Adult Nonfiction Winners 2006

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One Crappy Essay

By Mimi Knight

Anyone who's raised a boy or who grew up with brothers can relate to the car trip I endured the other day. Once in his life every red-blooded, American boy discovers a word which, from the first time he hears it, completely enchants him. For my five brothers it was the word "booger". For my son, Hewson, it's "turd".

In the late 1960s there was nothing funnier to my brothers than taking any sentence (song title, slogan, whatever I just said) and slipping "booger" in place of another word. I can still hear them crooning, "I'm looking over a four pound booger" then collapsing in laughter in the backseat where I was trapped with them for our annual endurance trip from Kansas City to New Orleans and back. The more they used their word, the harder they laughed. The harder they laughed, the madder I got. I caught a glimpse of my parents once in the rear view mirror as they pretended to scold my brothers while snickering to each other and felt completely betrayed.

Now I'm the mom of four kids including one red blooded 8 year old boy and one far too serious 11 year old sister. As much as I've tried to reason with her and explain, "If you don't let him get to you, he'll get bored and stop saying it," she doesn't listen any more than I did.

Last Thursday the three of us piled into the car and set out in search of a new mini van. It wasn't Kansas City to New Orleans but for my daughter, Molly, it might as well have been as Hewson set about using his newfound word with a gusto that would've made his uncles proud. He began with highway sign; signs like Turds May Ice in Cold Weather, Turd Limit 70, Caution; Falling Turds and my own personal favorite, Highway Workers, Give Them a Turd.

Molly's pleas o "MAAA- MAAA, make him stop!" started a tug of war inside of me. On one hand, I remember too well the booger days of the 1960s. On the other, when I looked from my new vantage point in the rearview mirror and saw the impish look on Hewson's freckled face as he sang out, Unlawful to Turd and Authorized Turds Only, I felt a laugh boiling up inside of me. I thought about my brothers singing, "She's Got a Booger to Ride", took a deep breath and told Hewson, "All right, Buddy, enough turd talk for a while. Find something else to do."

He did for a few miles then we hit a populated area and the billboards began. A national motel chain offered Free Continental Turds. An airline invited customers to Come Turd with Us. I disguised a chuckle as a cough.

Molly turned red in the face "Mom, I'm going to clobber him if he doesn't shut up!"

We passed a truck warning, Caution Wide Turds.

Another truck offering, Quality Refrigerated Turds\ A good one!

"Mom, aren't you going to say anything?"

I swallowed repeatedly, made myself think of something sad, and tried changing the subject, "What 'cha reading there, Sis?"

She cut her brother a look and held up the book in her lap. "It's for school. A collection of poems by Edgar Allan Poe."

"Oh", Hewson retorted "Turdy Allan Poe. I've heard of him," then broke into a rousing rendition of "Hail to the Turd". (Better than "Turd to the Chief I thought. But didn't say it.)

We passed through a No Turd Zone and a car with an I Brake for Turds bumper sticker. That's when Molly walloped Hewson. But, as any brother can tell you, laughter is stronger than Novocain for deadening the sting of a sister's slug. He didn't miss a beat, Caution... Steep Turds Ahead. She punched him again. I tried to referee from the front seat.

"Molly, if you'll stop pounding your brother I'm sure he'll stop talking turd for a while. Right, Buddy?" Nobody heard me.

"Yield to Oncoming Turds." POUND!

"Center Lane for Turds Only." POUND!

"This Turd Stops at all Railroad Crossings." DOUBLE POUND!

I threatened to "Pull this car over and you'll both be sorry." I was talking to myself. That's when I saw it, dearly written on the passenger side mirror. Turds in Mirror are Closer Than They Appear. No, I can't. I owe it to Molly, to sisters everywhere to take her side on this. I willed myself to remember how badly I'd wanted to open the back door of our old Impala and kick my brothers out onto the highway.

The fray in the back seat continued as we turned off the interstate and into a residential neighborhood, Slow Turds at Play.

"I'm gonna kill him, Mom. I MEAN it)"

Quiet! Turd Zone.

"All right, I warned him."

Fines higher in turd area.

"Mom, you're just gonna' let him say it?"

No more signs but Hewson was on a roll, "A turd in the hand is worth two in the bush".

"Yeah" I thought. "The early turd gets the worm." I tried my hardest to conjure up a picture of my brothers after we got home from New Orleans and they recruited a few neighborhood boys in singing, The booger, my friend, is blowing in the wind."

"Got turds?' Hewson asked.

"The squeaky turd gets the grease," I thought.

That was last week. Molly hasn't killed her brother yet and we still haven't found a new mini van. We're setting out to shop some more today. Things aren't looking too good though. I can hear Hewson in his room getting ready singing, "Who let the turds out! Who? Who? Who?"

MY SOON-TO-BE-BEST SELLER

By Sarah Newsome

When I opened a recent bank statement, a most extraordinary thing happened. As far as I can determine, this is only the second time in recorded history that such an event has occurred. All those eons ago when some disobedient/curious person opened Pandora's box, the small voice of hope called out.

The small voice that whispered from my bank statement was this: "Feed me. 1 am drowning in a sea of red ink!"

My heart leaped into my throat and jumped about. My hands trembled and all oxygen left my body. My ability to breathe ceased. I knew that banks consume only one thing -money. I also knew that money could be legally obtained from only one source - a job. I felt so ill-prepared to get one of those. As a senior citizen, I simply had not kept apace with the rapidly growing technological advances. Just last year I had become so annoyed when I could not find a replacement ribbon for my manual typewriter.

Shortly after that, my children had bought me a computer and forced me to learn the basics. I knew exactly how that old dog felt when asked to learn new tricks. Many aspirin were consumed in the process, but now I can say with a small amount of pride that I'm getting pretty good at solitaire. Once in a great while I can get an e-mail to the right person, but getting a job was an entirely different story.

With great trepidation I turned to the help wanted section of the paper. Jobs of many sorts were available, but I Jacked the necessary skills. I cannot drive an 18 wheeler, hang sheetrock, install electrical wiring, repair plumbing, cut hair or do manual labor. I cannot be an automobile service technician or a real estate appraiser.

Anything in the health care world is beyond my ability. I might could be a dental assistant if I could wear earplugs and get an hourly intake of nitrous oxide.

Restaurant jobs were plentiful but offered no challenge. After raising three boys and cooking entire herds of cattle and fields of potatoes and veggies, I have unplugged all kitchen appliances. That chapter of my life is closed.

I cannot paint, climb poles, lay bricks, install carpet... You can see my dilemma.

Suddenly the answer literally leaped off the front page of the newspaper. WORDS!! I know a whole bunch of words.. .hundreds, maybe thousands. Mind you, I never said I could spell that many, but a nice young man named Webster( He won the intergalactic spelling bee when he was 9.) knows how to spell all known words. He wrote a book on the subject for people like me.

My job would be just put them in the proper sequence and a best-selling novel would result. People did it all the time. John Grisham writes at least two every month and Stephen King can churn out a thousand pager in a weekend.

I was getting more and more excited! Books apparently were the easiest things in the world to write.. .as easy as a grocery list and easier by far than a thank you note. Even the smallest towns have stores that sell nothing but books. I could see book signings in my near future. Then there would be the round of appearances on talk shows and such. No doubt I'd need to hire an accountant to help me count my money Before my next bank statement arrived, that sea of red would have turned into a river of gold nuggets.

The more I thought about how words were such unmined fields of gold , I became annoyed at my own failure to see the potential sooner. My very own husband is one of a million others who actually pay people to get up before the dawn's early light to throw his own personal newspaper into his very own personal yard.

His AM routine never varies. After he's taken a leak and turned on the coffee pot, he retrieves the paper from the yard. He reads the important stuff first... the headlines, the sports page, the cartoons. Before the day is done, he has read every word on every page. Some sections are highlighted for further perusal. His need to know is insatiable.

Once my plan was formulated, I headed to WalMart to get a six pack of yellow legal pads and a dozen Bic pens. My creative juices do not flow when I'm seated in front of my don't-know-how-to-use computer. I must have yellow legal pads.

My mind raced with the car. I'd need characters. These characters would have to be given a multitude of seemingly insurmountable problems to solve. There might be a mystery to solve or a love triangle to untangle. The possibilities were endless. It would be in my power to have them do and say whatever I wanted them to do and say. The only obstacle between that and a number 1 spot on the best sellers list would be my ability to put the words in the proper sequence in incite fear, suspense, sympathy...

Obviously it would need to be a page turner, a one-night read, and must leave the reader with a feeling of sadness when the final page was turned because they would crave more.

Aaah! Now I'm all nested down and ready to bring extraordinary characters to life. I can write in only one spot...my kitchen table. When I get writer's cramp, I can look out the picture window and watch the birds and squirrels.

Unlike some jobs where serious tools are required, a writer's tools are simple. For me it's a yellow legal pad, a Bic pen and Mr. Webster's book of words.

The paper looked up at me in anticipation. Hum! Maybe I needed a cup of coffee to jolt my creative juices. Since I was already up, I decided I might as well bake some cookies. Once I got rolling, I'd not want to stop for something as trivial as food.. It'd be best to get that little detail out of the way beforehand.

Just as I put the third batch of cookies into the oven, I glanced at the clock. Oh no! It was time for the Oprah Show. I didn't even glance at that yellow legal pad. It would still be there tomorrow, and as we all know, thanks to Scarlet O'Hara, tomorrow would be another day.

I know how disappointed my soon-to-be-fans are at this delay. I hope they will forgive me. After waiting almost seven decades to write my best seller, I really must begin writing on the perfect day. Tomorrow I shall rise with the sun and write until all pens run dry. They will be sooooo glad I waited.'

Skinner’s Flint

By Sylvia Lynn

Bulldozers growled as they plowed through lumber, living and dead, rushing to shove someone's world to the ditch. He just sat there, unmoving, on the highest rise of the nearly naked lot Even in the plastic Dollar Store chair he looked small. They had to see about him. But he remained like a rock, not curious or annoyed, just unchanged. He was there; they weren't.

Standing over him, "Are you all right?"

Nothing.

Introductions, blah, blah,".. .we're here to help. Can we do anything for you? Anything at all?"

Nothing.

Spying a nice gray two story with lacy curtains behind a broken shed, "We'd be happy to help you gut your home," the lady persisted.

"Not mine."

"Oh, I see, it's off those foundation blocks. If that's not it, where is your house?" the brainless bimbo struck again.

Her partner followed the tiny man's line of sight to the barricade of busted boards and beams blocking the street beside him - kicked to the ditch. "That's bis house. The gray one is from over there."

"I'm so sorry" - for her clumsy Pollyanna-fied geriatric cheerleader ineptitude one would hope.

"Could I give you a hug?" she wouldn't quit.

His hands started to move, perhaps to shield himself. "Don't get up." Double his size, she was overwhelming him by then. Her cheek against his silver stubble whispering, "We only wanted to give you a blessing."

"Are you sure there's nothing we can do for you?" The partner was squatting at the frail man's feet by then. "Anything at all?"

"Laundry. My wife..."

"Oh, I'd be happy to," she interrupted. "Where is it? Do you want me to take it and bring it back tomorrow? Or do you want him to stay and talk with you 'til I get back with it today?"

"In the car. Done."

Thinking they had struck a do-gooder's bargain, she headed toward his wheels.

"Wait The laundry's done. It's folded on the seat," said her partner while turning his attention back to the hardened oldster with the iron eyes.

"Is that tool box yours? " he asked. "They don't make 'em like that anymore. Tough. Be around a long time. Can take a real beating. Must have come in handy a time or two."

Bingo! Contact! That bartered old box had sparked life.

"That must have been a fine compressor to last this long," he continued as he nodded toward a cylinder on wheels behind them.

"You think that shed could be shored up some to keep that workhorse out of the weather?"  He was standing up now.

"Walk with me and let's see," waiting for Mr. Skinner to slowly rise and move toward the broken building.

After some pointing at, probing under, and pushing against the remains, Mr. Skinner finally participated. He remembered what he needed, and knew exactly how he wanted it done.

"We'll meet you here tomorrow. Nine it is then. You be here now. Don't worry about the tools. They'll bring their own and the generator to run them." Goodbyes.

The next morning, a few minutes early, two loads of volunteer 'faith workers' arrived full of energy - stalled. Mr. Skinner's chair was empty. Most hands turned to picking up debris around the work area. They were wisely instructed not to throw anything onto the board barricade. The final fate of everything had to be decided by its owner, the absent Mr. Skinner. Still waiting, downed pieces of trees were stacked as possibly good for fire wood or unlikely kindling. When the builders finished discussing their options, the soggy objects in the shed were removed and placed at the base of a tree. It was a trash or treasure judgment day for storm debris. Mr. Skinner arrived just in time to make the executive decisions. Firing their plans, he charged them to rotate his shed and restore it exactly as possible.

By noon they reached a stopping point and rushed to brace a house that had been over-enthusiastically gutted. A tile roof was suspended by only naked studs. Plywood sheeting needed to stabilize and square the corners had finally reached the location through the bobcats, bulldozers and dump trucks. They tried to beat the wind.

"How'd it go yesterday?" The hugging lady arrived the third morning and started unloading scrap wood and plastic sacks.

"They took my broom." His voice said misery.

"What?" Her voice said disbelief.

"And my spade."       She was coming closer.

"And my rake." She was there.

"Oh, Mr. Skinner. There must be some mistake. They only wanted to help you. It must have been by accident. There were so many tools, and so many hands helping. Surely they still have those things. Just ask them when they get here and I know they'll give..."

"They're coming back?" He interrupted this time.

"Didn't you notice? I just brought the trim boards you were missing, the 'Flint' colored trim paint, the hasp and..."

"They're coming back." His eyes were leaking.

At last, fire.

Rising Again

By Mimi Knight

 

Like any self respecting GRIT (Girl Raised in the South) I've seen Gone With the Wind no less than a thousand times and memorized every line of dialogue. Since high school I've been able to recite entire scenes to the delight and annoyance of my friends. It drives my teenagers crazy though so these days I usually keep it to myself

But last month after riding out Hurricane Katrina in our house an hour north of New Orleans, my CWRW obsession resurfaced. When we emerged after nine hours spent huddled in a hallway listening to windows shatter and literally hundreds of trees fall around us, our eight acres looked like a bomb had gone off Where forest had been there was nothing but sky. We found out later that our town was ravaged by dozens of tornadoes that spun off of the hurricane.

Standing there surveying the damage all I could think about were the post war scenes from Gone With the Wind Maybe I was punch drunk but I remembered the scene where Scarlet and her family discover the war is finally over. Everyone stands staring shocked and defeated wondering why they'd fought in the first place but Scarlet's eyes light up and she thinks out loud, "Cotton oughta' go sky high next year." So that was my line for the next several hours as we tried to get over the shock of what had happened to us. Each time I said it, my 15-year-old groaned and my husband had a much needed laugh. Before long, he was saying it too.

Our neighbors had evacuated so we felt like we should check on their house for them. So many trees were down that it took us fifteen minutes climbing over and crawling under them to traverse our two driveways. As we got closer, my daughter exclaimed that she could see the roof, then that the house looked intact. I thought about the scene when Scarlet and Melanie return to see if anything is left of Tare. Clouds have obscured the moon and they strain their eyes to see. Then as the clouds part Scarlet exclaims, "It's all right! They haven't burned it. It's still there!" Looking at my neighbors' house with trees piled twenty feet high on every side but none through the roof, I knew just how Scarlet had felt.

It took us two days to cut a path from our front door to the outside world. After 48 hours working with chain saws and handsaws in 95 plus degree weather we were filthy, exhausted and hotter than we'd ever been. Surveying my blood-streaked, mosquito swollen limbs I thought about the O'Hara girls picking cotton after the war. Suellen laments, "Look at my hands! Mother said you could always tell a lady by her hands." And Carreen consoles her with, "I guess things like hands and ladies don't matter so much any more." Carreen, Suellen and Scarlet were my constant companions as we fought our way out not knowing what we'd find left of our town.

At dusk the second day we couldn't take the heat any longer. We gathered our soap, shampoo, conditioner, even razors and snuck into the neighbor's pool for a bath. (It didn't look much better than our pond.) As we soaked, my 13-year-old kept shushing us for fear we'd be discovered. This, of course, was the scene after Atlanta's been evacuated but Scarlet stayed behind to deliver Melanie's baby. She tells her, "Scream all you want, Melly There's no one to hear you." And scream we did.

My brother-in-law drove three hours from Jackson, Mississippi then climbed over miles of trees and downed power lines to find us. Seeing his silhouette coming down our front walk was reminiscent of the scene when Melanie realizes that the lone bedraggled soldier stumbling down their driveway is her precious Ashley come home from war. And through it all the words of Aunt Pitty Pat kept ringing in my ears, "It's like the end of the world!" ("Uncle Peter, my smelling salts.")

There followed days of trying to locate family and friends. Each reunion was tearful but after we'd exchanged horror stories and any good news we'd managed to scrape up, I'd share with them my Gone With the Wind analogies and we'd have a good laugh. When I telephoned my niece, Jen, in Alaska, she told me she'd posted a message on her sorority's web site at Loyola. "I know it's far fetched," she wrote. "But if anyone wants to relocate to Fairbanks you can stay with me. I'll rind you a job, buy you clothes, whatever you need."

She explained, "It's frustrating being so far away where I can't help Mom and Dad but I keep thinking about that scene from Gone With the Wind where Melanie's feeding the Northern soldiers. She says, 'Maybe on some northern road some northern woman is giving Ashley a share of her dinner and helping my beloved to come back home to me." So I guess I'm not the only one.

After a week of my GWTW obsession, my 15-year-old exploded, "Mom, you do know that's just a story? Those people aren't real." Of course I do and I don't mean to make light of what anyone is going through. But seeing the similarities between our circumstances and what the women in that story endured reminded me that this isn't the first time folks in this part of the country have had to start over against impossible odds.

But I know the heart and the determination of the people of the Gulf Coast. We'll use humor and whatever else it takes to come back from this and we'll come back stronger than before. After all, tomorrow is another day.

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