Katria Wyslotsky

I’ve spent the past few days considering what I have come to understand as or believe to be bliss. What is it about bliss that makes life worth living? What is it about bliss that makes us smile like lunatics, sigh in ultimate contentment, and cry tears of joy? Just what exactly is this thing we call bliss?

Bliss, as you mature and change, alters itself to better suit your needs and life. As children, my brother and I believed that perfect bliss was my grandmother’s home in New Jersey. She and my aunt lived in the first floor apartment and my parents, brother, and I lived on the second floor. The yard seemed to be enormous, full of cubby holes in which to hide, and there were always kittens, little multicolored kittens that seemed to miraculously appear out of nowhere and were then smuggled into the house to play with. The pool was an old nickel wash tub my grandmother had used to launder clothing in before she purchased a washer that had evil looking ringers to squeeze the water out of the clothes. Sometimes, during the spin cycle, it would vibrate so hard that the washer appeared to be walking towards us which would send us shrieking up the stairs to the safety of the kitchen.

We all lived together in the white house with the wide dark gray porch that spanned the entire front portion of the house on White Street. I was four when we moved to Illinois, but I still remember the house. I can still smell the basement and the Ivory soap flakes my grandmother used to launder clothing. It is where my grandmother, once a raven haired Flapper, taught my brother and I how to dance The Shimmy and where my aunt taught us the words to Beatles tunes. It is where we learned our first prayers. It is where our lives began. It is where I first experienced bliss.

A few years ago, while visiting relatives for the Christmas holidays, I returned to my roots, so to speak, and went back to White Street. The yard was overgrown and littered with trash and the house, now a mottled yellowed gray, was in disrepair, and the windows on the first floor were all boarded up. The railing that was once so lovely and graceful as it wrapped around the porch was missing posts so that it looked as if the sadly grinning home was missing teeth. I found out later that the house was being used by drug addicts and was scheduled to be demolished. I will never return to the house on White Street. I am afraid that if I return and find that it has been razed my memories will disappear.

In high school, bliss was a concert at Madison Square Garden where the music was so loud that you felt like the drummer was beating his sticks on your heart. Bliss was a greasy piece of pizza on a Saturday night. Bliss was a prom date. Oh, those frantic weeks before the event, the torment of finding a gown and a date…all relieved by one slightly pimply young man agreeing to escort me to the prom. Bliss was also being with my friends. There’s nothing like a group of adolescent girls in mid-gossip shrieking with laughter as they walk down the street all elbows and knees, wind-swept hair, and flushed cheeks. We traveled in packs, like small, defenseless animals, taking over the local restaurants and annoying the staff. Bliss was having best friends. I still keep contact with two friends from high school. One is a musician who is currently recording her fourth CD and the other is married to the art director of People Magazine, of all things. Is there art in People Magazine? Honestly, I don’t think so, but that’s only my opinion.

Bliss, in my senior year of high school, was being accepted to Georgetown University as part of the graduating class of 1981. I met my room-mate and we immediately had a connection. I traveled down to the university to get my bearings and to learn the layout of the campus. Then, in May of the year in which I graduated from high school, my parents informed me that I was to return home and enroll at the University of Illinois. They weren’t going to pay for any other school, and I lacked the courage to try and make it on my own. Bliss seemed to disappear in a few tersely worded sentences muttered over the telephone line and I moved back to Chicago and registered for classes as I was told to do. After my freshman year at Illinois, the Dean sent me a lovely letter requesting that I enroll at a different institution of higher learning (aka, the local community college). I would be welcomed back once my grades got better. My GPA freshman year was 0.8. That’s all. Just 0.8. That, in itself, is an accomplishment! The expression on my parent’s faces as they received the news gave me a particularly perverse bliss. I told them I wasn’t ready for college. Bliss would have been to listen to me in the first place.

When I was twenty-one, bliss was my son. Never had I seen a creature as miraculous as he was. I loved his smell, the way he made little noises, how he laughed, how he smiled, how he managed to without a single coherent word make me do whatever he wanted…he was the wizard behind the curtain in what was my Oz. He was my best friend, my buddy, my pal, my guaranteed Saturday night date, and my road dog. He laughed at all my jokes, he liked to read the same books that I read, we both hated cooked carrots, and our favorite pastime was to lie on the couch and nap to the sound of a televised golf game. Have you ever listened to a televised golf game? The broadcasters speak in low, soothing tones so as not to disturb the golfer’s thoughts. Why is that? Why were they whispering to people through the television? It can’t possibly detract from the golfer’s technique or performance. And, after all, the broadcasters always seemed to be in a different location. But, if you have a chance, when it’s golfing season, watch a PGA match. It’s better than Valium to put you to sleep. One night, without the benefit of golf, my son went to sleep and never woke up. Bliss disappeared in a flash and agony took over my life for a long, long time.

In my thirties, bliss was a lengthy vacation somewhere that had pristine beaches and warm tropical waters. Bliss was a Pina Colada on a hot evening. Bliss was not having to answer the phone or try to beat rush hour traffic. Bliss was dating a man who wasn’t married, was gainfully employed, and didn’t live with his mother or another woman with whom he was “just friends.” Bliss was a pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps purchased at Nieman Marcus that made you strut, not walk. Bliss was a lunch date. Bliss was a Porsche 944, black exterior, with taupe colored leather seats. Bliss was finally taking a sip of a single malt, well aged Scotch and know what it meant to taste the peat. Bliss was an underwire bra that didn’t sprout fangs each day promptly at five o’clock. Bliss was having some money stashed away in an IRA, mutual funds, and a 401K. Bliss was a parking spot within a hundred yards of your apartment building. Bliss was being invited to a wedding and not having to sit at the singles table. Bliss was a walk down Michigan Avenue in the winter when all the little white lights in the trees twinkle in the gentle snowfall. Bliss was the perfect little black dress. Bliss was being able to afford to have someone else shovel the sidewalk. Bliss was the Green Mill on a Saturday night with your eyes closed listening to jazz so hot it made your toes curl. Bliss was a good dental plan at your place of employment. Bliss existed in possessions, of which I had many. Bliss was short lived. But then, bliss quickly returned once I realized that getting a divorce was the only way to rectify a colossal mistake. Bliss was when he packed his bags and finally moved out.

My forties began with a stunning lack of bliss in prison. Each day, an eternity, seemed to bring its own agony. All of the things that I’d spent the previous two decades running from finally caught up to me and sunk its teeth directly into my somewhat sagging behind that was no longer firm and youthful. The world became a tiny place or very little beauty and equally little bliss. Bliss was surviving a day behind an electrified fence emotionally and intellectually whole and intact. Bliss was a two hour visit from my mother once a month. Bliss was the familiar scent of her cologne on my clothes after she left. Bliss was receiving mail and knowing that you hadn’t been forgotten. Bliss was the day after Christmas, Thanksgiving, or your birthday because it wasn’t as painful to be alone. Bliss was a day when you were not reminded of your unfortunate past and events which lead you to prison. Bliss was the fifteen minutes of phone time allotted to you on a daily basis when you heard the voices of those you most loved in the world. Bliss was the perfume sample insert inside a magazine that gave you a momentary feeling of being human and pretty again as you rubbed it against your wrists. Bliss was finally and forever leaving prison. Bliss was sleeping in my own bed once again. Bliss was hugging the dog. Bliss was washing the dishes. Bliss was answering the phone. Bliss was knowing that no one read your mail before you received it. Bliss was having real cash in your wallet. Bliss was driving the car down a long and empty country road with the windows rolled down, the wind in your hair, and the stereo blasting. Bliss was simply being sober and alive.

Not much can be said about the past eight years of my life and bliss with the exception that it has been a period of tremendous change in my life, in my environment, in my social life, in my family life, and in my future. Gosh…actually, that’s a lot to be said, isn’t it? They say that a woman does not come into her own until she is in her forties. I had difficulty, given my circumstances, adjusting to being forty. I felt that the best years of my life were behind me and that there was nothing but work and drudgery ahead of me until the day I died. I was lead to believe that, without a spouse or a child to raise, my life was empty, joyless, and held nothing good for the future unless I took some drastic action on my own.

So, I mustered up my courage and I went back to school. It was difficult, at the beginning, re-adjusting to a new routine and developing study habits. The fact that I seem to be continuously surrounded by teenagers in class didn’t seem to help much. But, day by day, I became re-involved in life. I have, once and for all, finally convinced myself and have come to firmly believe that my future is not determined by my past and I am not defined as a woman, person, citizen, friend, aunt, sister, or daughter by the worst thing that I have ever done. I am defined by the last good deed I performed, no matter how insignificant and small it may be to others for it was important to someone somewhere in the world. Some people never get to this point of understanding. Some people never truly experience true happiness, much less bliss. All I did was open the door to my heart to a new experience and bliss moved right in. I have been fortunate for I have loved, I have lost, and now I am grateful for I am truly blessed. I am, once again, in bliss.

So, this whole piece began on following your bliss, didn’t it? That if one follows their bliss wonderful things will happen. That’s true, I guess. But its been my experience that you don’t really follow your bliss in life. Instead, bliss has a tendency to grab you by the seat of the pants, send you flying forward at warp speed, all the while shrieking, “LOOK AT IT!! LOOK AT YOUR LIFE! ISN’T THIS ABSOLUTELY INCREDIBLE AND BEAUTIFUL? This, you dummy, is BLISS!” Bliss forces you look at life through its own eyes and teaches you the true meaning of life. What you do with all the information presented to you is entirely up to your own discretion.

At this time in my life, bliss is a new book that is a tropical ocean, fathoms deep, which one dives into without first dipping a toe in to check if it’s too cold. Bliss is a pair of comfortable shoes. Bliss is a wonderful piece of art. Bliss is a balanced checkbook. Bliss is seeing the first tiny purple Crocuses that shoot up from under the snow and open their petals to the sun. Bliss is a family gathering. Bliss is my 68 year old mother surviving two major surgeries within a year. Bliss is my brother’s rapidly receding hairline and the hundreds of barbs I fling at him regarding hair loss and aging. Bliss is being in the same room with my nephew and nieces who amaze me with their command of the world and sense of humor.

Bliss is a man who is so NOT my type who makes me laugh, who understands my references, who is intelligent, kind, generous, creative, and who embodies so many other admirable qualities. He is proudly bald, has a bit of a tummy, and an annoying habit of rubbing his goatee in pensive thought, but he is bliss. He is a nap on a snowy day. He is a good book, a walk in the park at day’s end in the warm rays of the sunset, a full belly after a particularly delicious meal, and a hearty irrepressible laugh. He is without guile or affectation. He, at the age of 48, still doesn’t know how to swim, but I plan on teaching him how to finally float freely and blissfully. He sings and dances alone and without a concern that others may be watching. He plays his brass instruments for the sheer joy of hearing his own music. He is a day at an amusement park. He is a breathtaking rollercoaster ride. He is an unexpected and colorfully wrapped gift. He is a boy at heart with all of the annoying childish habits that I vociferously rail against and secretly admire. He loves the fact that I’m smart. He makes me feel beautiful. He makes me feel wanted. He has brought bliss into my life. He is my bliss.

So, do we truly follow our bliss? Does bliss lead you to ultimate happiness and satisfaction? I guess that that’s what life has always dictated will occur if you follow instructions and advice carefully. One should studiously work toward and follow your bliss, so I’ve been told, but I disagree. I honestly believe that in every lie one tells there is an element of truth and that in every truth there is a small element of a lie. In every fiction there is a provable fact and vice versa. There is a sun and there is a moon, a yin and a yang, and for every action there is an opposite but equal reaction. The same theory can be applied to bliss.

In every bliss, there is a bit of agony, and in every agony there is a bit of bliss. What you do with all of it, all the information you receive whether in agony or in bliss, is what’s important. That’s what determines if you’ll remain in bliss or in agony. It’s all in your hands so choose carefully. Go wherever bliss may lead you and pay close attention to what you are shown. Never, not for a single second, think that it eludes you. Listen to it and heed its call, or sometimes, its whisper. Bliss cannot be ignored, but it can be unintentionally overlooked. Bliss is in the small and everyday things in our lives that we take for granted. Bliss is a perfectly brewed cup of coffee with just the right amount of cream and sugar. Bliss is the way the dog stretches and yawns when you both get out of bed in the morning. Bliss is watching a movie that makes you laugh so hard your stomach hurts. Bliss is munching on a bagel with Lox and Cream Cheese while you’re reading the New York Times on a Sunday morning. Bliss is remembering the old nickel tub my brother and I played in as children, the dent that was left in the plaster molding over the stairway in the house on White Street for it was where my father invariably managed to smack his head as he sped down the stairs, and the kittens that frolicked under the bed linens on summer nights when the windows to the house were thrown open so that we could hear the crickets sing. Bliss is a purple Popsicle and the accompanying startling purple tongue in a hot August day.

Bliss is your mother’s lips pressed to your forehead feeling if you have a smidge of temperature. Bliss is a idle taxi on a rainy day. Bliss is a long, hot bath with someone you love. Bliss is looking at your prom pictures and thinking that you once thought that you were bulletproof and finally came to the understanding that no-one gets through life unscathed and wondering what on earth possessed you to purchase that incredibly ugly gown you’re wearing in the photo in the first place. Bliss is knowing that you now dress more appropriately. Bliss is in that one moment in the spring when you notice that everything which has been gray for months during the winter has, suddenly and miraculously, turned a bright and brilliant shade of green in the spring.

Bliss is each small victory, each passing day, each smile given in your direction, each thank you that you give or you receive, each hand you extend toward another person, each time you return home after a long day toiling at work, and bliss is that wonderful moment between sleeping and waking when the world is perfection and all you feel is contentment. Bliss is the sudden and inexplicable tears coursing down your cheeks from the pain of too much joy and tenderness.

Do not expect bliss to arrive in a timely manner or exactly when you need it. Bliss will simply wander into your life when you need it most. Trust bliss; it always leads you where you need to go whether you want to believe it or not. Don’t fight it. Don’t try to prevent it. Don’t sit around trying to ignore it because it will find you and knock on the door to your soul until you let it in. It exists. You are bliss’s target, and, sooner or later, bliss will find you. Then, when you’re totally immersed in it, wallow in it. Swim along with its current. Wrap it around you like your favorite blanket. Wear it like a wide-brimmed, straw hat with a bright red ribbon tied around the brim. Cannonball into it with a mighty shout. Ride it off into the sunset. Smell it, taste it, swallow it, hold it, and keep it with you always.

Let bliss lead you. It knows you better than you will ever know yourself and will always take you where you need, but not necessarily want, to go. Bliss flies, so relax. Enjoy the flight. Soar over the mountains and into the clouds with it. Rest assured, bliss knows the most joyful route to your destination.

David Martin

16.4 Winter 2007 Fine Lines

(Often, David Martin stuttered in school, because he could think faster than he could talk. Many times, he felt like a slow learner, but he wanted to become a better student. On his own, he figured out that most class situations revolved around reading issues. If he could read better, he thought he would perform at a higher level. He read as much as he could in his room, alone, and when he started getting better grades, he stuttered less. When he learned to process his answers after hearing the teacher’s questions and was allowed time enough to think his thoughts through, he stopped stuttering altogether. He figured this out by learning to enjoy reading.)

When I was young, I took many things for granted. Like most young people, I assumed things were the way they were for my benefit, and it was hard to put myself into other people’s shoes. I only knew what it was like to have clean drinking water, have three meals a day, have all my limbs working properly, be able to go to school, and receive a college education. I was naïve, self-centered, egotistical, and still had a lot of growing up to do.

Today, I feel like a different person. I do not assume life will work the way I think it should. I see the world through older eyes, and I still count my blessings every day, but I most appreciate being able to read and write.

Only 1% of the people living on this planet have a four-year college education. Although I am the first person on either side of my family to finish college, I knew from the time I was in sixth grade that I was college bound. Mother blessed me with a desire to read. She showed me it was “cool” to go to school. She smiled when I made thoughtful comments. I was no genius, and I was far from the smartest student in my class, but she gave me goals to reach, and those goals included books. She received enjoyment from words, and I could not avoid her enthusiasm.

Before I went to kindergarten, I knew the power of books. Mother read constantly to me and talked about the ideas she learned in those books she brought home from her weekly trips to the library. Next to our church, our town library was the most holy place for her.

At the age of four, I carried her books around the house, one in each hand. I felt older, when I adjusted my stance in order to hold their weight. I was not sure why they made her happy, but if they did, they made me happy, too. I remember sitting on the floor, opening her books one page at a time to feel the different textures of the paper. Some pages were coarse. Some were delicate. I still could not read, but I was amazed at how older boys could, and I knew some day, I would figure out “the code” they learned to decipher the ink marks on all of those pages.

I could not wait to read. I would lie in bed at night wondering what it would be like to read all of those books Mother had in her bedroom and on the bookshelves that were in almost every room of the house. However, my mother refused to teach me. One of her elementary teacher friends warned her about making a mistake if she tried to teach me herself. This teacher friend was worried that Mother would not do it correctly, since she had not attended college. This elementary teacher told Mom that a possible mistake made by her might hurt my chances of performing better, once I reached school, if I did not read properly. Because of this scolding, Mother only showed me pictures from books, talked about biblical stories, and read some of them word for word to me. She would not teach me the alphabet, so I could read myself.

I became so angry, frustrated, and anxious that when I came home from kindergarten, I was crying because I could not read after the first day of school. Mother just laughed and said, “Well, I guess you will have to go back tomorrow, then. Ms. Grimes will teach you some more.”

I started my education feeling inferior. Many of my classmates knew how to read on that first day of school, and I was puzzled. Was I not as smart as those who could read? What was the mystery of all those words on the pages, anyway? I became convinced in my own mind that I would learn what they meant, with or without Mother’s help.

As I got older, I insisted she teach me more than the school teachers tried to do, when it came to reading and communicating ideas. Constantly, I asked her what she was reading and why. I wanted her to tell me what she found interesting in those books. Then, I asked her what the words meant that she used to explain her ideas to me. When she got exasperated after so many questions or when I started asking questions she could not answer, she told me to go outside and play, while she went back to the kitchen.

If Dad happened to be home, instead of going outside to play, like Mom requested, I badgered him to tell me what he was reading in the newspaper before dinner and what he found interesting in those articles. I wanted to communicate with him, but I did not know his vocabulary. While I was growing up, I asked more questions about what my parents were reading than anything else I can remember.

I wanted to tell others what I thought. I wanted to know about life. I did not care if I was smart or not, but I wanted to know what made people wise. I was determined to find out what made leaders find the right answers, so they could lead their people. I wanted to be heard. I knew if I could figure out that code, how to use those letters in the alphabet, I would find out what wisdom meant and how to communicate with others. I felt I had things to say. I had so many questions, and I wanted to discover if there were answers to them. Would people listen? Maybe not, so I became introverted and thought I would be the most important audience for my questions after reading all that I could.

The concept of language centers on having the freedom to know anything. Language unifies people and liberates us. There are languages of anger, music, love, mind, heart, and soul. Language standardizes society and thrives on protest and change.

A healthy language is impure. English is a kind of Creole, a blend, a mixture, a grab-bag language. The English language would not be what it is today without the Angles, Saxons, Frisians, Jutes, Welsh, Danes, Vikings, Celts, Normans, Romans, Greeks, and many other nationalities. What a wonder there is in our words. We cannot refute what moves us. All we have are our passions. We can’t teach others, just inspire them, and words do those things.

“About 93 million adults out of a total adult population of around 221 million (42%) are at basic literacy levels or below. People who are below basic literacy levels can’t carry out the everyday functions that they would normally pursue in American society. They can’t read a bus schedule and see how to get across town. They can’t use most of the self-service ATMs. They can’t fill out the average job application to try to get a job or get a better job. Those who are considered at basic literacy levels are still operating on a very rudimentary level in terms of math skills and in terms of reading capabilities, being unable to draw simple conclusions from reading a column in a newspaper (fifth grade level) or reading a newspaper editorial that may be comparing candidates in a local election” (Robert Wedgeworth, President, ProLiteracy, a comment on the 2005 National Assessment of Adult Literacy Report, ChildrenoftheCode.org).

“There is a profound reading crisis in the United States. Almost 40% of fourth graders do not read even at the basic level, and a majority of students do not read at the proficient level” (James Wendorf, Director, National Center for Learning Disabilities, ChildrenoftheCode.org).

Writing is collected intimacy, a warm hug when the world falls apart, a good looking woman just out of reach, a steaming cup of coffee in the kitchen while the blizzard outside threatens to blow the roof off, seeing a pair of bright eyes across a crowded room, a red-rubber clown nose on a man in a business suit, and stringing sentences together from 3 a.m. to 10 a.m. without moving once from the chair. Writing is more about finding the important questions in life than the correct answers. Discovering what we need to know, what we can’t stop thinking about, what have become our obsessions, and what our passions will do for us – these are the reasons we need to read and write well.

The best teachers are story tellers: Jesus and his parables, John Steinbeck and the Joads, Ernest Hemingway and The Old Man and the Sea, Natalie Goldberg and Writing Down the Bones, Lynne Truss and Eats, Shoots and Leaves, Victor Hugo and Les Miserables.

In school, I disliked history classes because the focus in each one was learning dates and arranging unconnected information. Now, I find myself addicted to the History Channel. Its television programs tell such well written stories, and history is now interesting.

Writing is humanity’s most far-reaching creation. Words convey meaning, are flexible, have magical powers, overthrow governments, and change history. Its forms and designs are endless. Sumerians started writing 5,000 years ago, and today, 85% of the world’s population writes in some form. Writing has the power of innovation and can move hearts and minds. The Egyptians’ phonetical alphabet occurred 3,500 years ago, but there was no mass literacy until after Johann Gutenberg invented the printing press in 1440. Now, there are more than 800 font styles of type.

The Greeks created the first alphabet to have one symbol for each sound. The Latin alphabet evolved from Greek in the sixth century BC. However, Chinese is the only one with individual characters representing individual words.

Writing combats loneliness, creates a sense of self, shows affections of the soul, alleviates depression, boosts the immune system by increasing T-cells, lowers blood pressure, and lets individuals be heard. More than 10,000 languages have been spoken throughout history, but most were never written down. Pages were created in place of scrolls in the second century AD, and spacing was not placed between words until the seventh century.

Reading aloud died slowly. Making sounds while reading was an honor and a mark of distinction showing one’s intelligence. Only recently did we learn to appreciate reading silently. Sharing written language unites people. It is a miracle when a child first puts thoughts and emotions onto paper. Writing requires work at both ends, forming thoughts and reading them.

John Gardner said, “A writer seldom exceeds in quality the books he reads.” Writers, if they are serious, should read all they can, experience life all they can, and write all they can. Only in this way will they acquire worthy content.

William Least Heat Moon, author of Blue Highways, said, “Get off the main roads like the Interstate. Follow the blue roads, the small ones that go through the small towns. Meet the people who really make this country work.” If we want to see the world and pursue our own paths, the most exciting and worthwhile knowledge and wisdom will come to us on those small roads that lead us away from the massive crowds and toward roads less traveled.

According to Bill Wheeler, “Good writing is clear thinking made visible.” Increased clear vision arrives with good prose and poetry. We do not need more “stuff.” We need to use the “stuff” we have in different ways. Let’s make sure our “stuff” has juice in it, the essence of creativity and vision. Good writers and artists of all types transform the ordinary into the extra-ordinary. Do we really need $12,000 of new photographic equipment to take that picture? Can’t we use words to place a “photo” in the reader’s mind of what we want them to see?

Celebrate what is “write” with the world. Use words every day to see the world with new eyes. Focus on clear thinking. Turn mistakes into opportunities. There is more than one right answer. Some people say the answer to good communication is to act like a radio. As far as I am concerned, we need more listeners, because this is the primary aspect of good, specific communication.

John Muir was devoted to nature, and his photos and writing made going into the wilderness attractive to many people. For him, life was beautiful in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Art is the ultimate objective for those who wish to communicate, and he tried to make his life a work of art. Shouldn’t we all?

Artists have three steps to remember. They feel curious and vulnerable while taking risks to capture their passions in their chosen medium. Focusing on the right perspective with the metaphorical right angle and right lens brings clarity to the object. Using the proper technique reframes the difficulty addressed into an opportunity for understanding.

Writers of all ages must remember that good writing is specific writing. Let’s do what we do best and do more with less. Life does not make appointments. It just keeps coming at us. The angles, the colors, the courage, and the joy point our words at universal themes. Keep searching. Believe in small things to make big things happen.

Mother did not have an advanced education, but she possessed the knowledge of many scholars. She read, voraciously, and I saw her wisdom increase with each trip to the library. One of the most important things she taught me was that I must take some time to read every day for pleasure.

Life is like a road map. We have many options to get from point A to point B, and life all depends on how we read the map. We use our own personal experiences to help us navigate the map of life, just as many of the great explorers did many years ago. It was not until very recently that I figured out the direction my life was taking, and even though I now have some idea, I am sure the path will change.

It was not too long ago that I decided to go back to school. I guess people could say that I heard a knock at the door that woke me up. I am grateful that I heard the knocking and answered the door. The problem in life is that we do not always hear the knocking and wake up. Many times we choose to ignore it and go back to sleep. It is important that we listen for these knocks in life, so we can better ourselves.

Thomas DeQuincey made an excellent point in his essay, “On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth.” The knocking at the gate is a symbol of waking up to life, or in the case of Macbeth, death. There are many times in life that we hear a knocking at the gate that wakes us up. My most recent awakening came about this time last year. It was then when I decided to go back to school and finish my degree. I quit school initially thinking that I would finish by taking correspondence classes. I was more concerned with obtaining a good job and getting married. Now that I am out in the real world, I realize that I cannot go anywhere without a degree. Since I am closer to graduation, I wish that I had gone back sooner. The problem with this is that I cannot change the past, only the future. I should not dwell on the matter but simply move on.

There are many times in life when we hear the knocking, but choose to go back to sleep. There could be many unexplained reasons for us to ignore the knocking. One good reason is that we do not feel ready to take the challenge. I debated with myself many times about going back to school, but I felt that I wasn’t ready to dive in. Another reason is that people feel it would be easier to ignore the knocking and continue our life the way it is going. “He does not know that he has seen that which he has seen everyday of his life” (DeQuincey 117). DeQuincey is simply saying that sometimes we do not even realize the obvious clues to our lives. When a direction has been pointed out to us, it may take several hints for us to notice. This happened to me several times when I was deciding to go back to school. I was happy with my life and did not want to add any more stress. I was also scared to go back to school. I was afraid that I might fail and make it worse for myself. It was later that I learned I was not happy with the direction my life was going, and I decided the only way to change it would to be to enroll in school. I ignored the obvious signs that going back to school was the right thing to do. A third reason that we choose to ignore the knocking is that we are too busy and do not even hear the knocking. There were many times that I felt that my job would interfere with school. It was later that I realized I had time to do both well. There are many things that cause us to ignore the knocking and go back to the old way of life.

We have established that there are times in our lives that we hear the knocking, but we choose to ignore it. How can we be sure we answer the knock when it is important? The answer to that question is different for everyone. No one else can decide when I need to wake up and change my life. I am my own best jury that can render the verdict that is best for my life. It is me that has to recognize that there is a need to make a change and grow from the experience. Life is a cycle of growing and making our lives better. We can only answer the knocking if the time is right for us to grow. The reason that we may not hear the knocking is that we are just not ready to make the commitment to change. It is important that we evaluate our own style of recognizing the knocking so we are able to make those changes that are important in life.

If we chose to ignore the signs of  knocking, it could be disastrous. If people forget to set their alarm, they may oversleep and be late for work. If we set alarms in our lives to awaken us to change, then we will be able to better ourselves. The problem is setting the alarm. What do we set it for? Again this all depends on the individual. It matters what is important in our life and the areas that we need to change. The key to successfully setting the alarm is to identify the weaknesses in our lives. If we can be better at identifying the weakness in our lives, then when we hear the knocking, we will wake up. It is important that we set many alarms to wake us up.

DeQuincey is constantly reminding us that the knocking at the gate helps bring our lives a sense of peace. “Hence it is that when the darkness passes away like a pageantry in the clouds: the knocking at the gate is heard; and it makes known audibly the reaction has commenced” (DeQuincey 120). This reminds me of the clouds clearing after a storm. During the storm, it is dark and scary. After the clouds clear and the sun comes out, light is shed on our lives. The most important thing about waking up to life is recognizing that our lives are constantly changing. What is important to me now may not be important to me an hour from now or a week from now. If we can recognize that life is constantly changing, then we may be able to hear the knock. A person who does not recognize that life is constantly changing will be stagnating and will grow weak. If I am not expecting life to change, then I am obviously not going to change my life. It sounds complex, but it is really simple. A person will not change if they do not feel they need to be changed. If we answer the knock, we can expect to change our life.

I am glad that I have had many knocks to waken me up to life. I expect that I will have many knocks at my door to come. Now that I understand DeQuincey, I have better evaluated myself to recognize that life presents us with many knocks. I think I now have the skills to better recognize when there is a knock at the door. Thomas DeQuincey had an excellent idea of the explanation of the knocking at the gate in Macbeth. Shakespeare obviously had the same idea. I wonder what things were knocking at Shakespeare’s door? It is important that we heed the warnings and change life to best suit our needs. I have to go now, I think I hear knocking.

By Joell White

Would the real me please stand up? That is a question I have asked myself for a while but to no avail. However, I have seen a change in myself over recent months and I am excited, if not a bit uneasy about my transformation. When I was younger, I was shy and reticent about committing to anything for fear of not coming out on top. I have survived for years on an emotional roller coaster, happiest when I am at the top of the large inclines and extremely depressed when the bottom falls out. Now, I am taking more risks and becoming more genuine. This has been a semester of discovery and victory, and through it all, the real me is emerging.

What do I mean by the real me? I mean the insecure, shy, overly dramatic, sensitive, loving and quirky person that I have hidden and unable to love for twenty-eight years. That does not mean she did not come out once in a while but when I felt safe on the outside. I began concealing my real self behind the masks of false happiness, serenity and courage at an early age. According to the author of The Trauma of Transparency:

. . . we have put on our armor, depicting the propensity to hide and pretend. The real person, and all that is true of that person—both the good truth and the bad truth—tends to be hidden behind a superficial and, at times, even artificial disguise. The disguise hides what really is inside. The real me. (Howard 27)

In other words, the masks I put in my personal arsenal for survival were keeping me from exposing my real feelings and my true self; that is wrong.

My need to keep the actual me within the confines of my shell was based from past experiences that I was too young and unsure of myself to battle outright. I was a fat kid with buckteeth who had to wear braces in third grade. I was not strong enough emotionally to shrug off my peers who blatantly teased me. In later years, their tactics changed where the cruel jokes were done behind my back. Hurt and anger crushed my spirit and I had to learn to handle myself behind the cover of calm superiority. If kids made fun of my weight, I would come back with dry sarcasm that would cut to the quick. This facade gained me allies of the other kids who were easy targets for people with superiority complexes.

As my group of friends grew, so did my desire to be accepted. I thought the only way I could keep the adulation and the social circle was to continue my pretense of bravado and nonchalance. This proved to be harder than I thought because I worried that if my friends found out that I was not brave and indifferent they would leave me. I spent sleepless nights thinking about that possibility and decided it was best to keep up my pretenses than to admit my weaknesses.

Fear and trepidation ruled my life after high school. As I started college, I was unable to overcome my constructed and untruthful identity. I fell into my old patterns and added new masks to my growing trunk. In my sophomore year, I developed an acquaintance with a woman named Marilyn. I admired Marilyn’s strong religious beliefs and serene spirit. All Marilyn ever wanted from me was truth and honesty. She was my friend already, but I wanted more. I wanted to be the only friend that she would want to be with. The obsession over my friendship with her led me to emulate her, and the more I copied Marilyn, the more the real me was buried further into the depths of my soul. I wasted so much time looking for the love that was already there that I lost any hope for a lasting friendship.

Living my life as an actor left me feeling ashamed. I was embarrassed to admit to anyone that the person they saw everyday was not the real me. I felt disgust towards myself because my shame led me to believe that I did not measure up and maybe would never measure up to the person I was meant to be (Smedes 5). The load of guilt weighed me down until I, at the bottom of my self-pity, had a moment of clarity.

Did I really know who I was and what I stood for? I had to honestly answer “no” to that question, but that was just the beginning. Did I want to uncover the truth about myself? I struggled and pondered this question for weeks. On one hand, I did not want to find out about myself in case I would not like what I unearthed, but on the other hand, I was not happy staying where I was. The hard won conclusion I finally came to was that I did not want to live my life without my real identity, therefore I began to think of scenarios to help the discovery process along. At last, something easy! What better way to find myself than to go back to college?

After getting all the preliminaries done, fear gripped my heart. “What did I just do?” “Am I ready to do this?” These questions were racing in my mind the day school started this term. I was terrified and I wanted to run away. The thought of being in a new situation, without the protection and comfort of my disguises were like losing my security blanket, but I was determined to find the treasure of me at the end of my journey.

To my surprise each of my classes has contributed to my journey of self-discovery. In one class, I am encouraged to take risks and express what was on my mind without the fear of ridicule and judgment. That course has been a source of strength for me to keep pushing my own perceived limitations. In my other class, I am learning that I have the determination and critical thinking skills it takes to be successful in whatever my future holds. These insights about myself have given me the grace to forgive my past plus the hope to be complete, something that the masks could never give me. I am finally building a solid foundation to grow on.

However, the artistry of “becoming” has a price. I am no longer okay with people subtly (or not so subtly) putting me down to make them feel better about themselves. Julia Cameron wrote:

Friends may find your recovery disturbing. Be alert to subtle sabotage from friends. You cannot afford their well-meaning doubts. Be particularly alert to any suggestion that you have become selfish or different. These are red alert words for us. They are attempts to leverage us back into our old ways for the sake of someone else’s comfort, not our own. (Cameron 43)

My fervent need to find myself, along with my new desire for equality in relationships, has caused some friendships to be put to the test. In other words, I am weeding my garden of friendship. The plants that stand the test of time will become stronger than the rest of the plants that must be pulled out in order to allow the stronger plants to bear fruit.

Shaking off the people who do not edify me and my own indignity has opened up a new world. I am becoming bolder in my relationships with others to reveal the genuine me. When I am feeling awkward and gangling, I acknowledge those feelings, learn from the situation and move forward to try it again. This lifestyle change has enabled me to see the world outside and what I am able to do to make a difference in it. Who cares if I am sensitive? Who cares if someone does not like my sense of humor or how I think? These characteristics are a part of me and I embrace them because I refuse to be dispirited or weakened again.

Ernest Hemingway once said, “The world breaks everyone and afterwards many are strong at the broken places” (qtd. In Nelson 9). Although I am not crazy about being broken, it is a great comfort to know that I am stronger today and will be even stronger a year from now. I must remain nonetheless, on the path that I have embarked upon and stay true to the real me emerging from the shell inside. As Glenda, the good witch from The Wizard of Oz once told Dorothy, “You put one foot in front of the other and follow the yellow brick road “ (Baum) and that is what I intend to do.

Bibliography

Cameron, Julia. The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity. New York : Penguin Putnam, Inc, 1992.

Howard, J. Grant. The Trauma of Transparency. Portland : Multnomah Press, 1979.

Kent, Carol. Tame Your Fears & Transform Them Into Faith, Confidence & Action. Colorado Springs : NavPress Publishing Group, 1993.

Nelson, Eugene . Broken in the Right Place : How God Tames the Soul. Nashville : Thomas Nelson Publishers, 1994.

Smedes, Lewis B. Shame and Grace: Healing the Shame We Don’t Deserve. San Francisco : HarperCollins Publishers, 1993.

The Wizard of Oz. Writ. Frank Baum. Music Harold Arlen. With Judy Garland, Frank Morgan, Ray Bolger, and Bert Lahr. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1939.

(Dr. Don Welch is a retired English Professor, Emeritus, from the University of Nebraska at Kearney .)

If you are someone who likes poetry and believes it should sing, even subtly, then you may be interested in prosody. Prosody, which means to sing, asks us to focus upon a poem’s repeated rhythms, sounds, and shapes. It asks us to revel in deliberate listening.

Current poets rarely talk about poetry singing. Because conversation is now the medium of poetry, verse is almost always described as a way of saying, not singing. Currently, almost everything, even art, has been roughed up and taken down. Older periods of verse, however, asked for more musical languages. Poetry was language as it ought to be, not language as it is.

In our time prosody must open its arms wider than it ever has. It must not only treat the poetry of closed forms but the acres of open ones, which have been written over the past one hundred and fifty years. And it must do so without waging wars, pitting the Earl of Closet against his American relatives, the Jeeves of Grass. Why can’t prosody be like the child who delights in playing old games one moment, then making up new ones the next?

And in doing so, it must continue to fathom the wellsprings of values. Poems, and attitudes about them, don’t happen in cultural vacuums. Current executives, for example, may dress more casually than their predecessors, but they are still supposed to earn big bucks for their investors. Conversational poets may wear jeans, but we still ask them to speak profundities. Although the King James Version of the Bible is being dressed down to make it plainer and more gender-kind, iambic pentameter poets, dressing up to speak up, still tuxedo themselves in breeches and doublets like Romeos on prom night.

In the European Middle Ages and Renaissance, when the world picture was the Great Chain of Being, everyone and everything was given a link by God. A man’s ethical and artistic commandments were to fill up his place righteously and beautifully. As such, closed forms like the sonnet were miniatures of a greater subconscious order. Now, some poets, even those who like their sports played on closed courts and gridirons, assume sonnets and other traditional poems are fill-in-the-blank exercises. To often these critics, interested only in fashions, which mimic their own writing, have rims for eyes and judgments, which are holy. Most prosodists, whatever their other failings, have latitudes of tastes.

When the Great Tree replaced the great Chain of Being as a world picture, more than a change from the inorganic to the organic occurred. Just as power descended from God/kings/popes in the older order, now it ascended from people and nature. In poetry this meant turning away from inherited forms to those of growing forms. Poetic novelty, which once embraced primarily the content of poems, now opened its arms to novel shapes as well. Because the artistic commandment implicit in the Great Trees was to grow, poets, relying upon the seeds of uniqueness in each poem, grew new forms as well. Each verse could celebrate itself and sing itself and what it assumed its poet assumed, and his readers as well. This was a heady time, and for a while there was no possibility of regress. A poet could put his faith in a poem’s in-forming origins just as Karl Marx could believe in the certainty of his dialectic. Or westward moving Americans could trust something called Manifest Destiny.

Poems, open or closed, have always been substantial loves for those who needed them. If, as John Ciardi once said, “Poetry is the least engaged art in any modem society,” that doesn’t mean it can’t prove engaging to some. That it can stay alive in worlds of apathy, stupidity, and unspeakable violence is no small miracle. Although some would call it a mutant, poetry, even in our times, has a healthy DNA.

In its simplest form, prosody classifies the repetitions found in verse, giving them names like meter, alliteration, and quatrain. This is why it is sometimes called the science of versification. The art of versification poses very different questions. For example, how does a rhythm contribute to what a poet is saying? Are the sounds of a poem more than pleasing; are they integral to the poet’s thoughts and feelings? Are the white spaces in a poem silences which champion meaning? Are they the presence of a meaningful absence? Do the systems of a poem jar or blend?

When read aloud, the best poems have always produced a continuing taste on our tongues. Imagine, then, words without poetic sounds or rhythms, as if they were wooden bowls without a seasoned substance. Or, to change the metaphor, a verse, which reads, like bad prose, a sort of fashionable hovel. Although dullness is a happenstance in all our lives, it is rarely the pulse of good poetry, except, of course, when the ache of lacerating sounds and disjunctive rhythms provide a dissonance for our despair.

Poets who write good rhythms have ears, which listen to themselves. One of the most tragic things to occur in the second half of the last century was the death of beauty. It was a death, which blighted everything, including poetry. Disdaining music in verse, some poets went after an in your face kind of content, but after so many shocks, a dullness set in. Now, when almost every poet reads like every other poet, it has become exhausting to be uniquely the same. Yearning for yeast but having a taste for the unleavened, too many poets gag upon anything seasoned. Prosody revels in seasonings.

Take the music out of poetry, and there is no prosody. Put on the best prosodic ears; however, and you will discover that the best verse is no rinky-tinky waltz across the page. It is a dance, which matters, and a matter, which dances. And although some of poetry’s best readers have one eye for form and another for content, and insights to marry the two, no one can cage poetry in prosodic descriptions. There is no net the protean animal of poetry can’t slip through. But as Branko Miljkovic says, “He who doesn’t know how to listen to a poem will listen to a storm.” Prosody is very deliberate listening. Those who beat up on its elements only succeed in darkening themselves.

(Cindy Vacek is a student at the University of Nebraska at Omaha .)

Words, sentences, and paragraphs all become the filling of the “apple pie” that is the essay. The essay is an outstanding representation of the freedom granted to a writer to produce art. It goes beyond all limits, allowing writers the chance to voice their personal needs, wants, and desires. Through the evolution of writing, authors have discovered the various pathways with which they can take their ideas and view them in different lights, while keeping the same writing style. Some authors utilize the opportunity to make a statement or point, often reflecting same emotion from deep within. Also there is the need to make others aware of matters going on in the world that strongly concerns the author. Whatever the purpose, the essay provides authors the ability to deliberate their beliefs. Writers use the essay as a tool for expressing their thoughts and emotions, thus creating a great form of art.

Often writers employ the essay as a way to discover more about themselves. Michel de Montaigne was the greatest entrepreneur of all in using the essay to find himself. The essence of what the essay is created for is found in each of his various subjects, mere wondering about topics that caught his attention and helped him discover who he was. “The writing way of thinking about oneself becomes a way of life, an occupation and a way of being true to oneself – a kind of morality. This line speaks the realness with which Montaigne took his writing and in finding himself.

Others have done the same, and not only to find themselves, but also to ponder about different ideas and notions. Ralph Waldo Emerson uses his essay “Illusions” to wonder on his idea that everything around us and in our everyday lives is an illusion. “Every moment, new changes, and new showers of deceptions, to battle and distract him.” Emerson utilizes the piece as a way to describe all the chaos and find where he fits into it all. Nathaniel Hawthorne does the same, for in footprints on the Seashore” he discovers both the pleasures and the gloominess in solitude. Of course, there is no forgetting Henry David Thoreau’s “Life Without Principle” which explains basically every fault that he can find in life. Lydia Fakundiny describes the essay as “unmistakably a personal manifesto: an energetic piece of scolding about our unthinking forfeiture of freedom, art inspired “lesson of value” about the human use of time.” Each of these writers uses the essay as a chance to reveal more about themselves and their inner thoughts.

Authors often use writing as a tool for expressing a certain point, whether it is in an article, editorial, or even an essay. Since the essay holds no bounds on what a writer can say in it, it becomes a very practical tool for letting a statement be heard. Aside from writers finding themselves, this is probably the most popular use for an essay. Many famous writers have put the essay to this use. One of them was Jonathan Swift in “A Modest Proposal.” His grotesque descriptions are unmistakable in “that a young healthy child, well nursed, is, at a year old, a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food; whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled.” The point, however, is not to nauseate readers but to make them aware of the situation in Ireland and how England is doing nothing to help with the poverty stricken. Another writer of this stature is Henry Fielding. “An Essay on Nothing” by Fielding is his way of acknowledging disgust for unacknowledged writers. He feels that people must become aware that there is too much written about nothing and actually mistaken for something. The greatest essay I have read that expresses a point better than any other is Corn-pone Opinions” by Mark Twain. This essay completely jolts the idea that people can have their own opinion. Twain puts down people when he implies that “we cannot have original thoughts ourselves because they are all influenced by someone else!” He must get his opinions from other people; he must reason out none for himself; he must have no first-hand views.” “But as a rule our self-approval has its source in but one place and not elsewhere – the approval of the people.” All of these writers show the importance and necessity of freedom of expression achieved through the essay. Common problems and great tragedies since society are focused on glitz and glamour. Many writers take this moment to refresh people.

The need is always there for authors to remind people of the cominds about matters that are of personal significance to them. A reminder of a great tragedy is in William Manchester’s “ Okinawa : The Bloodiest Battle of All.” Here Manchester details the raw truth of war and its effect on the survivors. He speaks of how “One war has led to another and another and yet another, and the cruel fact is that few men, however they die, are remembered beyond the lifetimes of their closest relatives and friends.”

W.E.B. DuBois wrote an essay “On Being Black” in 1920, a time when making people aware of the situation was the only thing important to people of color. DuBois’ essay shows first-hand how blacks have struggled for their rights through endless discrimination. He stresses the importance of the simplest things when he says, “Suddenly that silly orchestra seat and the cavorting of a comedian with funny feet become matters of life, death, and immortality.” Then there are always the unseen struggles that a writer can bring to tight. Richard Rhodes makes people aware in “The Death of the Everglades ” of the unnecessary mining of one of the largest natural habitats on earth. From his eye-catching introduction to his discussion of the destruction of the home to much of Florida ’s wilderness, his descriptions take a person’s breath away and provoke critical thinking in the reader. “The Everglades, the wilderness Everglades that was once the wonder of the world, is not dying. It is already dead. The shell is left, the shell of a wilderness, and should be saved.” Words like these remind the reader of the harsh realities of our world. These writers show their concern and discomfort with the world through their use of the essay.

The essay is a chance for writers to create art from their own emotions and ideas. While all writing is an art form, many writers express themselves in different ways. An essay can always be used for self-discovery of the writer or as a way to contemplate ideas. Many statements made or points explained can also be found in the writings of an essay. The piece can be used as a way to remind people or inform them of problems that concern the writer also. Whichever of these uses the writers find best for their essay, each one is the summation of the writer’s thoughts and feelings. Art that comes from within is the most beautiful, and when writers express themselves in an essay, nothing can be less than remarkable.

(The following article was written by William “Bill” Schock, the publisher of the Falls City Journal, a bi-weekly newspaper in Falls City , NE. )

“The following came in some material from the Nebraska Press Association, and I was so intrigued by it that I just have to share it with Journal readers. It is an excellent history lesson in not that many words.”

There were only 24 hours in a day, then, as now. But be­fore he died in 1826, he:

*Finished college in less than three years.
*Studied Law and had been admitted to the bar at age 24.
*Introduced crop rotation and terracing to the U.S.
*Designed and built his own home, designed one of the nation’s leading universities and the Capitol building of his own state.
*Invented a plow, a manifold signing machine, a letter copy press, double-swinging doors, a seven-day calendar clock, and countless other gadgets.
*Originated the decimal system for U.S. money.
*Played a violin well.
*Became a serious student of natural history, Indian lan­guages, Latin, Greek, Italian, French, German, Anglo-Saxon, mathematics, history, geography, civics, economics and philosophy.
*Served as a member of his State Legislature, Governor, Minister of France, Secretary of State, Vice President and President of the United States for two terms.
*Created the public school system in his state.
*Established the U.S. Military Academy and designed the uniforms the cadets still wear.
*Wrote the rules of parliamentary procedure under which the U.S. Senate still operates.
*Was an excellent host who enjoyed entertaining.*Fought for a system of government that made the U.S. a democratic Republic, not one ruled by the aristocracy
* Wrote 16,000 letters to friends and colleagues all over the world.
*Designed his own gravestone and created the epitaph listing the three accomplishments, of which he was proudest: “Here was buried Thomas Jefferson, author of the Declaration of  Independence; of the Statute of Virginia for Religious Freedom; and father of the University of Virginia.”

The piece ends with “What a lesson to people who say, in these days of labor-saving devices: ‘I just don’t have the time.”’

I might add that President Thomas Jefferson also was the instigator of the epic Lewis & Clark Expedition which laid the groundwork for the settlement and development of the West.

Wasn’t he something?

(Bill Schock, the publisher of The Falls City Journal [NE], was a bomber pilot during WWII. After his airplane was shot down, he was captured by German soldiers and put into a prison.)

I recently resumed a somewhat torrid love affair that ended rather disastrously 56 years ago, although the memories have lingered on.

To dispel any rumors which might quickly surface, it was strictly platonic. It was with a B-17 (Flying Fortress), the workhorse of the mighty 8th Air Force in World War II. My affection for the four-engine bomber wasn’t singular. I’d guess that everyone who ever flew one was similarly infatuated.

My emotional fire was quickly rekindled at the Lincoln (NE) Airport recently where the EAA Aviation Foundation of Oshkosh, WI, had brought the restored B-17, “Aluminum Overcast,” to give rides and to open it for walkthroughs by aviation and history buffs, as well as old WWII types in search of nostalgic boosts.

Bruce Morehead, San Jose , CA , son of John and Amy Morehead, who does his flying as a serious hobby, was eager for a ride in the historic bomber, and he flew us up to Lincoln .

Getting back to my love affair, it began as a blind date. Some of us had just graduated from advance flying school in New Mexico and considered ourselves very hot pilots. We were ordered to Boise , ID , where we thought we were going in to B-25’s (the twin-engine plane in which Jimmy Doolittle and his airmen made the surprise attack on Tokyo early in the war). The Army Air Corps needed B-17 crews to fill the ranks in England which were rapidly being depleted by heavy losses in bombing missions over Europe . We were a perfect fit for the co-pilots so badly needed.

So, hello, B-17! And she and I became an item, as they say today. I thought about that first meeting as I walked and crawled my way through the restored and well-traveled “Aluminum Overcast” that Friday morning some days ago. It seemed like an awfully big airplane, both then and now.

I sat down in the jump seat they gave me behind the two pilots, stowed for takeoff. Right off the bat, they “buzzed” the Seward Airport . I smiled to myself. It brought back very vividly the most (and maybe only) fun I ever had in the four-engine bomber. It was in August 1943, and we had just picked up a new B-17 in Grand Island to fly overseas to England to become a replacement crew in the 8th Air Force.

The day before we left, we took our new plane up to calibrate the instruments. What better place to calibrate instruments than over Falls City ? We “buzzed” Falls City for about 45 minutes, going east and west, then north and south, then west to east and south to north. What a blast! Even after 56 years it was fun to recall. I figured it was one heck of a goodbye to my home-town.

The B-17 and our crew went through some tough times together over Germany , but the rugged bomber always (well, nearly always) brought us back to our base in England . On a mission to Anklam , Germany , she kept us airborne through nearly three hours of continuous fighter attacks at 20,000 feet. But it was her last hurrah. The battle damage to her was so extensive that she never flew again. But she had brought us home, badly wounded as she was.

On another day and another circumstance, a B-17 gave up her life for us. Between missions over Europe, we had been on patrol over the North Sea in search of Royal Air Force crews which had been forced to ditch in the sea after a night raid over Germany . The Air Force left us out too long, and when we were recalled, the east coast of England was “socked in” by murky weather as darkness had begun to set in. We were awfully low on fuel, and when through the murk we spotted a landing strip of a fighter base under construction, we tried to land. After two unsuccessful passes when the landing strip came barely visible, only when we over the middle of it, we knew we just had to set down. We were all but out of gas. We missed most of the runway and went bounding along on grass. Suddenly, a small creek appeared out of the gloom. The plane had just enough speed to bounce across the creek. When it came down, the wheels sank and stuck into a very soft Brussels sprouts field, and our hectic ride ended. It gave us a terrible jolt! The B-17 became perpendicular, the four props also sinking into the muddy field. Everyone scrambled out through the cockpit windows and escape hatches before the bomber settled back down on the ground.

While the 10 of us were standing there, shaking in our boots and thanking our lucky stars, a terribly upset British farmer came running up and began berating us for ruining part of his Brussels sprouts field. Sympathy was nowhere to be found. The B-17 again had been good to us, and all of us were still in one piece. But for that plane, the war was over.

Then there was our last goodbye to another faithful airplane. We were on the way home from bombing a German fighter aircraft factory at Marienburg , East Prussia , on Easter Sunday when our plane was hit by flak over the Schleswig Peninsula (where Germany meets Denmark ). She was burning badly, and we all knew it was time to desert her. On our 25 missions, we had seen too many bombers explode in mid-air after flak or fighter hits. On automatic pilot, the B-17 flew a level course long enough to give us time to parachute out. She had been faithful to the last. Then she exploded.

One of her favorites was killed in his parachute when the Germans kept firing at us. Another lost an arm from the flak hit in the ball turret. Two more were wounded so badly they spent most of the rest of the war in German hospitals. The “lucky ones” of us finished out the war in prisoner of war camps.

So my intimate “affair” with the B-17 ended that Easter Sunday in 1944, but I knew I would never forget her. She had been too good to me.

Then, presto! Fifty-six years later I was privileged to sit in the pilot’s seat once again at the Lincoln Airport . The adrenalin reached flood stage. Corny? Absolutely!

You know what? I’m sure she acquired a new suitor in Bruce, my young compatriot, who looked admirably at her when our 30-minute flight was over. A very experienced old head at matters of the heart, I could tell right off he was smitten.

I’m not jealous. How could a guy who knew her in better days keep from loving her, when she had been so faithful in times long ago, and when she sat so majestically on the runway, her four big props taking man-sized bites out of the hot and humid Lincoln air in anticipation of another quick trip into the wild blue yonder?

Exactly as I remembered her. Beautiful. Simply beautiful!