The Day the Music Died

This is a short manuscript I wrote for the Story Circle Network's June, 2013, issue.  The theme of the contest was "hidden treasures." 

THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED

             “Eddie, this is the sheriff.”  The officer pounded on the front door.  “You’re sister’s here to check on you.”  A few more sharp raps on the door.  “You alright?” 

            We waited.  Silence.  No response.  The sheriff’s urgent voice shouted, “We’re coming in!”  Then his booted foot struck the door jamb leaving it in splinters as the door crashed to the floor.     

The sheriff pulled his arm and sleeve over his mouth and nose. “Stay outside, ma’am.”    I complied; he entered the house.   Even before the sheriff confirmed my suspicions, I knew Eddie was dead. 

After his body was removed, I remained behind—riffling through Eddie’s belongings hoping to make sense of his final days.  I found piles of unpaid hospital bills, unopened Christmas cards, and unused bottles of heart and depression medication.  Hidden deep within some papers on his night stand I discovered a note penned in his handwriting that read I sometimes wonder if the world would be a better place without me.  Why do I continue this existence? This façade? This pain?”

Numb, I wandered into Eddie’s music room.  His drums stood motionless patiently expecting his return while his now silent piano quietly waited for his fingers to glide across its keys.  Scattered throughout the room were countless original scores of sheet music desperately hoping to be heard.  I crumbled to the floor clasping his handwritten note and sheet music close to my heart. 

Oh, Eddie! Why did you hide your talent inside this room?  Did you fear rejection? vulnerability? success?  My shoulders tightened.  I gasped.   But aren’t I just like you?  Haven’t I hidden my talent and ignored the whispers of creativity I heard as a 12-year old that told me to be a writer?  Haven’t I fallen victim to the same trap?

Now, I wish I could tell you that you were wrong.  The world isn’t a better place without you!  Even though your music died with you, your death helped me realize that the world needed your hidden songs, my hidden words, and our hidden voices.”

This piece I wrote for submission in Story Circle Network's Journal themed contest on "storms."  Even though the story documents an early childhood incident, this piece is more of a personal narrative than a memoir. 

WEATHERING THE STORMS by Sara Etgen-Baker

            I stood on the front porch watching the storm brewing on the horizon.  “Can you feel that?” mother asked pacing back and forth.  “The hair’s standing up on the back of my neck.  A tornado’s coming.” 

Thunder screamed across the sky as the embattled clouds slapped into one another.    The sky darkened as threatening hues of grey, green, and black filled the sky; the wind began blowing, quickly turning from a soft breeze to churning gusts.  Suddenly a crack of lightening cut through the anvil-shaped green cloud that hovered over Garland.  Hail began to spit.  Day turned to night as a terrifying funnel dropped from the green cloud and began snaking its way back and forth through town.  Then I heard the screaming howl of a freight train. 

Time collapsed while I watched—mesmerized and frightened by the tornado’s destructive, chaotic power as it tossed things up in the air and flattened everything in its path.  I was just five when I witnessed the tornado that destroyed downtown Garland.  Although I survived the storm, I was never the same.   Those powerful images, buried deep within my subconscious, have stayed with me and occasionally surface in the surrealistic world of my night-time dreams.  

The dream is always the same.  I’m watching as a storm brews and churns on the horizon; the funnel drops from the clouds.  I hear the loud roar of a train in the distance.  Although frightened, I watch debris fly through the air all around me.  Entranced, I never attempt to hide from the chaos and destruction.  I wake up breathless feeling changed but safe, calm, and relieved that I survived the storm.

 

I often wondered what this reoccurring storm dream could teach me.  I discovered that my storm dream occurs when I’m in the midst of some type of change or personal upheaval.  The tornado represents the fear and uncertainty I must weather when faced with the chaotic but seemingly destructive power of impending change in my life.  Although I always survive the storm, I’m forever changed feeling safe, secure, calm, and comfortable with the new me. 

The Write Place at the Write Time

Here's a copy of a personal narrative that appeared at Tiny Lights on May 5, 2013.  My response was to the prompt "Where Do You Like to Write?"

The Write Place at the Write Time by Sara Etgen-Baker 

My writing area—located in a tiny nook in the loft at the top of the stairs of my two-story condo—is quiet, bright and sunny, and the light filters over my desk—a small, antique lady's writing desk that my mother-in-law graciously handed down to me.

The desk is a warm, dark-chocolate brown with fold-down writing surface that—when opened—unveils a fitted interior with a secret drawer and four cubbyholes. Inside the secret drawer I keep some of my most important writing supplies—stamps, 3x5 index cards, flash drive, and sticky notes. The cubbyholes house my crystal tape dispenser, crystal letter-opener, my reading glasses, a few mailing envelopes, my thesaurus, and a dictionary.

Once opened, the fold-down writing surface is the perfect size for my laptop; beneath this surface are three drawers with antique pull knobs that are disc-shaped with a flower petal design. Although these drawers aren't large or deep, they are sufficient enough to house my journals, folders with my notes on my current writing projects, a notebook of this year's submissions, and a notebook of published manuscripts.

Even though the top of the desk is too small to have a printer sitting on it, it is big enough for a few of my favorite knickknacks—my crystal pen holder, miniature crystal lamp, one of my mother's hand-crocheted doilies, my father's antique reading glasses, and a small-framed picture of my husband and me.

Writing at this small desk helps me, for it forces me to keep my writing life uncomplicated and uncluttered. Sitting at this unpretentious desk inspires me, for it reminds me of the beautiful simplicity of the writing life where all I need is a quiet area with sufficient lighting, a desk of some sort, a chair, a writing tool, and an idea.

So where do I like to write? At my desk at home—which is always the write place at the write time.

Sara Baker is a retired educator who now enjoys her writing life. In addition to writing essays, memoirs, and personal narratives, she has begun writing her first novel. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her soul mate, Bill, with whom she has been married for 29 years.

(Here's the link: http://www.tiny-lights.com/searchlights.php?id=1387#1385)