# The day my father broke.   694 words



## Plasticweld (Oct 30, 2014)

The day my father broke. by Bob Brown

It is early morning, spring time and warm enough for short sleeve shirts.  My stout German Grandmother is feeding us.  She is in the kitchen making more Cream of Wheat.  I am busy, stirring in _way too much_ brown sugar, big clumps that turn the Cream of Wheat brown as I stir it in.  I am in the middle of this process when my parents arrive home.  I did not pay to much attention; lately there have been all sorts of odd hours kept by my parents.  My father trailed my mother, shoulders slumped.  My mother was in a fast walk, hurrying to get to the door.  I watched this from the dining room window.  My father was in no hurry; it seemed as though he did not even want to come in.   My Grandmother already seemed to know what was going on.  She met my mother halfway across the kitchen, they hugged for a long time.  My dad came in and stood by the door.  He looked at my mother and grandmother hugging, and then down at his feet.  He remained silent almost sullen, while my grandmother comforted my mother.  My grandma was tough, maybe it was an inner strength or maybe it was because she had to be.  She was one of those types of people you could always count on.  I don’t think my father really liked her but accepted her for who she was.  There was tension in the air and I had no idea why.

We are piled into the 63 Chevy Station wagon.  My younger brother Tom, who is six, and my brother Dave who is four, are in the back seat.  My father is sullen, never much of a talker even in the best of times; this morning there is a dark cloud hanging over him.  He fiddles with the controls, staring ahead as if he sees something in the distance.  I have no idea what he’s looking at; I see just our barn that looms ahead of us. 

He speaks slowly, in measured beats, “Your sister died this morning...”  He said no more.  He did not cry, he didn’t do anything… except stare at the barn.  

My brother Tom speaks up from the back seat in a pleading voice, “Are you sure?”

“Yes...” Was his only response. 

We drove in silence, to my god mother’s house. Three small boys and one heartbroken father, none of us knowing what to say or how to say it.  Nobody cried, nobody talked.  Three small boys looked to their father for a hint as to how to handle this.  We did not get one, not on this day or at any other.  We would spend the next few days there, in a fog. They made all of the funeral arrangements and held the funeral; we did not go to the funeral.  When it was over, we came back to a house that was missing a sister. 

 Christine was 9 and died of Aplastic anemia.   Her room was closed up, her things were left just as she had left them.  My room was across from hers.  The door to her room had been shut tight and never opened, it was a sacred place that was off limits to us.   For a long time after that… for many years;  I was confronted by that door in the morning, as I headed down the stairs.  The morning sun would shine under her door, making it appear as though she was up and had turned on the light.  There were many times I had the urge to call out her name, yet never did.   That little sliver of brilliant sun light somehow connected me to my sister, it was a small thing, it was private and it was mine.

My father had no ray of sun shine to help him along.  The closed door to her room was symbolic of how he would go on to handle his feelings, for many years.  I often wondered when I was growing up, if her room had been across from his and he saw that sliver of sun shine, maybe things could have been different.



I wrote this to add to my family files for my kids and grand kids...  Any corrections or errors please feel free to point out.  This started as a exercise that the Pancreas11 suggested to help me with my descriptions.  Sorry it is not a cheerful subject, but one that fit the criteria for working on the skills and something I wanted to write about and share... Bob


----------



## Nippon Devil (Oct 30, 2014)

Well, yea Bob. That's really sad. I don't typically comment on work like this, but I strangely feel like I owe it to you to do so. _
My Grandmother already seemed to what was going on._

I think you're missing a word in there. Happens to me all the time. I think it was suppose to be:

_My Grandmother already seemed to know what was going on.




_In regards to your descriptions, I didn't realize you needed help with them. I guess writing a story that focuses on descriptions is one way to practice... Anyway, the last line is a bit ambiguous. Maybe that's intentional because it's a private piece. You made your dad out to be a cold guy I mean. you've only shown us how he acted on the day of your sister's death. I can't really see how her death changed him without getting a glimps of who he was before hand. But again, this is a personal piece and a short work, so maybe you didn't want to write about that.


----------



## Plasticweld (Oct 30, 2014)

Thanks for the corrections,  The Panc had said that I left too much out of my writing and did not add enough description to what was going on.  He had corrected a paragraph for me in the "Ghost story" and I realized after he  made some changes how much better it read after he added some more description to what I had written.  He had suggested writing something where there is no dialog.  I was stumped for a long time on what to write, this happened to be one of the things I remember pretty clearly yet remember all most none of the words that were spoken except for the dialog between my brother and father.


----------



## TKent (Oct 30, 2014)

Hey PW, wow, it was pretty powerful to me. I really liked it a lot.

Great idea to capture this stuff for your kids and grandkids.

You mention pointing out any corrections so here is a 'fly by' proofing. 

a couple of minor missing letters/words/etc. 

also, you switch from present to past tense (one example below). Although personally, I think the whole thing is better suited to past tense but that's just my preference.




> I am busy, stirring in _way *too *much brown sugar, _





> hurrying to get to *the *door





> My father was in no hurry*;* it seemed as though he did not even want to come in.





> I *did *not pay much attention *tense change*





> My younger brother Tom, who is six and my brother Dave who is four, are in the back seat. *I think this needs another comma but don't know for sure..LOL*





> as if he see*s *something





> beats*,* “Your





> voice*,* “Are





> “Yes.” Was his only response. *starting with capital Was doesn't seem right but maybe it is. I sure like the impact*





> We drove in silence, to my god mother’s house. *doesn't need a comma unless you were doing it for effect or something*





> arrangements and held the funeral*; *we did not go to the funeral.





> 9 *I'd spell this out.*





> For a long time after that… many years*; *I was confronted by that door in the morning, as I headed down the stairs. *Hmm. If the first is related to the second, I'd use a comma since it is a fragment as is.*



The paragraph below packs a lot of punch. Wow. You really captured what you summed up with 'it was a small thing, it was private and it was mine.' And then the following paragraph as well. Great job PW. Thanks for sharing this.



> Christine was 9 and died of Aplastic anemia. Her room was closed up, her things were left just as she had left them. My room was across from hers. The door to her room had been shut tight and never opened, it was a sacred place that was off limits to us. For a long time after that… many years; I was confronted by that door in the morning, as I headed down the stairs. The morning sun would shine under her door, making it appear as though she was up and had turned on the light. There were many times I had the urge to call out her name, yet never did. That little sliver of brilliant sun light somehow connected me to my sister, it was a small thing, it was private and it was mine.


----------



## ppsage (Oct 31, 2014)

I ended up quite enthralled by this, it gets strong and deep, but that tangled, introductory paragraph nearly sinks it. I would say either unpack it into something with some experiential authenticity or just jettison it, saving a few essential data points for later insertion. I was pretty interested in the oatmeal though, for I too came from a culture where brown sugar was considered a foodstuff. It keeps good, in a dry cool barrel, and my mom was less than a generation removed from monthly trips to town and serious dry-goods storage at the homestead. You might start with brown sugar, if you're not scared of metaphor. Would help with the greater setting maybe, which is sparse. Liked reading this, pp.


----------



## Plasticweld (Oct 31, 2014)

I was trying to convey that it was just a normal morning. It did not start out any different than the others, boring mundane.  I also wanted to describe how confused I was over what was happening. None of it made sense to me at the time either and I tried to put the reader in the same spot.  I am open to any suggestions as to how to convey the feeling but make it read better.  Thanks for your help ...Bob



After giving it some thought I realize that  one of the reasons that the first paragraph reads the way it does is because it is also describes my relationship with my father.  I did not grow up to be like my father, but like my grandmother.  My father always respected me but there was something about our relationship that was never right.  I was the strong one, he was the weak one.  He became sullen and depressed and withdrew.  I  became more out going and confident.  I realized at a  young age that the weak are not able to look after themselves let lone help anyone else.  I grew up with the idea that I was there to comfort others and be the shoulder to lean on.   I really did not understand the depth of the first paragraph until I tried to change it.  While my family know who I am and my personality others have  no idea of the symbolism here, also when my grand kids are older an I am no longer here will that aspect of my personality be known.  I am not sure how to write this so I don't sound like a complete jerk in the process. 






ppsage said:


> I ended up quite enthralled by this, it gets strong and deep, but that tangled, introductory paragraph nearly sinks it. I would say either unpack it into something with some experiential authenticity or just jettison it, saving a few essential data points for later insertion. I was pretty interested in the oatmeal though, for I too came from a culture where brown sugar was considered a foodstuff. It keeps good, in a dry cool barrel, and my mom was less than a generation removed from monthly trips to town and serious dry-goods storage at the homestead. You might start with brown sugar, if you're not scared of metaphor. Would help with the greater setting maybe, which is sparse. Liked reading this, pp.


----------



## Nash (Oct 31, 2014)

Wow... this is really powerful. The grief is conveyed very, very well. I can almost feel the heartache you and your family must have felt. I especially liked the way the last two paragraphs are worded. It just makes them that much more painful. 

I think your descriptions are fine, really. Only thing I can suggest is that you could have added to how the people in your family look a bit. Like when your brother Tom spoke, how his brown eyes were fixated on your dad (just an example). Just to add a bit of visual vividness to your story. But maybe you didn't do that because it's more of a personal piece. Anyways, just my two cents!

I think the only other thing that seemed off to me were the few grammatical errors which have already been pointed out by TKent. Great job on this, Plastic! This was an amazing work.


----------



## dither (Oct 31, 2014)

Not a happy story but for me it's well written, for what it's worth.


----------



## EmmaSohan (Nov 2, 2014)

I'm jealous. That was powerful. I am worried you are already getting too much advice, but when a story is this good, I can't avoid wanting to help.

First, I thought your paragraph about you and your father, which wasn't in your story, was written stronger than your story. That's twice I have said that. That suggests you should be doing a less thinking when you write your story, there's something really powerful inside you and you should be just trying to let it out. I could be wrong, really, just take everything I say as ideas.

I think the style is Memesis, though I am not sure of the word. Anyway, you have a powerful scene and all you have to do is brutally lay down the facts. Which is exactly what you do. Perfect.

"Three small boys looked to their father.." Why did you depersonalize this? If that was just to do parallel form...see above. BTW, "Three small boys and one heartbroken father," seemed fine.

Was the title right? I ignore the title of a book, but I rely on the title of a short story to guide me. I know the theme is kind of day-in-the-life, but.... Was your father unbroken before? You don't really say that, suggesting this wasn't your theme. Can you put the paragraph about you and your father into the story. It seems to fit so well, and really gives meaning to the last paragraph. Or maybe it just is the last paragraph.


----------



## InstituteMan (Nov 2, 2014)

I really liked this piece. I enjoy your humor, Bob, but this other side of you is powerful stuff. There are nits to be picked, and those have been pointed out by others, but I wanted to chime in to tell you how well done I thought this was. Thank you for sharing it. I am the better for having read it.

Tom


----------



## Plasticweld (Nov 2, 2014)

Thank you both Emma and Tom for the kind words.  This is just the first half of the story, I am working on the second half that explains a little more.  I wanted the story to reflect the feelings that I had then. The other half of the story shows, that even in tough times there can be victory and strength, it deals with fall out of what happened both good and bad, and your ability to determine your destiny....Thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts...Bob


----------



## escorial (Nov 3, 2014)

i liked the way you wrote with a clear point of view and kept the tempo very logical in many ways....very direct and factual but still there was a clear understanding of your feelings..tuff write for you maybe but an enjoyable read.


----------



## EmmaSohan (Nov 3, 2014)

I had another thought, which is short, but you get the long version. I was writing a short in the style of Dickens, and instead of just describing what was happening, the third-person narrator suddenly started adding his/her own thoughts. Then I wondered, who is the narrator? It wasn't me, because the narrator was saying things I didn't believe. I wanted to say that the narrator was Dickens, which made sense except for him being dead for more than 100 years. I finally decided that the narrator was just an additional character in my story (in addition to the people already in the story).

Normally, we as authors want to make the world of the story seem as real as possible, which means making the narrator as invisible as possible.

But maybe you want your present-day-self to be an active narrator, participating in your story. (I told you it was a short idea!)

That could be tricky (changes in POV always are), but it seems like you need that -- you need your narrator to step in and give the modern-day Bob's opinion of the story.

As always, just an idea!


----------

