Computer's back; creativity's cookin'

Here's another fragment of the story I began on May 16.  So far, Sallie seems to be dictating to me. I have no idea where it's going!

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When I was six, Mama would let me walk the few blocks to the post office in our town to get the family's mail from Mr. Carroll at the counter. I look at six year olds now and think that's mighty young to be wandering the town on my own, but it was a different time... 1917 that would have been.  Oh, I imagine my parents and our neighbors had a growing level of anxiety about the United States of America becoming involved in that seemingly endless war in Europe, but unless it's your son or brother or uncle who's climbing onto a troop ship, or who sends a letter home, the day to day horror can take a while to filter down into the small towns. A war killing hundreds of thousands an ocean away wasn't enough to keep six year old Sallie from walking to the post office.

One bright June day, I found a photograph on the sidewalk outside the post office. It was one of those long rectangular studio portraits on thick card stock. The image was of a boy about 12 years old.  I was transfixed by his eyes. He had what soldiers have taken to calling "the two-thousand yard stare." And his posture, which tilted to the right in a kind of cringe, had -- for me -- an audio component.  I could hear a sharp crack of thunder to my own left when I looked at him, a sound that made me cringe to the right, too. 

I carried the picture home, forgetting all about the mail. I offered the stiff card to my mother with the comment, "This boy's daddy died. Now he's scared of storms."

Mama placed her hand on the crown of my head in a gesture I find comforting to this day. She inspected the photograph:  the soft black and white tones of the time, the boy awkward in a suit, a generic painted backdrop indistinct behind him.  "It says 'Emory Gaerten Studios, Pawtucket, Rhode Island,' "she said. "And someone has written on it the name Jody Cresthill."

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