Cardinal Points of View: A Modern Chapbook

By William Allen Burley

A chapbook is a collection of short stories, poems, essays, and ephemera published in paperback form. What do you enjoy reading? In Cardinal Points of View, you have choices. Summers spent at camp in New Yorks Adirondack Mountains are remembered by an aging camper. Two writersone a Scot, one an Americanmeet at a castle siege reenactment and share their experiences and motivations. Peanut-butter toppings are tested in a blind tasting. An Irish dance tune gets lyrics. A warning about overpopulation is sounded. Cornell University freshman, Abraham Lincoln, learns how to write a good speech. And dont forget verse. More than twenty original poems challenge the reader to wrestle with the cadence of poetic rhythm and consider the enigmas inherent in creative language. Finally, the contents of Cardinal Points of View are embellished with beautiful photographs depicting Colorados Front Range Mountains.

Cardinal Points of View is dedicated to a deceased friend. It concludes with passages from his life story. He offers advice about carefully selecting words before speaking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532044724

William Allen Burley

William Allen Burley earned four degrees at Columbia University, including an EdD in education ethics. Retired from teaching in Connecticut schools, he now focuses on population and environmental issues. Bill has one son and lives with his wife in Boulder, Colorado, where he is an avid cyclist. Sundown Requiem is the third book in a trilogy.

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Copyright © 2018 William Allen Burley.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018902541

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4471-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4472-4 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 03/09/2018

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Contents

Preface

Introduction

ONE

THE CONTRACT

In

memory of Myrl.

His writing showed me how to

remember.

Preface

This book contains fiction, verse, and opinions of a common man - a man of the Silent Generation. Wisdom accumulated over seventy-six years is mine to share. You may agree with some of it. You may disagree with much of it. But whichever option you choose, do it with the eye of a skeptic. Accept or reject what I have to say, but verify your decision with further reading.

Not only am I a common man, I’m an old common man. Seventy-six is not the new fifty despite what many septengerians would like you to believe. Seventy-six is seventy-six. However, age alone doesn’t make me decrepit or senile. It’s simply the signal that my life is nearing its natural conclusion.

If you have any reason to doubt my vitality, visit me in Boulder. Bring your road bike, and I’ll take you on a sweet thirty mile ride (hills included) at an average speed of 18 mph. On the other hand, you might prefer to play chess or scrabble, or sit and converse while enjoying a drink together. I’m pretty good at those pastimes, too. Either way, if you come, be prepared to think rationally, compromise, and leave as my friend.

I have chosen to write about diverse topics: politics, population, modernism, ethics. Topics are presented within the format of a formal essay, or concealed in the paragraphs of a short story. Poetry may address a theme. I have attempted to lighten serious essays by following them with frivolous writings. I apologize for this vanity. However, this is my book, so the choice is mine.

- W.A. Burley

Introduction

Before anyone dismisses the arguments in this book because of my writing style (punctuation, sentence structure, voice, syntax), it’s necessary to explain the context within which I learned my habits. I indent my paragraphs (using the tab or otherwise), I separate sentences with two spaces, and I use the Oxford comma before the final and in a series, as I have done in this sentence. I adhere to what I learned in the mid-Twentieth Century, turning to dictionaries for correct spelling, using The Elements of Style as a guide for precision and brevity, and consulting a thesaurus for synonyms and antonyms.

I may not have been able to travel to the Congo then, but as resources, I had an encyclopedia at home and a library at school and in town. Don’t get me wrong. Spell check is a hell of a lot easier than pulling a book off a shelf. And Wikipedia is more convenient than flying to Africa. But some habits are ingrained in me. They continue to influence my behavior.

I know word processing programs take care of many writing details. Computer brains layout pages to allow for left or right justification, or center alignment. I say, Good for computers! I hope they are happy with their skills. However, until they voluntarily express their emotions to me in words (no emojis, please!), I’ll rely on what I learned from Mr. Tarrant in high school.

I am married to a thoughtful (and beautiful) woman. She’s kind enough to listen when I read my work aloud. She’s a no-nonsense person. She doesn’t hesit ate to tell me when my writing is dreadful, needs a rewrite, or is passable. But she is also a child of my era, so is inclined to give a thumbs up to my more traditional prose. Although she has never used the Oxford comma, it is a weakness in her I have overlooked.

I have written three novels: The MacKenzie Trilogy. These stories use the romance of two people as the platform for warning about environmental degradation. My decision to use fiction as a clarion call for change was simple - no one is likely to heed the pathetic warnings of a non-scientist (me). Frankly, card-carrying scientists don’t have it any better. If the public is actually reading what’s befalling our planet, the writing’s not having much of an effect. I thought a love story might better convey the message.

I am a non-scientist expert on overpopulation. My first article on the topic appeared in the New York Times twenty-eight years ago. I am also an educator. As a teacher with the knowledge and resources to present age appropriate population lessons, I offered my services free of charge to the Boulder school system. A year later, as I write this introduction, I’ve had no takers.

This book, Cardinal Points of View, is different. I have slipped essays in among fiction and verse. This allows me to address serious issues, then divert the reader’s attention to something lighter. Cardinal Points of View contains stories, poetry, and humor. It also comments on social, political, and environmental topics. As such, it is a chapbook, a paperback booklet containing poems, fiction, and topical commentary.

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Cool It

My boy and I crowned the barn with a cupola,

Pure white, copper roof. Verdigris vane

Pirouetting in the radiant heat.

No need for loud crowing or smug hoopla

Or hot hyperbole or inane

Boasting of some great engineering feat.

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ONE

Forty-six

You know the number forty-six as well as you know your name. You’ve known that number since you were nine and went to Camp Needle-Knot for the first time. The forty-six high peaks of the Adirondacks. That number plus your two big feet helped you remember there were forty-eight states when you were young. You never forget forty-six and everything around you conspires to help you remember. The number is vivid, as if it were tattooed on the insides of your eyelids.

You remember Camp Needle-Knot as well as the forty-six. Of course, you do. The two are inseparable. You recollect the long drive north, the initial trip in the cramped rear seat shared with a camp trunk. The drive seemed to last forever in your parents’ maroon Buick. A year later, when you’re older and a wisenheimer and your parents grumble about losing three days, you take the camp bus from Madison Square Garden.

But the car ride … that first trip!

Oy vey, Uncle Sid groaned, then declined the offer to go along and get out of the city. The Buick’s rear bench seat was itchy grey wool and the road ahead was sliced by a split windshield. The interior air was conditioned by poor ventilation. A sour odor crept into your nose like the smell of Aunt Shelley’s sickroom that wasn’t aired out for months after she went to her reward. You remember your parents’ cigarettes. They deeply inhaled Chesterfields and exhaled blue smoke which mixed with engine exhaust inside half-opened windows.

Have you forgotten the late June heat and the interminable miles of twisting roads and the fields of young cow-corn and distant barns and no bathrooms? No, you haven’t. Nor have you forgotten stopping to pee behind a tree. The memories are still there, stitched together by the games you played to divert your impatience and shorten the trip.

You memorized the counties: Westchester, Putnam, Dutchess, Columbia, Rensselaer, Washington, Warren, and Essex. You ticked off town names: White Plains, Dover Plains, New Lebanon, Hoosick Falls, Ticonderoga, North Hudson, New Russia. You catalogued out-of-state license plates, once seeing Nevada after driving through a thunderstorm that painted a rainbow in the east.

You played alphabet and number games. You prayed for the diversion of road-side messages: Forgetful farmer. Uterus full. Didn’t remember. To pen the bull. Burma Shave. You wondered if the taste of Mail Pouch was as bad as the stink from your parents’ smokes. But you didn’t read the Hardy Boys or Chip Hilton novels or Wonder Woman and Green Hornet comics because you got car sick - your parents called it nausea - your eyes and printed words did a left-handed jitterbug on right-handed country roads.

You haven’t forgotten anything. You especially haven’t