Back to School, 1940s Style

           I come from a middle-class family, in a middle-size city, in the middle of the country, (Des Moines, Iowa), and started my schooling in the middle of the last century.  To those from similar circumstances who can remember that far back, no matter where they’re from, my experiences will not be unusual, but to younger generations, my account will seem as scenes from another planet.

            I well remember kindergarten.  World War  II still had a couple of years to go, and my mother was doing her bit by working as an inspector at the Ordinance plant, which before the war had been engaged in making John Deere farm machinery and now produced cartridges.  She’d chosen the graveyard shift so she could be home and rested when her children returned from school in the afternoon. 

            The problem came in the morning when my father left for the office and my brother and sister took off for high school.  I would then trot over to the neighbors’ house where kindly Mrs. Grigsby would feed me breakfast until my mother arrived.  Those breakfasts, almost all of them deliciously fried, were unlike any I’d ever gotten from my plain-cooking mother’s hand, which were invariably lumpy cream of wheat or the much hated oatmeal, a piece of toast, and sometimes a boiled egg.  My favorite at Mrs. Grigsby’s was fried sliced mush with syrup.  She also had a concoction she called  "winchels" which others may know as “toad in a hole.” This featured an egg inserted in a slice of bread and the whole thing fried in butter.  How horrified my mother would have been at all that grease!  

            The walk to school was about six blocks along U.S. 69, the main route between Kansas City and Minneapolis, and then a left turn to go another three blocks to the school.  I would meet up with a friend around the corner from my house, who was at her grandmother’s in the morning since her mother, too, did war work.  It didn’t seem to matter to anyone what the season was or what weather we had to trudge through, and in fact, I can’t remember us ever being driven to that school, not a unique situation then.

            The first day of kindergarten, my mother took me into the classroom and then left.  I was early.  No teacher was in the room to greet us few children who had arrived, so I began to explore.  I noticed a very large blackboard at the front of the room, which seemed to call for something on its pristine surface.  I took out a pencil from my pencil box and went to the board where I wrote in cursive, “Jeanne Ann.”  I was proud of the fact I could write many words as well as my name in long hand, taught to me by my siblings.

            The teacher’s reaction when she saw my handiwork was not one of equal delight.  She found the culprit easily and spanked me soundly, telling me blackboards were for chalk, not pencils.  I believe I may have scratched the board a little, for a faint outline of my name persisted throughout the following school year and might have been a permanent feature until the board was scrapped.  Anyway, the spanking didn’t scar my little psyche or ruin my school days, for I always had success and good times until the day I graduated from high school.

I'm on some steps at my uncle's farm, not my house.

            Two years later, well into the spring semester, my parents moved to a larger house, several blocks farther from school, which put me in a different district.  Still, I was expected to finish the school year at my old school, so at the age of seven, I would sit on the front steps after everyone had gone to work and school, waiting for my mother to arrive home from the Ordinance plant.  She told me later how the sight of me sitting there always brought a lump to her throat.

            After Mother had checked me over, I was sent on my way to my old school, now more than a mile away with me walking that same busy highway.  At one point, my girlfriend’s grandmother would be waiting for me and help me cross over, so I could walk with Linda to the intersection and then cross back under the supervision of a crossing guard.  How many children today would be allowed such a walk?  As I earlier said, this really was a different world, certainly safer, although indulging children, clearly, was not the order of the day.  This attitude and ambiance would last for another fifteen or so years until illegal drugs and wanderers along the highways would be instrumental in changing our country’s mores and values, and psychologists would get into the business of raising children. Was it a better time?  We'll have to judge that for ourselves from the evidence.

Roy Acuff and the Navy Veterans

Years ago, in one of my several job incarnations, I was a tour guide for Opryland Hotel’s Special Events, along with eight or ten other housewives.   We were contract employees, each of us working only about four to six times a month at a flat fee of $50 per trip.  For that, we were expected to know something about Nashville history, tell funny stories mainly about country music stars, and adapt ourselves to all circumstances so that conventioneers would be entertained and feel welcomed.  We guides had to wear clothes of our own choosing as long as they were a black skirt, white blouse, and bright green jacket, which happened to be the colors of Opryland Hotel. The tour busses and drivers were provided by the hotel with few exceptions.  We might be asked to take a group just to Andrew Jackson’s Hermitage, a trip lasting about three or four hours, or maybe it would be a day-long trip to Lynchburg to visit Jack Daniels distillery with lunch at Miss Daisy’s Tearoom.

 

While keeping up a light patter on a hand-held mike as the bus careened along highways and by-ways, we hung on for dear life with the other hand to a pole at the front of the bus.  The trick was to keep one’s balance and composure, no matter what.  I never had any problems or complaints from the groups and was asked alternately if I was an historian or a comedienne.   In many ways, it was a demanding job, but great fun.

One of the most memorable trips was a country music tour for a reunion group of World War Two veterans, navy men from the same ship.  These men would have been in their mid- to late sixties, polite and interested guests of the hotel.  The first stop was to check out the new Grand Ole Opry, with a guide furnished by the facility.  As we pulled into the parking area, I peered out the front window of the bus, looking to see where the front door was since this was my first trip to the GOO.  Then I saw a familiar-looking individual walking toward the entrance, grizzled but with a brisk, upright stride.  It was undoubtedly Roy Acuff.  I immediately had an idea that would be a real treat for the fifty-some individuals in the bus, all of whom were acknowledged country music fans.

I asked the driver to let me out, that I would return in a few minutes.  To the group, I explained I was going in to set up the tour.  Then I ran pell mell inside, hoping to catch Mr. Acuff before he disappeared into the complex.  Luckily, he had stopped to chat with the receptionist.  When he turned around, I introduced myself and told him about the group I was conducting. 

"I know they would be thrilled to have you greet them," I said in my most winning manner.  But it took no persuading for him to immediately agree.

"Meet me on the stage in about twenty minutes, and I'll be glad to say hello."

I thanked him and after arranging with the receptionist for a guide, I returned to the bus, saying nothing, however, about my encounter with Roy Acuff.  After all, he was a busy man and might not show up.  I didn't want to set up for these men any expectations that might not be realized.

Soon, I had them all assembled in the lobby and was able to turn them over to an Opry guide, who began to move us through the different areas, including a peek into the dressing rooms of the stars.  I had tipped her off that we were to be on the stage at a specified time, which she said would work out well for her tour as well.

When we arrived on stage the guide left the group to my charge.  We admired the stage itself, the vastness of the auditorium, and the wonderful accouterments throughout.  I told them about a visit I had made to a Johnny Cash show at the old Ryman Auditorium years earlier.  We were all laughing at the huge contrast in sites when I spotted Mr. Acuff entering stage right.  I called the group to attention and said, "Here's someone whom you might like to meet that knows all about this place."  Like a mistress of ceremonies, I extended my arm toward the celebrity.

With that, the group exploded into applause.  I knew this would be one of the highlights of their trip to Nashville.  Not many people got to see a genuine legend of the Opry close up, let alone have one's hand shaken by him.  For that was exactly what Mr. Acuff was doing.  Then standing in front of the men, he said, "I should be the one applauding you.  Those of us who didn't serve as you brave fellows did will be forever grateful for your service and sacrifice.  We'll never forget you and your part to save the world from a terrible dictator.  I give you my humble thanks."

For a moment there was complete silence, grounded by the emotion we all felt; then the men cheered and clapped, while the entertainer again went around and shook hands.  That minor event has stayed with me through the years and forever colored my opinion of Roy Acuff, whose modesty and appreciative words seemed to have been a real measure of his character.

           

VSCC 2013 Poetry Award

Recently I attended the Arts Festival at Volunteer State Community College in Gallatin, Tennessee, where I was presented with the certificate shown and a cash award for one of my poems, "On the Hunt."  This poem along with two others of mine were published in the 2013 edition of the literary journal, Number One, which has been publishing fiction and poetry of writers from around the country since 1972.  Before retiring from the college, where I served as Director of the Writing Center and taught English, I also was for ten years managing editor of Number One.  While in that capacity, I introduced the practice of "blind readings" so the submissions editors would not be influenced one way or another by seeing the names of writers familiar to them.  This innovation has been deemed the most fair way to determine who is accepted for publication.  As I mentioned, I had in addition to the award-winning poem, another two poems published in the current edition, all of which I have included below.

On the Hunt                                       

It usually takes a while to get there,
Those places deliciously remote from city centers
In barns or old houses or cement block buildings.
We go prepared, armed to the teeth,
You with jeweler’s loupe and measuring tape,
A price guide in my hand.

Inside, you always go to the left,
I turn to the right and go my own way,
Refusing to follow you with the sharper eye.
I thrill at the thought of discovery,
Moriage or Staffordshire dogs
At a bargain price.

But all I see are things I gave to charities
Or sold at garage sales years ago.
Down one aisle I find my mother’s kitchen,
Her Jewel Tea mixing bowls no one liked,
A smiling pig cookie jar now worth hundreds
Sitting on the same green Formica table.

I pass people sober and intent on spotting
The rare, the ancient, the beautiful.
Others may only want to capture memories
Or fill some vacant place on a shelf.
Hunters and gatherers,
We seek another way to define ourselves.


Words and Meaning                                 

I have been contemplating
A phrase I came upon,
“Walk with light,”
Which at first suggests
The avowal of religions,
Helping us to see a road through life
That we may tread with joy,
Our senses open to the beautiful,
A heart relieved of burdens;
I see a stony path made smoother
By enlightenment of soul.

Or is the phrase more worldly:
Pressing us to keep our minds
Brim full of knowledge and lore,
Like a pot of stewing ideas,
Or to be a fount of information
From which others can set store.
We should not settle, it says,
For the dark and hopeless way
Of vague understanding
Or blind ignorance.

Then again, “walk with light”
May only be a helpful plea
To watch the traffic signal
Before we take the plunge
Into a busy street.


Big Wheels 
                                  
It was while driving along
Through Arkansas that we began
To feel oppressed, as if we didn’t belong,
Sandwiched between two semis,
With trucks rolling by on both sides.
Not from just the big rigs
That roam the interstates at will,
But also bullying pickups and duallys.
We seemed outclassed, outsmarted,
In a word, small.

We drove farther south and west,
Trucks keeping up their threats,
Riding our bumper, honking, passing.
We stayed away from gas stations
With blaring signs of, “Truckers Welcome!”
We shopped a long while for a motel
Where the hulking beasts weren’t parked
And set off next morning at the crack of dawn
Hoping to steal a march on them.
But wise to the trick, they soon came along.

If Arkansas is a terminal for trucks,
Texas seems to be a truck haven.
They live there, maybe breed there.
And worst of all, they seem fighting mad.
One day while waiting at a stop light
We were rear-ended by a small truck.
From the window of an eatery we watched in horror
As an SUV backed into our car like it wasn’t there
Often they pass us with no room to spare
Then forced by a red light to stop, pant, and paw.

We haven’t relented yet,
Unwilling to join in the mania.
Or maybe the truck that suits us
Hasn’t yet been made.
But I must admit I’ve been eyeing
Certain big wheels that take over the road
And I’ve wondered, really wondered
What it would be like to get behind the wheel
Of a gravel truck so I could yell,
“Just eat my dust, you all!”

Scotland: A Bonny Trip

St. Andrews, Scotland

    If on our trip to England the people seemed like old friends, the Scots were a decidedly different breed.  But I liked the Scots with their unusual accent and interesting apparel, whose no-nonsense demeanor reminded me of my Norwegian grandparents.  Less forthcoming than the English, some almost gruff, they no doubt have a long history of being on the defensive, so from our first encounter, we noticed they kept themselves to themselves for the short time we visited there.  I expect it might have taken a while for them to warm up–maybe literally.  It was June, and as we stepped off the train in Anstruther (the closest RR station to St. Andrews), we were assailed by a sharp wind off the North Sea with the temperature 40 degrees Farenheit, spitting rain–and it never really improved.  The Scots acted a little embarrassed about this, for almost everyone we met during those days of harsh weather said, “Last week it was 70 degrees!”
    We had a very pleasant stay with hospitable people at our B and B on a charming crescent, our only real criticism being the pathetically thin mattresses that couldn’t mask the hard springs beneath.  I was used to reading before going to sleep, but the light nearest the bed was high overhead on the wall and too glaring, so when I requested a table lamp, the landlord complied without a comment but with good-natured alacrity.  We got a kick out of seeing him assist his wife at Sunday breakfast wearing his kilt, which he said was his customary garb when he attended church.
    The various staff in the restaurants and stores were helpful, so a little stiffness from the natives was easily forgiven.  We spent one whole day on the road, traveling from St. Andrews through the highlands to Elgin and Inverness.  We stopped along the way at sites of interest such as the Bowes-Lyon House, the late Queen Mother’s ancestral home; and Glamis Castle, mentioned in Macbeth.  As our guide there was showing us a medieval iron mouth guard for a nagging wife, he burst into laughter along with everyone in our group when my husband asked if there were “any for sale in the gift shop.”  (I forgave him, knowing he can’t resist a good joke.)
    On the homeward trek, traveling beside Loch Ness, we marveled at the view and scrutinized the lake for a suspicious outline–to no avail.  Eventually we arrived at Glencoe, the site of the famous massacre by the then treacherous Campbells.  It was uncanny how affecting this place was.  It seemed to be haunted and maybe was if unquiet spirits can be said to remain as ghosts.  At any rate, we were impressed.  We didn’t arrive home until 11:30 PM, driving in what seemed to be twilight, a strange experience, accustomed as we were to the dark nights of a Tennessee summer.
    We couldn’t leave the area without taking in Edinburgh, so Sunday afternoon we set off for the capital, having lunch along the way at a large farmhouse-like restaurant smack dab on the coast.  It was not only picturesque, but also crowded with well-dressed locals, we surmised.  Seated at a small table on the flagstone floor, I had a delicious bowl of mussels in milk.  It wasn’t until later that I discovered mussels and I did not agree, but the view and ambiance had been terrific.  After so much climbing of castle steps on the trip north, and especially my braving the one-hundred-plus steps at St. Rules Tower attached to the ancient ruin of St. Andrew’s Cathedral, we opted for a driving tour of Edinburgh, a quaint and pretty city.
    Altogether, this trip and my other foreign adventures were well worth the trouble and expense, and though I enjoyed them all, I have no desire venture forth again.  Maybe it’s my age, or maybe I agree with Malcolm Muggeridge, who also gave up traveling, saying he’d decided that “travel narrows the mind;” perhaps he meant it squelched imagination or encouraged restlessness.  I've found his mysterious and profound words speak to me, so except for visits to relatives, I hope to find my amusements and edification closer to home from now on.

York, England: A Minor Adventure

Castle Howard

My first and only trip to England was limited to the north, mainly because my husband, Max, and I planned to travel to Scotland after a week in York to visit our son, who was studying at St. Andrews.  We’d arrived in Glasgow and hoped to tour the Lake District first, but because of an injury to his leg prior to our trip, my husband needed to get quickly to our hotel in York.  There, we stayed at a small Victorian hotel across from Memorial Park, a stone’s throw from Old Town. We couldn’t have been more pleased with the helpful and friendly staff of the hotel, which I had picked out from a website.  Somehow, we had gotten their best and largest room, a bonus for Max.  He ended up spending most of his time either in his room being waited on by the sympathetic staff (though no room service was available, according to their policy), or sometimes in the bar chatting with visitors, or in a glassed-in room at the side of the hotel overlooking the green where a bowling tournament was taking place (he watched Manchester play York).  But that meant I had to take in most of the sights by myself, including a tour of the magnificent Cathedral.  While listening to the guide there, I heard some quiet words nearby in an American accent.  I turned and saw and attractive couple, but when I said, “American?” they only nodded.  I said, “Me, too,” hoping we might strike up an acquaintance since I considered myself quite presentable.  However, they turned away from me as if affronted, so that was that!  Ugly Americans!  Sunday I managed to get back to the Cathedral for Morning Prayer in the chapel, a lovely service accompanied by Camerata singers.  I also was determined, though going it on my own with a tour, to see Castle Howard, having been a dedicated fan of Brideshead Revisited.  Besides gawking at the great house and grounds, I found my way to the basement area where local women were serving lunch.  It was a lonely tour for me, no tourists befriending me and wishing Max could have been along to enjoy viewing something so typically upperclass English.
    Deciding he might be able to limp into town, my husband after a few days at the hotel joined me in a slow walk across the park where we halted in front of a walled structure.  The park attendant eagerly spent much time telling us about the old fort and its layers representing the Romans, the Vikings, and the Normans.  From there, we walked through Old Town, and while I went into a store to pick up a pair of reading glasses, Max sat on a bench to rest.  When I returned to him, I saw he was in terrible pain.  I asked someone where I could get a cab, and they pointed me in the direction of the cab rank, a few blocks away.  Sprinting as fast as I could, we got the cab to the invalid and sped off to the emergency services at the hospital where he was admitted and treated.  During the exam, I was standing by, and an amusing interchange took place.  The doctor asked how he had gotten the injury, and Max said he’d caught his leg on a “limb” while on a riding mower.  The doctor looked at us with a confused expression and repeated “limb?”  My husband said, “Yes, a low-growing tree limb caught my leg.”  Whereupon the doctor’s face cleared and he said in a posh accent, “Oh, yes, I see, a braunch!”  Apparently, the word “limb” in England means “arm or leg.” We appreciated a moment of levity in the midst of a difficult situation.  I must say that like others we met in York, the employees at the hospital were wonderfully efficient and helpful, even supplying my husband with a cane before he left with the admonition to “drop it off at the airport before leaving the country.”
    Maybe because I am a confirmed Anglophile, having enjoyed many an English movie and a preponderance of English novels, the people of York and the employees at Castle Howard seemed quite familiar to me as if I’d known them for years.  In fact, the most outstanding impression of that visit was that I felt no culture shock at all.  Furthermore, it seems a very happy coincidence that my favorite show, Downton Abbey, takes place in my favorite place in England--Yorkshire!

Berliners, Summer 1989: A Traveler's Glimpse

Watchtower--another day and time

    I’ve only ever visited three foreign countries (not counting a few limited forays into Canada), specifically Germany, England, and Scotland.  The first named was in Berlin just before the wall came tumbling down in the summer of 1989.  I stayed, of course, in West Berlin, but I had the opportunity to spend a day in East Berlin, which was very instructive.  My socialist-leaning friends should have been there to see the effects of a strictly-run socialist economy–a grimy city with virtually no available merchandise full of sad-looking residents.  West Berlin was a contrast with its economic prosperity, yet I was interested to note one particular common characteristic of the people in both the East and West: a love of order.  Since I spent just a week there, I can only give a snippet of my observations, and some of what I witnessed may have sunk by now into the oblivion of American-style efficiency.
    As I mentioned, the trip to Berlin was really fascinating at such an important time in that city’s history (particularly viewed in retrospect).  The tour guide who conducted us around West Berlin was a well-informed law student, who when asked about reunification declared that possibly the wall might come down in his lifetime, but he couldn’t ever imagine East and West as one.  A few amazing months later the two events had become a reality (a year later officially for reunification). 
    In both East Berlin as well as West, the most definitive characteristic about these people from my point of view was their sense of order.  For example, I was used to walking up to the counter to ask for help while shopping.  I mistakenly tried that in the only large department store in East Berlin, which, by the way, had hardly a thing for sale.  I heard a horrible hissing sound, and turning to my companion, who had been in Germany for a few years, asked what that meant.  She informed me I’d committed a shopping sin–barging in front of those patient people waiting in line to be served by the clerk behind the counter.  Thinking this was an effect of a communist state, I forgot the lesson at the Ka De We, a huge and rather marvelous department store in West Berlin.  I had picked out something on a rack and wanted to pay for it, but when I walked up to the counter, a low muttering arose with my friend tugging at my sleeve to go to the end of the counter.
    When visiting the department store restroom, I was a little startled to see an attendant who zoomed in after me to do an official clean-up, after handing me a towel to wipe my hands.  The same thing happened in a restroom at the Berlin Zoo.  This kind of attention had been abandoned here by commercial or government-run establishments decades ago as being not cost effective.
    Out for a walk one day, we saw a young woman in front of her house with a dog, which immediately went to her side as we approached.  I thought I heard her say “foos” (fuß in German), which I later learned meant “heel.”  I was impressed with the smartly trained animal and was told the Germans had better behaved dogs than children!  I can’t attest to that, not having met any children there, but the dogs were lovely, including those in restaurants.
    Many of the streets in Berlin are paved with cobblestones or bricks, and they look perfect, even after what might be centuries of use.  I found out that when, say, the water department needed to get under the paving, a cobblestone crew took up enough stones for the repair crew, and then came back to replace them, leaving the street pristine again.  I wonder if there’s a brick-paved street left in any city in the United States?  I expect they’ve all been cemented over as being too much trouble or expense to keep them in trim.
    During just a week’s sojourn, I became accustomed to this orderliness, evidenced also by how very neat were the street parking areas with the grass finely clipped as if with nail scissors. Just outside the city there were no weeds or trash along the roadside.  Imagine the culture shock I experienced on the way home from the airport in Nashville when I couldn’t help but notice the difference.  I don’t think my home city is any messier than others, at least in the South, but I suppose the residents simply don’t care like the residents of Berlin.  It really is a different mind-set, maybe for better, maybe for worse, but that sense of order remains in my memory as a significant characteristic of a wonderful trip to a remarkable city.
   

A Writers Group: Helpers in Intelligent Design

    Writers groups have abounded for generations ever since wordsmiths have gotten assistance and inspiration from fellow writers.  A couple of notable groups have familiar names attached to them: The Algonquin Round Table of the 1920s in New York listed Dorothy Parker, Sherwood Anderson, George Kaufman, Robert Benchley, et al, among its members. (They called themselves The Vicious Circle, probably a fairly apt nickname considering their collective sharp wits.)  Another notable group of the 1930s and ‘40s, based at Oxford University, was The Inklings, where such eminent writers as J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis shared their memorable works.
    But alongside, if you will, these prominent groups have been countless other obscure gatherings of scribblers, some published, and some not–and may never be.  Yet the association of these writers is meaningful, even pleasurable to those who attend.  I belong to a group that has met every Friday afternoon (when possible) for thirty-five years at Volunteer State Community College in Gallatin, Tennessee, just outside of Nashville.  This group has a membership that changes periodically, though it still retains a couple of original members (of which I am one), lending a sense of continuity. 
    For the most part, members have been faculty or staff of the college with an occasional person from the community or a recommended student.  The latter is currently represented by Paul Farmer, who is employed as a marketing analyst with HCA and is in the throes of writing an historical novel.  The others now meeting include the putative chair who instituted the group, Betty Palmer Nelson.  She has the distinction of publishing first with her five novels in the Honest Women Series.  She is presently working on a novel of intricate relationships set in 1970s Nashville that revolves around the music business.  Another novelist, Mickey Hall, is completing his third unpublished novel.  His wit and engaging dialogue have consistently delighted the other writers.  The Ingrams, Ray and Sarah, bring to the group diverse talents, Ray with his poems, stories, and novels centered in the back country of Middle Tennessee, his ancestral homeland where he and Sarah still live.  She writes poems for all occasions and extended fiction for the younger set.  But she’s not the only one who has an affinity for poetry.  Widely published in numerous literary journals, Cynthia Wyatt continues to impress her fellow writers (and other readers) with insightful, memorable poems.  Another poet and newer member, Betty Mandeville, writes of personal and universal feelings best expressed in poetic form.  Jaime Sanchez employs his foreign background as the setting for fascinating glimpses in elegant prose of a privileged family mostly through the lens of chaotic political change. Other writers will appear and then disappear over the course of a year, but those named are the regulars.
    The most interesting and significant contribution that writers groups make is the background diversity of its members.  I can recall former participants like the late Humanities chair, Don Goss, a weekend pilot happy to provide accurate information on weather phenomena.  Retired administrator Jim Hiett, who attended the group for several years, was a bird expert with a published bird book.  Also now retired, longtime member Dan Jewell was an English teacher, but his expertise concerning country music is evidenced in his published novel, Blood Country. 
    From the above, you might guess that a large aggregation of well-informed members have come and gone through the years.  However, another contingent has baffled the group by their unwillingness (or inability) to conform to a certain standard or whose actual writing was problematic.  I remember a charming man who after writing a history book, quite a logical project as a retired history teacher, decided to write a novel about his university days.  Too bad he’d never even read a novel.  Members tried tactfully to suggest improvements on his many mistakes in structure, dialogue, and characterizations until he became aware of his shortcomings and left the group without any rancor.  Then an erstwhile young writer joined us and announced that all novelists in the group were on the wrong track by including narrative in their prose, that dialogue only was the wave of future novels.  When we ignored his advice, he too didn’t last long.  The worst writer to attend and mercifully have a short tenure with the group was a fellow who was writing a sadistic, sexually exploitative novel.  I remember after one reading, I could only say, “Yuk,” which might have suggested he didn’t belong in our midst.  He left soon after.  Amusingly, we once were entertained by a hit and run writer, recommended by someone not in our group.  He came from a distance away, asked to read first, and in a non-stop drone read his entire story of twenty-five pages (we allow five to seven pages to be read aloud).  When he finished, apparently just wanting an audience, he nodded at us and left, never to be seen again.
    So the Vol State Writers Group goes on.  Its talented members have helped me produce ten novels, with another one in the works, as well as several dozen poems and short stories, published in various venues.  I can only hope that this group will continue for at least another thirty-five years, providing, if nothing else, a forum for intellectual diversion and an enjoyable interlude.