Big Horses on the Prairie

Hi everybody,
This is a work in progress based on a family story a dear friend shared with me when she was in a nursing before she died several weeks later. Her husband, Wil, 86, and a former pastor and professor at Duquesne University, and I have fleshed it out to hopefully become a childrenss book. To become a picture book, it really should be around 1,200 words. This weighs in at a hefty draft horse size 3,000! PRESS (a National Writing Project term for "let me have it") on all aspects, particularly, putting it on a "diet," or what things can an illustration tell! Also, if you have a great idea for a title, I would be so appreciative. I'm in my home "sanctuary" an upstairs room with a television, table and computer as my achiles tendon heals inside a purple plaster cast. I'm doing the crutches thing better, so if my husband can bring me, HOPE to see you all on Monday. Love,Jane

Life on the Prairie

By Willard Mecklenburg and Jane Miller

Inez glanced at the thermostat on the back porch post. It read 34 degrees. She flicked it with her gloved hand.
“Must be broken,” she mused to herself, knowing that the snow would be melting if it were correct, and snow nearly covered her broom as she swept a path to wooden barrels that held 50-pound bags of sugar and flour. Inez opened the barrels, scooped out dry ingredients and brought inside the tin can of lard to begin making breakfast.
Barbara awoke to the smell of bacon cooking and the sound of her father, Harold, stomping his boots outside the door of her family’s 100-year-old prairie cabin. Before dawn, he had trudged to the barn to feed the livestock, including the team of horses.
A big job lay ahead today. The family’s coal bin was nearly empty. He must get more coal that day. Like most families that lived in Montana during the Great Depression, coal was used for a cook stove that also warmed the house. Montana storms were severe. The previous blizzard, with 60-mile velocity winds ripped tar paper off the outside of the cabin, and the winds that blew between the mud and log walls blew out the kerosene lamp.
Just like the horses, Harold needed a hearty breakfast, too. He ate a stack of three wheat pancakes that filled his dinner plate and several pieces of his home cured pork cut into strips of bacon, covered with Inez’ home made syrup that she made by boiling brown sugar in water.
Harold arose from the oak table. “I’ll be back this afternoon, Barbie-girl,” he said to his daughter, lifting her into the air. She giggled. He another layer of clothing over hid of woolen long longs, overalls, and shirts before pulling on his mackinaw. At the door, Inez handed him a scarf.
“You’ll need this. I just finished it last night before the wind blew out the kerosene lamp,” she said with a chuckle. “I’ll wear it for luck!” said Harold, making a flourishing sweep as he tossed the scarf end across his shoulder.
Harold harnessed Don and Buster together and hitched them to his grainery wagon sleigh. He planned to haul bituminous or soft coal, for their home. He would drive the team to his neighbor’s farm where two summers ago he had helped Mr. Olson dig a well. An outcropping of rock had concealed the shallow bed of coal about two feet below the surface of the sod. Mr. Olson had told him to help himself anytime he needed coal because “That’s what Prairie folk do. We need each other,” Mr. Olson told him when he offered to pay.
The sleigh bells jingled. The team headed across the prairie to an above-ground coal mine. At the mine there was a Fresno, which is like a wheel barrow, used to take off the top soil to get to the coal.
Back in the cabin, Inez began to teach Barbara how to thread a needle.
“Some women tell you to lick it. I say phooey,” Inez said to her daughter.
“Foo-ey,” Barbara repeated and giggled. In the warm weather months, they tended the garden where the family raised much of their food. This was the time to prepare for the year ahead. Together they made shirts and dresses out of the bright feed sacks bought each month with sugar, flour, and livestock grain.
The telephone rang. Inez stood to pick up the metal mouthpiece off the wall-mounted phone.
“Good morning, Stella!” Inez said into the mouthpiece. Their closest neighbor lived almost two miles away. Every day the two women talked on the party line phone that the farmers maintained by running a telephone wire on the top of their fences.
Barbara threaded a needle the way her mom showed her to sew her own sampler beneath her mom’s quilt frame. She and Tipper, her dog, pretended they were in a boat at sea, like pictures they had seen in books.
“You don’t say. It's so cold school has closed? Harold just headed out to get coal.”
“WOMAN, DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE TEMPERATURE IS OUTSIDE?” Stella’s voice boomed.
“No, our thermometer is broken,” and Inez started to explain, but Stella interrupted.
“Woman, it’s dropping to 30 degrees below zero—and another blizzard is blowing in!” Inez looked worriedly toward the frost-etched window.
“Harold will be all right. He’s got his team, and--,” but she was interrupted, again.
“Woman, don’t you know? Two frozen calves were found this morning,” said Stella.
“I’ll talk with you tomorrow,” said Inez quickly, as she watched Barbara, bent over her piece of fabric, stitching faster. Inez began stitching faster, too.

The sun had been shining brightly when the team reached the mine. The air was still. The wool scarf Inez made for him as well combined with his own breath warmed his face. Montana people and horses are accustomed to cold, he thought. He gave his team a rest from the harness, and opened a bale of hay for them to munch on while he dug away a layer of soft snow. Harold worked up a sweat as he dug.
His effort uncovered the coal he had helped to mine two summers ago. He used a shovel and a digging bar, which is like a long crow bar to reach the coal, about two feet below the surface of Mr. Olson’s yard. It was hard to digging in the blizzard-hardened snow.
The wagon mostly loaded, they broke for lunch. At noon Harold opened a colorful grain bag of oats and poured part of it into two large buckets, so that his hungry team could devour it while he ate the bacon sandwiches and drank the cold thermos of coffee Inez had packed for him.
The wind began to blow snow into freezing drifts, so Harold knew he better not delay. Within minutes the blizzard increased, and the temperature had dropped even lower. It was now bitter cold and Harold was glad for the new muffler that shielded his face, as he hitched his horses to the running gear and climbed into the driver’s seat. He could barely see as he looked across the prairie.
“Gee, boys!” Harold called as he pulled the reins left. The drifting snow was quickly making the road disappear, so he would take the tree-lined road along the rocky creek which was easier to travel in a storm than the shorter, main road they traveled that morning.
Don and Buster steadily pulled the load. Their efforts kept them warmer, but sitting on the driver’s seat, Harold was becoming chilled even through his heavy winter clothing. After riding his load for a couple of miles, he stopped.
“Whoa,” he called, pulling back on the reins. Still holding onto the leather straps, he climbed off the wagon and began walking between the horses and wagon. It would lighten the load for his horses, now laboring to pull against the wind. Harold was almost warm as he took large strides to keep up with his horses, but now they were struggling again against a wind like none he had ever known or heard about from other Montana farmers.
“We’ll come back here next week boys. It’ll still be here,” Harold thought. He wanted to say the words aloud, as he always talked to his team, but ice penetrated the scarf and it hurt to even breathe.
He grabbed the harness strap that united the three as a team. But it was a hard and brutal hike, and his strength was leaving his limbs. Home was still two miles away. Even without a load, he felt the horses’ burden. He was holding them back.
He pondered what to do. From his days as a cowboy trick rider, he knew he could find the strength to climb atop one of the horses. But he knew his weight would be too much in these strong winds. If they stayed where they were, and tried to wait the storm out, surely they would all die.
Harold thought of spring plowing days when his team faithfully followed his commands. His hands numb and shaking, knowing his own fate, he unfastened the harness that made them a team.
“Go home!” He could barely mouth the words and knew he needed to save every ounce of energy. He couldn’t see his way, but his horses would have an instinct for how to return to the barn.
“Get on home!” he commanded. Both horses stood still.
“Get home!” he tried to shout. They must leave. He swatted Buster on his rump, and the horse gave a little jump, obeyed the command, and started out at with a high step through the drifts. Don neighed, but stayed firmly planted.
“I said, ‘Go get on home!’” shouted Harold, finding an unknown source of strength. He struck Don’s rump. It would be foolish for them to stay there. The snow had covered Don’s legs. Don nickered to his master, yet would not move.
“You blame fool horse,” Harold said, his strength sagging, yet his heart soaring. He wanted to cry; he wanted to grab the dappled horse around his neck, but he grabbed Don’s tail and with barely a whisper said, “Let’s go home.”
The driving blizzard left him unable to see landmarks, but he trusted Don’s instincts. Don’s enormous body with dinner-platter feet cleared a path for Harold to follow behind.
But a horse goes faster than a man, and Harold couldn’t keep up.
“Go home, Boy!” he shouted against the winds, and let go. This time Don obeyed. In the driving winds, he likely didn’t notice that Harold no longer held onto his tail.
Yet as Don plowed ahead, he cleared a path. Harold still had an ounce of strength. What did he have to lose if he followed? He knew home was two miles away, but you never knew when storm might let up. And if the snow stopped, he would see the Gallatin Mountains and there he would find home.
But the snow kept swirling, and soon the path in the snow began to disappear. Which way was home? His head bent low, Harold persevered, but the path was gone. He might walk in a circle and not know it. Maybe he should accept his dire fate. But through the driving ice, ahead he could see a thick, gray mass. His heart skipped a beat. There stood Don.
“You waited for me, Boy! You waited! You blame fool of a horse!” he wanted to shout. Harold reached out and grabbed Don’s icy, snow covered tail.
“C’mon, boy. Let’s go home,” he mouthed silently. Don moved forward. Harold’s steps became automatic. His legs and arms were numb, but he moved forward. His heart pounded in rhythm with Don’s steps. But as he gasped for a breath, he lost contact with Don’s tail. The horse moved ahead without him. Harold couldn’t go on, yet a path in the snow lay before him. He trudged achingly forward.
In a little while the sound of sleigh bells alerted Inez. It was a sharp contrast to the winds. She had feared the worst had happened. She put down her fabric, imbedding the needle and thread. “C’mon, Barbara, we’ll get bundled up and surprise Pa at the barn,” she said.
They hummed a hymn as they pulled on boots and coats, and Inez tucked Barbara inside her mackinaw, and mother and child curled their faces together. They remembered the day the circus came to town and paraded down the main street. They pretended they were large, lumbering elephants marching to the barn.
As Inez cleared a spot to open the door, they could hear Buster’s urgent call. Inez thought another voice would greet them. Buster was alone. Barbara filled the tin can with grain and her mother lifted her to feed the big horse. They fed the cattle, pig, and chickens, as well.
Inez felt despair, but didn’t want to give up hope. An idea hit her. “Don will sure be hungry, when he gets back,” she said and Barbara ran again to the feed room to fill up the tin can. She walked into his stall and filled his bucket with grain, and Inez shook out a flake of hay.
On the way back to the house, they trumpeted to each other as momma and baby elephants. Barbara didn’t need to know how her mother’s heart sank deeper than their steps. Inez prayed silently, as she and Barbara warmed their fingers by the diminished coal fire.
“Pa’s going to be hungry too,” she said as she filled a black kettle with snow, and added beets, turnips and salt pork to her pot she placed on the hearth.
“Barbara, how about if we start a special quilt that will be for you someday. Let’s imagine it’s summer and you are a grown-up lady carrying a fancy parasol,” she said. Inez searched the cupboard for brown, butcher-block paper to draw a pattern.

Just as he felt that all he could do would be to lie down in the snow, Harold sensed a presence, like a wall, before him. He took a few more steps. There was Don, waiting for him, again.
“C’mon, boy. . . .” he said, barely in a whisper. Touching Don’s tale gave him strength. This horse was here for him. He wanted to shout. He wanted to cry. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to go home. His mind willed his feet to keep moving as horse and man fell into a rhythm together.
But again, Don’s pace was faster than Harold could manage behind the four-legged snowplow. “Go on home,” he gasped. If he stopped, he knew for certain he would die. His limbs tingled, no longer feeling cold. He kept his focus on his breath, and each step, as he bent his head against the winds. He nearly fell backwards as he bumped into a tree. But there couldn’t be a tree. No, it was Don.
“Let’s . . . go home,” he said as he shook ice from Don’s tale. That was Don’s signal to plod through drifts now belly high. Harold shuffled behind, feeling thankful for his faithful horse.
Time and time again, the rhythm of man and horse marked another mile to home. Then across a bed sheet of white pasture, he saw home. All he had to do was climb over the fence, and trudge on his own to the house that shone from a faint beacon of a kerosene lamp in the window.
But there was no opening for Don, his faithful horse. Don would know his way to the barn. All he had to do was to go a ways down the fence to the gate Harold opened we they left that morning. Don would go through the open gate and wait for Inez at the barn. So Harold dropped Don’s tail a final time.
“Go on home, Boy!” Howard said forcefully with renewed strength as he climbed the fence and turned to wave to Don. The winds had died down. A rosy glow of the sun setting in the west, beyond the house, beckoned to him. Harold could now taste the warm stew he was certain Inez had waiting for him. He swung his arms across his body to build momentum for each step that dug a path through the knee-high drifts. Nearly frozen, icicles hung from him his scarf he swung open the farm house door. “You’re home. You’re home,” Inez kept repeating over and over. Ignoring the melting ice, Barbara and her mom hugged him hard. Tipper jumped up and barked at his knees.
“I’m home,” Harold said hoarsely, his mouth dry despite the ice melting from his hair and face. He cradled the cup of coffee Inez handed him as he sat by the small fire. Inez quickly headed to the barn to greet Don. She expected him in the stall she had prepared. Buster called to her loudly. The other animals stirred, as the last gleams of light slanted into the ice-covered window. With great sadness, Inez returned to the house.
“Don isn’t in the barn,” she said with great, measured sadness. Harold was stunned. Don should have found his way to the barn from that short distance. After all, Don had led him the entire way. What could have happened?
“Inez, go and look out at the gate.” Inez, trembling, followed Harold’s short-cut path to the fence. The gate to the barn was wide open, yet there stood Don, standing in a drift that reached his belly. She stroked his face, cleaning it of snow and ice, and reached as far as she could around his neck.
“Harold is home. C’mon, Boy, you can go home, too.” And that was enough for Don to leave his post and head to the barn.
That night the family found enough pieces of coal and wood kindling to keep the fire burning. The next day the weather cleared, Mr. Olson’s grown son saw the abandoned wagon loaded with coal. He and his dad hitched up their team of horses and brought it to the Gavin family, “because that’s what Prairie folk do,” as Mr. Olson always said.
As the prairie families visited, Harold shared his tale of the big horse that saved his life on the prairie.
Harold lived to be 91 years-old. All of his days he would tell the story of Don, the devoted draft horse, who saved his life in a storm. When Barbara grew up, she too, told this story all of her days. She always repeated what her father said to her, “If you take care of your animals, they will take care of you. We’re here to take care of each other.”

revised story about Sylvan Park pool "Paradise"

Hey everyone,
I went down to the pool last weekend. I had written my article and shared with you all last meeting. Well, I spoke with the manager, John Masarik for about an hour and totally revised my article. I would like to know what you think if any would care to comment. Here it is: thanks guys, Megan

YOUNG LIVES ARE BUILT SPLASHING IN PARADISE
By Megan Vance
“Hurry up guys, we’re going to be late for swim practice!” I yelled to my youngsters. “Do you all have your goggles?”
This was the daily refrain in our house from June through late July. Towels were quickly stuffed into bags, and we jumped in our van and made the quick five minute trip way down the steep hill called Sylvan Avenue in Natrona Heights. With trucks roaring toward Freeport on Route 28 in the backdrop, we had now arrived in our own little piece of what the Sylvan “family” calls Paradise.
We were new to the area in the late 80’s when I inquired of neighbors where would be a good swim club to join. Someone luckily told us of Sylvan Park. As a young mother with two busy toddlers, I quickly signed us all up. Just like yesterday, I recall my toddlers sitting at the side of the shallow end, one hollering loudly and one delighting in the swimming lessons they were starting that summer.
Crisp and clear, Sylvan Park has been under the management of just one man who had a dream for the place he has poured his heart and soul into for the past 45 years. John Masarik was a physical education teacher in the local area and a decorated World War II veteran when he began managing the pool in the summer of 1965. July 4, 1965 was Sylvan’s opening day. Masarik had a dream that has already seen fruit: building young leaders that will serve their country and community. Now in his 80’s, retirement is not in his vocabulary.
I am seeing that dream recognized in my own family and other families I knew during our swim team days. Sylvan served us all well. One day, we enrolled our three children for the swim team. Swim team soon became the highlight of the year, the one sport all three of my children participated. My youngsters first learned to perfect their strokes under the loving guidance of Mrs. Jane Thimmons in Conditioning Class in the shallow end. Mrs. Thimmons, who herself learned to swim through Mr. Masarik at another pool before Sylvan was built, reciprocated the favor by sharing her expertise and guidance with little swimmer wannabes. No child was left behind, each was encouraged and given hugs under her tutelage.
If the children were not quite ready to swim for “points” with the team, no problem. There was always“Future Champs”, a special meet for those who were still developing their skills. My oldest child, who had been at first terrified of the water , beamed like he had won Olympic Gold when he received his ribbons at Future Champs. Other kind people from the pool worked hard to make sure this event was held each year and there was always a Dairy Queen ice cream bar for each participant in the end.
When my children did finally qualify to swim for points, that was the highlight of their existence during school years. We were so excited when the big finale for the season occurred: Alle-Kiski Swim League Championships. Out of the 45 years these championships have occurred, Sylvan has won 41 times. Who could forget the cheer the swimmers proudly hollered: “Sylvan Swim Team’s in a state of war, We’ll fight you on the beach, we’ll fight you on the shore! We’ll fight you til the fight is won, Sylvan swimming is #1!!”
Mr. Masarik sums up the philosophy of Sylvan in three simple words: passing the torch. Indeed, at the swimmers banquet, a “torch” is brought out and run through the swimmers lined up on both sides. It is his goal that no child would feel unimportant, that no one would feel unneeded. This gave my children confidence that has carried on in successful adult lives. It is part of a legacy: the older generation wishes to impart values to the next and if you look at the results you will see that it is working. The swimmers at Paradise owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Masarik and the haven he has created for area families. Come to a clean, relaxing community called Sylvan Park and you will see what I mean.

WAW August assignment

Next meeting:

• Monday, August 9, 2010 6:30 – 9:00 PM
• Assignment: Finish the story:

Terry’s mind was elsewhere as he/she walked toward the lake. Perhaps that’s why he/she didn’t notice the stranger leaning against the maple tree, a lit cigarette in his right hand and a worn metal pail at his feet. The man watched Terry as he/she approached the shore, fully dressed in a pair of jeans, light grey hoodie, and black tennis shoes. Hesitating for just a moment, Terry stood at the water’s edge before reaching into the pocket of her sweatshirt and retrieving something the stranger couldn’t quite make out. He/she seemed to draw the object to his/her lips and kiss it before squatting down and placing it, gently, in the water.

• Add up to 600 words of your best fiction.

More Publishing News

The Pittsburgh Post Gazette published Patty Gunnett's story about shopping in downtown Pittsburgh when she was a young girl. This is a nostalgic piece for some, while for others it's a glimpse into a different time and different place.

On the same day, the Tribune Review featured Jane Miller's piece on the intricacies of clock repair. Click on the links to be directed to the articles.

So excited to be working with such a group of talented writers!

Publishing News

Another article in the Post Gazette by our very own Jimmy Dunn. And this one's about Norma's son!

Scarred

Hana Haatainen Caye
WAW June assignment

Ten years. Surely it was no more than, say five or six, right? She looked down at her left hand, brushing the scar lightly with her finger. Where had the years gone?

Ten years earlier

“Do you really have to leave?” Kate asked, reaching across the bed to touch Andrew’s back, attempting seduction with her fingertips.

“Katie, stop. You know I have to get home.” Andrew smiled as he glanced back at her. She continued her seductive fingertip dance across the elastic of his briefs.

“I said, STOP!” This time Andrew’s voice was stern…cold…devoid of intimacy. Kate recoiled, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them as she tucked her head in close to her chest, familiar with his Jekyll/Hyde mood swings. “You know the routine,” he continued, robotically. “This is the way things will always be. You need to remember that, Kate.”

She searched his eyes, looking for the gentle longing she was so familiar with. He was right. She had to remember the routine. The wife. The dog and kids. The minivan and soccer practice.

“You are nothing more than a distraction for him, Kate,” her best friend, Angela, often said.

“I’m sorry.” Her apology was nearly inaudible.

“Excuse me?” Andrew panned as his face contorted into something unrecognizable. “You’re sorry? Miss Katie Always Together Never Wrong is sorry? Well, whatta ya know? Indeed wonders never…”

“I said I was sorry, okay. I know the rules. Just leave, okay?”

“Now she wants me to leave. What if I don’t want to Miss Katie? What if I decide to spend the night? What then?’

“What do you mean?” Kate was clearly confused. She started to tremble as she pulled the sheet up around her naked body.

“It’s about time you covered up. You disgust me,” Andrew spat. “You dis-gust me, do you know that?”

Katie was silent, wrinkling the white bamboo top sheet between her clenched fists.

“I asked you a question, Katie. What are you, deaf and dumb?”

“I heard the question, Andrew. I just don’t know what you want me to say. I’m sorry I disgust you. But it didn’t seem that way a half hour...”

“Bitch!” The back of his left hand made contact with her right cheek.

“Stop,” Kate cried out. “Andrew, stop it right now. I want you to leave.” She was crying now.

“Ahhh, issa baby kwying? Poor wittle Katie.”

“I told you to leave,” she repeated.

“You told me? You told ME? And who the hell do you think you are?”

Andrew grabbed her by the wrists and dragged her off the bed, onto the Berber carpet and across the room. Opening the second story window, he picked her up, attempting to push her through it. Her fingernails dug into his wrist.

“Shit!” he yelled, as he pried her hand away. With one swift move, he hurled her body out the window. A huge bush blocked her fall and she screamed as a leafless branch pierced through her left hand.

“Oh I hate that stupid rhododendron,” was the last thing she heard her once gentle lover say, as she faded away into a blackout.

***

Kate stopped rubbing her scar when her cell phone started to chirp.

“Yeah?” It was Angela.

“Just checking to make sure you’re okay.” The concern in her friend’s voice was apparent. “I talked to Gerry at the station this morning.”

“Yeah,” Katie repeated, this time as a statement.

"I can’t believe that pig is getting out today… Are you scared?”

“Umm, yeah, I guess I….”

She felt the thrust of a fist pounding into her spine as she went hurling across the room.

“Hello, Katie. I’m so glad I didn’t miss the blooming of the rhododendron this

year.”

Next meeting:

Monday, July 12, 2010 6:30 – 9:00 PM

Assignment: The Post Gazette is looking for more stories! Based on the success of the last PG assignment, here’s another one:

Igloo Memories - your most notable experience at the Civic Arena, Mellon Arena, Igloo or whatever you prefer to call it.

Baseball Lore - Write about your connection to the 1960 World Series, the Pirates or baseball generally.

Raves - Sing the praises of some present-day, Pittsburgh-area setting or activity you want others to know about. (avoid commercial endorsements)

Biography - If a person you know or knew lived an interesting life worth others reading about, let them know as correctly as possible.

Out-of-Towners - Non-Pittsburgers' impressions of the city. A memorable visit or encounter.

Storytelling - Something meaningful - an event, location, job, etc. that has a Pittsburgh connection.

Local Dispatch - A catch-all category of good writing on a variety of topics related to Western PA.

Now, if you don’t want to write a non-fiction article for possible publication in the PG, do a fictional one, just for fun!

Additional option: The Trib is looking for stories too:

They're looking for articles for their "Great Dates" weekly series "to help you maximize your free time with your kids, your buds, your gal pals -- or your love interest."

If this appeals to you more than the topics for the PG, go for it for this month's assignment. They didn't post a word count limit, but generally, we're looking at less than 750 words.

See you Monday! Stay cool!!

Hana