The writer and two imposters faced the panel and answered questions. Among the highfalutin words sprinkled in the questions were artistic, clever, imaginative, inspiration, and creative spirit.
He could be profiled as visionary or daydreamer, but so could the plumber and banker beside him. The author wanted to discuss the force that drives him to write, but the question was never asked.
Bone-chiling fears during youth took root in the corners of his mind. He feared the dark, heights, and loss. Shadows appeared in the night. Evil hid under the bed and behind the closet door.
Loss of money, possesions … love, success. He checked the door locks twice, three times, and two more.
Childhood memories cluttered his head–racing home from horror films at the movie theater, Grandma’s bedtime story of Ole’ Lady Longfingers who made her home underneath the bed, and Grandpa’s stories of the Great Depression.
Heated voices waked him. A door slammed, an engine started, and a mother wept. Relationships are colored with fear.
He never woke one morning and decided to become a writer. It struck and never lay at rest. Journal, notepad, or whiteness of a computer screen, the act of writing paved the road to meaning and understanding. Characters and plot forced him face-to-face with inner demons.
The taping ended. The author went home, poured a drink, and fired up the computer.
Sit at the desk. Don’t wiggle, don’t bounce, or turn upside down. Stay.
If a prankster posted a Keep Out sign on the school’s front gate, a number of kids would conclude the sign meant them.
As teacher and principal before ADD/HD became common teacher jargon, the kids struggling with moderate/severe ADD/HD symptoms were often placed in emotionally disturbed (ED) special education classrooms.
When I retired from teaching, I put two novels on hold that were in various stages of outline, draft, and research and wrote Running Nowhere, a coming of age trilogy. The three books tell the story of Conor Kelman—a boy with ADD/HD during a time before the disorder was recognized.
I wrote the trilogy in hopes that those familiar with ADHD would find solace, and a weird comfort in recognizing the hardship and struggle children-parents-students-teachers face coping with ADHD.
The books are fiction, written for entertainment. Nothing clinical inside the pages, but those familiar with ADHD will recognize the symptoms and the addictive, obsessive, impulsive behaviors. Yes, behaviors that many kids coming of age have. However, the ADD/HD group will recognize the struggle and inward pain of being different.
Today, the ADD/HD acronym is everywhere. Yet, kids suffer. Frustrated with teacher conferences one after another that produce no change, parents panic when ringtones announce a call from the school.
Sadly, ADD/HD is the butt of jokes. To many, it’s a non-existent cop-out, not a disorder but an excuse for poor parenting and run-away behaviors.
* * *
What do you think? Real or excuse? Over-diagnosed? Meds or natural treatment? What are your thoughts and experiences with ADD/HD and school? Your input will benefit others.
She put the hairbrush away and smiled at the reflection from the mirror. She couldn’t remember the last time she smiled before going to school. But, this was a new school; it would be different.
She looked at the floor to avoid the stares as she went to her first class. Two boys whistled at her and mumbled words she was happy not to hear.
When she reached her math class, three girls stood in front of the doorway. She smiled tentatively and said hello. However, the three placed their folded arms against their chests and glared back. They had something to say, but there were no smiles.
“You look like a tramp in that skirt.”
“And, it violates the dress code.”
“Maybe she’s blind.”
“All we need is another bitch in this school that thinks she’s hot.”
A boy wearing a letterman jacket approached and the girls parted. “We’ll talk to you when we walk you home,” one of girls said, following her friends into the classroom.
She fled to the restroom, locked the door to the stall and sent a text. She huddled over the toilet with her feet on the lid and waited for her mom’s answer.
Footsteps hit hard tile. Her body jerked from the bolt of nerves that shot through her.
A voice echoed.”It’s the resource officer. Come out.”
“Sit,” the resource officer said, pointing to the chair. She looked down at the girl. “Make friends and you’ll be happy here.” She paused before turning to leave. “You’re safe in this school–you need to get that in your head.”
Through the glass of the outer office, threatening eyes watched her.
Clutching her phone, she drew in rapid breaths, searching for air that had disappeared.
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He received the invite. Nashville’s Grand Ole’ Opry. Now, it was real. Satisfaction cut through the engraved stress marks on his face that belied his young years. He had earned it. Rough schedules, racking up miles across the country, opening shows with a mixture of envy and admiration for those who had paid their dues.
Billed as the new Hank Williams those close to him shuddered at the commonality.
Blinding lights, applause, screams, hands reaching to touch him played in his head as he splashed water against his face and patted down his hair. The paraphernalia used earlier set on the counter beside the sink. One more time to pull him through. Good that he forgot to put it away, he told himself ignoring the real reason. The effect didn’t last that long, just enough to get him on stage.
“Twenty minutes,” the chauffeur said through the phone.
Muscles tightened. His stomach quivered. He washed white pills down with bourbon to calm the nerves, but his thoughts were on the bathroom counter. One last time his mind reasoned. Before the show, before walking onto that famous auditorium with pieces of wood from the Ryman auditorium.
The wood Hank Williams stood.
The stretcher disappeared out the door. That close to making it his chauffeur thought with a tear in his eye.
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From my home to your home I wish you blessings and a prosperous new year.
She loaded the children into the shiny Lincoln and drove down the tree studded drive to the highway. Every Saturday, the mother watched from the window as her aunt took brother and sister to the bakery. The donut run, as the mother called it, never failed to bring joy to her children.
When they returned, the eccentric aunt set the bag filled with soft, warm donuts on the counter next to last Saturday’s bag. It was a simple rule. You eat the old donuts before getting into the new bag.
Knowing that they would never experience the taste of the fresh donuts, how many Saturdays before the children’s joy faded? It had been seven months since the spinster aunt invited them to move in and the children were as enthused as the first time.
“What is so great going to get donuts knowing they will be hard as a rock before you eat them?”
“It’s not eating the donut, it’s imagining how it tastes,” said one. “It’s like going to the dog pound even though you can’t bring one home,” said another.
“They are beautiful. Covered in frosting–pink, white, chocolate, sprinkles, dusted in powdered sugar, filled with jelly–different shapes and sizes.”
“It’s hard to choose.”
“So Auntie let’s us take all the time we want.”
“But,” the mother said, “you always bring back a dozen plain cake donuts.”
“That’s what Auntie orders. We eat ours at the donut shop.”
A smile spread across the mother’s dampened cheeks.
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One night he cleaned off the dust, slipped into his best shirt, new Levis, and drove to a dance in the valley. A fiery redhead caught his eye, and his mind entertained thoughts other than lonely nights in the bunk house.
Having learned responsibility at a tender age, he secured a regular job. One that allowed him to take an active part in family life.
This didn’t take the cowboy out of him. He never missed saddling up for a round-up, branding, or any event to help a local rancher. He signed on to a ranch after retirement. His wife, known for her biscuits, pies, and any dish that cowboys had a likening, went with him.
Life of a cowboy isn’t an easy one. You take the lumps with the good, he used to say. He didn’t regret one bit, and lived life to the fullest.
Those who knew him never doubted he was a believer. His God lived in the outdoors–the plains, sagebrush, painted desert. Mountains, green pastures, and the beauty of horses working cattle. He never spent much time inside a church other than attending a wedding, or funeral. It made sense that his funeral was held in the local community lodge.
The minister stepped away from the podium and strapped on a guitar. There wasn’t a dry eye as he sang the cowboy’s favorite song.
Now, his wife lives in the house by herself, but few doubt that she’s alone.
Is there an unforgettable character in your life? Your comments are welcome and appreciated. Please comment below.
He hated doing it, but the nursing home smelled clean, and the noises in the background spoke of friendliness and care. Blind except for shadows and a sense of dark and light, he relied on hearing and intuition.
She asked him to stay, and he did. From 8:00 in the morning the two shared memories, walked the halls, and drank coffee on the patio until the taxi arrived at 8:00 in the evening to take him home. As years passed, the staff seemed to forget to call for his cab and it came later each evening.
One morning, the cab driver carried a large suitcase with him as the two walked inside. No cab would be called to take him home.
The couple had rooms next to each other, but often woke up together. When his wife became ill and demanded care around the clock, he slept in the big cushioned chair next to her bed. He stayed by her side when the time came. He held her hand in his, talked to her about things others didn’t understand. His arms were wrapped around her when she drew her last breath.
Word traveled through the home, and one afternoon the nurse approached him. “The lady in room 6-B has no one and won’t last through the night. She asked for you. She will understand if you don’t go. We all will.”
It was difficult, but he saw no choice.
From then on, folks called him the cross-over man. He was called often, and it never got easier. Whether they had no one near, or no one to care, it was left for him. He was near, and he cared. He knew them by their first names. He greeted new residents the day they entered. He spent his days going in and out of each room carrying his smile and a funny story.
He knew more about them than they thought. No, he didn’t know the color of their hair or eyes. Being blind, he was compelled to look further. Deep inside, where the real person lived, where beauty and love existed.
How important is it to have someone present during the final minutes of death? Would you do this for a person who wasn’t a close friend or family member? Your comments are appreciated.