Notes From My Journal: Chapter Thirty-Eight

Notes From My Journal: Chapter Thirty-Eight

The letter that I wrote to Herb on June 13, 1974 kind of sums up where I was at some thirty-seven years ago.

Dear Herb:

Well, in spite of my disbelief, it’s the end of the school year already. I have to say, it’s been my best year ever. I really loosened up a lot, enjoyed myself a lot more in the classroom. Really got to know the kids a lot better too. You know, I’m convinced that the younger a kid is the smarter he is. That’s when you take them as a whole group. I still find that I have more communication with the kids than I do with ninety percent of the faculty. Luckily, Fritz, the principal, is in the ten percent that are somewhat aware. He believes that a school should be a happy place to be in. At some points though I see that I’m more in tune with what’s going on than he is.

Like, Monday afternoon he came over to give my classroom a final check up. I had asked four of the boys to come back to school for a basketball game. About ten showed up. While I was waiting for Fritz, I gave them the key to the cafeteria. He saw their bikes parked outside. Heard the noise they were making. They told him I let them in. He was up set that I let them in without supervision. Said he would do the room check out himself while I went down to be with the kids.

I peeked in and saw that they were shooting baskets, and playing one on one. No problems. So, I returned and finished up the five minute room check out. I know that the kids like to play in the cafeteria so much that they are perfectly safe in there for at least ten minutes. ‘Course, someone like Gordon who wouldn’t even give me a key to the front door could be in charge.

My writing has been going really good too. I got into a good form over Easter vacation, wrote four thousand words on my best day. I’ve been doing close to two thousand a week since then. I find that I get a much better understanding of myself when I read accounts of my own experience. I re-read some of the stuff that I wrote while driving cab. It seems to fit perfectly with what I’m writing right now. I really see a lot of growth. I think I’ll try to put the first part of my novel, that which I wrote while driving cab, as the beginning of what I’m writing now. I don’t want to revise much because it should show how I’ve grown as a writer.

I’ll be teaching summer school again this year. This will give me around four hours a day to write. I wish that I were teaching in the afternoon, as I do my best writing in the morning. I’ll be teaching science again this summer. They have written the class description with an emphasis on physical science. I’ll have to convince all the little kids that it’s more fun to study living things.

My last four weeks of summer should be free. Hope we’ll be able to get up to see you. Anne is working at the cannery again this summer. She can make more money working there for six months than she can make working in an office for a year. She might not be able to get time off during the season. If not, I’ll have to come up alone. At any rate, I’ll call or drop you a line before we come up.

Of course, our invitation to you is still open. I really expected that you might have stopped by by now. Are you still making the trips to San Francisco? Maybe you can look at my eggplants and peppers and tell me what’s eating them. I have about sixteen tomato plants that are doing really good. Rabbits ate one row of lettuce. The other row is really doing good. We had our first taste of home grown lettuce last night. Delicious!

Well, take care. I won’t even mention the political scene except to say that someone said that the problem with the Nixon Administration is that it is completely non-spiritual. No soul…

As I continue to look through my journal from June of 1974, I find a number of dream fragments.

It is June 18, 1974. I’m in some kind of military barracks. Sitting on my bunk, I watch several fellow airmen getting ready to head into town. I wait until the barracks is clear and decide to climb the hill into town. It’s a long hard climb. When I am more than halfway to the top, I spy the old man who has a house at the very summit of the hill. I know that he is out to protect his young daughter. I turn in panic and run down the hill, looking over my shoulder to see if the old man is still in pursuit. When I reach the bottom of the hill, I see that he is not following me.

I breathe a sigh of relief and decide to walk in the opposite direction. In a short while I come to a tavern. I enter the brightly lit bar and discover that it is packed with older farm hands. I try to order a beer, but have a hard time making myself heard. The bartender places a sandwich in front of me. I pick it up and discover a long string of saliva on it. Pushing it away with a shudder of disgust, I leave the bar.

The evening sky is filled with stars. I continue walking in the opposite direction from which I came. I know that the road will circle back to the base in some twenty miles. I wonder if I’ll have time to make the long circular walk.

It’s a day later. I sit on the front porch with my foster parents. It is very quiet, and we are ready for sleep. All of a sudden, Leo Kelly steps on the porch with a young black guy. They must’a come up from the cellar, I tell myself. I jump from my chair and grab Leo’s hand. We shake and I turn to the black guy. We exchange long smiles and go through a series of different handshakes; the black power grasp, the middle class squeeze, and the pass a joint finger roll. I turn to Leo and find in his place, Bobby Thompson. The black guy is now Bobby’s brother, Raymond. We sit down and talk as if we had seen each other yesterday although it has been over twenty years since our last meeting.

My daughter Vickie comes out from the front room and sits at my feet. I notice that she is listening closely and holding on to every word. I begin to dwell on the philosophical side of our situation. The Thompson boys want to go for a drive.

I’m sitting in the front seat of my old Modal A Ford. Bobby is driving. Vickie is sitting at my feet. We drive around for a while, and I realize that it is close to 11 P.M. The Thompson boys are beginning to get restless. I figure they have to be home by eleven thirty. I tell myself that Vickie should be in bed by now. I decide that we will take Vickie home first. I have the feeling that Anne is hurrying me from the back seat.

The engine quits. I get out and open the hood. A couple of professors in tweed jackets come up to help us. We turn the car around and begin to push. I sit behind the wheel with the engine chugging. Bobby is at my right hand side with Vickie sitting next to him. Bobby takes her face in his hands and begins to kiss her lips. She returns his kiss with pure enjoyment. Bobby reaches for her breasts. She begins to struggle and pushes him away. She puts her hands around his neck. “Stop!” she says in a commanding voice. “You have the splinters of my hand in your throat.” Bobby reaches for his neck and begins to gasp.

From today in 2011, I can see that these dream fragments were telling me that I lacked direction and command. In the first fragment, I am walking in circles with no idea of where I am going and what I will do when I get there. In the second fragment friends from my high school days come into my life and I follow their wishes rather than my own. In both fragments I have deep underlying fears that govern my actions.