Dan Struckman
Here’s the truth: My prose is weak and getting weaker. My wife and children no longer read my stuff because I overshared before.
My nephew’s wife unfriended me. Yes. Things are just about the way they ought to be. My old friends are creeped out. I’m a miserable failure as a writer. Boo hoo hoo. Who who who gives a big fat damn? Nobody. I have just myself to blame and myself to write for. My reader base is shrinking because people are disappointed that my shit ain’t got no pizzazz. No get up and go to school. Worse, there’s nothing there. NOTHING.
Okay. I still have a story to tell about my late uncle. I’ve got to man up and get that written and rewritten until it is good. Sounds like a lot of work and it is. After that I want to work on my love story, the one that takes place in the hippie days of the 1960s, to make it come out in a humane way. After that I want to work on my road north book. I want to take the long road and write about it afterward. Then, after all that, I want to lay right down and die like a miserable dog. I hope I’m about 90 then.
June 8 @1152
Carl T. Bonde sat back in his overstuffed chair, a lit cigarette in his yellowed fingers.
“You see,” he said, “his sisters dominated everything in the house, so he had no choice but to get the hell out of town, so to speak.”
“They all slept in on Saturday, so Carl was up at five fixing breakfast. He giggled as he thought about his dog, Prince, the way he fooled her. But never mind. Carl had some serious things to do that day. He imagined that he could build a rocket that would reach the moon. Well, he had a start. He had piece of a car axle tapered to accept ball bearings. Hey. It looked something like a rocket, except the end of the taper ended in a threaded section made to accept a pair of nuts that would be turned against each other to keep the bearings adjusted.
“Outdoors he found the rusted axle in the snow. Heaving another sigh, he leaned it against a rock wall he and I built to mark the edge of the lawn around our house and, well, everything else in the world. Obviously he wouldn’t launch any rockets that day.
“Buddy walked down to the creek, through the snow. The weather was almost warm enough for the snow to melt, so his shoes got muddy. But no matter. This was good alluvial soil that had no clay, just mineral soil mixed with a generous supply of stones.
“He let himself through the gate through the big garden, then over to the bridge spanning Ashley Creek. The Creek was running high because of the late winter runoff. The bridge had the tracks of many footprints, most of them his from the past weeks.
“Bud invented a kind of game. He dropped some snow into the water on the upstream side of the bridge, then hurried over to watch it emerge down below. Then he did the same thing with chunks of ice, only when they emerged he tried to bomb them with snowballs. He did this for five or six times, wondering if any of his friends would think this was as fun as he thought it was.
“The biggest chunk of all was wedged against the bridge near the creek bank. It was so heavy that he lifted it with some difficulty before tottering with it to the middle area of the bridge. To keep from breaking it, he set it on the edge of the bridge on the upstream side, of course, and pushed it over the edge into the water. It was heavy enough that he had to kneel and push. He pushed. And pushed.
“At last the heavy ice was in the water, but it rose out too high to fit under the upstream log of the bridge. As Buddy pushed the ice down into the water he lost his balance and fell headfirst into the icy stream.”
We all asked, “How did you know all this, Grandpa?”
First try: 8-gauge copper wire stapled to block of wood.
What can I say? I bought an amazing number of “poop recovery bags” from PetSmart. I emulated a toilet paper holder but I learned that my invention was too ugly. Therefore, I invented a device for ten such rolls.
Second attempt: block of wood with five dowels.
This was deemed acceptable by the powerful one, for existing within our house. As you can see, the 5/16-inch dowels match the size of the cores within the rolls. I was lucky there.
June 8, 2016 0624
G. was less eager than usual to be up and out of his kennel this morning. He ran to his water bowl and lapped. Doesn’t matter. He had to beat me to the top of the stairs. I sang to him as we walked around the block. At the great squirrel tree he slipped his harness and bolted across the street. Horrors! Then he ran the other way as though goosed. Across Third St. he was in the fenced yard, but ran out before I could trap him. I called and whistled but he ignored me. Then he was nose-to-nose with a little white toy dog who appeared mildly interested. Little T.D. was unleashed, but near the open front door of his house. What if? What if Gunther runs into a stranger’s house?
I flopped down on the ground, but missed him. Then, as if by a miracle, I caught G. and snapped the leash on his collar. I could feel the dark heat from the open door of the bungalow at the top of the porch steps. Nobody came out and I was quiet.
The rest of the walk around the block, including the morning poop, was uneventful. I feel guilty because yesterday I ignored him as he stayed in the back yard for up to an hour at a time. Is that why he ignored me after he slipped his harness?
Me with Gunther
This is the best. I was sitting with my sister-in-law at St. Vincent Hospital. I walked home, took my theft-proof 1972 Hiawatha bike downtown, bought some supper supplies at Good Earth Market, peddled home.
In our kitchen, I grabbed an empty bottle of root beer. Dropped it into recycling. Only it was only half empty. Now I am wearing a root beer shirt and glasses. All of this in about 45 minutes, thanks to our prime downtown location.
Used by permission of Rhonda Whiteman.
June 7, 2016 @ 1247
My clock is two minutes slow. A great metaphor. Got to pick up the pace, move it ahead.
Re: last evening’s marathon writer’s group, I see common threads. Of course not every one of us has written their truths to the same extent, but most in our group have. I’m talking an amazing extent, showing our ugly, true, selves as we have to nobody else. Hey. Maybe we’re not so ugly after all.
Pain and loss drive our writing.
One of us lost her ranch because severe drought put her out of business. She is, or was, a fourth-generation rancher. She radiates truth, renewal, hope.
Along the same line, another lost his mother and struggles with his feelings of emptiness and loneliness. He has joy and insight.
Yet another is reaching out in the autumn of his life in love and humanity to aid his friends who struggle with substance abuse and addiction. And pain. We need such maturity in our group. An abundance is not too much. He has quietude and self control. He has accomplished huge deeds, yet speaks mildly. Okay, he raised $10 million to support small businesses on Indian reservations.
Several of us struggle with depression and our loss of innocence. Also loved ones who have died or been unfaithful. This sounds vague. That’s the point. Our writings seek to change the vague to the specific. We might work things out by writing.
Pain prevents any rest until we have told our stories.
It’s like writing can soothe us. We can imagine an end of suffering, but we must write it out. We want to tell it. We do. Then comes the fear. Do we dare tell it? Will people dislike us?
Stephen King said in his book about writing, not to worry. Yes, people dislike us. Some always do. It’s okay. Writers are unlovely.
Sometimes the world seems overwhelming and sad. At these junctures we are cheered when we spend four short hours with our writing friends, talking about their stories and suggesting ways they might better express them.
The aim is always to listen and help. But first of all, to love.Yes, first of all, we love. Because we love, we ultimately will not fail.
Oh, we will fail as many times as necessary at first, but ultimately we will triumph.
His feet are heavy, his right arm, numb and tingly. He throws the plush squeak toy briskly at his little brown dog, who responds in kind, snapping at the toy. Whimper, says the little brown d.
“What’s wrong?” asks the man in a baby voice. The dog runs behind the couch, whining and crying. He has lost both his balls.
After digging out the balls from under the couch, finding an additional two, the man throws all four out across the room. Then he heads for the bathroom, leaving the door open. He sits on the commode.
“Gunther, come!” he commands. G. obediently trots in.
“Gunther, sit,” he says. G. trots five feet away and lays down.
“Well, that’s one way to sit,” he says.
“Gunther, come!” he commands. G. wanders away, out of sight.
“Treat!” he says. “G. trots up to him, sitting at the alert.”
Gunther waits for a treat.
We did writing group last night at the beautiful home of Allyn and Eric, way west of town near 64th Street. Eric made rice and a savory sauce with tender chunks of beef. Also chutney and some other sauces. I had two helpings. The rice at the bottom of the pot has a special name, which I cannot remember. Anyone?
Writing group has evolved into therapy, into friendship, into holding together. We included a new man, Jael’s partner Gerald, a distinguished guy my age from Sioux country. Not just “from…” but right in the heart of ….. He is a lovely, big man, and I think we are all taken with him.
I feel taxed from the day of pharmacy yesterday, then the nearly four hours of writing group.
We eat leisurely, we critique each other liberally. The whole thing takes a long time. Last night we sat in comfortable seats and it took four hours.
Now I understand why Russell Rowland has us sit in hard chairs at the dining room table.
My Uncle’s friend, Bill Moomey, was delighted to see this photo of his platoon sergeant, Irvin Weaver, of the weapons platoon, Company E, 262nd Infantry Regiment, and his friend Carl Bonde at R.
Vis-a-vis my PFC Carl Bonde book, I liked Timequakes by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. I liked his notion that history is like a distant mountain range. You can see all of the times from afar and even visit different times forward and backward, as though selecting and climbing one of the mountains in the range. My problem is that I am writing a biography and simultaneously writing about my own efforts to uncover the facts of Uncle Bud’s life. I know why I am writing a story that I would love to read myself. I am telling good news.
The good news is that although the iron doors of history seemed to have closed forever, sealing up my Uncle Bud—lost at sea so long ago—they were not airtight. Turns out that the facts are much more powerful than years, distance, even death.
During the same time I was pushing into the sea of information on the Internet, unseen others were pushing toward me. For example, my uncle Bud’s Army friend Bill Moomey had, for many years, wanted to reach someone from his late friend’s family. My eventual phone call to him in 2005 was a fulfillment of lasting desire.
From 1963: Magical Apparatus
As Professor Hoffmann said, “. . . one should use the magic wand for all tricks, even if its use is unnecessary for the completion of the miracle.”
I just bought a copy of Modern Magic Illustrated by the professor because of my nostalgia for one of the pleasanter times in my high school years when I became an amateur magician. He advocated the use of a magic wand, hard to see in the above illustration. I took the photo in my room in Dillon, Montana, with my grandmother’s Argus C-3 35mm camera.
As you can see on the wall, I attended every circus and hypnotist show that came to town. I also had a large collection of magic books, many stolen from the Dillon Public library. I figured the secrets would die with me, rather than be available to anyone with a library card.
The Montana Collection at the Billings Public Library has a large collection of really fine magic books, by the way.
I made all of the apparatus in the photograph except for the rings, cards, and scarves. As follows:
- Five painted plywood boxes that nest together. I had a method for sliding a coin or other object into the smallest box. Then I made a big deal out of opening one box after the other, the way one would open up Russian dolls.
- Deck of playing cards sewn together for amazing flourishes. I had lots of trick decks of cards. I actually got good at card tricks.
- Box with die for the “disappearing die” trick. One of the first I made.
- Linking ring trick hanging from magic wand. I bought the rings in Seattle.
- Magic table with black velvet well for vanishing objects.
- Crepe paper flowers for production tricks.
- Question mark wooden tube is used with slightly smaller wooden tube at right to produce a rabbit or chicken. The rabbit or chicken had to hang from a hook so that it could be transferred invisibly from one tube to the other while showing each one to be empty.
- Second magic table with large production box that has hinged lid top and front. A mirror inside hides the rabbit or chicken to be vanished or produced.
- The tube on top was made from a tin can with a funnel-shaped liner. Many silk scarves could be jammed into the space between the can and the liner. Made for an astounding production. The funnel-shaped liner met the edge of the tube so that the tube had the illusion of being empty when one end was shown to the audience.
Of course the problem was always finding an audience to astound. The best audience was my sister’s children. She had six in all. The oldest, especially, didn’t seem to tire of tricks I performed repeatedly.
insearchofbud 