# Quiet as a Chicken



## SueC (Sep 5, 2017)

This is a completed short story. I am having difficulty determining a genre, so I would appreciate your input.  The voice is an older man, looking back at his childhood on a farm. This is the type of stories I love to write, so I need to find the right audience. I hope you enjoy. Thanks.

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*Quiet As a Chicken*
​ 
My father was the strong silent type.  Sometimes, he would sit in a room and never even be noticed by anyone else, and that was the way he liked it.  He was always on the periphery.  His favorite chair was in a dark corner of the living room, where he would sit and watch everyone, listen to what they had to say but rarely participate in conversation.  When I was little I used to toddle over to that very dark corner where dad sat to see what was up over there.  I'd put my hands on his knees, look up at him and he'd look down at me.  He didn’t speak and neither did I.  I never stayed long.  I soon learned that that corner of the living room belonged to him and he didn’t seem very interesting to me.

We knew that when he listened, though, he heard.  He would often go to the boys’ room after everyone was in bed, stand in the doorway and ask about how things were going.

“Mikey.  I heard you tell Bobby about your test.  How did you do?”

“Flying colors, Dad.  Glad it’s over.”

He’d close the door without another word, and sometimes head to the girls’ room.  He would often just stand at the door for a moment, but with the girls he somehow knew he had to be more visible.  He would quietly enter and sit on the foot of a bed.  If one of the girls was awake and happened to notice he was there, he would ask them a question too.

“Did your friend Cali make the squad this year, Patty?”

“She did, Dad.  She’s very excited.”  Well, that was the end of their conversation and off he would go to the bedroom him and mom shared. When I was little, I tried hard to listen after he went to bed, to hear if he actually had a conversation with Mom.  I couldn’t imagine it.

When we ate our meals, Dad would sit at the head of the table and wait for dinner to be served.  Mom would frequently touch his shoulder or his hand in passing. He would put his hand over hers, but he never responded to her in any other way and kept very quiet.  A lot went on around that table as we approached dinner time.  We had our regular seats, but sometimes we bickered over whose job it was to do what -  the serving, the placement of silverware, pouring water or milk, who had napkins and who didn’t, who was going to pick up the table after, who was going to wash or dry, and who did what the last time we went through all the malarkey of “dinner time.”  This went on until we finally just gave up and sat down.  We would all then eat in relative silence.   The transition was stunning.

My mother and father had ten children and I was number nine.  We lived on a farm and in the spring my dad left early every morning with a few of my older brothers in tow.  All of my siblings somehow knew what their jobs were and never questioned what to do next.  Mikey milked the cows, Joe cleaned the stalls, Mary fed the hens, Paula started the bread, and so on down the line while Mom tended the baby.  Before I was old enough to have a job, I couldn't imagine how everyone knew what to do.  I also could not imagine my father being able to open his mouth long enough to get the lessons out.

When I was six, I got my first farm job.

I always got up early because everyone else got up early.  When Mikey got up to milk the cows, I did too, trailing along after him like an afterthought.  I'd sit on the stool next to him, thinking that one day it would be me milking the cows so I'd better pay attention.  Mikey was good at his job.  He was efficient and fast, and once in a while he'd squirt that warm, sweet stuff in my face, to be licked off by one of the farm cats.  I wanted to be like him and without reservation I can say he was my favorite brother.  He sometimes played ball with me in the afternoons after school, and always held my hand as we walked back into the house. 

“Mikey, how come dad never talks?" I asked one day as we headed for the house to get ready for dinner.

"Don't you know the story, Pete?"

"No."

"Well, when Dad was young, maybe about your age, he lived here on this very farm with his mom and dad and his eight brothers and sisters.  You know all those aunts and uncles and cousins that come over every Christmas?"  I nodded.  "Well, those are all Dad's brothers and sisters and their families."

I liked my cousin Tommy.  He was my age and we always had fun together at Christmas.
By this time we had gotten to the house, but Mikey led me over to a bench under the kitchen window.  We sat.

"So dad lived just like we do.  His brothers and sisters all had jobs, got up early, worked the farm, went to school; pretty much the way we still do things around here.  One day, Grandpa told little dad he was giving him a job, just like everyone else in the family.  Dad was excited and couldn't wait to get started.  His job, Grandpa said, was to feed the hens.”

"Did little dad like his job?"

"He loved it.  He loved all of it.  He loved the farm, the animals, even feeding the hens.  It's why we live here.  His first job on this family farm made him fall head over heels in love with farming - and maybe yours will too!"

We still weren't any closer to Mikey telling me why dad never talked, but I liked the story I was hearing.  I liked hearing about the little boy my father used to be, and not the man he was now; the man who rarely spoke. 

Suddenly, mom stuck her head out of the window over us and said it was time to eat.

"We'll finish this story later, Petey," and in we went to eat our silent meal.

The next day was a Saturday and just like every other day on a farm, except we had more time to do chores instead of going to school.  I was up at dawn just like always.  This time, though, I pulled my overalls on as soon as my feet hit the floor, pulled my socks and boots on and headed downstairs.  I was excited about starting my first farm job and was glad to see Dad and everyone else already in the kitchen when I got there.

Dad was sitting at the head of the table like always and I took my seat next to Mikey.  It didn’t take long to get through the meal and then everyone was up and out the door.  I went to walk behind dad, a little nervous.

He looked down at me and actually smiled!  I smiled back and followed him through the back door, heading for the barn.  Suddenly, he was talking to me.  At first I didn’t even realize it, so much like background noise, but when he said my name my head shot up and I really started to listen.

“Animals are special, Petey.  They need us to take care of them and when they are fed and happy, we know we have done our job well.”

Still enthralled by the sound of his voice, deep and manly and directed at me, I tried hard to focus on what he was saying.  I mutely nodded my head that I understood. 

“Here’s the feed, and here’s the bucket.  You fill the bucket with the feed and take it out into the yard where the chickens are.  You gently throw out small handfuls on the ground.  Be sure you don’t throw the seed _at_ the chickens, Petey.  They are all just little girls, you know, and they look up to you, rely on you.  You have to treat them nice.”  He smiled as he looked down at the birds at his feet. 

I never thought of them as “girls” before, but now that I had that idea in my head, they seemed a little different.  They were waiting for us to care for them.  They cocked their heads from one side to the other.

“See how they look at us, Petey?  You think birds are looking at you when their beak is pointed in your direction, but they really see you best when they cock their heads to the side, since their eyes – unlike ours – are on the sides of their head.”  At this point, he bent down and picked up a hen that was standing on his boot.  His large hands were gentle and careful with her.

“Put your hand on her,” he instructed, “so she can get to know you.  You’re going to be her source of happiness pretty soon, so she needs to know your touch, as do they all.”

I did as he asked and found her feathers to be smooth and soft, with the firm feel of her body underneath.  She moved her head around and seemed to be taking me in.

“The breed of hens we have, Petey, is Iowa Blue.  They are kind of rare, and always produce brown eggs.  They are a very handsome bird and even though they cost more than I thought I would ever pay for chickens, I think they're worth it.” 

“Does she have a name, Dad?”

“Big Bertha.”  He smiled again and in typical Dad fashion, said no more about the bird or how she came to have that name.  He petted her head before putting her back down on the ground, and almost cat-like, she moved into his cupped palm. 

“This job needs to be done every day before school.  Hard to do if you’re rushed, because you have to meander among the girls, talk to them, tell them how pretty they are and such.”

I started to laugh because what he was saying sounded like a joke.  But when I looked up at him, he wasn’t laughing, wasn’t even smiling.  He noticed that I was though.

“You should know this by now, Petey, living on a farm, but animals are great listeners.  Even old girls like Big Bertha have an ability to listen to all your stories, good and bad, and will never tell another soul your secrets. You should take advantage of that when you can.”

I took another look at the gaggle of hens and saw them in a different light.  _The girls._  I decided I would always call them that.

“Did you ever tell a hen a secret, Dad?”

Dad thought for a moment, looking down at the ground.  “Yes, I did.  When I came home from the war and everyone was in the house celebrating that I had made it back in one piece, I came out here to the barn and found our hen, Sally Mae.  I sat right down on the ground with her, held her on my lap, and told her my secrets.  I told her about the war and how it had changed me.  I think I even cried. She listened, like hens do, and when I was done, I was able to get back to what I was supposed to do; farm the land and bring my family up right.

“So do you think you are up for this important job, Petey?”

“I am, Dad,” I said, and reached out for the bucket to begin my task, my very first farm job.  He handed it to me, and then put his hand on my head before turning and walking away, just like he had done with Big Bertha.  I watched him go, now so full of love and admiration for a man I thought had no voice.

 We worked the farm, my brothers and sisters and I.  Looking back at that time, I think I would have been happy for the rest of my life if everything had stayed just like that.  All of us working hard together for one common goal – to keep the farm alive, to keep the animals happy, and to come together at the end of a day knowing we had done our best for farm and family.

One night late, after I had already been in bed and asleep, I was woken by angry voices coming from downstairs.  I crept to the landing and found three or four of the others already there, listening to the drama going on in the living room.

Mikey was standing, Dad was standing and Mom was sitting in her chair, knitting.  There was such a conflict of emotions in one room that it was hard to figure out what was going on.  I crouched down next to Joe.

“What’s going on?” I whispered.

“Dad’s mad.  Mom’s crying.  Mikey’s talking.”

We all fell silent then and listened.  Mikey was moving about the living room, arms gesturing.  Dad’s arms were crossed against his chest; Mom’s head was bent over her knitting, her hands moving furiously.

“Dad, please.  You were where I am now.  You enlisted too, at my age.  I don’t understand why this is such a shock to you.  You know I have talked about joining the Navy since I was a little guy.  We made model battleships together, remember? You must have known this was coming.”

Dad said nothing at first, which wasn’t a surprise.  He looked like he was measuring his words, his head bent. Finally he looked up and the words he spoke were few, but emotional.

“I can’t let you go, Mikey. I need you.”

“Yes, you can, Dad.  And you have Joe, and Petey is coming along nicely with the hens.  You have the girls and all they do.  You have to let me go, Dad. I … I think I’m needed somewhere else too.”

For the moment, there seemed nothing more to say.  Dad and Mikey were facing one another; Dad closed off and Mikey wide open.  Finally, Dad dropped his arms and pulled Mikey to him.  They hugged hard and long.  We could see that Mom had finally stopped her work and looked at them with tears in her eyes.  It was done.  Mikey would be leaving.

In the days and weeks before my oldest brother actually left the house, Dad spent every moment he could with him.  They worked the fields together now and a new plan was laid out for who would take over Mikey’s responsibilities.  I kept the hens, of course, but Dad said he also wanted me to ride the baler with him in the fall, and clean out the horse stalls in the evenings.  Everyone got extra work.  Joe asked me to help him with his FFA project, which was a sweet little steer named Patrick.  I was in second grade, so it was time that I learned all I could about preparing animals for the state fair competitions.

The day finally came for Mikey to leave and it was all too soon for the rest of us.  I don’t think Dad slept at all the night before and we were all a little restless.

Chores were forgotten for the moment as we stood in the living room, lined up to say goodbye to our brother.  He had been up for hours, but looked bright and eager.  The little girls cried and it was hard for me and Joe not to.  Mikey hugged us all one by one, and when he got to me, he kissed me on the top of my head. 

“Don’t forget to talk to the girls, Petey.  Tell them how you feel, and they will always listen.”

“Okay, Mikey, I will.”

The next few moments were a blur, everyone with impaired vision trying to get out of the door at once.  The sun was just beginning to come up over the fields; rosy skies with purple and blue pushing back the night.  The air was still as Mikey threw his duffle into the back of the truck and Dad climbed in the driver’s side.  There was momentum, everyone was moving.  Then Mikey stopped and so did the rest of us.  He turned to wave to us all, wiped his eyes once and got in the truck.  They took off immediately, trailing a cloud of dust on the dirt road.  Before long they were out of sight and the silence of the morning returned.

After a moment, everyone started moving again, off to their chores.  Mom went to the kitchen to feed the baby and clean up from breakfast.  I suspect a good cry was on the agenda for us all.  I headed for the barn to find Big Bertha.

I sat with her on my lap until the sun had risen far enough to come in through the barn door.  She made no attempt to leave in search of food. I told her how I felt; how much I was going to miss my big brother.  As I held her with gentle hands, I told her how scared I was, but excited, to work on the bailer with dad.  I even asked Bertha if she knew why dad was so quiet, since Mikey never got a chance to tell me the rest of the story.  Then, before I even knew it, a prayer that my brother, my hero, would not come home the silent man our father was, escaped my lips.  Just old enough now to begin to make connections, to see beyond what we observe every day, I started to think I already had the answer to my question. 

Bertha remained quiet, but turned her eyes on me, one at a time. Somehow it made me think of dad.  He was quiet just like Bertha, just like a chicken, saying nothing, but taking in all the secrets a loved one can tell.

 I cupped my palm over her head and she moved into the space with unconditional acceptance.  She seemed to be saying it didn’t really matter why Dad was quiet; all that mattered was the love we shared. I decided that was enough too.

It wasn’t long before her patience ran out and Big Bertha the hen emerged, demanding her food, demanding to be told how pretty she was.  I put her down, got up off of the barn floor, dusted off my overalls and went for the feed.

“Where’s my pretty girls?” I sang and they all came running.  The day of leaving had dawned and we continued to work the farm, each in his own way.


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## H.Brown (Sep 6, 2017)

SueC said:


> This is a completed short story. I am having difficulty determining a genre, so I would appreciate your input.  The voice is an older man, looking back at his childhood on a farm. This is the type of stories I love to write, so I need to find the right audience. I hope you enjoy. Thanks.
> 
> ------------------------------------------------------------
> *Quiet As a Chicken*
> ...




Hello Sue I liked reading this story it was an emotional roller-coaster from start to finish I have picked up on a few things that I picked up on while reading, they are in red. As for genre I would have said it reads like a memoir. Is this going to be part of a larger piece or is this it?


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## bdcharles (Sep 6, 2017)

Does it need a genre? It's fiction - heartwarming and touching. 

If you were wanting other feedback, generally I enjoy your writing and this is no exception. Just one or 2 little wobbles:

"We'll finish this story later, Petey," and in we went to eat our silent meal.
-> that dialogue tagging doesn't look quite right. Commas and capitals aren't quite matching up


This:
The next few moments were a blur, everyone with impaired vision trying to get out of the door at once.
-> I just didn't quite feel that bit about "imparied vision". It seems shoehorned in.

In terms of the content it is very moving. The silent dad is very compelling. I did wonder though if more could be made of why he is so silent - some war trauma, perhaps. Also, as payoff for that tension, maybe something happens to Mikey. Your call, though.

Lastly I did think the title is a bit ... you know ... pfft. Everything else about it was right on point though


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## Firemajic (Sep 8, 2017)

Hello, Sue... I must confess, I am not going to be any help with your dilemma... about what genre this falls under... But, I fell in love with this story... I have had a life long love affair with my ladies, [ chickens ] they have been a constant source of pleasure and joy in my life... I have 11 right now.... anyway, the Dad in this story is completely believable ... and he sounds a lot like my late husband... he always hung back, never spoke much... but when he did, one became aware of his quiet involvement in their lives... Your undramatic style of telling your story is wonderful, and allows the reader to be immersed in what is unfolding on the page... I am a poet, so I appreciated your imagery, and the smooth flow of this fabulous story. Thank you so much for sharing you storytelling expertise, I admire your skill, you make it look so easy...


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## SueC (Sep 8, 2017)

Firemajic, I know this is not professional, but your post brought tears to my eyes. As a poet, I'm sure you understand the exposure, the simple pouring out of emotion, that goes into every single piece, and to be so appreciated by someone such as you, is awesome. You get it! Thank you so much for taking the time to write your impression. It means so much to me.


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## Firemajic (Sep 8, 2017)

Let me assure you, the pleasure was all mine, I read your story 3 times... I read in your opening comments, where you said this was the kind of story you love to write.... may I ask what inspired them? My passion for poetry was instilled in my and nourished by my Gramdmam.... she read poetry to me when I was just 3 years old...


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## SueC (Sep 8, 2017)

Writing has been with me for as long as I can remember. It's hard to explain . . . it's cathartic.  I have always used writing as a way to express my hopes and dreams, my sadness. It helps make everything better. I never knew a man like the father in my story, but I wanted to. I wish I could say he was someone I met along the way, but I cant. I study people and I know their hearts. A man who is damaged by war will be hesitant, unsure and cautious. A wife who understands will be kind. Children will notice and wonder. It all seems to come together in a story. How fortunate you are to have a grandmother who gave you such a gift - in person! Cherish everything, but especially those wonderful memories.


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## Jack of all trades (Sep 9, 2017)

http://grammarist.com/spelling/favorite-favourite/

"Favorite and favourite are different spellings of the same word. Favorite is the preferred spelling in the U.S., while favourite is preferred in all the other main varieties of English."

As for the story itself. I don't know much about returning veterans or chickens, so I don't want to put my foot in my mouth. It jumped a bit, but otherwise was good.


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## SueC (Sep 13, 2017)

Firemajic, I'm sorry I completely bypassed your comments about the chicken! I love that own them! I confess I really don't know chickens, but I was looking for something unusual. I could envision a chicken being in the right place when someone needs an ear. Then I looked for pictures of chickens and found some very compelling ones with children. A quiet chicken kind of goes along with cows who run and play. You don't expect it.


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## Firemajic (Sep 13, 2017)

There is something peaceful and soothing about watching a flock of contented hens going through their day... they have their own routine of scratching in the garden, dust bathing and dozing in the sun... when I am anxious, I always go out and feed the "girls" and spend time with them... I think that is why your charming, poignant story touched me....


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## Thaumiel (Oct 5, 2017)

Just a shout to let you know you've been nominated for writer of the month, go check out the competition...


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## kaminoshiyo (Oct 17, 2017)

As I read from the beginning I was wondering whether this was actually fiction or a memory because everything felt so vivid and close-to-heart I was sure it had to be a memory. The goings on between the family had a particular warmth to it that was really cozy. I think that's the word...this story felt real cozy. 

The play between the dad and the family was the most engaging here. I really liked those parts. I thought the oldest son's going to the military seemed a bit of an intrusion into this story- it felt really at odds with the rest of the story- but I still liked it nonetheless. It ends unsurprisingly, but it was a story that felt quiet, earnest, touching, and warm-blooded. I'm not sure I understand 'Dad' much more than I did in the beginning, but that's find. It seems a point of the story was acceptance without intrusive, overbearing conditions and...I got that. 

Time well spent, and a good introduction. Nice to finally meet you, Sue 

Looking forward to reading more.


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## SueC (Oct 20, 2017)

Kaminoshyo, thank you so much for your comments. Actually, this is made up stuff. I had none of this warm, "cozy" feel to my own family growing up. I have always known, however, what this kind of family would feel like - I don't know how. When I first posted this, someone asked if this was part of a bigger project, but no. I can only open small windows into this kind of life, because if it went much further there would be conflict, much more than Mikey going into the Navy. That's what I grew up with, and it seems unavoidable. But I am so pleased that I have found my voice. The point of the story was that while everything changes in life, some things will always stay the same. Chickens will always listen and never tell your secrets. LOL.


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## VonBradstein (Oct 21, 2017)

Hi Sue,

I'm so glad to finally be acquainted with your work!

The work is obviously of a high standard. You write in a style that is unpretentious and reading it is easy. Your sentence structure, grammar, and spelling are tight. I'm not sure how much you have edited this piece before posting it but it feels like a good amount. There's nothing that sticks out as not being correct. Basically, this is very good and the reason my critique is short is only because I can't find anything much to pick on and also, crucially, don't really feel like you need a ton of feedback on your ability to write. It's there.

I like the concept. Nostalgia to me is a wonderful place to start with a story. I see you're from Kansas so wonder if the agricultural theme is personal - albeit this story is told from a male perspective, there seems to be a lot of personal experience in it. Again, a major plus point.

Okay, I am pushed now so I am going to pick on you for one thing and I'm sure I will be lambasted for it but...
_
This is rather safe. _

What do I mean by safe? Well, it's not the story. I actually find it refreshing that you don't have a whole lot going on, other than a chicken. I would be interested in reading about that chicken for a change. What I mean by safe - and possibly why you're finding it hard to determine a genre - is that even for a farm story it's a little too wholesome. While there's nothing wrong with your dialogue I really wonder who talks like this in real life:

*“Dad, please. You were where I am now. You enlisted too, at my age. I don’t understand why this is such a shock to you. You know I have talked about joining the Navy since I was a little guy. We made model battleships together, remember that? You knew this is what I wanted."

Dad said nothing at first, which wasn’t a surprise. He looked like he was measuring his words, his head bent. Finally he looked up and the words he spoke were few, but emotional.

“I can’t let you go, Mikey. I need you.”

“Yes, you can, Dad. And you have Joe, and Petey is coming along nicely with the hens. You have the girls and all they do. You have to let me go, Dad. I … I think I’m needed somewhere else too.”

*Again, I don't want to say this is bad dialogue (it isn't) but it does not sound to me like how a normal family - farmers or not - would actually speak to one another. For instance, I don't like the dad's reaction as being that complete and put together. He should be more emotional, and so should the kid. I would prefer something a little more driven:

*“You were where I am now. You enlisted, right? So what's the shock? I've wanted this since I was a kid...we made model battleships together, remember that? Remember it?”

Dad said nothing at first, which wasn’t a surprise. He looked like he was measuring his words, his head bent. Finally he looked up and the words he spoke were few, but emotional.

“I can’t."

“What do you mean? Sure you can!"

"No," he said, his voice clenching. "Your place...your place is here. The farm. It's always been. And I need-"

"You got Joe!" I snapped, trying to contain my irritation. "Petey is coming along nice with the hens. The girls, all they do..." A pause, long and winding. Silence within silence. "You have to let me go," I said, quietly. "I’m needed. That's all there is to it. I'm needed...and I'm going.”

*One thing I really like in dialogue is when it is able to accurately capture the rhythms of speech. Your dialogue is perfect, but it's a little too perfect to actually be real. I used to struggle with dialogue so much I would attempt to write whole stories without it, and I realized one big reason was I couldn't figure out how people actually spoke. So what I did was I began recording random people's conversations without them knowing using a little Dictaphone (don't probably recommend this) and then play it back and actually type out the exact transcript of that conversation. It's amazing how poorly structured and grammatically illiterate our spoken speech is  But in the context of a story it really brings characters to life to try to capture a little of that - especially if they are in the midst of some emotional trauma where the sentences become even more corrupted. A lot of writers use swearing and so on as a proxy for realism. While I don't object to good use of bad words, your story obviously does not need that and I am glad you didn't resort to it...but I would still like a little bit of grit. Your characters may be clean-living Kansas farming people, but they're still people.

Hope this helps.


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## SueC (Oct 22, 2017)

Von, thank you so much for taking the time. I so appreciate your comments. My struggle with this was Dad's unstated "condition." In the past, I have gotten comments about explaining too much (you know, the old _show don't tell_), so I tried to show that dad had PTSD or some sort of malady that kept him from interacting with his family in a typical way. I couldn't introduce that information, and then have him be a Chatty Cathy when his oldest wanted to join the Navy. LOL. 

On the other hand, dialogue has always been a challenge and I see I still have much work to do. I am not from a farm life, far from it. I was born and raised in Chicago, so this is all imaginary. It's what I believe farm people are like, which is probably pretty naive. I spent more than thirty years living in Iowa, too, and it was more likely I would run into a farmer there. I've only been in Kansas a little over a year.

But I think I could have shown Dad's struggle a much more, so his desire to not only keep his son home, but keep him from harm was more apparent to Petey, watching from the stairwell. Oh, and another thing is I have noticed lately that I am much more likely to write from a man's, or male, point of view than a woman's. What is up with that I wonder? Maybe I think men are more readable, easier to write about, that people feel more compassionate about men in crises than they do women. Holy cow (an expression I learned in Iowa - ha); that's a revelation. 

You have given me a lot to think about and I am so grateful.


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## VonBradstein (Oct 22, 2017)

SueC said:


> and another thing is I have noticed lately that I am much more likely to write from a man's, or male, point of view than a woman's. What is up with that I wonder? Maybe I think men are more readable, easier to write about, that people feel more compassionate about men in crises than they do women. Holy cow (an expression I learned in Iowa - ha); that's a revelation.



This is actually something I was thinking about today: There seems to be a kind of demographic hierarchy when it comes to sadness and grief in writing, ha ha. As a man I actually agree than men are somehow often easier to feel an emotional connection to, especially stern older men for whatever reason. Perhaps it’s because they’re still a relatively under represented resource. Perhaps it’s because of the stoicism and the response to it chipping away. Perhaps this is something you would want to expand on should you want to expand the piece. 


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk


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