Jlite/uiA4f. QUc4A*catia4t
Meaning for Words
Consolation
By EUNICE M. BROWN
Here we all have sat and said
“While in my garden or in bed
I was so struck with beauty rare
I yearned to mark it down—to share
A blinding moment, sadly lost
Because my thoughts and pen got crossed.
I knew a certain sense of shame
That I sought words which never came.”
Count less fortunate than you
All the myriad people who
Never see a wondrous thing
Never feel the need to sing.
I sympathize, I know the plight
Of those who thrill and cannot write
Here’s consolation for any such:
You saw, you felt — and that is much.
M s*W^S»!
The Viewing
By BILLIE ROBINSON
The Creative Writing Class that
I am attending is an experiment
for me. I had wanted to write for
a long time, and tell about some
of the places that I had visited,
the people I had known and my
own reactions to both. I wanted
others to read what I wrote, but
I did not know the first thing
about the mechanics of writing
a story.
A friend of mine who had at
tended a class in Creative Writ
ing last year, persuaded me to
come and visit when the group
met for the first time this Spring.
I did this and during the evening
I became very much interested
in the teacher and her ideas, as
well as the men and women who
had signed up to take the course.
In a conversation with the
teacher, Dr. Bernice Kelly Har-
Rainy Sunday
(Continued)
"Why?” Mr. Parrish asked.
"This raincoat situation.” the
deacon replied.
Mr. Parrish, thinking the dea
con had found out about his
missing coat, said, “Oh, you've
heard about someone taking my
raincoat yesterday.”
"No,” the deacon said. "I’m
talking about my own coat.
Somebody took my coat yester
day. and I had to take the only
thing that was left on the rack—
this thing.” He looked down at
the plastic coat he was wearing
The pocket was torn slightly,
and two or three of the snap-
fasteners down the front were
tom out of the plastic material.
All the men were looking at
the ‘thing’ the deacon wore.
Suddenly the minister stepped
a little closer to inspect the torn
f)ocket and the missing snap-
fasteners. “Why, that’s my rain
coat,” he said. “You’ll find the
name under the label.”
A howl of laughter went up
from them as the deacon peeled
off the coat and gave it to the
preacher.
Mr. Parrish told the deacon
that a coat, most likely his,
was in the coat room at the
church. He did not add that it
was in bad shape too. But he
looked the deacon straight in the
eye and said with a chuckle.
“I'll tell you what I’m going to
do. Next Sunday morning I'm
going to preach on the subject,
'Thou art the man!’”
All for Humanity
(Continued)
the wonderful opportunity be
fore me. My hands shook, my
whole txKJy trembled with anti
cipation. Anyone. I knew, would
be envious of my position.
I found a good place upon the
rock facing in a direction that
included the whole valley below
and the mountain directly across
the plain. I felt like Columbus
on the bow of his boat facing
new worlds as I stood on the
summit of the mountain.
I braced myself. Inhaling
deeply. I gave a triumphant
shout: “I am John, a man!”
Then I waited for the glorious
echo to return to glorify man
kind.
The echo returned loud and
sharp: "Fool. fool. fool, fool,
fool, fool, fool, fool . . .”
My wife had climbed the other
mountain.
ris, who is a published author,
I explained that the only attempt
that I had made to do any writ
ing, was about seven years ago
when I traveled across the United
States with four children. I drove
one car and my son drove a sta
tion wagon and pulled a boat on
a trailer behind it. So many
funny things happened to us on
the trip, I knew I would want to
relate to my husband later that I
decided to keep an account of the
happenings. When I did read it to
him, he seemed to enjoy the
story, as well as the way that I
had written it. The laughter and
praise provoked by my humorous
travelog was heady stuff to me.
and my desire to write grew out
of this reaction.
No sooner had I mulled aloud
the question as to whether or not
I should go to a night class in
writing, than family insistence
began. First from my husband
and then from the children. Of
course I should go. It would be
good for me. Here’s the money
for it, go sign up! I was told. I
discovered later that this class
was to be not only a source of
great pleasure and information
to me, but a therapeutic outlet
as well.
After an interview with Philips
Russell, a retired professor of
Creative Writing at the Univer
sity of North Carolina, a fellow
student qouted him as saying,
"Seek out the unique experiences
in your life and write a story
around them—”. All of the dozen
or so students in my class have
revealed part of themselves
through the stories they have
written. Their "unique experi
ences” are sometimes presented
in a factual way, but more often
than not. they are the background
for a good fictional story.
A doctor in our class wrote
about a poor couple with little
education, whose child-bearing
capabilities far exceeded their
income and the wife’s health.
The doctor’s knowledge of, and
concern for. this condition seems
to indicate his first-hand experi
ence with the problem. One of
the women students, who spends
much of her time as a civic
leader and part-time business ex
ecutive, writes poignant stories
about her past life, which has in
cluded the greatest of tragedies
and joys.
A prominent hostess and young
mother writes stories that point
out the falseness and wrong
sense of values which is pre-
velent in her social group. A-
nother young woman with very
strong religious convictions has
created out of her own beliefs,
poems and stories of great moral
character.
We are fortunate to have in
our class, a minister who has
written a play concerned with
a religious point of view. He is
now revealing himself and his
own "unique experiences” in a
series of essays that he hopes
will be published some day.
Along with the need for using
personal experiences to write
about, we find that all students
of writing should have a respect
for the meaning of words, as
they are the key to clarity in
a story. There is a woman in
our group, who has a major in
English. She attended Columbia
University, and did a great deal
of writing there. Her words show
clarity, her descriptions are in
cisive, and the stories she writes
must certainly be expressions of
her own convictions touched by
experiences that she may have
had.
No mention of my fellow stu
dents would be complete without
a word of admiration for the
lady who has so aptly written
about her childhood home with
an ability to combine its’ history
with description and make it de
lightfully palatable. Or for the
wife of a newspaperman who en
rolled to learn more about the
art of writing.
There are several college stu
dents in this class, who find the
time spent in it so rewarding
that they are willing to give up
their free time in the evening
once a week for the sake of ex
pressing themselves on paper.
One of these, a young lady,
wrote a play which is to be pro
duced at Chapel Hill in competi
tion with other plays written by
older and more experienced au
thors. Still another student writes
of his experiences in a relaxed
and easily understood manner.
I wish I knew more about the
other members of this fraternity
of apprentice writers. I cannot
attempt to guess their motiva
tions, but I believe each one of
them is putting some of his and
her personal experiences into
their writing. All of us are ex
perimenting with some form of
Creative Writing in our own man
ner. We are learning to use words
correctly, utilize our own unique
experiences, and satisfy the
gnawing urge that we all have -
to write creatively!
By SARA POPE
Driving through the lovely sub
urbs of Philadelphia on a sight
seeing tour, I was startled to see
two long lines of people on a
sidewalk, slowly moving in dig
nified progress toward a stately
columned building.
“What on earth is that crowd
doing?” I asked my friend and
guide.
“They’re going to a viewing,”
she answered.
"A viewing? Of what?”
"Don’t you have them in the
South? When someone dies here,
the body lies in state at the un
dertaker’s parlor. The family as
sembles to receive expressions
of sympathy and condolence, and
friends pay their last respects
by viewing the body of the de
ceased.”
"Interesting,” I said.
"On one occasion it led to an
interesting culmination,” the
BY DR. JOHN H. STANLEY
"Pour me just a half cup this
time. Cynthia.” I told my wife.
"I always drink too much coffee
on Saturday mornings when I can
loaf around the table so long.” I
continued reading the newspaper.
“What’s the news. Harry?”
Cynthia asked.
“Nothing much. Oh, here’s an
interesting piece. Remember
that James boy who lived over
on Oak Street? What was it he
studied in college? Geology? As
trology? No, it was Astronomy.
Anyway, here’s an article by him,
and he says something spectac
ular will take place today which
will have far-reaching effects on
Smithfield. Something about re
sonance being produced by the
interaction of two asteroids and—
Oh, what the heck! Who can un
derstand that gibberish? I thought
it was something interesting.”
Suddenly I felt like really doing
something today. I decided to
catch up all those jobs around
the house that had accumulated
over the past twelve months. I
directed Cynthia to call Fred for
me and to tell him to get Charlie
to finish out our usual foursome
for golf. I hurried to the shower.
"Fred called while you were in
the shower,” Cynthia told me
after I had dressed in my work
clothes. "He said tell you that
Bill and Frank had already call
ed off the game for today. They
had some work to do around the
house.”
I went to the telephone to call
the hardware store. “That you,
Dennis?” I asked. "What took
you so long to get to the ‘phone?
I'm glad to hear the hardware
business is rushing this morning.
Paint, eh? Well, that’s what I
want. Send me over two quarts
of outside white and one of green,
Dennis. Out of green? Well, send
the white on over, and I’ll get the
friend and guide told me. “Re
cently m seventeen year-old son
and a schoolmate of his wanted
to pay their respects when a
classmate died, following a head
injury in a football practice. They
knew the approximate location of
the funeral home, but were un
certain as to the number of the
street. Finally they came upon
a long line such as you just saw.
So they quickly parked their
jalopy and took their place at the
end of the line. After an hour of
slow and tortuous advance, they
stood by the open casket. A low
whistle of unbelief broke the
muted silence.
“My God!’ one of the boys ex
claimed.
“Great guns!’ the other cried.
‘How Bill has changed!’
“In the casket lay the corpse of
a wrinkled eighty year-old
woman.
“Their approximate location
was two blocks off.”
green when some more comes
in.”
1 was so tired that evening I
didn’t even feel like going out
for the paper. Cynthia brought
it in for me while I called Sid
down at the office. “Sid,” I told
him, “when you go by the Gar
rison fellow’s house tonight to
carry him that box of groceries,
tell him to come down to the
plant Monday morning. I’m go
ing to put him to work. There’s
no need for you and me just to
keep on sending him groceries
every week. Work is what he
needs.”
Sid agreed.
"By the way, Sid,” I continued,
“you said something several
months ago about our forming a
community betterment associat
ion, remember? I think it’s a
grand idea. Let's get started on it
the first thing next week. Okay?”
I quickly glanced over the
newspaper Cynthia handed me.
"Well, there’s no mention of any
thing spectacular happening in
Smithfield today,” I said. "Here’s
a little filler that says a lot of
cleaning up and repairing is go
ing on in town. Nothing spec
tacular about that. What we
need here is a dentist and a big
mill to hire a lot of people, to
create jobs. I thought maybe
that was the ‘resonance’ Harold
James was writing about this
morning. Well, he never was so
bright anyway.”
"Do you suppose Dennis ever
sold out of green paint in one
day’s time?” Cynthia asked.
Women are like that. I thought.
Always making comments ap
ropos of nothing. I yawned. "Let’s
go to bed early tonight so we can
get up in time to go to Sunday
school tomorrow. We haven’t been
in a long time,” I said.
Cynthia looked at me and nodd
ed her head thoughtfully.
^ Illllllll—imUMlI
Lament of a Teacher's Desk
By ROWLAND STALLINGS
Oof, boy, are you fat!
Don’t you realize where you’re sitting at?
Hey, look out! Put away that knife.
Ouch! Are you trying to take my life?
Oh, well — another scar, another nick,
I’ll soon be reduced to a mere toothpick.
Uh-oh! Here comes my sentinel.
To him everything is unforunate and detrimental.
Oh, dear! The class is unattentive today.
The sentinel fumes, quite carried away.
Calm down, master, have a seat,
Stop pounding me with you hands and feet.
Ah-h, at last the class is over.
There they go, Bill, Ed and Grover.
Now to rest my aching timber awhile —
Another day, away from the woodpile.
Resonance
PAGE SIX
THE CHOWANIAN