Memoir Noir: The Night My Wife Tried to Kill Me

ProetryPlace Blog 48

The Night My Wife Tried to Kill Me

A memoir noir

    Every soul on earth has secrets—dark moments from the past too shameful or too painful to share with any other. Marriages have secrets too, known only to the loving partners who trust each other with details of their union known to them alone.

    But secrets are the makings of good stories—too good not to share. Few remain long-hidden from view. In the course of time or under severe stress, secrets eventually will emerge from their murky hiding place.

    The outing of the secret rewards the secret holder with mental relief far superior to any physical catharsis. As James Joyce wonderfully phrased it, “Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.”

    Sara Gruen, in her novel Water for Elephants (a book I highly recommend) said this of secrets, “ . . . at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it doesn’t.”

    It is therefore without remorse or reservation that I now reveal the long-held secret of the night my wife tried to kill me.

~

    In truth, Dolly, my wife of many years, on the occasion of these allegations was not yet my wife. In fact, on that occasion she would likely have been greatly amused or perhaps appalled had I or anyone suggested the possibility that we would wed. But neither were we strangers, nor long to remain mere acquaintances.

    Here then, at last, is the true story of that dreadful night three-score and four years ago.

~

         Dolly and I met at college. It was my freshman year at the Milwaukee State Teachers College. I lived in my parents’ home and rode the bus to school during the day while working various full or part-time jobs on nights and weekends. That left little time for social life away from school, so I focused on fun while I was there. I spent most of my time playing cards in the student union and only reluctantly attending a hodgepodge of introductory classes with no particular academic goal in mind.

    Bob Anderson (no relation) a newfound friend, classmate in Chemistry 101 and fellow card-player, persuaded me to join the Student Social Committee. It seemed like another good excuse to avoid serious study, so I did. That is where I first saw her.

    Dolly, stood before the gathered Social Committee, like a collegiate Joan d’Arc, bravely articulating her proposals for whatever issue was under discussion. Her soft, shoulder-length hair moved in agitated waves as she turned to parry any argument or deflect any question. She amazed me with her self-confidence, her thoughtfulness and command. All she lacked was a white steed and armor.

    She blew me away.

    I did not have a similar effect on her, although Bob did catch her attention.

    Our first face-to-face encounter was somewhat inadvertent. Dolly was chief marshal of the homecoming parade, which she commanded while driving her father’s WWII Army Jeep up and down the parade route, checking on us lesser, immobile marshals at various fixed points along the route. Bob and I were assigned to directing traffic at separate street intersections.

    It had been arranged for Dolly to pick me up (I was car-less, as usual) after the parade and transport me to the college for the homecoming dance that followed—at least, so I thought.

     There was a threat of snow in the cold, fall Wisconsin air. I shivered and swore as I paced and waited impatiently for my promised transportation. But Dolly had gotten her Andersons mixed up, and it was Bob, not Richard that she sought. She had no intention of being my chauffeur when she arrived at my intersection after the parade was long-gone and said, “I’m looking for Bob. Where’s Bob?”

    “He’s not here. I’m freezing. You’re supposed to pick me up.”    

    “No I’m not!”

    She frowned, slammed the Jeep into first and started away.

    “Hey, what about me?” My words chased her through the frigid air. “I don’t have a ride!”

     The Jeep jerked to a stop. “Well, climb in then. I’ll find Bob later.”

    The WWII surplus vehicle she drove had been used as a utility vehicle on her father’s tree nursery. It was never driven at night and was not meant for use on city streets.

    After  proceeding slowly for a few blocks, I reluctantly mentioned that it might be a good idea to turn on the headlights.

    “Oh, they don’t work.”

    The side street we were on bore no traffic but soon we turned onto a busy thoroughfare, a four-lane divided avenue. At last, I thought it prudent to mention that we were proceeding up the wrong side of the boulevard.

    “No, we’re not.”

    “Yes, we are. Look!”

     A wall of headlights on vehicles released by the traffic light a block down the road, accelerated in our direction. I braced for the impending crash. With total alacrity, Dolly swung the Jeep across the dividing median and proceeded down the other side of the boulevard.

    “No problem.” She smiled.

Richard Allen Anderson,     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com

ProetryPlace Blog 47

Shadows at the Dawn

(The First Linguist)

    Have you ever wondered when, how and by whom in the course of humanity’s evolution, the first word was spoken? If you have, as I have, we are not alone!

    Theories on the origin of speech abound, but there are no clear answers on the subject, nor will there likely ever be. At one time (1866) the Linguistic Society of Paris banned debate on the subject at its meetings as being not only too contentious but totally futile. Most experts now agree that, interesting as these theories are, we do not and probably cannot come up with a definitive, meritorious answer.

    So why think about it? Why commit effort, manpower and brainpower to the issue?

    Speech and language ability are, among other traits like bipedalism, what distinguish humankind from all the other animals. Yes, other animals communicate with vocal utterances, though none by quite the same mechanism as humans use. Whales emit sonic squeals or songs that carry long distances in the ocean and communicate with other whales. Elephants on land communicate through low-frequency, inaudible (to humans) rumbles. The varied, cheery chirps of birds have been interpreted to have specific meanings to other birds. But none of these comes remotely close to human speech and language capabilities.

    Early humans could not talk. While the history of humankind reaches back two million years or more, it is likely that extinct earlier forms of the species, Homo habilis and Homo erectus, advanced as they were over co-existing ape-forms, could not offer more than grunts and squeals, imitative sounds and signs as a means of communication. Anatomical evolution of speech organs, e.g. the larynx, mouth, throat and head, were prerequisite. Evolution of the brain seems certainly to have been prerequisite also, along with cultural or societal changes as the population grew, aggregated and dispersed across the planet.

   The history of speech and of Homo sapiens may be one and the same. The ability to speak depended on the evolution of the physically and mentally advanced human species; the survival and advancement of the species depended on  its ability to pass on detailed instructions, coordinate cooperative efforts, and to articulate abstract ideas. The rise of Homo sapiens began fewer than 200,000 years ago. Our ascendency to the premier species on earth was complete by 50,000 years ago.

    But what of that first word? At some instant in time, with the evolutionary prerequisites in place, an individual must have synthesized a word that represented a thought, a concept, something beyond the grunts and yelps of warning or fear or joy.

    Words are verbal icons. They are noises (or marks on stone or paper) that represent something either real or imaginary. Some say that language was invented to enable humans to lie, to represent as a sound an abstract or unreal idea. We can probably be confident that the perpetrator of that first word did not sit down, staring absently into the embers of a dying fire and think, “Today, I will invent language!” He or she probably did not consciously think at all, yet an all-important thought process occurred, an electro-chemical process in the brain that had not occurred before, but would be repeated in all surviving generations.

     Following is my prose poem entitled Shadows at the Dawn.

Homo X, with dreadful reverence,

draws up his muscled arms

points ahead toward the east

extending long and bristled fingers

toward the magical aurora

and as the golden rim appears

raises voice to sustain a sound

o o o o  o o o  o   o

a simple sound

suffuse with complex, primitive emotion:

awe and gratitude, fear and pleasure.

The small band of huddled beings

emerging from the cavern’s mouth

sends forth a joyful, manic chorus

across the grassy plain

into the distant shadowed forest--

O O O O O O O  O  O   O . . .

They stand erect and elevate their arms

join their fingers above their dimly lighted faces.

Another day to hunt and forage.

Another day to risk at living.

Homo X leaps upon a high flat rock

his place of honor, his platform to survey

and lead the morning mystic ritual.

The first bright rays surmount the trees, illuminate

his fearsome face, his massive chest, his extended limbs.

An unforetold, unwanted force stirs within his brain,

a mindful recognition.

A self-awareness rises.

His furtive eyes dart and race,

take in the full extent of his own being.

His strong hands press against the turmoil in his skull.

A sound stirs within his throat--

Aaah Aaah

The sound persists within him, seeking to escape

forcing his wide lips to part

then bursts forth to startle and bewilder

the others and himself. Ah!

And then another even stranger utterance. Ya!

A simian smile distorts his face.

With lips parted and drawn back

ahya he whispers, ahya, then shouts

Ahya. Ahya. Ahya!

He whirls about to face the fearful group.

Sunlight exaggerates the shadow of his broad shoulders

and makes serpents of his upraised arms upon the ground.

He points a finger at his chest

and now forcefully, willfully,

directs his voice to make the utterance—Ahya!

With wonder in his newfound power—Ahya. Ahya.

Comprehension grows. The notion of self comes clear.

He jumps with simple joy, high in the still air,

returns to his haunches, springs high again, again.

He beholds the sunlit, shadowed brows

of his gathered species-homo family.

They stare agape in fearful apprehension.

Homo X descends

from his altar of enlightenment

pervaded with new understanding

a new connection fused, a virgin neuron pathway

somewhere within his primal brain.

Turmoil and confusion dissipate.

He grasps the hand of each fellow being

to place it against its own naked breast and,

eyes ablaze, speaks the magic syllables—

Ahya.

First one,

then two or three,

not comprehending

but submissively compliant

attempt the sound

Aah. Aah.  Ahya. Ahya.

The glimmer of thought ascends

displacing shadows of ignorance.

They slap their arms, their chests,

their now wide-eyed faces

acknowledging with ape-like grins

their dawning understanding

their coupling of thought and sound.

A word is born

One simple utterance

Within it the seeds of human perception

communication, language, intelligence.

Within it an infinity of unimagined worlds.

Richard Allen Anderson     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com

ProetryPlace Blog 46

Senior Moments Can Be Fun

    A favorite quote from a favorite, dear old aunt drifted into my consciousness this morning. “If you don’t have it in your head you must have it in your feet.”

    With the germ of a blog idea stirring in my waking mind, I arose early this morning, dressed quickly—khakis and a Tee, no shoes. While coffee brewed, I found one of several notebooks I use for raw writing—notes, ideas, first drafts. I placed it on the arm of my lazy-boy in the living room, a favorite venue for this activity, went to the kitchen to fill my coffee mug, add a dash of half-and-half, and returned.

    As I picked up the notebook, ready to sit and write, I realized the pen from the small table next to my writing chair had disappeared. I went again to the kitchen to pick one out of the container of pens and pencils we keep there for just such an occasion. While there, I remembered I’d forgotten to take one of my several pills last night before going to bed. I opened the vial and took the pill back to the living room to take with a sip of coffee, but returning there, realized I had not gotten the pen I had gone for.

    So, back to the kitchen. I selected a pen and, finally ready to write, returned yet again to the living room only to discover my notebook had now disappeared. While my neglected coffee cooled, I retraced my steps while trying to retrace my recent actions, and found the notebook on the kitchen table where I had laid it while opening the medication vial.

    At last, I sat and sipped the tepid coffee, pad and pen in hand, wondering what had prompted me to get up at this lonely hour before dawn.

~

~

    Last night, Dolly and I watched the movie, Nebraska. In the opening scene a man shuffles slowly through the snow on the edge of the highway that leads eventually from Billings, Montana to Lincoln, Nebraska. The story centers on the obsession of this doddering and confused but damnably likeable old drunk to claim a million-dollar prize that a magazine subscription letter states he may have won.

    It is a story of dysfunctional individuals (the old drunk is certainly not the worst of them) and dysfunctional families whom we eventually came to love or hate as the story and the characters grew over the span of the days-long misadventure. In the end it is a story of human greed and avarice, but also of human spirit and kindness. It is the story of how an old man is impelled to seek just one more small miracle from life and of his family doing the best they can to deal with him and their own lives.

    I loved watching the family dynamics and listening to the Midwestern dialogue. One of my favorite lines from the old wife and mother character, spoken as the youngest son drives off with his father, bound for Nebraska: “You’re just like your father. Stubborn as a mule.” Why does that ring a bell?

    You don’t want to miss this movie.

    Watch it.

    Don’t forget.

    Now, what was that blog idea?

Richard Allen Anderson     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com

Google and Taekwondo

ProetryPlace Blog 45

Google Can't Teach You Everything

(But It Helps)

Isaac Asimov: “People who think they know everything are a great annoyance to those of us who do.”

    It is alleged by many that with age comes wisdom. Thus the clan and church leaders are “elders.” The median age for those elected president of the United States is 55 (although the legal age requirement is 20 years younger), old enough to have met a variety of life’s challenges, yet young enough to withstand the rigors of the office.

    Many social activities, e.g. voting , driving, drinking alcohol, are prohibited under a minimum age when sufficient wisdom has supposedly been attained. Admittedly, these age designations are somewhat arbitrary and imperfect as are many of our “one size fits all” laws. Still, any attempt to fine-tune them via, say, a wisdom test, would no doubt be equally arbitrary and subject to flaws. Just look how many maniacs are on the roads that have been qualified by driver tests, for example.

    A few of my younger grandchildren have not yet figured out that I am not the smartest man on earth. The fact that I can still help them with their 3rd-grade math or can recite a few historical facts maintains a sufficient knowledge gap for them to usually accept my advice and judgment. This will all change when they become teens and know everything there is to know.

    Of course, knowledge is not wisdom, nor will age itself guarantee the attainment of either. Some seem to have special insights to life or metaphysics or music or motorcycle maintenance that most of the population does not possess. My young son, even before he could read or write, often amazed me by pointing out practical mechanical solutions to problems I was attempting to analyze with the powers of advanced mathematics. He still does. Albert Einstein seems to have had it right again when he said, “Imagination is more important than knowledge.”

    But age does bring at least exposure to a broad spectrum of experience that youth is not privilege to. What we learn from this experience can be stowed away and combined with other learning to become what we call wisdom, or it may lead to previously unsynthesized knowledge in what we call innovation. Aldous Huxley put it this way, “Experience is not what happens to you, it’s what you do with what happens to you.”

    What would a discussion of wisdom be without a quote from Confucius? Here’s one. “By three methods we may learn wisdom: First, by reflection, which is the noblest; Second, by imitation, which is the easiest; Third by experience, which is the bitterest.”
    Wisdom may cost dearly, but there are few rewards in life as gratifying—even thrilling would not be hyperbole—as those light-bulb moments of suddenly realized wisdom, the epiphany of new truth, no matter how simple or complex.

    A recent article in our local newspaper reported on a six year old boy who had won top honors in a 40-pounds-and-under wrestling contest. The pint-sized dynamo appeared to be strong and healthy, but I am certain that superior wrestling wisdom, rather than superior physical strength, provided his advantage over other diminutive opponents. He had learned more and better moves. Some were taught by his coach. The best ones he discovered, somewhat accidently, by experience.

     When I was about his age, a certain larger classmate regularly instigated wrestling matches on the school playground with opponents he was confident in humbling. I knew my day was coming, much against my wishes. But I carried a secret weapon in my mind—a piece of advice my older brother had given me on the art of wrestling. The bully finally attacked and quickly put me down on my back. As I lay struggling with all my strength to escape, my brother’s advice pushed through my panic. After pushing mightily against my attacker in one direction, I suddenly shifted to the other. Voila—Richard on top, Bully on the bottom. Luckily his wrestling wisdom had not attained the same sophistication as mine, and that ended the match as well as deterring all future attacks. With his new-found respect, we became friends.

    The same principle of using one’s opponent’s own strength to unbalance and defeat him is the basis for fighting moves in many of the martial arts. It is a principle not limited to physical confrontatons, but readily extrapolated to intellectual endeavors as well, to “ lead another down the garden path” as it were. Good writers, especially those in the mystery genre, skillfully apply this device to bring surprise and enlightenment to the reader. Mark Twain’s advice for writers: “Get your facts first, then you can distort them as you please.”

    The downside of wisdom is that the thrill of discovery becomes a more rare occasion as we become more jaded in experience. The young mind soaks up new knowledge indiscriminately and with ease and shuttles it off without conscious effort into some amazingly intricate mental filing system. Occasionally, a willed or unwilled juxtaposition of file folders leads to totally new revelations whether on a personal or universal truth level.

    From Proverbs, 18:4, “The words of a man’s mouth are as deep waters. The wellspring of wisdom is as a flowing brook.” Thus I endeavor to maintain a youthful mind. Thus I continue to search and to learn, still open to the next Eureka moment, still seeking wisdom and enlightenment. As Socrates said, “The only true wisdom is knowing you know nothing.”

Richard Allen Anderson     March, 2014     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com

ProetryPlaceBlog 44

Oscars and Authors

    We don’t go to the movie theater anymore because Dolly can’t hear the dialogue or music, so we are often literally in the dark about award winning movies and performances. This year, I made a list of the Oscar nominated movies and pre-ordered their DVDs from Amazon so we can watch them on our television screen with Closed Captioning. Several of them have already appeared on the On Demand menu too, and we will eventually watch our way through them all. We’ll have to stock up on Orville Redenbacker’s microwave popcorn, I suppose, in order to savor the full cinema experience.

    Last night we watched the Oscar show from Hollywood. I was busy and “missed” the now-traditional red carpet interviews and glamour photography but settled down in my Lazy-Boy when Ellen DeGeneres appeared to emcee the shindig. I fully expected to be able to catch a few cat naps during some of the less exciting portions of the show, no matter how essential and well-deserved the awards for editing, cinema-photography, etc. are, or I might possibly even wake up at midnight to ask Dolly, “Who won?” But my interest was piqued this year—we had already watched “Blue Jasmine” and “Dallas Buyers Club” and expect to view another eight or ten. Surprise! I remained conscious throughout the four-hour tribute to the magic of the silver screen with only an occasional break for necessary reasons.

    We were touched by the short segment that acknowledged the passing of several who had graced the screen in our younger, movie-going days, groaned at some of the lame and long acceptance speeches (why don’t they hire a writer?) and cheered by some of the more heart-felt and meaningful ones (the charming and talented Lulpita Nyong’o of “12 Years a Slave” comes to mind).

    Like a good novel or script, the show built slowly and suspensefully to the climactic awards for best actress and actor and best movie. “Gravity” had won quite a few awards (seven, per Google) by that time but did not take any of those top awards. Matthew McConaughey and Cate Blanchet gave creditable, well-rehearsed acceptance speeches (I know of only two actors who refused to accept their Oscar Awards, George Scott and Marlon Brando) for their well-deserved acting awards. Steve McQueen read his, and only the last line, in which he paid tribute to those who had been or still are in slavery, is memorable.

    All those others who had given superlative acting performances, written outstanding movie scripts, etc., and prepared and rehearsed their acceptance speeches would go home or to some lavish celebration party disappointed. The television cameras invariably pan across the faces of these non-winners, or, for lack of a kinder word, losers. A few seem genuinely happy for and supportive of the winners. The glances of others are filled with various emotions from disappointment and depression to envy and disdain.

    The Georgia Author of the Year Awards (GAYA) for best books published in 2013 in a variety of genres will be awarded at a ceremony this June in Kennesaw, Georgia.  Another Season Spent, my first book of poetry, published last February, has been entered into the competition. I may attend the awards ceremony out of curiosity, but I will not be preparing or rehearsing an acceptance speech. I am proud to have my poetry available in the public domain and pleased that my work will be judged in the context of other contemporary Georgia writers, but I have no expectation that I might actually win an award.

   I will take note of the winners and, just as we hope to view the Oscar winners and nominees, I hope to eventually read many of those volumes that do take top honors (one winner and one runner-up are announced in each of a dozen categories). I hope and expect not to feel envy or disappointment, but rather a challenge to learn (even at my advance age) and do better.

    Writing, though often challenging, is a joy for me, or at least provides some self-serving benefit--an epiphany, a comfort, a new understanding of the writing craft. The reward is in the writing itself. Publication, even with the marvelous John Bell of Vabella Publishing to work with, is a demanding chore. What I hope to gain from the GAYA competition is motivation to continue to create and to collect up and edit my short stories, memoirs, poetry and nonfiction for potential publication. Writing is a lonely job. Publishing and competing brings me into the company of fellow writers and perhaps an audience of readers—like you.

Richard Allen Anderson     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com     3 March 2014