Why I Am Studying Writing

by Happy Valley Bookstore

Why I Am Studying Writing

  A collection of short stories by:

  Maurine T. Harrison

  Copyright 2010 Vicki H. Cutler

  Introduction

  In 1967, Maurine T. Harrison signed up for a home study writing course with Famous Writers School. These are some of the pieces she submitted for her assignments. Some pieces are fictional, while others are based on true events. The first two stories, Boy and Dog on a Hilltop, and The Head of the Statue of Liberty, were written from her impressions of pictures given in the lesson.

  Boy and Dog on a Hilltop

  Never was there a more appropriate name for my friend than Pal. I knew the minute we met that he was for me—his brown hair so sleek and shiny, his walk so dignified, his posture straight yet relaxed. Watching him run made me think immediately of rabbits on forest trails.

  We were inseparable. Together we sat on the porch steps, climbed Knob Hill or played throwing and chasing sticks for hours. Although meat and milk were good foods for growing bodies, I still preferred peanut-butter sandwiches with jelly. These were also Pal’s favorites.

  Cleanliness was something else we saw eye to eye. We resisted bathing with equal fervor. Rolling in the grass or sloshing through mud puddles ended in scoldings, but was worth it.

  Once on a Saturday fishing trip to Cub River I spotted a rabbit and instantly went for it calling Pal as I ran. On returning from the chase, although I shouted repeatedly, Pal didn’t come. Thinking he’d return momentarily I lay in the cool willow shade and dozed.

  The sun had set when I awoke. Jumping up I headed for home on the run, then remembered Pal and resolved not to return without him. In a frenzy, I ran back and forth calling him until I was completely exhausted. It was almost dark when the car drove up and stopped by the bridge. As the door opened, I saw Pal jump out and scramble down the steep bank to the river’s edge. In one bound we were together.

  Yes, never was there a better friend for a dog than my boy, Pal.

  Head of the Statue of Liberty

  Great tears coursed down his wrinkled face as Morris, with hand held high, had pledged allegiance to his newly adopted country. For five years he’d been waiting for this moment when he could say, “I am an American citizen.”

  Over the years he’d had mixed feelings about renouncing his homeland—the place of his birth, where his forefathers had lived and died, where he’d met and married his dear wife, the mother of his children, where this same wife was now buried and the realization that he, in a new land, wouldn’t be laid beside her in death.

  And yet, this same fatherland hadn’t been kind to him. Being of Jewish ancestry, he’d been hated, tortured and imprisoned. Finally, he’d left all past distress behind and with a vision beyond to a world of new experience, had decided through the urging of his daughter and her fine husband and son, to spend his remaining days in the United States.

  Well he remembered the day the boat had docked, how his grandson, Alex, had insisted on welcoming him from the Statue of Liberty at which he knew his grandfather would be looking. Alex had climbed the many steps and had waved his flag furiously and shouted at the top of his voice, “Hey, Grandpa! Grandpa! Welcome to America!” It mattered not that his grandfather nor anyone on the ship could hear him; he waved happily and enthusiastically.

  Now, as Morris received his citizenship papers, it was as if he were hearing, loud and clear, the words as Alex had shouted them. “Welcome to America, Grandpa!”

  Empty Waste Baskets: A True Story

  As the newscaster announced a bill prohibiting outdoor trash burning, my mind flashed back to the last time I burned papers in an open bonfire. Just remembering sent a chill down my spine.

  After lighting the fire I realized the slight breeze was getting stronger and there could be danger to buildings nearby. I decided to quench the fire as there were burning scraps of paper flying in the wind. I started for a pail and discovered a tiny fire burning in some dry weeds. Hurrying to the milk house and grabbing a bucket in each hand, I dipped them both at once into the brimming milk cooler and ran to the fire. It had now spread in all directions to about three feet in diameter. I splashed on the water hurriedly and raced back for more, this time turning the taps on full force. Time after time—running both ways—I poured water on the fire, but realized it was a losing battle and that while I was wetting one side the other side was spreading rapidly.

  In my mind’s eye I could see the dry old chicken coop, now used to store bedding straw, go up in flames, and that wasn’t the worst! The barn, granary and new coop would go as well, also a load of hay recently piled there. Just over the fence a neighbor’s barn was in the line of wind and would surely be burned along with a partly filled hay shed.

  In desperation I started to the house to call the fire department, but went back to the buckets instead as the wind was getting stronger. My husband was working in a nearby field. The tractor was headed my way and I thought he likely had seen me and was coming to my aid. As he reached the fence I hailed him. He merely waved his hand in greeting. The smoldering fire was invisible to him.

  Across the road a neighbor and his wife drove onto the highway. Surely they could see that I desperately needed assistance and would call the firemen, but no, they were looking in the other direction at some cattle.

  Frantically realizing there was no help available, I tried to hasten knowing I was alone with my problem. No, not alone---. I had needed help before and had found it kneeling quietly and supplicating the Lord in reverence. Now, however, I ran for more water, praying aloud as I ran.

  The fire was about twenty feet across, but I had a splendid idea. As I poured water from each pail I scraped the wet earth back over the burned area. It spread no more. Back and forth I rushed realizing my strength was ebbing. However, I was calmer and saw that I was actually winning the battle. I slackened my pace and realized I had witnessed a small miracle in answer to prayer.

  Yes, trash burning is such a simple, easy task, but I never again burned it without a proper incinerator.

  Easy Enough For a Child: A True Story

  They say there must always be a time when one stops being a child and begins acting grown-up. This was jarred home to me quite emphatically not long ago when I decided I could ride a motorbike.

  “Look, Terry, Grandma is going to ride the Honda around the house,” five-year-old Debbie, excitedly jumping up and down, announced to her brother.

  “Okay, here goes!” I said with false confidence as I stepped on the gear pedal and moved slowly forward. As I did so I felt a moment’s panic, but here I was driving along. I thought of the man falling twenty floors and as he passed the tenth he said, “All’s well so far.” All wasn’t well with me, however, as I was getting to the fence faster than I was making the turn.

  “Put your feet back on!”

  “Turn!”

  “Turn, Grandma!”

  “She’s going to get hurt!”

  I didn’t hear any of these remarks and not once did I think of the brake. In making the first turn I had accelerated the gas on the hand feed. In a split second I remembered my sister who had jumped from a motorbike her son was driving and how seriously her leg had been cut on the license plate. Well, I wouldn’t jump off.

  Hitting the fence, the machine tipped over. I reached over and shut off the gas that had been pushed on full force by the net wire. My watching audience, husband, daughters, and grandchildren were instantly by my side. In turning the key off it was discovered that the hand brake had been pulled on as the gas had been. Otherwise, the power of the engine, no doubt, would have taken it and me through the net and barbed-wire fence.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Are you hurt?”
r />   “Yes, you are.”

  “Oh, Mama, I’m sorry I insisted you could ride it.”

  My left leg, I knew, was hurt. The pain was not excruciating but was very intense. Blood was running down the front and already it was swollen and purple from the knee to the instep. An ugly, red splotch was also appearing at the side of my knee, a burn.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” I lied. “It’s all right. It’ll be fine.” We walked into the house. Very bravely, I wasn’t going to let anyone see me limp.

  I sat with cold compresses on my elevated leg and pondered over just what I’d done wrong. Without a doubt, almost everything I did was wrong. The nearest I’d been to motorcycles was to ride ‘side-saddle” on a Harley-Davidson forty years ago behind my sister’s beau. It was about as sensible as thinking one could swim after watching the Olympics.

  Yet that is exactly what I’d done. I’d been watching first one and then another all day riding the two motorcycles in the nearby field. There was my 16-year-old daughter, who had never ridden one until today, riding like a pro, and my two grand-daughters ages 12 and 13, speeding over bumps so they could jump the machine, and there was my husband circling the field at a slow and easy pace. Did I think that with a half-minute’s instruction it would be easy?

  Other family members had learned to ride on a straightaway, while I’d been trying to make a circle around the house dodging fence, clothesline, picnic table and children. Well, I’d just as well have forgotten the other obstacles. I hadn’t even made it past the fence.

  For the next two weeks I pretended my hurt wasn’t painful, but was careful to keep it well protected. And even though it’s easy enough for child’s play, someday I’m determined to learn to ride that Honda if I get another chance.

  The Beginning

  Fourteen-year-old Karla was just closing the front door as I entered the living room, dust cloth in hand. “Boy! Am I glad that day’s over!” she said sinking into the overstuffed chair, long legs dangling over one arm and head resting on the other, giving a mock picture of one completely at the end of her rope.

  “Now, that’s a strange remark on your first day,” I teased. “Especially after I assured you that high school was so much fun.”

  “Well, if this is a sample of the next four years I think I’ll just quit right here. I wonder if winning the trip to the State Fair was worth missing the first two days of school.”

  “You went so early this morning I thought you could get everything all straightened out before school started,” I reminded her. “I thought you registered last spring. Didn’t you get the classes you wanted?”

  Slowly the day’s events unraveled. “Well, first off, the Home Ec. class was filled, so they put down that I would take French that period. I want to take French sometime, but not when I’m a freshman, but I had to get a release because I’d been assigned.”

  The French teacher was my friend and I wondered how he’d taken her refusing the class. “Oh, he was all right, but said, ‘I didn’t think you’d take it.’ I took my French release and went to biology class, another not previously registered for and the teacher said, ‘What did they send you here for? There aren’t enough books for the ones we have now.’ He did let me stay, though. No telling when I’ll get a book. There’s another girl without one, too.

  “Our English class had just begun when the principal announced over the intercom that all students not previously registered last week should meet in room 31. I asked Miss Reeves if I could go and she said, ‘Not yet.’ When the class was half over she remembered and let me go. I got to room 31 and the instructor there complained because I was late.”

  “You did have a day, didn’t you?” I sympathized. “I guess nothing but good can happen after that bad start.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t all bad. I met some groovy kids and the bright spot of the day was Seminary class. Mr. Garner thought I looked familiar. Remember, he talked in Church last summer? As I came into the room he quietly said, ‘Do I know you?’ I smiled and nodded. Still with a quizzical look he leaned over and whispered, ‘What’s your name?’ I whispered back, ‘Karla Crane.’ He remembered me then. I think I’ll like that class. He’s a very inspiring teacher. Anyway, whenever he spoke to me for the rest of the class period he’d whisper. It was hilarious.

  “Getting my locker was another headache. The registrar said there wasn’t a single locker left, but many were sharing the double lockers. She finally found a girl I knew from last year, so that turned out Okay. You should see those halls between classes and especially at noon. And that’s something else again—lunch. We hurried to get to the cafeteria and when we finally made it up front they had half-cooked, soggy pizza! The buttered corn wasn’t bad and the cherry cobbler was delicious, but the girl just ahead of me took the last of the milk so I had to have chocolate. It just didn’t go too well with the pizza or pudding.”

  “How were the kids for dress?” I asked.

  “You know, that was really a shock to me. I didn’t see one mini-skirt or one long-haired boy. I suppose any tendency to them was nipped in the bud the first day of school. I heard the kids were warned they’d be sent home or to the barber if they didn’t uphold school policy of no extremes.”

  Continuing my dusting, I said, “I’m glad the important things in school are fine and that the day ended better than it started for you.”

  “Well, hardly. Lynn has a new bus and I wasn’t watching and slipped when I got in and skinned my shin and ruined a good pair of nylons, and then it was so crowded I stood up all the way home. They’re going to put part of the kids on Bert’s bus tomorrow, so it won’t be so hectic.”

  “Oh, well,” she said. Then in one rolling movement she stood up, walked to the piano, sat on the bench and ran her slender fingers over the keys in the lilting melody of the “Rustic Dance” and one could almost feel the tensions of the day drop away and a pleasant relaxed feeling fill the room in a resolution that tomorrow was another day and she was determined that it would be a better one.

  The Return

  After a few years absence from your home town, returning is comparable to meeting a friend you haven’t seen for a long time. The nostalgia of seeing things almost forgotten, but still familiar helps you recall signposts along the way. You’ve been traveling for hundreds of miles in unfamiliar territory and suddenly realize that things you’re seeing are things you’ve seen before and you’re within two miles of your destination—the old homestead.

  You are at the outskirts of Newtown where the black-topped highway is split down the middle with a raised median strip, used for walking between lanes of traffic. Jay-walking is not prohibited here. The elk horn arch spanning the center street is said to be the largest in the world, containing 3,000 antlers gather from feed grounds after being shed—a process through which elk pass annually. At each end of the arch is a gateway bow, squatting like the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

  As you pass under the arch you find you are halfway through the country metropolis whose major business district is contained in one block. Just beyond the city limits you wonder at the great number of yellow and black agricultural spray planes parked in what seems to be the center of a farmer’s alfalfa field. You are shocked to discover that this tiny hamlet has an airplane factory and realize these planes have just come from the assembly line.

  You’ve reached the farming district now, where dwellings are small and scattered. Each farm has a large barn and a larger hayshed stuffed with recently harvested crops ready for the winter feed lots. Holstein cattle dot the pastures black and white and you know you’re in dairy country.

  As you gaze west you see miles of sprinkler pipes shooting out their life-giving moisture to the second-crop hay. You’re rounding the big bend at last and notice that one of the largest and most productive farms in the area is being converted into a golf course and is being worked by several large pieces of road-building equipment.

  Across the highway the beaver farm with its indi
vidual cement houses is on the corner section next to the old Swiss cheese factory on the Fairview lane. The factory is changed now into an auto salvage and car repair shop. The large cottonwood trees banking the old Dry Creek spillway cut a wide diagonal line down through the center of the wrecked-car lot. Only at high water runoff time is there water in the creek anymore.

  As you begin to apply your brakes, you find on your right the frame house has been replaced by two ultra-modern fifty-foot mobile homes. With signal lights blinking, you turn left into the shale approach and stop beside the blue and white house. This is where you had begun the trip you thought would last a week but has actually kept you away from the farmstead for five long years.

  Expanding on the Sentence: “The Car Hit the Tree”

  Three-year-old Noel, Jr. climbed into the front seat of his daddy’s company car and turned on the ignition key. The car, being in low gear, leaped forward with the small boy at the wheel. His parents in the house, hearing the car start, bounded to the door and stood in stark horror as they watched the rear wheels disappear behind the house. They knew they were helpless to do anything. Then as they raced to the corner of the house, they heard a grinding thud as the car hit the low-branched pine tree and stopped.

  Unused Quote From Grandson

  3 year old Lance came dragging his coat across the floor, knowing he should have it on but no time for it and declaring, “My is going out to help catch she.”