Category: Memoir Publisher: Park Place Publications
ISBN-10: 1877809276
Type: Fiction
Pages: 350
Copyright: Dec 3, 2006
ISBN-13: 9781877809279
Past Imperfect, Present Progressive traces the noteworthy stages of a teacher/writer's life. Beginning with consignment to a Catholic military boarding school for the duration of WWII at age 4, it records the joyous return to a regular day school and high school, scholarship to Yale, private and public school English teaching, the military, textbook co-authorship, retirement, free lance writing, stroke and prostate cancer.
The book is a gallimaufry of reminiscences by a vocal member of tje Silent Generation. Wood traces his childhood during the Depression to adulthood and seniority in stories and poems born of experiences as an awkward adolescent, an undergraduate in the Ivy League, and a career secondary school teacher. Enjoy moments of melancholy punctuating a lifetime of exuberant playfulness in such unlikely areas as Shakespearean tragedy, English grammar, prosody, Scrabble, spelling bees, and service in the lowest ranks of the military.
Excerpt
Chapter One
STEPPING OUT
I was five years old, just about to turn six. My military school uniform no longer had the heavy leather belt with the big brass buckle that I see in the pictures taken in 1942. This was 1943. I had started first grade, and because my name started with W they put me in the back of the classroom. Pretty soon they figured out that I couldn't see the blackboard and I had to start wearing glasses. That was the year the school changed the uniform belt from the leather one that hung in little metal hooks on the uniform coat to a cloth one that could get twisted if you were in a hurry or not careful when you buckled it. I wish they had stayed with he leather belt. Then none of this would have happened.
It was a glorious Sunday morning. I would be going home for the day! We would be having a huge midday dinner at Grandpa and Grandma’s in Bellflower. There would be special treats and presents. My birthday was coming up the next week when I would be at school, so this was the day to celebrate it. Before going to Bellflower we would spend some time at home in Lakewood. Billy Maertz across the street and Timmy Kurtz next door would have presents for me. And there would be brand new kittens to play with—if I was very careful. When I was home last Sunday I had noticed how fat Smokey was, and Daddy had told me she would be having babies any day. I couldn’t wait!
As always happened when I was excited, I got a knot in my shoelace when I was putting my uniform shoes on. But Sister Sophia had good fingernails and was able to untie the lace, and I was dressed in time to get in formation and march to Mass in the chapel with the others. We filed into pews and waited impatiently for the ceremony to begin. I heard Mommy cough from the rear of the church behind the rows of nuns where there was space for the parents who had come to collect their children for the day. I knew she had coughed on purpose—Mommy smoked lots of cigarettes-- so I would know she was there. Daddy was not a Catholic and would be waiting outside in Old Betsy and reading a pocketbook.
Finally Mass started and it seemed to drag more than usual. Communion always took a long time. The eighth graders marched to the railing in groups, hands clasped in front of their belts and elbows swinging in rhythm. The sound of their marching footsteps was loud. They were followed by the seventh graders and on down the grades. My grade had not yet made First Communion. Then the nuns all took communion, walking silently to and from the altar rail with heads bowed and without the swagger of the students.
Ten or fifteen minutes later I heard my favorite Latin phrase. Ite missa est. The Mass is ended. And I whispered with feeling, “Deo gratias.” Thanks be to God. Filing out of the chapel, I heard Mommy cough again and caught a glimpse of her smiling first at Kevin and then at me. Now all that remained was inspection by Major Schmitt and we were free for the day.
Being among the youngest and shortest of the Juniors, I was in the first rank of our company. Our commander called us to attention and we clicked our heels smartly and stood as we had been taught—shoulders back, chest out, stomach in, feet at a forty-five degree angle. Major Schmitt started walking toward me from the end of the first file, looking at each student with that frowning face that so terrified all of us. He looks handsome in his pictures when he is
smiling, but we never saw him smile in real life. He paused when he came to my position. I stole a glance at his face and saw a muscle working in his jaw. Then he extended his arm, and his finger touched my uniform belt at my ribs. I looked down and saw that the belt was twisted.
“Step out,” he ordered in a low, firm whisper. I did, the tears already burning down my face, my body shaking.
I had failed inspection. There would be no going home, no kittens, no birthday gifts, no Grandma dinner, but worst of all I would not be able to see and hug and be kissed by Mommy and Daddy.
I was sent back to the dorm with the other Juniors whose parents lived far away and who were used to not going home on Sundays. Later I learned that my parents had begged Major Schmitt to let me go with them, but he had said that I had to learn to be a soldier. Mom and Dad had decided that if I couldn’t go home, then Kevin should stay at school too and try to comfort me. He was really mad at me and left me so he could play games with the kids his age.
I stood at the third floor dormitory window until I saw our dirty blue Plymouth drive out toward Harbor Boulevard. I wondered if Mommy was crying too. I hoped she was.
Through interviews with Lauren's doctors, along with those of other physicians, researchers, and clinicians who specialize in lung cancer, readers will have a better understanding of the disease.
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