When I was a junior in high school (that's 11th grade for my other culturely readers), my English teacher saw some promise and encouraged me to write a short story which would be entered in the NCTE writing awards contest. This happened in the spring of 1980. In the fall of that year, I had to write an impromptu essay to complete the contest entry. What follows is the story that won me the honor of being a "finalist" (hope you enjoy it):
Keep Your Feet on the Ground . . .
Professor
By Benjamin Potter
I saw Jim the
other day. We used to be real good friends, Jim and me. Then things started
happening. I’m not saying Jim’s a bad guy, and would stand up against anybody
who tried to hurt him, but we just ain’t as close as we used to be. We became
bosom buddies my first day at school in Trenton Elementary . . .
“What are you
doin’ over there? That’s my standin’ place and
my water fountain!” Those were the first word he ever said to me.
We were in the
third grade and both thought we were tougher than shoe leather, so on went the
fight . . .
“You want me
moved; you move me!”
“Okay! I will!”
With that we were
both on the ground, and I was on top when the teacher, old miss “Crouton”
Cruchon (nobody liked her and if you could see her, you’d know why), came
around and pried us apart.
After our parents
got called and we got our licks we were sent back to class. On our way there,
Jim said, “You was beatin’ me, surely. And anybody who can beat me gots to be
okay.” Then he stuck out his hand and we shook. From then on we were best
buddies. Everybody knew that if they wanted to tangle with one of us, they’d
have two fights on their hands; and so they stayed clear of us, and we kept our
noses clean of fights.
When we got in the
seventh grade we had three of our five classes together. We never skipped
classes. Jim was smart, even though it didn’t sound like it when he talked. We
were both twelve, and already knew more than some of the seniors at Trenton
High. We caused havoc in most of the classes we had together (that’s how we got
to know “Ole Bringert” pretty good). Ole Bringert was the principal. He was
pretty cool for an old guy. After about the fifth visit he told us just to
scream a little while he hit his desk with a book. We made it look real by
rubbing our eyes when we walked out.
As we got older we
started settling down. (We started dating girls, and girls don’t like to go out
with guys that rough-house like we did.)
In the ninth
grade, Jim started getting serious with this girl, Joann. Me and him started
going out on double dates a lot. Then him and Joann had a fight and we laid off
the dating for awhile.
Jim started
smoking, and, I’ll admit, I tried it but I didn’t get anything from it, and it
didn’t help me any so I just didn’t.
One day Jim said,
“Funny thing, this little cigarette. One person can get a lot of satisfaction
out of it, and another can’t ever get the hang of puffin’ on one.”
“You know that’ll
hurt you. It causes cancer, you know,” I said, trying to act smart.
“Yep, and one of
these days I’m gonna quit. Not right now, but I’m gonna quit and when I do,
I’ll put my pack away and never touch them nasty old things again.”
I knew this would
happen because when Jim said something would be, it would. He was like that.
And he did put down his pack just like he said he would, about a year later.
Two days after we
had talked about the cigarettes, Jim and me were leaning against a tree,
talking. As usual, Jim had out his pack and I was watching some birds making a
nest. It was early spring. Pretty soon we had a similar conversation to the one
a couple of days before.
“. . .that’s
right, Professor (Jim called everybody ‘Professor’), one day I’m gonna quit
these old boogers for good,” he said, holding up his smoldering, half-smoked
cigarette, “but on thing I ain’t never gonna do is dope. Dope’s dumb. Anybody
ever asked you to do dope, Tony?”
“Nope, and if the
was to do it, I’d bust their headlights out.”
With that Jim came
up with an idea. He came up with a lot of ideas when we were leaning against
the tree. This was our “thinking” tree. It was the halfway point between our
houses. Most of the time his ideas were pretty good, so we began to work on
this one quickly, starting with a vow.
“Let’s vow not to
never do dope and to break people of it,” Jim said.
“Okay, I’m with
you on the vow, and think it’s great to make a pledge to stay clean. But how do
you think we’re gonna get other people off of it?”
“We’ll work on
that later, but right now I gotta go home. Keep your hat in place, Professor.”
Jim always used
funny sayings like that. Him and me used to think up sayings like it to say all
the time. After that meeting we started saying, “Keep your feet on the ground,”
to everybody—only Jim put a “Professor” on the end.
About two weeks
later Jim called me and said, “Come on over, the plan’s in action!”
I didn’t know what
he was talking about, but I hurried over to his house and almost wore holes in
my sneakers in the run. When he let me in he said, “Be careful that the cops
don’t start seein’ you come over here. This operation’s delicate as a china
bowl, and the policers might get the wrong idea.”
We went into his
kitchen, and I saw three plastic bags full of dope. I thought he had forgotten
the idea, but then he started pouring it all down the garbage disposal and I
knew we were in business.
We did this for
about a year. Jim got so happy about “helpin’ those poor slobs,” as he put it,
that he decided to do himself a favor and put down his pack for good.
I don’t know where
he got all the stuff, but from the cuts and bruises he had, I could tell that
he had to fight for it. He never asked me to help him get it. I couldn’t
understand this, and so we started breaking apart as good friends. No matter
how much I begged, he wouldn’t let me help.
One day we had a
fight about it. Jim said that he just wanted to keep me clean of the cops in
case something happened complicating things, but I didn’t like his reasoning. I
wanted to know where the junk was coming from, and I wanted to help get it. I
let him know that real quick. He threw me against the wall and started
hollering . . .
“Cool down, Tony!
Go home ‘til you can handle things. I can close down here, and I’ll call you
when there’s some more to do. . . Oh! And keep your feet on the ground,
professor, we gotta keep things churnin’ around here so’s to help those poor
slobs!”
As I walked home I
saw two suspicious-looking guys in a brown sedan. I didn’t think anything of it
except that they were sittin’ in the car and starin’ at the front of Jim’s
house (I had gone out the back) instead of going in. I thought they were
relatives or friends of his dad’s. That was a mistake, as I would soon find
out.
On my way home I
stopped under the tree and sat down to think and to cool off some. I mostly
thought of the good friendship Jim and me had always had. I started getting
real poppycock thoughts. I knew why things were starting to crunch our
friendship—Jim’s and mine. I was starting to grow old. I was gonna die someday,
but Jim never would die. That was an impossibility. He was too smart to grow
old and die. He’d outspend everybody’s life and still be flushing dope down his
kitchen drain. Yep, that’s what I thought that day. And it’s true, too; I don’t
take to thinkin’ things that ain’t true.
Jim didn’t call me
until about two weeks later. He talked real soft like he was afraid of being
heard. “Listen, I’ve done a lot of the work slowly and quietly myself lately
‘cause some junk-jockeys have been watchin’ the house. I think things has quieted
down a little. Be careful on your way over, they may be hawkin’ behind the
scenes.”
“Okay, I’ll be
over quick. Keep your feet on the ground, and don’t let those pushers scare
you. I’ll keep my eyes opened.”
“Keep a strained
eye for the plainclothes policers, too. I think maybe the word’s out, but it’s
the wrong word.”
“Surely.”
“Quick and quiet,
professor.”
With that I was
out, with caution hanging over me like a rock. All I could think of was Jim’s
warning, “Quick and quiet, professor.” It kept coming back to me over and over.
When I got close to the house, I saw the brown sedan, “That must be the
pushers’ car,” I thought. As I got close enough to see, I saw the two goons
sneaking around the house, so I just moved within earshot an heard yelling from
inside the house.
“You’re the one
who’s been messin’ up our customers!”
Then I heard Jim
say, “I ain’t been messin’ ‘em up; I been settin’ ‘em straight!”
Then the two goons
busted in and about five minutes later, came out with two guys that I knew to
be junk-jockeys, and Jim in handcuffs . . . and
four bags of dope. Then I knew what had just happened. Jim saw me, but nobody
else did. He gave me one of his “signal looks” that told me to get out of there
but come help in the jail problem.
I went to the jail
two days later to see Jim and things fell apart.
“They’re gonna
move me to a reform school and there ain’t nothin’ we can do about it, Tony.”
Then I just lost
my head and started yelling and saying things that had never crossed my mind. I
don’t know what got into me. “That’s what you get! None of this ever would have
happened if you had let me help! That’ll teach you to try to help dummies!
Sometimes I think you’re dumber than they are . . .”
“You don’t mean
that!” Jim cried out with horror on his face.
I started cooling
down then because Jim was shaking me with that look of despair in his eyes. “I
don’t know,” I said. “I’m sorry, Jim, but things just don’t seem to make me
care anymore.”
Then Jim started
crying. I’d never seen him cry before. I couldn’t handle it and turned to walk
out. As the door was closing behind me, I heard Jim crying out, “Keep your feet
on the ground, professor!”
“Yeah, sure,” I
said to myself, “I sure will, old buddy.”
Well Jim’s out now,
and I saw him the other day. He’s got a broken ar---
“Tony! You’re not
ready yet—you better get your suit on. Jim’s funeral is in an hour.”
“No! No! He’s just
got a broken arm!”
“No, Tony.
Remember? He took an overdose in prison and . . .”
“No! No! He kept
his feet on the ground!”
Yep, old Jim won’t
ever die. He’s too smart for that. Oh yeah! I’ve got to get over to Jim’s
house; we got some more dope to destroy. Good ol’ Jim, he’ll always keep his
feet on the ground.
I am not now, nor have I ever been (nor plan to be) a journalist. I've never had a course on headline writing, but I read them all the time, and I want to point out something that I think is relevant: headlines should be useful. My limited understanding of headlines brings me to the conclusion that they should be characterized by three things: (1)Headlines should be concise; (2) headlines should be complete; (3) headlines should be correct.
In our small twice-weekly hometown paper we are constantly treated to headlines like: "Tables Extracurricular Drug, Alcohol Test Proposed" which may or may not be correct, but is incomplete (you have to look at the sub-title line to realize the article is dealing with the local school board meeting). Another school board related article on the same front page (different district in the county) reads, "Unit 1 Discusses Bus Lease Changes" with a subtitle of "Could Mean Changes to Routes". My question here is were these two separate articles headlined by the same writer? If so, how could one be done so well (example 2), and one so disjointed? But this is not really my point--just an on-going gripe I have. (Just a note: the paper has been showing a larger number of good headlines of late.)
So what is my point, you ask? Simply this: in a blog article today I read a headline that had a difficult time reaching mark. While we are trying to boil the information in the article down to a few words that will pique the interest of our readers (and cause them to read the whole article), we want to be truthful and work at being unoffensive even if we want to shock the readers. The article is a political piece located on a site designed to speak to and for Southern Baptists. (I'm not waving the "Church/State" flag here. Political opinions are part of being a Baptist--always have been, and probably always will.) My issue is with the headline (post title if you're a purist) compares a political candidate with our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. I don't think that was the intention of the author of the article, nor do I think that it was the intention of the blog owners and contributors. The mistake was probably innocent enough, but if so they have inadvertently done it. In trying to be clever, they have equated the candidate with the Master--they may not even know it still.
So, be careful when you create your titles/headlines so that you make sure that they say what you want them to say, and if you choose to use puns or even literary reference you might be saying more than you intended something that you would be offended at having said yourself.
Just to let you know, I'm addressing this here because it's my beef, it's not really related to the article that got my dander up (so it wasn't the right place to throw into the 'comment' section), and it gave me another peeve to air in this format. Thanks.
Recently, I heard one of those radio talk shows where they talk about just about anything. The host was discussing how his second grade teacher encouraged him to the point of "setting him free to soar". So, I decided I'd introduce you to a couple of inspirational people in my life.
I've been writing for almost as long as I have known how. In early elementary years I wrote some of the most awful poetry one could read (hey, I was in elementary school!). Often I would show this drivel to my teachers. One would "grade" it with an 'A' or a star and give it back. This only encouraged me. Consequently, my high school English teacher, Mrs. Griffin, saw something and encouraged my by entering me in the National Council of Teachers of English Writing Contest. I was a finalist and this just added fuel to the fire.
When I entered college I met an English teacher who really inspired me. On a whim, I gave him a copy of a short story I was working on and asked for his advice. He offered some criticism about the characterization, some thoughts on the story itself (which has atrophied in a folder--it was really bad prose) and instead of telling me just how bad it was said, "This shows promise. Keep writing." As a matter of fact, since those days, my teacher has become a writer known and respected in mystery circles, and his continuing advice to budding young authors, "Write, write, write."
Bill Crider has suggested to me that I should write every day - it doesn't matter whether it's good writing or bad writing (at least until you try to sell it). Just write. With practice your art will improve. Thanks for always being an encourager, Bill.
Here's a bit of verse I dedicated to my Blushing Bride those years ago. Enjoy your Valentine's Day!
I don't believe in love at first sight, But I know that your smile caught my eye.
It's not just the way it glows upon your face
But the way you let it linger in your eyes.
So, Lady--Pretty Lady, you make me happy when you smile
And I know when your cryin' I'd like to stay with you the while
'Til you are smiling again. I just want to be the friend
Of such a pretty lady.
(from "Pretty Lady Smile")
It came in today's mail--my copy of Best Modern Voices: Words for the New Millennium, Volume 1. This is the Poetry Anthology made up of the top 100 finalists in the first Wordclay.com poetry contest. Recently, my mother told me that they got a copy last week. They rushed to open the package and searched through the book to find my one poem included. They found it on the last page. Some would be upset about being saved for last, but hey, the winner and runner-up got the first two spots (with judges' write-ups and everything). The rest of the finalists are buried throughout the book. Mine is the last voice that the reader will hear.
April is National Poetry Month, so why not order yours today? [from Amazon; from the publisher]
While I've been working on sermons and prose over the last (many) years, I've held onto several poems that leaked out of my pen some twenty or more years ago. In some of my surfing, I ran across a poetry contest at Wordclay.com that seemed to scream, "Drag some of that old, stale stuff out and send it in!" The deadline was earlier this month, and I dusted off five likelies and submitted them. Judging was supposed to be completed by the 25th, and I hadn't received the notification of Grand prize (500 + perks) or Runner Up (250 + mini-perks), so I knew I didn't win. However, being a contestant of interest I checked the website to discover that my tribute to Garfield and Faye Moore, "I Remembered" was chosen as one of the 100 finalists.
So, what does this mean? I'll get a free book - the anthology made up of the poems of the finalists. The book (so says Wordclay) will be ready for publication sometime in March. I'll probably post again for interested readers when the book comes out.
About Me
- Benjie
- . . . is a former English teacher, a former youth minister, a former missionary, and a current pastor. He is married with three children.
My Blog List
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A La Carte (May 19)1 day ago
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Trinity Sunday Bible Study2 years ago
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The Difference a Year Makes6 years ago
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A Response to “5 Myths About Calvinism”7 years ago
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Blog Hiatus8 years ago
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審査がシビアだという印象がある銀行カードローンではありますが…？9 years ago
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The Cost of Heart Repair11 years ago
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Moving To A New Site11 years ago
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Your Pain Isn't About You12 years ago
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Holding the Key12 years ago
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Steffanie's Shoes13 years ago
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Fall in Wisconsin13 years ago
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The First Date (I)14 years ago
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Happy Valentine's Day Charley!!!15 years ago
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New Blog15 years ago
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Section 10.Mileena16 years ago
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Publishing Topics16 years ago
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Books16 years ago
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Compassion and Comfort17 years ago
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Snippets of Life From Thanksgiving Till Now17 years ago
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Welcome!17 years ago
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