done that they wouldn’t have thrown him in a well and sold him as a slave. But if they hadn’t have faked his death he couldn’t have saved their lives years later.  It gets complicated. 

What are your thoughts on regret? 

How do we let go but still learn from our mistakes?  

James River Crab Cakes (part 2)

Even as I post this I see about a million ways it needs improvement.  Please give me comments and questions.  Sometimes I think something is clear and it really makes no sense at all.  It is good to know that sort of thing sooner rather than later, so please let me know.

See the post on September 3rd for the first paragraph of this story...

     Everybody ‘round here called me Rooster’s boy, but my mama named me Joseph Paul Williamson.  Mama told me our family was slaves of  Mr. Williams’ great great great  granddaddy and that’s how we got our names.  I didn’t like that much.  Mr. Williams was the kind of boss who made my daddy’s shoulder’s sag at the mere mention of work.  His son, Trent, was in my grade and had the uncanny ability to torment all of us at Warwick Middle School without ever catching hell for it.  I turned fourteen that spring, finally old enough to work by Virginia law; fourteen and skinny as the corn stalks my daddy grew behind our ramshackle shanty.  

Our closest neighbors were the residents of Whistling Fields trailer park, who were mostly elderly.  That is, until Big Al moved in with his grandma.  It was three weeks before we got let out for summer break.  The first day he lumbered into Mr. Huffman’s English class I worried that Al would be a bully, being so big for his thirteen years.  As it turned out, he was worse than a bully.  He was a leech; the kind of kid who will latch onto you with an unnatural affection, thinking that you and him is just like Carl Malone and John Stockton when he is like a washed up waterboy.

The desk arm of his chair twisted unnaturally as he crammed himself into the seat without thinking to remove his backpack first.  This made it near impossible for him to escape once the bell rang.  He called out to me just as I was packin’ up and I felt obliged to answer which stranded me there, alone with him and Mr. Huffman.  

“Which way’s the lunch room?”  He begged as he shoved his weight forward rocking the whole desk contraption.  Figures, I thought to myself. “It’s straight down the hall on the left.”  I pointed.  With a monumental shove he launched himself free at last but I was already out the door.  Still, somehow he managed to overtake me in the hall, completely winded by the effort.  “Are you going to Warwick High next year?” he panted.  I shrugged and walked faster.  “I’m planning on getting into Hampton Sydney,” he bragged.  “I already passed the exam, I just have to come up with the money.  If not, my grandma says I should play football, be a linebacker or something.  I heard the team should be good next year with Vick at QB.”  

I was so absorbed in my attempt to lose Big Al before we reached the lunchroom that I forgot to be on the lookout for Trent Williams.  I remembered just as the palm of his hand smashed into my crotch.  I doubled over, the breath knocked clean out of me.  Trent just kept walking as Big Al pressed himself up against the lockers to make room.  I scrambled up and set to making my way to lunch without Big Al, no such luck.  

Candlelight and Silence

This is a day for remembering.  I always forget first thing in the morning, and then it hits me.  

12 years ago I had completely forgotten too.  I had forgotten what it meant to be vulnerable.  

I was sitting in a narrow classroom, completely absorbed in myself, chatting about something I will never remember.  Suddenly, Mrs. H burst in.  Her face was awash with panic.  Since panicking wasn’t completely unusual for her it took a while for the reality to set in. 

My immediate reaction was to disconnect my heart from my head as best I could. I focused on walking, breathing, noticing details.  

We all gathered in the cafeteria to talk, to pray.  My body felt heavy, my stomach would not let me forget my emotions all together. Nothing we did felt right. I was angry that I didn't know what to do in the face of all this death and uncertainty.  

Our neighborhood held a vigil that night.  We lit candles and sat on the front stoop. Many people walked the neighborhood with candles in hand.  Some stopped to talk, but much of the time was silent.  More silent than ever with no planes roaring across the sky, not a single one.  In the candlelight and silence I didn’t feel angry at all.  I felt grateful to be alive. It was enough to simply be in that moment. 

It is strange now because most of my students were toddlers when 9/11 happened.  Their memories are filtered through their parents or guardians.  Every year, I feel somewhat sorry for those who do not remember at all.  I’m not sure why, but I feel as if they missed a moment of history that was real and that was pivotal.  Each year I remember what it means to be vulnerable and that sometimes simply being in a particular place and time will change your life.  It is beyond our control. 

What do you remember?  The start of a World War? The JFK shooting? The Berlin Wall coming down?  

*As for the future, I would very much like to dedicate Wednesdays to guest posts.  So many of you have art, music, writing that have enriched my life.  If you are willing to share it on this blog, please, let me know... I can't wait to hear from you.