Picking the Bones, Draft 2

“I’ve heard rumors for years that Grandma Burgess kept his clothes, but I didn’t believe it.” Lisa, my oldest sister, sucked in her breath from across the room. We rushed to where Lisa knelt upon our father’s musty carpet, her arms outstretched, holding a tattered shirt out from her body as if the ragged piece of clothing might infect her with a strange disease. Her mouth open in shock, she eye-balled it up and down.

Resting the shirt over her arm, she pulled an accompanying pair of worn denim overalls from the green, hard-shelled suitcase that had exhaled the burned cinnamon smell of my grandmother’s house when she’d opened it.

I hardly noticed the rest of the suitcase’s contents. I was mystified. Unfolding the shirt, my eyes fastened on two jagged rips that showed signs of trauma to the shirt from its front to its back. I placed several fingers through the large rip over the front pocket and watched them wiggle through clean to the shirt’s back. I studied the shirt and its great tears singed around the edges with blood-brown flecks of color like deep tea stains.

“His name was Julian,” Lisa pulled herself up from the carpet that had soaked up my father’s stale cigarette smoke. “He was Grandma’s first born son…her voice trailed off as her eyes now skimmed the set of overalls, “… he was killed by lightening.”

“In these clothes…” I whispered.

A black and white photograph, aged but sturdy, had fallen out of the folded overalls revealing the face of a young boy wearing a smile tinged with a smirk. I liked him immediately and if we had known each other, we would have built forts together in the woods and been friends.

Entranced, my sisters and I studied the photograph until Jill, the second oldest, spotted further clues on the picture’s underside, erupting into our pensive moment with “turn it over!” where we found the very short story of this young man in my grandmother’s scrawled cursive: “Julian Aldon Burgess. Oldest child. Was killed by lightening as he walked down a country road one summer from returning a corn planter to a neighbor in June, 1933. He was thirteen-years-old.”

“Julian Aldon,” My voice slowly released the soft vowels. We smiled.

“Like Ava,” my sister said.

“Ava Aldon.” I held his picture close, looking for details of my daughter’s face in it. I had given her the name so that she and my brother could have something to share. My brother and I had built forts together in the woods and been friends. I had been so pleased by the name. Now it held much more meaning than I ever imagined.

Holding in my hands the faded blue fabric – the material and tangible loss of life – feeling its rips where the lightening bolt seared through it and robbed the life and heart beating below its threads – captured and held my imagination. Who was this young man who would have been my uncle, my father’s only brother? Did the buttons of this shirt give him a fit on the morning he struggled to put them through the holes with distracted fingers on the day that would be his last?
Dang it, Mama, I’ll be there in a minute!

Did he step into the denim over alls and click their clips together with reluctance at knowing he faced the cumbersome corn planter dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, constrictive and suffocating in the unforgiving Carolina heat?

It’s rainin’ Julian. Now you be real careful walkin’ home.

My sisters and I looked at history, sitting in my hands. We stood frozen, the mood much different from earlier when we had thrashed through boxes in an eager frenzy, giggling at letters we’d found tucked inside bags and boxes which were written to Santa Claus that my parents had saved; balancing the fine line between laughter and tears when we discovered something personal: an old love letter or poem; a piece of clothing we’d forgotten existed.

Now we were solemn, heads bowed as if at a funeral – it was one, of sorts – dividing the contents of our childhood home into separate houses after our parents’ divorce, picking through items like scavengers; and now viewing the last pieces of clothing a young boy wore to meet his death. We stood faced with a dilemma: we came here to decide which sibling takes what. Who would get Julian?

How funny that such an uncanny item – the blood-dried, fire-tinged clothes of a dead boy – could be something that we all wanted. Yet we did. The sense of it filled the room, as did Julian, who had joined us in the unsealing of his clothes. Perhaps the courage of his smirkish, tight-lipped smile inspired me to break the silence.

“I would really love to have them,” I said, adding tentatively, “if it’s ok with you.” My eyes bounced back and forth between each sister.

So eager to make my drive back home to Savannah with these clothes in my truck, I continued my plea, resorting to pulling from my bag of tricks: “help a teacher: donate supplies”, the bargaining chip I had used many times to persuade the donation of pens and pencils and to entice businessmen into being guest speakers inside my English literature classroom.

“The students...” I spoke in a listless, it-would-be-a-shame-voice, “could be so inspired to write at the sight of these clothes.”

“Never mind that." Lisa sighed with some resignation. “You should have them anyway,” She smiled. “Ava is his name sake.”

And so with that: sold. I became the new owner of Julian Aldon’s last clothes. The experience of bringing them back into the light and to life inside my classroom for the students’ writing explorations awaited. And most importantly, the story waited like ripening fruit, to be shared with Ava someday.

I drove home to Savannah, singing to my radio, the story of Julian, Julian Aldon, stirring in my head.

Meta-text: What this Cadet has Learned

The experience of taking this class has been as enchanting as it has been enlightening. During these two transforming weeks, my writing has evolved from fair to good, but I’m still working toward great. Some of the most important lessons I’ve learned include allowing myself permission to write “with the door closed” as King’s memoir taught so that I can evolve toward allowing myself to consider writing also with it open for an audience. My private struggle is the challenge of learning to write with the door closed and still not harshly judge it before it even has the chance to make it out of the door. Reading the King book helped me to learn to let go of that stronghold a bit.

Another important lesson I learned: avoid adverbs. This has been a huge revelation, as I had not realized what dead weight they are to a piece of writing. I’ve come to realize that they are excuses to avoid dialogue or use of stronger verbs and adjectives in my writing, and how much more effective it is to let other parts of speech and language devices carry me. It was interesting and challenging to learn to rely on these adverb-alternatives more.

This class helped me to meet a goal I came here hoping to achieve: narrowing down my writing focus. I’ve written decades of journal entries, but never knew how to authentically craft a real story from them, and certainly not a story that could have qualities worthy of publication. The result of not knowing how to narrow my focus was the feeling of an assembly-line mentality with my diary, frantic sometimes to capture every single day’s tiny detail. Ughhh, this makes writing exhausting!

This perception ultimately drove me to stop writing all together, using work and motherhood as the excuses. The lessons in this class taught me to give permission to myself to set writing boundaries; that it’s ok to focus on only a “snapshot” of my life, or of the day or moment, without having to cover the entire journey.

From this class I was reminded of the importance of minimizing, and that sometimes writing a simple sentence is the best choice.
First draft – 10% = second draft as King wrote…or something like that?

I know my writing muscles have strengthened simply because I've used them rigorously while I've been here, and my writing has benefitted from the most involved creative writing revisions I have ever made. Prior to this class, the only writing that I gave this much correction and attention to included cover letters for jobs; I would pour hours over those, but never gave my own creative writing this much necessary and worthwhile attention. I feel proud of not giving up on a piece of writing simply because it frustrated me and needed a million changes!

From this class I learned how to be a more effective writer – and I hope (I’ll let my reader be the judge) – a more entertaining and interesting one, too. It has indeed been a rare and wonderful experience to participate in both the Low Country Writing Project and to live in a barrack among the cadets at the Citadel! The memoir on that experience is next!

Draft 3: The Day After

I turned the key and pushed the door open with a weary shoulder, flecks of sleep crumbling from my eye lashes into sore eyes. It was too early to be awake. I was met at the door by reliable and familiar sounds: the clanging of the bell against the glass door behind me, the clamoring of agitated birds, flipping of cedar shavings, howling barks, and stern squawks. The animals heard my movements and the cacophony began.
Someone’s here…

The stench of urine and slightly sweet smell of birds carried me from the door onto the stretch of tile floor into the back storage room which smelled of the parrot’s messy slumber. I placed my sandwich in the fridge and spotted zucchini waiting to be diced. The iguanas must eat. Why do they have to eat such troublesome food?

The light of the shop looked different to me. A fluorescent bulb had died casting a shadow over the looming saltwater tank displayed behind the cash register counter. “How do you clean that thing? It’s huge!” customers would revel, pointing, their eyes tracing it from top to bottom, side to side, keeping the slow rhythm with the lazy swim of neon fish. With the bulb out it radiated an eerie glow.

“I don’t clean it, Ma’am. We have guys here who do that.”

Something stuck in my throat; it felt dry, as did the roof of my mouth. I realized my hand was still inside the iguana tank and one of them was making his way up my wrist. With force, I flung him off and his small, wiry body hit the glass. That was mean. I didn’t feel gentle today. I just needed to get the job done: open shop, last the day, and go home.

It was odd to open the shop alone but to feel crowded while doing it. Creatures peeked out with expectant eyes at every turn. Snakes disturbed from sleep thrashed out of nowhere and hundreds of fish eavesdropped from inside their gurgling homes. This morning they were all rising to the tops of their tanks beckoning like baby birds for me to sprinkle their morning feast down for them. I stared at them blankly. Today I could not feel compassionate toward them, or toward anything in the store.
They blurred into shapelessness and I fell hypnotized by the hum of aquarium filters.

A scroungy bark complained that I had not yet made my way to his corner, and I realized that I needed to feed and clean the pups and kittens. The growls, chirps, and scratching sonance of the animals played their normal orchestra, but I was far away. How could they open the store today? It’s offensive. Don’t they care that somebody has died?

I opened the cage where the scruffy white terrier who wasn’t selling greeted me with over-enthusiasm, such enthusiasm that he knocked over his water bowl, making a wet mess of my shirt. At almost three months, he was beginning to outgrow the cage. I pitied him and would often let him run around the store as I cleaned to allow him a break from the confinement. We had become friends. I set him down, and ecstatic to be free, he catapulted toward the kittens’ cage, interrupting their calm vigil. They hissed and Terrier gnashed his teeth. Havoc ensued: screeching, squawking, whipping of wings, of tails; the kittens growled and Terrier did the only thing he knew to do in response to all of the frenzy: he peed on the floor.

“No!” I scolded. He tried to take off in a sprint as if a reaction from me was a playful invitation. “Damn you, I said no!” I jerked him up by the scruff and glared into his eyes. He let out a yelp from my squeeze. My glare turned into shame. I held him to my chest and felt his hair press like a curly rug under my chin. I will not cry. I have to open this shop in thirty minutes. I will not lose control.

Still facing me were the tasks of cleaning bird cages, sweeping away the piles of birdseed, changing sandy litter pans, feeding the fish, scooping deads. The dead fish must be disposed of, every day. First thing. Never open the store to customers without having scooped the dead.

I felt sick. The space around me began to shrink and look dreamlike. I made my way to the small sink and counter reserved for bagging fish for customers. It was cleared of the usual clutter of pet care supplies. Room had been made available for leisure. We had toiled all day, relieved to take a break.

Upon the space sat two empty Coke cans, the tabs pulled off, and a pile of empty boiled peanut shells. Our peanut shells. He'll never hear these sounds again. Or see this spot where we put our work aside. Or say my name. Or say anybody's name.

I hugged my shoulders. Fell to my knees. The sobs came, like choking.

The Day After

Draft 2

I turned the key and pushed the door open with a weary shoulder, flecks of sleep crumbling from my eye lashes into sore eyes. It was too early to be awake. I was met at the door by reliable and familiar sounds: the clanging of the bell against the glass door behind me, the clamoring of agitated birds, flipping of cedar shavings, howling barks, and stern squawks. The animals heard my movements and the cacophony began.
Someone’s here…

The stench of urine and slightly sweet smell of birds carried me from the door onto the stretch of tile floor into the back storage room which smelled of the store parrot’s messy slumber. I placed my sandwich in the fridge and spotted zucchini that waited to be diced. The iguanas must eat. Why do they have to eat such troublesome food?

The light of the shop looked different to me; a fluorescent bulb had burned out casting an atypical shadow over the looming saltwater tank displayed behind the cash register counter. It was its own universe, all its contents super-sized.

“How do you clean that thing? It’s huge!” customers would exclaim, pointing, their eyes tracing it from top to bottom, side to side, keeping the slow rhythm with the lazy swim of fish the colors of neon: a graceful Disney-faced Puffer, flirty Clownfish, and deadly Lion Fish who lived there. With the bulb out it radiated an eerie glow.

“I don’t clean it, Ma’am. We have guys here who do that.”

Something stuck in my throat; it felt dry, as did the roof of my mouth. I realized my hand was still inside the iguana tank and one of them was making his way up my wrist. With force, I flung him off and his small, wiry body hit the glass. That was mean. I didn’t feel gentle today. I just needed to get the job done: open shop, last the day, and go home.

It was odd to open the shop alone but to feel crowded while doing it. Living things peeked out with expectant eyes at every turn. The bowing up of a distracted snake or exotic lizard would thrash out of nowhere from homes that were too flimsy. One time while taking store inventory, along with a product count, we had to count all the animals in the shop, including fish that were in constant motion. We came up with the number of about 210, and this morning they were all rising to the tops of their tanks beckoning like baby birds for me to sprinkle their morning feast down for them. I stared at them blankly. Today I could not feel compassionate toward them, or toward anything in the store.
They began to blur and morph into shapelessness and I fell hypnotized by the hum of the aquarium filters.

A scroungy bark complained that I had not yet made my way to his corner, and I realized that I needed to feed and clean the pups and kittens. The growls, chirps and scratching sounds of the animals played their normal orchestra, but I was far away. How could they open the store today? It’s offensive. And this headache must go away. I cannot get through the day with this headache.

I opened the cage where the scruffy white wire-hair terrier who wasn’t selling greeted me with over-enthusiasm, such enthusiasm that he knocked over his water bowl, making a wet mess of my white tee-shirt. At almost three months now, he was beginning to outgrow the cage. I pitied him and would often let him run around the store as I cleaned to allow him a break from the confinement. He and I had become friends. I set him down where he took off immediately toward the kittens’ cage, interrupting their calm vigil. They hissed and Terrier gnashed his teeth. Havoc ensued: screeching, squawking, the whipping of wings, of tails; the kittens growled and Terrier did the only thing he knew to do in response to all of the frenzy. He peed on the floor.

“No!” I scolded. He took off in a sprint as if a reaction from me was a playful invitation. “Damn you, I said no!” I jerked him up by the scruff and glared into his eyes. He let out a yelp of hurt from my squeeze. My glare turned into shame. I held him to my chest, his rough coat like a coarse rug pressed under my chin. I will not cry. I have to open this shop in thirty minutes. I will not lose control.

Still facing me were the tasks of cleaning bird cages, sweeping away the piles of birdseed, changing sandy litter pans, feeding the fish, scooping deads. The dead fish must be disposed of, every day. First thing. Never open the store to customers without having scooped the dead.

I felt sick. The space around me began to shrink and look dreamlike. I made my way to where there was a small sink and a counter reserved for bagging fish for customers. It was cleared so that room had been made available for leisure.

Upon it sat two empty Coke cans, the tabs pulled off, and a pile of empty boiled peanut shells. Our peanut shells. I hugged my shoulders. Fell to my knees. The sobs came, like
choking. The animals shrilled, shaken and unprepared. Even they had never heard such a sound, guttural and primal, like their own shrieks when injured.

I could eat these things all day, mmmm, mmmmm!
Please – stay here and do that. Don’t leave.
I peeled and popped another peanut into my mouth. It’s nice we’re slow on customers. I never get time alone with just you. Even as you downed your Coke, traded cigarette for mouthful of peanuts, you were handsome. I pretended that your four years ahead of me and experience beyond mine didn’t matter. You had better things to do than finish cleaning a pet shop with a girl of sixteen who’d only been kissed a few times. Your work was done.
I watched you leave, yearning.

Smearing away the tears with my index finger, collecting myself, breathing again. I approached the shells and empty cans and weakly re-composed. The last minutes of this place, where he had been as permanent a fixture as the displayed words PET SHOP above the entrance, belonged only to me. My grief turned into a flicker of gratitude: the pebble of strength that I needed to make it through the day. I slipped a peanut shell into my pocket and felt its salt still fresh inside my fingers. I pulled down the string to light up the sign: Open. The customers were waiting.

Book Review of Stephen King's "On Writing: a Memoir of the Craft"

“…The most valuable lessons of all are the ones you teach yourself. These lessons almost always occur with the study door closed” (240).

This is perhaps the most meaningful sentiment that the “on writing and life” memoir of famed novelist Stephen King shares with its reader. The book, which contains personal snapshots of King’s life and practical advice on creating one’s own toolbox of writing resources, ranging from gathering ideas for writing as well as how to most effectively tell and sell the story, is a fun and enlightening read for anyone who wants to become a better writer.

Perhaps the book’s most striking quality is how conversational and humorous it is. At every opportunity, King speaks to his reader directly: “So ok – there you are in your room with the shade down and the door shut and the plug pulled out of the base of the telephone” reminding his reader to “[never] wait for the muse…your job is to make sure [it] knows where you’re going to be everyday…” (153)

The personal intimacy in which King addresses his reader is ever-present, making it a challenge to read the book without feeling like Stephen King is speaking individually to the reader in a friendly and personal one-on-one encounter over a beer or cup of coffee.

Readers might go into the first pages with a bias: Stephen King: the horror story writer; what he could have to say to me, a teacher/mother/baseball player “on writing” other than to dole out suggestions on how to successfully give a reader nightmares? Quickly, the reader begins to see King as a surprisingly normal person who wasn’t born into a glamorous literary lifestyle, but worked thankless jobs to get there, once“…dyeing swatches of melton cloth purple or navy blue” and happy to move down to work in the basement “…where it was thirty degrees cooler” (49). Through King’s descriptions of sweaty third shifts and reminiscence of “…the nail in my wall [which] would no longer support the rejection slips” we get the intimate look into the life of a man who took no short-cuts but simply worked hard to become the kind of writer that people want to read.

Perhaps the book’s only downfall is that its use of coarse language removes it from the young readers’ book list, but for the mature reader, the language adds to its authenticity, characteristic of King who writes: “The point is to let each character speak freely, without regard to what the Legion of Decency or the Christian Ladies’ Reading Circle may approve of. To do otherwise would be cowardly as well as dishonest” (185).


From King’s childhood until his collision with personal crisis, with the help of “Tabby”, the wife he adores and his “I.R” (Ideal Reader: each reader must decide who that is), King shows his audience that one cannot “open the door” to publication until he has written with the “door closed first,” where mistakes can be made and ideas can be born.

The Day After, Draft 1

I turned the key and pushed the door open with a lean using my shoulder. I was tired. Reliable and familiar sounds: the clanging of the bell against the glass door. The animals heard my movements and the cacophony began. Someone’s here…someone’s here for us at last.

The stench of urine and slightly sweet smell of birds carried me from door onto stretch of tile floor into the back storage room where I placed my sandwich in the fridge and took out zucchini to dice. The iguanas must eat. Why must they eat such troublesome food?

The light of the shop looked different to me; a fluorescent bulb had burned out casting an atypical shadow over the looming 300 gallon saltwater tank that was an impressive display behind the cash register counter. With the bulb out it radiated an eerie glow.
“How do you clean that thing? It’s so huge!” customers would exclaim, pointing, their eyes tracing it from top to bottom, side to side, keeping the slow rhythm with the lazy swim of the graceful Disney-faced Puffer, small Clownfish, and deadly Lion Fish who lived there.

“I don’t clean it Ma’am. We have guys here who do that.”

Something stuck in my throat; it felt dry, as did the roof of my mouth. I realized my hand was still inside the iguana tank and one of them was making his way up my wrist. I flung him off forcefully and his small, wiry body hit the glass. That was mean. I didn’t feel gentle today. I just needed to get the job done, last the day, and go home.

It was odd to open the shop alone but to feel crowded while doing it. One time while taking store inventory, along with a product count, we had to count all the animals in the shop, including fish, which was interesting because they were in constant motion. We came up with the number of about 210 in our twelve separate aquariums, and this morning they were all rising to the tops of their imitation habitats beckoning like baby birds for me to sprinkle their morning feast down for them. I stared at them blankly. Today I could not feel compassionate toward them, or toward anything in the store. They began to blur and morph into shapelessness and I fell hypnotized by the hum of the aquarium filters, their motors running for the fishes survival.

A scroungy bark complained that I had not yet made my way to his corner, and I realized that I needed to feed and clean the puppy pen. The growls, chirps and scratching sounds of the animals played their normal orchestra, but I was far away. This headache must go away. I cannot get through this day with this headache.

I opened the cage where the terrier who wasn’t selling greeted me with over-enthusiasm, such enthusiasm that he knocked over his water bowl, making a wet mess of my white tee-shirt. At almost three months now, he was beginning to outgrow the cage. I pitied him and would often let him run around the store as I cleaned to allow him a break from the confinement and to stretch his legs. He and I had become friends. I set him down where he took off immediately toward the kittens’ cage. This interrupted the kittens’ calm vigil. They hissed and terrier gnashed his teeth. Havoc ensued: screeching, squawking, the whipping of wings, kittens growled and terrier did the only thing he knew to do in response to all of the frenzy. He peed on the floor.

“No!” I scolded. He took off in a sprint as if a reaction from me was a playful invitation. “Damn you, I said no!" He let out a yelp of hurt from my squeeze. I jerked him up by the scruff and glared into his eyes. My glare turned into shame. I will not cry. I have to open this shop in thirty minutes. I will not lose control.

Still facing me were the tasks of cleaning birdcages, finishing dog cages, changing kitty litter pans, feeding the fish, scooping deads. The dead fish must be disposed of, every day. First thing. Never open the store to customers without having scooped the dead.

I felt sick. The space around me began to shrink and look dreamlike. I made my way to where there was a small sink and a counter reserved for bagging fish for customers. It was cleared so that room had been made available for leisure.

Upon it sat two empty Coke cans, the tabs pulled off, and a pile of empty boiled peanut shells. I hugged my shoulders. Fell to my knees. The sobs came, like choking.

Notes: Using Place to Make a Scene

Notes: Using Place to Make a Scene
After Chad’s death


Step 1: Emotions
Loss, disassociation, scattered, longing, reflective, regretful

Step 2: Circle one of these emotions to focus on for this exercise
not sure yet

Step 3: List moments of (of an hour or less) when you experienced that strong emotion.
Seeing the unfinished coke cans and empty boiled peanut shells from the day before when hands had been active, blood pumping, heart beating; cleaning bird cages, hamster homes, and litter pans as I faced the overwhelming task of putting on a brave face to attend to pet needs, pet shop customers, and the promise of a funeral

Step 4:

Step 5: Who was with you?
Alone with the animals – hundreds of fish, (a Disney-eyed puffer and deadly Lion fish)
A scruffy terrier who wouldn’t sell and was outgrowing his cage
Parakeets, amazon parrots, military macaw named Sarge, iguanas who sat by their hot rocks; Persian kittens

Step 6: What did you hear?
Squawking, screeching, whipping of wings, small growls, scroungy barks, mews, whipping of tails (lizards) against the glass tank, absence of radio?? hum of aquarium filters, scraping/dragging of the broom, clanging of bird cages cup holders, tiny claws digging/clawing, attemting escape from glass tank homes; store phone ringing, my voice answering the call: Thank you for calling Pet Pros, we open at 9; clanging of bell against the glass when entrance door was opened, crunching and opening of peanuts and sound of it dropping onto newspaper from store parrot, the sobs that finally came, like choking, the ringing in my ear from store parrot’s scream, my shriek back at him.
All sounds Chad would never hear again

Step 7: What was in the space? List objects.
Boiled peanuts shells, Coke cans, cigarette butts and ashtray, large saltwater aquarium behind cash register counter, bird cages, dog/cat cages, fish tanks, shelves stacked with dog and cat food bags, hanging leashes, myriad of pet products: flea and tick shampoos/dips, bird food, fish food, cuttle bones for beak sharpening, dog clothing, Frisbees, pet tug toys, rawhides, chew hooves, an office in the back housing a desk, chair, and computer for product ordering; “back room” housing refrigerator for pet food storage (freezer for pinkie mice, frozen creel); bird seed spills, dead fish jumped overboard, dumped food bowls, dog poop, cat poop, wormy poop



Step 8: What did you touch? What did you feel with your hands, with your body, with your skin?
Rubber gloves on hands for cleaning out cages, soft fur of the terrier that wouldn’t sell held close to my chin (I buried my face into the fur of the terrier that wouldn’t sell); scooped poop under generic-brand paper towels, kitty litter strainer, fish nets for “scooping deads”; warmth of the temp-controlled aquarium water, burned hand against light bulb, coldness of the air conditioner, sunburn from the previous day, eyes stung with tears, wet newspaper

Step 9: What did you taste? Possible to taste?
Salty tears, dry mouth from not eating since night before (I was incapable); the memory of sweet Cokes and boiled peanuts from day before;

Step 10: What did you smell? Possible to smell?
fresh cedar shavings, soiled litter pans/cedar shavings, stench of urine and feces, slightly sweet smell of birds, decomposing fish, frozen creel, fish food flakes, slicing of zucchini (iguana food), baby powder scent of my deodorant, “Orange Power” cleaning fluid, old sandwich leftovers in fridge, cedar shavings

Step 11: What did people say? Make a list of topics of conversation, or even lines you remember?
There was an accident
But he’s ok – he’ll still be into work, right?
I could eat these things all day, mmmmm, mmmm!
Please – stay here and do that. Don’t go to the barbeque.
Hello….WAHHHH….PET PROS…..WAHHHHH
Little conversation, only sounds of animals; stray phone call or two – customers with questions
We lost an employee yesterday

Step 12: Finally now you can write an outline of what happened.
7 am phone call – mother enters bedroom. There was an accident, Chad has died. Ride to work is blur – did I drive myself or someone drive me? No memory of it. Am due in to work to clean and prepare store for normal day’s opening; shocked and indignant they didn’t shut down business for the day;
am expected to work, there with no help, and yet am the most devastated of all seven employees at Chad’s death; face the task of preparing the store, the animals, to open alone carrying such anguish in my chest; I manage to meet my obligations and open the store and attempt business as usual, even though it is far from this for me.

Step 13: Analyze. What was the value to you of what happened? Were you a witness to something amazing? Did it change you in significant ways? Why does telling this story matter to you?
Began the day angry at expectation to report to work (couldn’t someone else do it?) but ended day realizing this was the most comforting place for me to cope and digest, and that if anyone else had come in and cleaned up the last remnants of Chad – the Coke cans and empty peanut shells and cigarette butts, I would have missed a moment that no one else could have appreciated.

Step 14: Analyze Audience. Why might this story matter to someone else? Why would someone want to read it? What does it offer?
Anyone who has faced loss. Significant because the reader can appreciate the suddenly overwhelming expectation of completing ordinary tasks contrasted against the stark reality that they will never again see someone they loved and valued and held as a fixture in their environment. It offers the perspective that instead of staying in bed grief-stricken and letting someone else go into work to do the job, it is better to face the pain, which in the process, reveals the last treasures of that person’s memory.