[stylist] New Story

[Judith Bron]

There's so much material we thought of as trivia when we were in elementary 
school.  This is just one of those bits of trivia that has helped through 
the years.  Judith
----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Jacobson, Shawn D" <Shawn.D.Jacobson at hud.gov>
To: "'Writer's Division Mailing List'" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Monday, May 02, 2011 8:34 AM
Subject: Re: [stylist] New Story


> Thanks for the way to know how to spell dessert VS desert; I've either 
> never heard that one or have forgotten.
>
> The boy had a tendency to lose his temper and cry on the alleys when his 
> game wasn't going well; that was why he almost didn't get to bowl with the 
> adults.
>
> I think dad was just mad at the end; he was serious about the game and the 
> kids were more drunk and cavalier about the game than really mean.  I 
> think they were to the point that they really didn't understand what they 
> were doing.  They thought it was a joke.  Dad wants the boy to not do 
> things like that when he grows up so he doesn't ruin someone else's 
> bowling experience.
>
> The punch line then is that bowling is a serious sport and those who don't 
> take it seriously can ruin the experiences of those who do.  The secondary 
> punch line is that when us blind people are rewarded and don't deserve it, 
> then we figure it out and it gets embarrassing.
>
> And this leads to the question of whether or not the boy should have 
> gotten the green stamps anyway.  The answer is that depends.  If he gets 
> them because he would have gotten the strike had he not been bothered by 
> the other bowlers (note that you never know) then he should have gotten 
> the stamps.  If he gets them because he is blind and needs to be pitied, 
> then the answer is no and he wouldn't appreciate the gesture in the long 
> term anyway.  The boy suspects (note that he doesn't know for sure) that 
> mom's rationale is the second; that is why he is embarrassed by mom's 
> behavior.
>
> Anyway, thanks for all the good words of encouragement and the good 
> advice.
>
> Shawn
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On 
> Behalf Of Judith Bron
> Sent: Saturday, April 30, 2011 10:13 PM
> To: Writer's Division Mailing List
> Subject: Re: [stylist] New Story
>
> A teacher from long ago, I can't remember which one, said the easy way to
> remember the number of S's in the word desert and dessert is this:
> Which would you rather have more of?  Dessert or desert?  Obviously you 
> want
> more desserts.  That's how you remember that desert has one S while 
> dessert
> has two.  Judith
> ----- Original Message -----
> From: "Barbara Hammel" <poetlori8 at msn.com>
> To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Sent: Friday, April 29, 2011 11:21 PM
> Subject: Re: [stylist] New Story
>
>
>> One misspelled word that jumped out at me was the desert you ate instead
>> of the dessert.  (Which one it was depends on how much sand you ate. 
>> LOL!)
>>
>> What was your dad talking about in your behavior?  When someone says 
>> stuff
>> to you when you know you're doing the right thing, it startles you.
>> That's why they do it.  (They should have given you the points.  It 
>> wasn't
>> like you intended to do it.  The kid was mean and made you mess up.)
>> That's water under the bridge, though.
>> Barbara
>>
>>
>>
>>
>> Through the sunny fields of yesterday
>> Echo voices of children now grown,
>> Their golden peals of laughter
>> Ring upon the ivied stone.
>> -----Original Message-----
>> From: Jacobson, Shawn D
>> Sent: Friday, April 29, 2011 8:07 AM
>> To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
>> Subject: [stylist] New Story
>>
>> Here is my latest.  It's a change of pace for me, not science fiction,
>> it's more of a childhood memory tale.
>>
>> I hope you enjoy
>>
>> Shawn Jacobson
>> Mathematical Statistician
>> Phone# (202)-475-8759
>> Fax# (202)-485-0275
>>
>> A Night at the Totem Bowl
>>
>> If you want to start a fight in my family, just say the bowling is not a
>> sport.  I know that some people see it as an excuse to drink beer, but in
>> my family, bowling was serious business.  Dad was a truly good bowler, 
>> not
>> quite good enough to go pro, but good enough to bowl in tournaments all
>> over the place and sometimes win money.  And mom was the best women 
>> bowler
>> at the Totem bowl.
>> So when we went there to bowl for green stamps, I know we would have fun
>> in a serious way.  "Remember to wait till the bowler on the right is
>> finished before you start your approach" dad reminded me "and when you're
>> finished go back and sit down.  Don't wait at the end of the approach
>> until the pins fall."  This was going to be my first chance to bowl for
>> green stamps with the adults, and dad wanted to make sure I acted the
>> part.
>> We went into the bowling alley past the Indian inspired tile art, and
>> walked up to the counter on the right to pay.  I didn't need to see to
>> know that I was in a bowling alley.  The smell of wax, oil, and rubber
>> along with the crazy music of falling pins would tell me where I was even
>> if I were totally blind.  "Let's get supper" mom said.  "Then it will be
>> time to get our bags."
>> We had supper in the lounge.  Kids weren't supposed to go in there 
>> because
>> they sold beer.  But they let us in whether due to my mom having worked
>> there before or because they didn't think a blind guy could cause 
>> trouble,
>> I don't know.  Sighted people's motivations baffle me sometimes.
>> The lounge wasn't that interesting, even if it was adults only; it was
>> just a dimly lighted room full of tables and chairs with a bar along the
>> side across the kitchen from the lunch counter; the place kids could eat.
>> It was about as interesting as the Papoose room where the nursery was.
>> The area around the coat racks with its wooden carvings of Indian spirits
>> was more interesting.  So were the halls that led back past carved totem
>> poles to the room where you could see the automatic pinsetters from the
>> rear, now that was cool.  The lounge was, well, boring.  At least the 
>> food
>> was good.
>> I had my usual, a cottage cheese salad with a cherry on top, and a
>> tenderloin sandwich made with a big piece of fried pork that dwarfed the
>> bun that pretended to hold it.  Then there was desert, a big chunk of
>> coconut cream pie full of sweet creamy goodness.
>> Then it was time to bowl.  I got to throw the first ball and, I guess I
>> was over excited, but I threw the ball wide; gutter ball, darned if I
>> didn't hate that.  This get guffaws of laughter from the college aged 
>> kids
>> that were sharing the alleys with us.  I assumed they were college aged
>> kids because they had Hawkeye sweaters on.
>> "Stay calm, don't lose your cool" dad said "go up there and pick up that
>> spare."  Dad knew that I tended to get mad when the game wasn't going my
>> way.  I almost didn't get to bowl tonight because I'd lost my temper
>> during a practice game a few days ago.  I screwed my temper down, picked
>> up the ball and tried again.  No spare, but at least I kept this one on
>> the alley.
>> My first big chance at green stamps came in the fourth frame.  I looked 
>> up
>> at the rack; the color wasn't quite normal.  Was that a yellow headpin? 
>> I
>> squared my shoulders to the pins and pushed off.  The shot felt right, 
>> the
>> good feel of a well executed swing, the ball rolled down the alley and,
>> boom! The pins flew about in a blur.  Strike!
>> "That's the way tiger" mom yelled.  "Now get your stamps."
>> I bounded up the three steps from the bowling area to find the table 
>> where
>> the stamps were.  "Over there" dad said then, seeing my confusion "Right,
>> no, now forward."   I got to the table and picked up my sheet of stamps.
>> Dad later said there were 80 stamps, but I didn't count them.  I just got
>> a death grip on my prize and headed back.  Unlike the sportsmanship award
>> I had been given, I think for being blind, I had actually earned this by
>> doing something well, an honest sheet of stamps for an honest strike.
>> We went back to bowling.  We all did pretty well, I even had some more
>> strikes, but we didn't get a lot of chances for a big stamp total.  Mom
>> got 100 stamps for a strike with a green headpin and dad had one strike
>> worth 50 stamps, but nothing else big.
>> The kids who were bowling with us had a couple of shots at 500 stamps, 
>> but
>> by then their games had pretty much fallen apart.  I guess it had
>> something to do with the amount of beer they were drinking.  I didn't 
>> know
>> how you could be so thirsty that you needed five or six drinks each like
>> they had, I only wanted two pops the whole night, but they must have been
>> real thirsty because they kept drinking.
>> Dad had bought some raffle tickets, and his number was drawn for a chance
>> to win 2,500 stamps.  He went up, through a good ball, but when it was
>> over he still had the eight pin standing.  Dad plodded back shaking his
>> head and muttering about the only true tap in bowling.  After all the
>> raffle shots, we went back to bowling.
>> Throughout the night, everything else, the Indian art, the desolation of
>> another year at the Braille school, even the antics of the people bowling
>> with us seemed to fade into the background.  Only the game was important.
>> For that night, the game was at the center of the universe, the only 
>> thing
>> that mattered.
>> Then it was the tenth frame of the last game, my last chance for 
>> something
>> exciting to happen.  I looked up and saw, to my dismay, a rack of white
>> pins; not a colored pin in sight.  "Get a strike and you get another
>> chance" dad reminded me; but I already knew that; I knew the rules.
>> I threw the ball.  I looked like it could be a strike, but it was too far
>> to the right, too light on the headpin.  The ball chopped the headpin in
>> front of the two; it ricocheted off the side and kicked the four pin out
>> from between the two and the seven, the left-side baby split.
>> "You know how to pick that up" encouraged mom "just hit the two on the
>> left side and let the ball hook into the seven."
>> So I throw the ball, but, again, it was too far right.  I stood at the 
>> end
>> of the approach trying every bit of body English I could to get the ball
>> to go just a bit further left.  It rolled, rolled, and just clipped the
>> two. It bounced of the side and just hit the seven pin with barely enough
>> force to make it fall.  "Great spare" yelled mom.  "That's the way!"
>> I went back to the return for my ball, picked it up and looked at the 
>> next
>> set of pins.
>> At first, it looked like the pin setter had broken and only set up part 
>> of
>> the rack of pins.  Then I realized what I was seeing, colored pins.  Just
>> then mom got real excited; "Wow! You can get 5,000 stamps if you get a
>> strike.  Go get em tiger!"
>> I backed up to the very back of the approach and prepared for the shot.
>> This was the one I'd been fantasizing about all night, indeed for the 
>> last
>> week since mom and dad had told me I could bowl with them.  I fiddled 
>> with
>> the ball to get in the exact, most comfortable, position, squared my
>> shoulders to the pins the way dad had told me, checked my feet, tried to
>> relax, and, innocent of the fear of failure, I launched myself down the
>> approach.  Step one: I pushed the ball out so that my right arm could 
>> take
>> the ball back.  Step two: I let gravity and my arm start the ball on the
>> back swing.  Step three: I let the momentum of the ball carry it back and
>> up as my knees started to bend so I wouldn't drop the ball.  Step 4:....
>> "Hay blind boy, let me show you how to get to the pins" one of the 
>> college
>> kids, sounding like the alley drunks I had met, yelled as he headed for
>> the approach.  I don't know if it was the kid or my dad bellowing at him
>> to shut up stat started me, but my final step faltered and the slide
>> became a stumble.  The ball thudded onto the lane.  I had too much follow
>> through, so I teetered on the brink of the foul line.  How the shot was 
>> as
>> good as it was I have no idea.  It kind of wobbled down the alley going
>> bump, bump, bump as it rolled over the thumb hole, then that stopped and
>> the ball started to hook to the left of the headpin.  Meanwhile I flailed
>> like you would if you slipped on unexpected ice.  I wind milled myself
>> around, but I knew I would fall.  The ball hit the pins and they all went
>> down, but it was no use, I finally stumbled over the line; it wouldn't
>> count.
>> I picked myself up finding myself in a sudden madhouse.  Dad was yelling
>> at the college kids with words that made my mouth taste of lava just
>> listening to them.  Dad didn't show his temper much, but it was on 
>> display
>> now.  I think he wanted to murderize someone and might have hurt someone
>> except that the manager had run down to the lanes to try to calm him 
>> down.
>> The manager was trying to cool dad off while telling the kids that they
>> were done for the night and not to come back until they grew up in maybe
>> ten years or so. I wanted to cry, and even more I wanted to go slug
>> someone, but the college kids were bigger than I am and I've never been
>> much of a fighter.
>> Mom was at the stamp table imploring them to give me the stamps anyway
>> since all the pins had fallen.  I knew my blindness was part of the
>> conversation, it always is.  I couldn't hear what she was saying, but I
>> could imagine and the imagining was enough to be embarrassing.  "Come on"
>> said dad in a tired disgusted voice "let's get out of here."  He pulled
>> mom away from the scorer's table, I think mom wanted to say more but knew
>> better than to argue with dad when he was in one of those moods.  We
>> headed out.
>> "Promise me you'll never act like that on a bowling alley ever" dad
>> admonished.
>> "I won't" I replied as we walked out into the parking lot.
>> "I mean it son.  Always take the game seriously" dad continued "promise!"
>> "Sure" I replied.  "I promise."
>> I saw the bowling alley disappear behind us.  Summer vacation was almost
>> done and school loomed darkly in the future.  At least, I would have
>> something to tell the other kids at Vinton when I got there.
>>
>>
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