| 9/14/07 08:16 am - The Oasis
(I recently came across a stash of writings I did in my early 20s, at a time when the creative juices were flowing, I had few responsibilities and lots of time. There's short fiction, song lyrics, poems, a stream of consciousness. Apologies for the self-indulgence, but I wanted to "upload" some of this stuff into my journal as a reflection on the man I was 15-20 years ago)
(This first piece was written for a writing class, and the assignment was to write a journal entry, emulating a famous writer who also wrote in a journal or chronicled his/her life. You were to study the writer's style and follow in his/her footsteps. I'll let you know whom I picked at the end)
"The Oasis"
by Bennie Smith
After plunging ahead through the hectics of daily life, the city driving, the driving work, the responsibilities to shoulder, the bills to pay, and other "adult" burdens, I can joyfully call back the serenity experienced as a boy when I would go and visit my grandparents.
My grandparents' house was not very big, having only a kitchen, dining room, living room, den, three bedrooms and two baths all crammed into a single-story flat, but it was a place of much happiness, clean and warm, always friendly.
My grandmother's kitchen always dominated the whole house, permeating it with choice aromas of cooking ham, or basting turkey, or maybe a freshly baked pumpkin or apple pie. And I knew that, if I was good, and I always was before mealtime, I wouldn't have to fidget too much before I could let my stomach in on the secret my nose had discovered.
The inside of the house was kept in meticulous care by my grandmother, and it was always filled with "things," breakable things just waiting to get a boy in trouble. Bottles from Israel filled with water from the Dead Sea, funny-looking wooden carvings from Hawaii, glass figurines. Nothing fun. For fun, you were sent outside.
The outside was cared for just as meticulously by my grandfather. No weeds growing in the cracks in the sidewalk. The smell of fresh cut grass and bushes filled the air. And the flowers, the petunias, begonias, and red and yellow Dutch tulips.
Looking back, though, the source of the most boyhood wonderment was in my grandfather's garden with my grandfather. Among the tall corn plants, the pungent tomatoes, green peppers, onions, and the ever-sweet strawberries, I would hear the stories of old, back when my grandfather was a boy back in the 1920s, how they only had one light bulb at a time in the house, and for Christmas would get the yearly pair of shoes, and how he accidentally took his brother's fingers off with an axe.
It was hard to try and think of my grandfather as a boy, but they had an old wooden chest, it seemed huge back then, carved with all sorts of scenes and designs, and inside was filled with enough "things" to keep a boy busy, things not so fragile, like pictures of him as a young boy, him and my grandmother as a young couple, my mother and aunt as babies, wedding announcements, graduation announcements, postcards, papers, and other bits of memorabilia.
And when I rode home, I would often doze off, curled up in the back seat unless I was picking on my little sister, and I would glean over what I had learned there, about love and family, and history and family, and then my mind would wander to more important boyhood thoughts.
--inspired by Mark Twain
(my teacher's handwritten comments are still on the paper: "A genuine imitation in subject + mood but at the same time your own work of art. My compliments." I remember being thrilled by the kind words. At the time, I was all into being a fiction writer, and hadn't really thought about the art of non-fiction writing much before then. I find it interesting that now, in the age of the internet, and the rise of blogs, the "art" of non-fiction writing is all over the place, much of it garbage, but there are many examples of artful non-fiction prose to be found... including many on my friendslist!)
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