Dear Sirs,
You all should know that Mary’s Bar
actually did exist here in Denver, but years ago it was urban renewed into a
parking lot. About five years past the
parking lot became the site of the building housing the offices of the two newspapers. An actual takeover of the bar took place
during World War II, but I know none of the details. The result is that my account is fiction in
all details except for the name of the establishment.
Having had nothing published, I have
been told to include something about my life.
A biography would be slight, I’m from Alabama but have lived in Denver
for over fifty years. My life was
certainly not exciting and no doubt of little interest to almost any one.
Then on August 25th of
last year during the Democratic Convention, everything changed. While coming home after doing some research
on the Battle of Lepanto at the public library, I became enmeshed in a
demonstration by the anarchists that bloomed into a full-fledged conflict with
the police. Because the eldest of the protestors
could not have been thirty, my white hair made me stand out like the Statue of
Liberty. The police in their contorted
wisdom decided to take me into custody. During their manhandling of me, a
photographer for the Rocky Mountain NEWS took a splendid photograph of me being
wrestled by two 225 pound policemen.
After the publication of the photograph and an explanatory
article in the NEWS, fame came suddenly and fleetingly. However, I do understand that my name is
embedded somewhere on the Internet.
Since then I have testified in seven
trials of the protestors. Also the
A.C.L.U. is working toward a lawsuit for me.
Not the sort of suit that stirs up visions of orgies in Las Vegas with
the payoff. The lawyer has warned me not
to splurge at MacDonald’s.
The best!
© 23 Feb 2009
About the Author
Although
I have done other things, my fame now rests upon the durability of my
partnership with Carl Shepherd; we have been together for forty-two years and
nine months as of today, August 18th, 2012.
Although
I was born in Macon, Georgia in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the
Great Depression. No doubt I still carry
invisible scars caused by that era. No
matter we survived. I am talking about
my sister, brother, and I. There are two
things that set me apart from people.
From about the third-grade I was a voracious reader of books on almost
any subject. Had I concentrated, I would
have been an authority by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.
After
the University of Alabama and the Air Force, I came to Denver. Here I met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s
Bar. Through our early life, we traveled
extensively in the mountain West. Carl
is from Helena, Montana, and is a Blackfoot Indian. Our being from nearly opposite ends of the
country made “going to see the folks” a broadening experience. We went so many times that we finally had
“must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in Paducah, Kentucky and
the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming. Now
those happy travels are only memories.
I was
amongst the first members of the memory writing class. While it doesn’t offer criticism, it does
offer feedback. Also, just trying to
improve your writing helps no end.
Carl
is now in a nursing home; I don’t drive any more. We totter on.
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