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Friday Mar 05, 2010
Friday Mar 05, 2010
LITERATURE OUT LOUD
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Friday Mar 05, 2010
Friday Mar 05, 2010
Three and One are One
by Ambrose Bierce
In the year 1861 Barr Lassiter, a young man of twenty-two, lived with his parents and an elder sister near Carthage, Tennessee. The family were in somewhat humble circumstances, subsisting by cultivation of a small and not very fertile plantation. Owning no slaves, they were not rated among “the best people” of their neighborhood; but they were honest persons of good education, fairly well mannered and as respectable as any family could be if uncredentialed by personal dominion over the sons and daughters of Ham. The elder Lassiter had that severity of manner that so frequently affirms an uncompromising devotion to duty, and conceals a warm and affectionate disposition. He was of the iron of which martyrs are made, but in the heart of the matrix had lurked a nobler metal, fusible at a milder heat, yet never coloring nor softening the hard exterior. By both heredity and environment something of the man’s inflexible character had touched the other members of the family; the Lassiter home, though not devoid of domestic affection, was a veritable citadel of duty, and duty—ah, duty is as cruel as death!
When the war came on it found in the family, as in so many others in that State, a divided sentiment; the young man was loyal to the Union, the others savagely hostile. This unhappy division begot an insupportable domestic bitterness, and when the offending son and brother left home with the avowed purpose of joining the Federal army not a hand was laid in his, not a word of farewell was spoken, not a good wish followed him out into the world whither he went to meet with such spirit as he might whatever fate awaited him.
Making his way to Nashville, already occupied by the Army of General Buell, he enlisted in the first organization that he found, a Kentucky regiment of cavalry, and in due time passed through all the stages of military evolution from raw recruit to experienced trooper. A right good trooper he was, too, although in his oral narrative from which this tale is made there was no mention of that; the fact was learned from his surviving comrades. For Barr Lassiter has answered “Here” to the sergeant whose name is Death.
Two years after he had joined it, his regiment passed through the region whence he had come. The country thereabout had suffered severely from the ravages of war, having been occupied alternately (and simultaneously) by the belligerent forces, and a sanguinary struggle had occurred in the immediate vicinity of the Lassiter homestead. But of this the young trooper was not aware.
Finding himself in camp near his home, he felt a natural longing to see his parents and sister, hoping that in them, as in him, the unnatural animosities of the period had been softened by time and separation. Obtaining a leave of absence, he set foot in the late summer afternoon, and soon after the rising of the full moon was walking up the gravel path leading to the dwelling in which he had been born.
Soldiers in war age rapidly, and in youth two years are a long time. Barr Lassiter felt himself an old man, and had almost expected to find the place a ruin and a desolation. Nothing, apparently, was changed. At the sight of each dear and familiar object he was profoundly affected. His heart beat audibly, his emotion nearly suffocated him; an ache was in his throat. Unconsciously he quickened his pace until he almost ran, his long shadow making grotesque efforts to keep its place beside him.
The house was unlighted, the door open. As he approached and paused to recover control of himself his father came out and stood bare-headed in the moonlight.
“Father!” cried the young man, springing forward with outstretched hand—“Father!”
The elder man looked him sternly in the face, stood a moment motionless and without a word withdrew into the house. Bitterly disappointed, humiliated, inexpressibly hurt and altogether unnerved, the soldier dropped upon a rustic seat in deep dejection, supporting his head upon his trembling hand. But he would not have it so: he was too good a soldier to accept repulse as defeat. He rose and entered the house, passing directly to the “sitting-room.”
It was dimly lighted by an uncurtained east window. On a low stool by the hearthside, the only article of furniture in the place, sat his mother, staring into a fireplace strewn with blackened embers and cold ashes. He spoke to her—tenderly, interrogatively, and with hesitation, but she neither answered, nor moved, nor seemed in any way surprised. True, there had been time for her husband to apprise her of their guilty son’s return. He moved nearer and was about to lay his hand upon her arm, when his sister entered from an adjoining room, looked him full in the face, passed him without a sign of recognition and left the room by a door that was partly behind him. He had turned his head to watch her, but when she was gone his eyes again sought his mother. She too had left the place.
Barr Lassiter strode to the door by which he had entered. The moonlight on the lawn was tremulous, as if the sward were a rippling sea. The trees and their black shadows shook as in a breeze. Blended with its borders, the gravel walk seemed unsteady and insecure to step on. This young soldier knew the optical illusions produced by tears. He felt them on his cheek, and saw them sparkle on the breast of his trooper’s jacket. He left the house and made his way back to camp.
The next day, with no very definite intention, with no dominant feeling that he could rightly have named, he again sought the spot. Within a half-mile of it he met Bushrod Albro, a former playfellow and schoolmate, who greeted him warmly.
“I am going to visit my home,” said the soldier. The other looked at him rather sharply, but said nothing.
“I know,” continued Lassister, “that my folks have not changed, but—”
“There have been changes,” Albro interrupted—“everything changes. I’ll go with you if you don’t mind. We can talk as we go.”
But Albro did not talk.
Instead of a house they found only fire-blackened foundations of stone, enclosing an area of compact ashes pitted by rains.
Lassiter’s astonishment was extreme.
“I could not find the right way to tell you,” said Albro. “In the fight a year ago your house was burned by a Federal shell.”
“And my family—where are they?”
“In Heaven, I hope. All were killed by the shell.”
LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature
800+ audio versions of poems, short stories, novels
and all of Shakespeare's Sonnets -- over 30,000 downloads
Plodder's Mile -- an action ebook by Dane Allred
Quick Quotations by Dane Allred
a public speaking handbook with more than 2000 quotes
Friday Mar 05, 2010
Friday Mar 05, 2010
Daily Drill
I like to go to the dentist. It took me a long time before I reached this point, but this week when I emerged from the three story building he has an office in, I looked at my teeth and for the first time I can remember, I saw no fillings.
I have spent more time in a dentist’s chair than I care to recall, but it is probably into the thousands of hours. I’ve had many, many root canals, as in more than 5 and less than 10, and too many fillings to count. I have a bridge across two of my teeth, and I really don’t know how many crowns I have in my mouth. It’s that bad.
My daughter texted me last week and said the dentist told her she had her father’s teeth. It made me feel sad for her, because I know the kind of pain and suffering she will face throughout her life. She was fitted for another crown this week, and on the same day the same dentist fitted me for another crown. She in her late twenties now, and we have paid for extensive work on her teeth including braces and veneers, and now she is finding out how expensive bad teeth can be.
When I was young, my teeth hurt so often I had to choose which side of my mouth to chew my food on, and it was usually the side with the least cavities. To make my teeth fit in my small mouth, the dentist pulled four teeth and the others straightened out, so I did escape having to have braces.
But I know my mother paid for several very nice boats for the dentist while my teeth rotted away. We all know the main culprit for my teeth problems is the amount of soda I drink. My teeth are so weak the dentist even gave me prescription strength fluoride toothpaste. Well, he gave it to me and then charged me for it. But I thought it was a nice gesture.
Teeth are an interesting symbol of strength. We don’t want our teeth to be weak, and we don’t want the pain associated with weak teeth. So we do a few things to make sure they stay in good health, like brushing, flossing, and visiting the dentist regularly.
In my forties, I finally got most of my teeth in shape. I still had some of those ugly silver fillings from the sixties, but I can say I spent a decade or two without tooth pain because I actually kept going to the dentist.
Our lives can be like teeth. Without the proper examination, we may be rotting away and not even know it. If we find ourselves in a place where we feel bitter, disappointed or angry, the decay into this condition started long before today. Perhaps we are harboring bad feelings, which rot away our soul as surely as sugar rots my teeth.
The decay in our lives doesn’t have to match the gradual decline of our bodies. With proper intervention, we can live interesting, fulfilled lives until the day we begin to decay after our death. But the mental brushing and flossing might include things like hobbies, puzzles, new interests, and it may even include a general restructuring of our lives.
The dentist had to drill away what was left of my broken tooth, but the good news is he also got rid of a really prominent silver filling. Now the temporary cap they put on matches my teeth, and the ugly darkness which had greeted me every time I looked in the mirror, and for the last four decades or more. But first he had to build up a post of new material so the crown had something to hold onto.
We may have to restructure our basic foundations to be able to secure the new habits we want to build. If I want to be a writer, I may have to do some writing every day. I can do all the planning I want about my book, but until I actually put pen to paper, or type some words into a word processor, I will never start to become a writer. We can dream all we want, but when the dreaming stops and the work begins, we will find out just how much we want something.
I have been to the dentist so much I can have him drill on shallow cavities without being numbed up. The dental assistants can’t really believe when I do this, and then I don’t have to worry about the numbing stuff wearing off. Are you ready to jump into life? Maybe it’s time to get up out of the chair and face the work we need to do.
LITERATURE OUT LOUD
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Wednesday Mar 03, 2010
Wednesday Mar 03, 2010
Incongruous
Life is full of contradictions, but this doesn’t mean we need to label one side good and the other bad. This world can be both a beautiful and an ugly place at the same time. When I see abundance in the universe, it doesn’t mean I don’t know about the pain and suffering that also exists locally and across the world.
It may seem incongruous to acknowledge abundance when there are still people hurting. But I really think there is no other way to improve this world unless we gain a positive perspective and try to emphasize what is good.
Let me explain one of the ways I have come to have this peculiar appreciation of the incongruity of life. While I was taking a Russian language class in college, the cute little lady from Germany who was struggling to get me to speak Russian without a western drawl told me a story about the Soviet Union. She said if you were walking the street in the Soviet Union and you saw a line, you should get in it. She said when there was a line; it meant there was something being sold which most people would want. She used the example of pineapples. She said when you get to the front of the line; you should buy all you could carry. It still made no sense, so she said you would take those pineapples home and give or sell them to your neighbors, who would do the same for you next time something was being sold which everyone wanted. The shortages made the lines something you should never pass up.
This reminds me of the defection of a MIG pilot during the Soviet Union era. When he decided to come to the United States, he was convinced every place he was taken had staged the plenty we have become accustomed to here in the West. So the pilot decided to run-away from his supervisors and see for himself. He was sure the stores with plenty were prepared just for him, and after searching for the kind of scarcity he knew from the Soviet Union, he turned himself back in after a month or so. It was so unbelievable to him he had to prove it to himself.
Do we really need to live for a while in a less fortunate place to appreciate the bounty we have all around us? I’m not only talking about pineapples, but the opportunities we are surrounded with which we take for granted, or worse, ignore. Best of all, many of the most glorious things we can enjoy aren’t really things. Here’s a list I was making this morning on the way to work. I was able to enjoy the radiant sunshine reflected off a snow covered peak to the north with a reddish pink brilliance. Since I was driving, I was only able to look at it for a moment, but it was an amazing sight.
Then as I drove South, I recognized the sun rising in the same place it rises during this time of the year. It’s been a favorite time for me since it is a precursor to the approach of spring. But the sun was still a little too far north, and it wasn’t rising on the same bridge it does at the end of next month. I considered why this was, and with the education I’ve received in excellent public schools, I was able to imagine our part of the hemisphere tilting away from the sun on our yearly trip around the sun. As I drove to work, in my mind I could see the planet slowly revolving around the sun until we are pointing directly at it and we are basking in summer glory. It was another amazing opportunity to acknowledge the incredible, wonderful and amazing life I am living.
Where millions of people in the past cursed the winter and wondered what ceremonies they needed to perform to make the spring return, I live in a world where the wonders of science can explain why it is fifteen degrees outside this morning, and it has nothing to do with offending the gods. I drive along in a car going 75 miles per hour, and think about the fact that people believed the human body couldn’t survive speeds faster than 40 miles per hour. I work in a climate adjusted building, enjoy plentiful food, affordable clothing, and can provide for my family.
It can’t really explain why I wore a Hawaiian shirt to work when it was fifteen degrees outside. I told everyone I was trying to hurry summer along, but the truth is I just like the shirt. I maybe in my own superstitious way, I am trying to offer my own sacrifice so summer will return.
LITERATURE OUT LOUD
Click here for a complete INDEX
LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text
The Complete Collection of
SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS
all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping
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Tuesday Mar 02, 2010
Tuesday Mar 02, 2010
This is the complete episode from February 21st.
LITERATURE OUT LOUD
Click here for a complete INDEX
LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text
The Complete Collection of
SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS
all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping
Click on the Amazon button to order
Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin