daneallred

https://feed.podbean.com/daneallred/feed.xml

31.2K

Downloads

711

Episodes

Dane Allred examines the "Abundance" of the universe in his list of "1001 Thanks"

Episodes

Thursday Jun 24, 2010

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Thursday Jun 24, 2010

Welcome to Biography Out Loud. I am your host, Dane Allred.

Born in 1906, she knew William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Alfred Tennyson, Thomas Carlyle, Edgar Allen Poe, and was also married to a famous poet. Her poetry greatly influenced Emily Dickenson, and while she was already famous when she married, most people are more familiar with her married name. Who is this poet, called one of the great Victorian writers?

We’ll find out in a moment on:

Biography Out Loud

Elizabeth Barrett is perhaps best known by her married name, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, but she was a famous poet before she married. At the age of 20, she became ill with an undiagnosed disease which left her weak and frail. She took morphine for the pain, eventually becoming addicted to the medication.

Though her family was wealthy when she was born, reversals in the family fortune forced the sale of a large farm. The end of slavery in Jamaica also affected the family income, since a sugar plantation they owned was run by slave labor. During this time Elizabeth Barrett became famous, rubbing shoulders with many other famous poets of the time.

It was suggested by her physician she relocate nearer the ocean, and convincing her brother to accompany her, she later felt responsible for his death. He drowned in a sailing accident in Torquay on the Devonshire coast.

A voracious reader and scholar, she learned Greek and Hebrew. In 1833, she published a translation of “Prometheus Bound”, a work by the Greek dramatist Aeschylus.

In 1842, she wrote a book of poetry called “The Cry of the Children”, which later influenced changes in the child labor laws. In 1844, now a poet with a world-wide reputation, she received letters from Robert Browning which declared his love for her poetry. He met with her and a great romance developed. He wrote her 574 letters in the next twenty months. She was six years his senior, and was not convinced of his devotion, detailing her doubts in “The Sonnets from the Portuguese”. After a long courtship, they were married and went to Italy to live. Elizabeth was disowned by her father who did the same to each child who married.

She wrote of this time in her life, “The Mrs. Browning of popular imagination was a sweet, innocent young woman who suffered endless cruelties at the hands of a tyrannical papa but who nonetheless had the good fortune to fall in love with a dashing and handsome poet named Robert Browning. She finally escaped the dungeon of Wimpole Street, eloped to Italy, and lived happily ever after.” While in Italy, her health improved and at the age of 43 she gave birth to their son Pen. They were successful and lived comfortably in Italy, becoming local celebrities who were often stopped and asked for autographs.

Edgar Allen Poe reviewed one of her poems and said "her poetic inspiration is the highest—we can conceive of nothing more august. Her sense of Art is pure in itself." Inspired by her poem entitled “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship”, Poe borrowed the meter of the poem and used it in “The Raven”. She later praised Poe’s work on “The Raven”.

After the death of William Wordsworth, it was thought Elizabeth Barrett Browning might be named Poet Laureate, but Tennyson was appointed. Her health failed again after the death of her father and sister. Weak and depressed, she died on June 29^th, 1861. Buried in Florence, “On Monday July 1 the shops in the section of the city around Casa Guidi were closed, while Elizabeth was mourned with unusual demonstrations.”

Perhaps her best known poem is “How Do I Love Thee, Let Me Count the Ways”. In a letter to a Mr. Chorley, a friend and critic, she said, “I never wrote to please any of you, not even to please my own husband.” She also insisted she wrote from the heart and from an obligation to tell the truth. She once said, “Every genuine artist in the world goes to heaven for speaking the truth.”

In Sonnet 14, she asks to be “loved for love’s sake.”

If thou must love me, let it be for nought

Except for love's sake only. Do not say

"I love her for her smile —her look —her way

Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought

That falls in well with mine, and certes brought

A sense of pleasant ease on such a day" -

For these things in themselves, Beloved, may

Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought,

May be unwrought so. Neither love me for

Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,—

A creature might forget to weep, who bore

Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!

But love me for love's sake, that evermore

Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity'.

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

Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin

What did it mean?

John Graham was at home thinking hard about the mess he had created for himself. A gangster was out there somewhere wondering where the rest of his money had gone. His best friend had been shot because John wanted to keep money he found on the railroad tracks. His wife kept asking him what was wrong.

He decided to go jogging and think. “I’m sorry, Reba,” John explained. “I think I’m just worried about Greg. I’ll be back in just a bit.” Then he was out the door. He began thinking about running his fourth marathon. He wished he was running a marathon right now. Then he would have five hours to think.

Five hours was a terrible time for most marathon runners. But John was just proud to be able to finish, even though the runners who won the race could have run the course twice in that amount of time. It really did give you a sense of accomplishment to finish 26.2 miles, even if you were plodding while you were doing it.

When you hit the 18 and 19 mile markers you weren’t sure if you would make it. Even though the biggest part was behind you, the “wall” runners talk about hitting becomes a massive stone behemoth ready to fall across you. And at that point in the race, you would be happy for a wall of rock to fall on you. But the 20 mile mark was magic, because you knew only 6.1 miles was left. The difference between 6.1 and 7.1 miles might as well have been 10 miles instead of just one.

Maybe he was just in the last mile before the ending was in sight. Would he give up the money now, and regret not having gone that last mile? Just like when he was running a marathon, John thought to himself that most difficulties were overcome by mental toughness, and not necessarily by sheer strength. John jogged across the railroad tracks again, thinking about how these tracks had started the problems he now found himself in.

John dug in and decided he could have the mental toughness to finish what he had started. This “wall” he felt pressing up against him would be temporary. Unless the real “wall” was hidden somewhere up ahead.

Ray was a slow thinker, but he was methodical. It only took about an hour, and he thought he had figured out where the money was, and what this guy named John Graham had done. Ray figured this guy had hid it somewhere, probably in his house, and was hoping the bank wouldn’t figure it out. Maybe this John guy hoped Ray would get caught, go to jail for the robbery and the money would never be found.

Ray clenched his fists at the thought of someone else spending the money while he rotted in jail. There was no way that was going to happen, and Ray had a pretty good idea how to get his money back.

Then Ray noticed some motion further down the road. As the shape in the distance got closer, Ray could tell it was a man carrying a gun. It could be a hunter, or it could be the cops. But then why would one person being walking up, without even a warning? Just to be safe, Ray hid the revolver in his coat pocket.

“Howdy.” The man in the overalls spoke first.

“Hey,” said Ray. “Out hunting?”

“Nah, just out shooting some old ammunition,” said the old timer, who looked to be over 70 to Ray. “Car trouble?”

“Nah. Just needed to stretch my legs for a while. I thought this road maybe led to a lake or somethin’,” said Ray, relaxing a bit.

“There is a lake just around the corner of the fence”, pointed the old geezer, using his gun to point and then waving it in Ray’s direction. Ray tried hard not to flinch.

“Thanks. I might drive down and check it out,” said Ray. “Good fishing in the lake?”

“Not bad” said the man. “Just be careful about the game warden. He don’t like it when I catch too many fish.” The old guy chuckled, and Ray got back in his car and said “thanks” again. Ray thought he might just camp out by the lake until tomorrow. Spending a night by the lake wouldn’t be too bad, and by then the heat should be off.

A gunshot made Ray jump in his seat. He looked back in the car mirror. A crow fluttered to the ground. The old guy walked over and kicked it with his foot.

It was after 8:30 by the time Greg arrived back at Paula’s room. As he knocked slowly, he could hear her in the room straightening up. Probably making him wait because he made her wait. Well, he was late.

But when the door opened, Paula’s face turned from irritation to concern. “What was happened to you?”

“I’ve been shot.”

He wasn’t sure she believed him, but then she looked from his arm, up to his face and then back to his arm. She couldn’t get him in the room and down on a chair fast enough.

Ray sat quietly by the lake planning his revenge. He hoped there was a family in the picture, because that always made getting what you wanted easier. Every once in a while, he heard the old farmer’s rifle, and Ray pictured John Graham being shot by Larry’s gun – being held in Ray’s hand. Too bad he didn’t have a picture to make the visualization complete. That would come later.

“You mean you got shot because of my report!” Paula pushed Greg’s good shoulder, which made him wince because his whole body moved. She was immediately repentant, saying, “Oh, I’m sorry, did that hurt your arm? I can’t believe you almost got killed because of me.” She was on the verge of tears.

“Calm down, it’s not your fault,” said Greg. “Remember, I’m the one who made the phone call and asked you to do the story. We just didn’t think this guy would be so serious about getting his money so soon.”

“We?”

“Sorry,” Greg apologized, “we means Smitty – Harold Smith, one of my old friends who is the state investigator. You’ve met him.”

Paula looked confused. “But I thought you told me he didn’t get his money, just a small part of it.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t know all the money wasn’t there, and I purposely decided not to tell you. And you were smart enough not to ask,” smiled Greg, wondering why of all the jerks in the world, she had settle on this jerk who had just admitted using her.

“Don’t you ever ask me to put you in danger again,” she warned. “I’ve spent far too much time trying to get to this point in my life without you dying on me.” She reinforced the point by gently sitting down next to him and laying her head on his chest. “You need me around to take care of you, it looks like,” she purred. “And I sure as hell need you around to take care of me.”

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

Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin

Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Chapter Twelve

Friday Jun 18, 2010

The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Eleven

Friday Jun 18, 2010

The Plodder’s Mile

CHAPTER ELEVEN

By that time most of the neighbors had been alerted by the gunshot, and the police captain’s house is where most people decided to check first. Before long a crowd had gathered in the front room of Captain Greg Jones. Widow McGregor had stopped the bleeding from the shoulder, and mopped up the blood on Jones’ face, but he was still out cold.

Many of his neighbors milled about the room wondered just what had happened, and after congratulating each other on their bravery, wondered if the person who had wounded their police captain was still somewhere close by, waiting to shoot them, too.

While they had called 911, any medical help would take about 30 minutes to reach the small town. That’s about the time someone got the bright idea to call the state police, and get some more protection here in their town. There had never been much more than accidental gunshot wounds in Ridgeway, and there had been that excitement several years ago with the drug dealer and the car chase.

But it was especially unnerving to see your police captain, the man you depended upon for protection, bleeding in his own hallway. It was at times like these the townspeople were grateful that someone else took the risks to protect them. But if their protection was out of commission, how were they supposed to feel protected?

Luckily, it was now that Greg Jones sat up and put his hand on his jaw, rubbing slowly. Looking around at his neighbors, and seeing the fear in their faces he said, “Did anyone get the license number of that truck?”

Ray had the keys to the safe, transportation, and a weapon. He didn’t intend to stay in Ridgeway a second longer that was necessary, because it didn’t seem to him that the shot he gokilled the cop. He wasn’t planning on staying around to see if the cop followed him to where they both knew he was going. The station.

The shack Ridgeway called a police station was an embarrassment. It was so run down and dilapidated that no one ever talked of fixing the place up, just what kind of building to have next. Most people favored moving it to the old woolen mills, which had been empty for 25 years and whose roof leaked in most places.

It wasn’t hard for Ray to break a window and unlock the door. Even easier was finding the safe, since it seemed to be the only reinforced part of the entire structure. Having both keys made all that reinforcement unnecessary. No one ever anticipated both officers being attacked.

Ray was into the safe and grabbed the bundle in seconds. He rummaged around for anything else valuable and decided that Ridgeway must have been a very dull town indeed. He tucked the bundle under his arm and quickly walked to Larry’s car. With the bundle, the car, Larry’s gun and a substantial head-start on anyone who might want to follow, Ray decided to drive away from town, away from Tommy in his cell, and toward the bank they had originally robbed. The cops would never think of looking for him in that direction. Now all he had to do was find a place to hide for a day or two.

Smitty was on the way to Ridgeway when the call for help came. He listened to the details, and reflexively sped the car up when he heard his good friend’s name mentioned. Smitty had seen the news broadcast earlier that night, and cursed himself for suggesting it to Greg. He had forgotten Greg was being chased by that cute blond from WGHH. He never imagined when he gave Greg the suggestion that the story would show up on the news that same night. He had wanted a couple of days to get some surveillance set up.

As soon as he saw the story on the television, Smitty knew there would be trouble, and this call about Greg being shot only confirmed his fears. This criminal was quick, and Smitty kicked himself for not thinking all this through. Of course the guy would come back for the money, because he thought only he knew where the drop-off had been. When he saw the news that night, that short guy who had ditched his partner must have done a back flip thinking he knew where the money was. Smitty also thought he knew why Greg had been shot.

The short guy wanted the vault key.

“So, if I am finally reading this right,” muttered Smitty to himself, “we are dealing with a pro. Someone who isn’t afraid to shoot a cop, or anyone else.” His thoughts raced, and he reached out the window to set the bubble gum machine turning. He sped up even faster.

John Graham stood looking at his friend Greg Jones. Widow McGregor had fixed him up so fast there was practically no blood on his arm at all. Greg was up walking back and forth in his kitchen, tethered to the phone by a cord that was too short. He had tried to call his deputy, but there had been no answer.

Greg was now trying to get Smitty on the phone. He was also unavailable, and no one could tell Officer Jones where “Harold” was at the moment. When Greg hung up the phone, John pulled his friend down onto one of the kitchen chairs.

“Greg, take it easy”, said John. “You’ve been shot. You should get your arm looked at.”

“Just a flesh wound,” Greg laughed, imagining himself to be striking a heroic figure. “Really, John, it was a clean shot, no bone, and the muscle is a little sore. I don’t know what Old Lady McGregor put in that hole, but it has closed over and the ibuprofen is taking care of the pain.”

“What I’m worried about,” he continued, “is that out there somewhere is a guy who thinks it was worth it to shoot me for the key to the office vault.”

John’s eyes met Greg’s.

“You mean this is over the money?” John’s eyes got big. Greg nodded and then said, “You saw the news tonight, right?”

John nodded.

“The state police said that might get the other robber out of hiding,” explained Greg, “but I didn’t think it would work this fast. This has been one wild couple of days.”

Greg shook his head. “First a robbery, a train gets stopped, you find the money, and now someone wants my key bad enough to kill me for it. I would say we got his interest.”

“But why would he go to all this trouble just to get the $1800?” asked John, trying to seem innocent, while really wondering if it was time to ‘fess up and go get the rest of the cash.

Greg looked at John for a moment, and then shook his head. “Someone must have got to the money first, and our robber thinks he has the whole wad.” Greg paused for effect. “Any other ideas why he would do this?” Greg asked, indicating his wounded arm.

Silence. Then John said, “I really have no idea why he would shoot you.” Then more silence.

Greg thought to himself that John probably knew more that he was saying, but for the second part of Smitty’s suggestion to work, it was better not to press John right now. Greg looked at his watch.

“Is it really eight in the morning?” he exclaimed.

John saw no significance in the hour. “Yeah, it’s eight, why?”

“I’m late for a breakfast appointment,” Greg said, and grabbed his coat and dashed out the door. John and the other neighbors looked at each other, and decided that if Greg wasn’t going to stay home, maybe they had better leave his house, too.

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

Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin

Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Chapter Eleven

Friday Jun 18, 2010

Biography Out Loud -- Robert Frost

Friday Jun 18, 2010

This author once said “By working faithfully eight hours a day you may eventually get to be a boss and work 12 hours a day.” Though he delivered newspapers and was a cobbler, farmer and the light bulb filament changer in a factory, he always felt his true calling was as a poet. He also worked as a teacher, and won four Pulitzer prizes for poetry.

He is renowned for his ability to capture rural life and colloquial language. Who is this rural poet, regarded as one of the most famous American authors? We’ll find out in a moment on:

Biography Out Loud

Robert Frost’s epitaph quotes a line from one of his poems: "I had a lover's quarrel with the world." Best known for his poem “The Road Not Taken”, the lines most often cited from this poem include “two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”

He sold his first poem “My Butterfly: An Elegy”, at the age of 20 for fifteen dollars. This early success caused him to propose to Elinor. She refused this first proposal, but later agreed to marriage. They were in England when World War I broke out, and Robert Frost then returned with his family to what would be the family homestead. Frost met Ezra Pound while in England. Pound helped promote Robert Frost’s poetry by reviewing his first book of poetry, but their friendship waned in later years. Frost said of life, “In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life. It goes on.”

His father died when he was 11, his mother when he was 26, and he also had to commit his sister to an institution. He and his wife had six children, but was only survived by two daughters. He buried his wife in 1938. Though faced with much tragedy in his life, he said, “Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length.” He also said, “The best way out is always through.”

He taught later in his life at the University of Michigan and received more than 40 honorary degrees in his lifetime. Of education he once said, “Education is the ability to listen to almost anything without losing your temper.”

Robert Frost performed a reading of his poetry at the inauguration of John F. Kennedy at the age of eighty-six. Frost enjoyed reading his works, and once said, “I look at a poem as a performance.” Of Robert Frost, President Kennedy said, "He has bequeathed his nation a body of imperishable verse from which Americans will forever gain joy and understanding."

His use of common language to communicate in poetry makes Frost one of the most famous American poets. His wit has also been frequently quoted. He once said, “A jury consists of twelve persons chosen to decide who has the better lawyer.”

He worked on various farms his entire life, commenting he had no regular writing schedule. he said, “I don’t have hours; I don’t work at it, you know. I’m not a farmer, that’s no pose of mine. But I have farmed some, and I putter around. And I walk and live with other people. Like to talk a lot.”

Though his life was checkered with loss, he once said, “I never knew how many disadvantages anyone needed to get anywhere in the world. No psychology will ever tell you who needs a whip and who needs a spur to win races.”

When asked once about the creative process, Robert Frost said, “It’s just the same as when you feel a joke coming. You see somebody coming down the street that you’re accustomed to abuse, and feel it rising in you, something to say as you pass each other. Coming over him the same way. And where do these thoughts come from?”

In 1942, Robert Frost received his fourth Pulitzer prize for his book “A Winter Tree” He is the first person to win four Pulitzer prizes. He also once had patchwork quilts made from the academic hoods he had received with his honorary degrees.

In a memorable couplet, Frost once said, “It’s from their having stood contrasted, That good and bad so long have lasted.”

Frost was born in 1874, but maintained his entire life he was born in 1875. His friends threw a 50^th birthday party for him as he turned fifty-one, and he was honored by the US Senate for his 75^th birthday, although he was seventy-six. Robert Frost, one of the most accomplished American poets, died in 1963.

He once quipped, “Half the world is composed of people who have something to say and can't and the other half who have nothing to say and keep on saying it.”

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

Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin

Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Robert Frost

Thursday Jun 10, 2010

The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Ten

Thursday Jun 10, 2010

CHAPTER TEN

Deputy Larry Skinner was across town having his last beer at the Hitbox. It was the only place in town that stayed open this late and served beer, so when closing time came, every drunk in town had to go home.

Larry Skinner wasn’t an alcoholic, but he did like to drink. He liked the way it made him feel, and he wasn’t about to give that up, even though Captain Jones had warned him against coming to work hung-over.

“Hell, Greg”, he had said to his friend and boss, “I’m just a part-time deputy, but I am a full-time drunk.”

His captain’s advice was to come to work sober, and save the booze for down time. It was the end of a very nice couple of days of down time, although he had to pretend he hadn’t been drinking when the money was counted and stored in the safe earlier that day. He had only had a six-pack by then anyway. Captain Jones had noticed, but had decided not to say anything. Larry had been sober enough that afternoon to count money. But now, he was in the midst of being fully drunk and out of pain.

Larry even drove home when he was drunk, since he knew there was only one other person in town who could arrest him, and if Captain Jones threw him in the jail, there would be one less deputy in town. Then the good Captain would have to do more work, and in the logic of the fuzzy drunken brain, that was practically a “Do Not Go To Jail” card.

True, Larry had damaged three cars last month as he weaved home, but had paid for the repairs out of his own pocket to keep his insurance company from knowing. He actually was close to having to buy very expensive insurance for the privilege of driving. So tonight, he was driving extra careful, which meant extra slow.

The problem with living with only 200 neighbors is that everyone knows your business. The great advantage though, is that everyone tolerates your faults, because you have to tolerate theirs. Drivers who saw Larry coming down the street knew enough to pull very wide of his car, or to turn and take the next street.

Larry’s garbage can didn’t know the protocol. As he ran right over the top of it and drug it up his driveway, the neighbors knew that Larry was home again after a late night at the Hitbox bar, and that he would be buying yet another garbage can.

Inside the house, the screeching metal on metal on concrete made Ray jump straight up, and he instantly pulled his “automotive tool” from his pocket, trying to protect himself from the screeching attacker. He calmed down enough to realize the noise was coming from outside, but that the car’s occupant was heading for the front door.

Ray quickly stepped to the front door and hid to one side. He would only have one chance to do this right. As the door opened and then closed, Ray grabbed Larry as he stumbled across the room. The sharp point was help right under Larry chin, and Ray knew enough to push a bit to make the right impression.

“Don’t say anything or I’ll kill you now,” Ray whispered loudly. “All I want is your key to the station safe.”

All of this had happened way too fast for Larry to understand what was wanted, especially in his drunken state. First he slurred out, “What? What are you doing in my house?”

Still holding Larry from behind, Ray got just enough of a whiff of the alcohol to understand he would have to go slow. “Give me your key to the safe.”

“What?” Larry was slurring most of his words, but Ray had known enough drunks to understand the lingo. “You can’t get into the safe with just my key.”

Ray jabbed Larry with the sharp end a bit to help him focus. “I know that. But I want your key, or I’ll kill you right here and now.”

Larry become much more focused, and realizing the guy was serious, he reached into his pocket and held up the set of keys. He was having a hard time balancing, and had begun shaking a bit, too.

“Which one?”

Larry held up the slender key, which was longer than the rest.

“Good job, deputy Fife. Do you have your one bullet ready?” said Ray, smiling to himself at the small town reference. Larry started to relax a bit, since the guy had what he wanted. It was the last thing Larry would do.

Ray pushed Larry in front of him enough to stab him from the back, in the brain stem, just as he had with Mike Shepherd. Larry fell to the floor even faster.

“I hope you don’t mind if I take your car, too,” said Ray, wiping the blood off the silver stem on Larry’s pant leg.

Greg delivered Paula to her motel doorstep and was rewarded with a large sloppy kiss and little bit of mutual groping. They had worked through the crisis, and seemed to be back on track.

“You need to go. Now,” Paula pushed him away and almost closed the door. “Be here at 7:00 a.m. and we’ll go get breakfast.” The door closed as Greg stepped in closer. She really knew how to work him.

But that was okay, too. There was always morning, which it already was, but after a cold shower and few hours of sleep, Greg would be right back here. And the dance would continue.

Two in the morning, and he felt great. Not tired, not exactly fresh as the morning sunshine, but even Greg realized something in his life had just changed. He had a girlfriend, and it looked like she wanted it to be permanent. Damn. How had that all happened? Two years of waiting? She really had been patient. Now he would have to be.

Getting home was quick since Ridgeway was so small, really only a couple of square miles of houses, and that made what he saw next even more out of place. Larry’s car was parked in front of his house.

“Damn drunk. Can’t even make it to his own house three blocks away.” Greg turned off the car and looked into Larry’s car. No one was passed out on the front or back seat, so Greg thought Larry must have made it inside to the couch.

Greg often left his house unlocked, more from a feeling of security of small towns than from a need to lock his house as an example to the rest of the town. Larry had learned to appreciate the gesture when his driving abilities wouldn’t work for even the few blocks he had to travel. He was usually just inside the door on the couch with his boots still on.

But tonight there was no one on the couch, and Greg thought he heard movement further back in the house just as he came in. His hand automatically went to his gun, and for the first time in a week, he wasn’t worried about the holster rubbing against his hip. He dropped back along the outside wall of the living room and crept up to the kitchen entryway. It was just an entry without a door, so he could hear someone’s footfall in the back of the house. As he stood quietly, the noise stopped.

Captain Greg Jones slid around the edge of the doorway into the kitchen and swept his gun from one end to the other. There was no one in here, but he thought to himself whoever was in his house was in his back bedroom. He would have to go through the den to get there, and there were three doorways in between. He also frowned to think someone from town would even want to steal something from his house, and how embarrassing it would be to have to admit he hadn’t locked the doors. What kind of a police captain had crime happen in his own house? But it was probably just Larry.

Then Greg heard another shuffling noise from the rear of the house. It was the bedroom, and slowly crossing the kitchen, Greg eased around the corner and looked briefly into the bathroom. It was clear.``

Time to check out the den. Stepping into the room slowly, he waved his gun again from one side of the room to the other, and curled around the doorway after seeing no one was there either. The next doorway was the bedroom.

While he imagined he was walking quietly, Raymond Johnson had heard the captain working his way through the house. Unfortunately, the bedroom had only one door, and Ray imagined correctly that momentarily a gun would be sliding around the corner of the door. He positioned himself low on the floor for a surprise attack.

Just as Greg Jones whipped his gun into the bedroom at chest height, Raymond Jones jumped up from the floor and pushed Greg back into the hallway, where he landed on his back with Ray straddling him. A gun was immediately pointed at his face.

“Hey, captain,” smiled Ray. “Recognize the gun?”

Greg shook his head “yes” very slowly. Larry’s gun wasn’t hard to identify. Greg didn’t recognize the face and realized that big city crime had once again invaded the peaceful town he was charged to protect.

“Your deputy won’t be needing this anymore,” said Ray”, and as much as I would love to shoot you right now, Officer Greg Jones at 320 Sycamore, that would make too much noise in this quiet little town, now wouldn’t it?”

Greg didn’t bother to nod. He was looking down the barrel of the gun, and could see the other bullets in the chambers of the six-gun that Larry had preferred.

“What I want from you, Captain Jones,” said Ray standing and backing up slowly, “is your key to the safe at the station house.” Ray was standing over Greg’s gun, which had been knocked from his hands when he was tackled.

“But there isn’t anything there worth doing this for…” Greg’s words trailed off as he remembered the pile of “cash” they had counted that afternoon. Smitty and Greg hadn’t planned on this kind of quick result. Ray wasn’t interested in protestations, and cocked the gun back.

“You can just hand it to me now, or I can search you for it after you’re dead.”

Greg reached to the side of his belt for his group of keys. He held the longest key out and handed the key ring to Ray. “That’s a good cop. A smart cop.”

Greg started to sit up. “Now you’re not being so smart,” Ray warned, and Greg froze halfway sitting up. But it did give him the angle he needed to push his arms against the wall and swing his legs across Ray’s legs. But Ray was ready, and the gun exploded in the small hallway as they both filled the space with too many arms and legs. Greg winced as the bullet shot through his left shoulder and into the floor behind him. The searing pain just made him mad, and as he crawled across the floor on his knees, Ray recognized the anger and irritation. He jumped to his feet and kicked Greg in the face and ran out the front door.

Greg Jones fell straight backwards onto the hallway floor. He didn’t move for fifteen minutes.

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

Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin

Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Chapter Ten

Tuesday Jun 08, 2010

Biography Out Loud -- O. Henry

Tuesday Jun 08, 2010

Welcome to Biography Out Loud. I am your host, Dane Allred.

He spent time in the Ohio penitentiary. He is better known by his pen name, which some have said is made from the phrase “Ohio penitentiary”. He worked as a pharmacist, sheep-herder, cook, babysitter, draftsman, a teller and a bookkeeper. He was married, and though his wife had tuberculosis when they were married, she lived ten more years. They had children, and participated in music and theatre groups. This author fled the country when he was accused of embezzlement, spending time in Honduras and New Orleans. His most famous work may be “The Gift of the Magi”. In a moment, we examine another exciting literary life on

Biography Out Loud

William Sydney Porter was three when his mother died of tuberculosis. Though better known as O. Henry, he would spend his formative years in North Carolina, moving to Texas when he was twenty in hopes of getting rid of a persistent cough. He did get better, and worked on ranches, at banks, and as a draftsman at the Texas General Land Office. O. Henry continued to make contributions to magazines and newspapers and started a magazine called “The Rolling Stone” which he eventually stopped producing. He then began writing for the Houston Post, often sitting in hotel lobbies observing and talking to people he would meet there.

Federal investigators found discrepancies from his work in Austin, and Porter was indicted for embezzlement. The day before the trial was to take place, O. Henry fled Texas, going to New Orleans and then to Honduras. When he learned his wife was dying, he returned to Texas, where he surrendered to authorities. O. Henry once said of his self-exile, “You can't appreciate home till you've left it, money till it's spent, your wife till she's joined a women's club, nor Old Glory till you see it hanging on a broomstick on the shanty of a consul in a foreign town.”

A few months later his wife died, he was put on trial and eventually found guilty of embezzlement, and was sentenced to five years. He spent the next three years in the Ohio Penitentiary, being released early for good behavior in 1901. Having a friend forward his stories from New Orleans, neither his publishers nor his daughter knew he was spending time behind bars. His daughter, Margaret was told he had been away on business.

After moving to New York to be near his publishers, he wrote 381 short stories. His stories have surprise endings, and while critics often panned his work, William Sydney Porter once said, “Write what you like; there is no other rule.”

There are two versions of how his pen name was selected. Porter once wrote he and a friend came up with it one day, but author and scholar Guy Davenport offers another explanation. He says "The pseudonym that he began to write under in prison is constructed from the first two letters of Ohio and the second, third and last two letters of penitentiary." O. Henry also once said the “O” stood for “Olivier”, what he called the French version of Oliver.

Whatever the source, O. Henry is most well-known for his poignant stories like “The Last Leaf”; where a sickly girl wishes to see the last leaf fall from a tree outside her window, and it is discovered it has been painted there. The girl recovers; the artist who hoped to paint a masterpiece died from painting it there one cold night. He says of death in this story, “The lonsomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey.”

Retold on radio, television and other movie adaptations, “The Gift of the Magi” is a story of two poor lovebirds who sacrifice their prized possessions to get a Christmas present for each other, with a nice twist at the end. A classic phrase from the story is “Life is made up of sobs, sniffles and smiles, with sniffles predominating.”

Two other famous stories are “The Cop and the Anthem”; where Soapy, a homeless wanderer in the city wants to be arrested so he can spend the cold winter in jail, but can’t get arrested no matter how he tries. Another Porter classic is “The Ransom of Red Chief”; where a kidnapped child is so much trouble the kidnappers end up paying to get the father to take him back.

O. Henry was reunited later with his childhood sweetheart Sarah Lindsey Coleman. They were married briefly before his health and writing began to deteriorate.

A heavy drinker later in life, William Sydney Porter died of cirrhosis of the liver. A writing award carrying his name has been presented every year to outstanding short story writers since 1919. If you hear a short story with a surprise ending, check to see if O. Henry is the author.

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

Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin

Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece O Henry