Moments

The Sky I hate it When the sky’s at war! The Sun Determined to take The Day Away from that huge Gray Cloud. The back and forth of it, What to be? Stagnation of the air Cannot bare! Blessed rain won the game, Drug the dust From the sun-desert smell. Fright I’ve heard it said. You can die of Fright. And if it’s true, Then I’d have to go Sometime in the night For the most frightening Times I’ve ever known Have happened in My sleep. Even color cannot Minimize the scare That comes with the Mind in another’s charge But oh the power Of the deep, dark water, And the awful big Soft circle of white! Explain you might Crib Death of Fright. One of our beginning assignments in Western American Literature was to determine what was significantly Western. We were to discover if there were distinctive commonalities, traits, characteristics. Only one commonality brought unanimous assent. We agreed Western Land was expansive, endless. Whether Huge Continuous Mountain Ranges, Deep Forests, Seas of Grass, Wide Deep Strong Rivers, or Wide Open Stretches of Prairie-The West was huge, grand, overwhelming, spectacular, awe-inspiring, energizing, and seemingly inexhaustible. Especially wide open spaces of prairie, became an emblem for West and Western. This characterized Western Land, but what characterized Western Man? Since civilization existed on the Frontier only in so far as each Individual carried a bit of it with him-man was more connected to the Land than to his civilization. No wonder he became a Loner. The Land dictated no other. Villages and Towns came later. Not just the Trapper, the Scout, the Indian, but the Pioneer: Man, Woman and Child were left alone and on their own. The child was left alone sometimes for long periods of time. They were forced to become self-reliant, innovative, inventive. Endurance was an early lesson for most. Thinking on the spot came spontaneosly. Immediate appraisals, determinations, decisions were necessary to stay alive for one’s self and others. Working with your own hands and what your mind could conceive or conive were the norm. “Ya, you never know. Let’s see if we can get a lead on this crook from the main police files. Dial it will you Dave. I’ll handle this end, get to the field.” Jay took his time explaining the exact details to the police computer woman, to her consternation. She was coming up with all kinds of recent bank robberies in and around the three major cities in the state of Idaho, but nothing fit the present MO. They weren’t even sure if the pilot was aware of who and what the thief was doing. Looked like he was just a hire and part of a single mad man’s plan. Jay asked her to try the physical description of the SOB which he gave her as specifically as he could: Large, tall, well built, husky, probably two hundred pounds, not fat just large and strong looking. Teller thought he was wearing a black curly wig. He had on one of those idiot long nose, eye-glass combo’s from a trick or treat costume. His mouth was not thin, just average, not too thick or over wide. He was wearing a bright red flannel hunting jacket and a red cap. He was extremely confident and aggressive and grinned, nearly laughing, enjoying the situation. He said little! That was smart, thought Jay. What he said was firm and to the point. Nothing unusual in the voice, no discernible accent. One gun, not too modern, she didn’t know what kind, only that is wasn’t unusually large. He was exceedingly swift, knew exactly what he was doing. “Well planned,” interposed, Jay. “Extremely intimidating!” The audacity, he took our only cab to the airfield. It was surely prearranged well. “Is he a good Doctor?” Muriel was thinking of something else. She said, “Yes, I suppose he’s a good Doctor. Ruthy wasn’t sick, but something was bothering her, dragging her down, depressing her. Ma and I thought it was because they couldn’t afford another baby. It was too soon after Annie. And then, you know, Glen. He was always coming home late, forgetting to call her-or just plain ignoring her-taking her for granite. He’s a great talker! She just couldn’t take not having that attention-especially male. I don’t think he ever really understood how much she needed his attention-his time-craved it-thrived on it” “Did she know somebody else who was paying her that attention?” “Muriel’s eyes glared back at him, “No, not that I know of.” Then as if it didn’t matter now-protecting her sister- Muriel’s voice softened, lowered, “I thought once when I visited her at the Hospital-she doesn’t want to live. She’s giving up, but why? If she could have only told someone what it was, why she was so lost She couldn’t put it into words. She couldn’t say it.” The words penetrated his mind. Forrest paused, pondering. The sound of her voice quickened his pulse. Ruthy’s voice-it was Her voice. It tinkled in his ears. He must have been staring again without realizing it for Muriel flushed, stopped talking, threw the spoon into her soup and sat back in her chair. Then she snapped back and her voice was lower, deliberately cutting, precise, each syllable distinct “No, I am not Ruthy-you cannot make me into her. Glen has already tried. I am not a carbon copy. I am a very different person.” “No, you’re not.” He tried to control himself. Why was he getting so angry? He understood her displeasure at being taken for a duplicate of her sister, but why was she so sure this was what his look implied?