A Letter (Re: Letter From Mrs. Stanton)

To the editor:

Re: Mrs. Stanton's Letter On "Three Small Peaches"

If you wouldn't mind publishing this letter to the public domain, there are a few things I would like to convey to Mrs. Stanton. Perhaps in an effort to defend the priceless and endangered imaginations of her children or at least to correct some of her misunderstandings.

I very much enjoyed the piece in question ("Three Small Peaches"). While I cannot evidentially argue that the author was not witness to any of the events described, I share the opinion with Mrs. Stanton that it is a work of fiction. I do not feel, however, that its fabricated nature should have any bearing on whether or not it is conveyed to children. I believe some of the greatest childrens' stories are fictitious.

"The Ugly Ducklking" for instance, teaches children that true beauty is on the inside. The Berenstein Bears have taught our children(my wife and I have three; two boys and a girl) life lessons on sharing, eating healthy, being responsible and much more. No, bears do not live inside trees with bay windows or dress in sky blue poka-dotted night gowns but the lessons are real.

Even if there is no lesson involved and the story is strictly for entertainment and exercising the imagination, its value is priceless. I cherish dearly the time I have spent reading classic stories with my children. "Alice In Wonderland" and "Treasure Island" are thoroughly enjoyed by our whole family.

I love to see the vibrant imaginations of my children spring forth when they are at play, driven by their favorite stories. It's wonderful to hear them come in from outside and regale us with tales of their many adventures and make-believe places. These same imaginations spawn the dreams that become the future. To stifle or starve them is incomprehensibly detrimental to their hearts, minds and souls.

I shudder to think of the dull, colorless and perfectionistic future you are instilling in your children. I only wish that I could aid them with more than just a letter.

P. Monroe
Tenforth, WA

A Letter (Re: Three Small Peaches)

To the editor:

Re: "Three Small Peaches"

I recently read your entry about the three peaches on the kitchen table. My husband had read it prior to me and suggested I take a look at it as well. One would think, based on the title, that it would be about common produce or perhaps a recipe. At least that was our first thought. I was appauled to find that it was uninvolved with reality. It was disjointed and precariously lacking both a proper beginning and end.

While I did find it amusing for the first two sentences, to suggest that peaches cannot tell time or that their brown spots are expressions of distasteful inner feelings simply offends me as a self-aware human being. Utter nonsense.

I even felt I could possibly share it with my two boys, based on the title. It's complete fictional nature, however, has caused me to feel strongly otherwise. Were they to hear such stories they would undoubtedly arrive in the kitchen, after getting out of bed, asking how the apples were feeling this morning or why the bananas look so angry. Have you spoken with your grapefruit, mother?

I think not. Such falsities have no place in my home. And to top it all off is the undeniably gruesome end to the main character. To suggest that slicing fruit to eat is equivocable to the murderous act portrayed in your story is beyond my sense of reason.

The next time you write such as tory as this, perhaps you should name it, "A Peach Abandoned By His Two Lazy Companions, Unable to Tell Time, Is Slain." That would be far more apt a title.


Mrs. Joan Stanton
Scramlin, IL

It's What You Do With Them

It's late and I should be in bed. But I'm thinking (and overly so) and thus cannot find it in myself to let go of consciousness.

So here I lie. Waiting, I think.

You see, getting hurt isn't bad, nor is being angry or frustrated. These things are natural and part of life and to feel them is not only permissable but expected. It's what you do with them that's right or wrong.

For instance, to be hurt by a few words from someone, however insignificant they may seem to anyone else, isn't wrong. Even if that hurt turns to anger, I think you're still in the green. Mind you, these are words that were not intended as they seem. However, when that anger is allowed to fester until you feel resentment and perhaps do not even feel like conversing with this person, that's not so good.

But I did that.

I let my hurt turn into anger, and instead of addressing it right away with a small, "Ouch. That didn't feel so good" or "Whoa, did you really mean that?" I ran. Not the kind of running to get away and cool down before calmly dealing with it, but running away from something. Being hurt causes me to back away. To close up. To shut off from the people (or person) around me. I huddle back into my shell where it's safe and warm and I can't get hurt. It's what's been taught to me over the years (though indirectly and unintended).

So for the entire evening, phone calls were vague and disconnected. I was quick and uninvolved because I didn't want to get hurt again. So I stayed back. "I'm fine" was the image I wanted to convey because "I'm hurt" makes me weak. It makes me vulnerable to further pain.

Of course none of this is valid. It's valid as far as the truth of its explanation but to fear these things around the particular individual in question is just silly. She wouldn't do anything to hurt me or cause me pain. She wants to see me do nothing but succeed and be that man that God created. Not that man, but me. This man.

So why did I fear vulnerability around her?

Because it went beyond the small thing I told you about in the phone call. I think part of it has to do with the fact that the main reason for the hurt was larger than the small bit I conveyed to you on the phone. It was a little biger than that (I realized that later).

But anyway...I'm tired enough that I just woke up to find this entry gone. Fortunately it was one button click away from its never having existed.

I'm not enjoying this lack of conclusion.

Sigh.

Three Small Peaches

Three small peaches sat on the kitchen table.

One looked around wondering if the tall ones would return soon. They had mentioned something about a party of sorts. He did not recall their exact words but knew they were enjoying themselves. They laughed many times.

He pondered over the subject for several minutes, which is quick for a peach. He did not wish to dwell on such things with no knowledge of what a "party" or a "the Joneses" was. Nor did he concern himself with finding out. His two companions were asleep and not wishing to disturb them in addition to guessing that they most likely did not know either, he moved on.

It had only been a few days since his removal from the produce department at the market down the street but since peaches have never been taught the concept of time, it didn't matter in the slightest. There aren't enough wrinkles on their pit for that sort of information. There are enough wrinkles, however, to understand the concept of distance. And so, while days passed unbeknownst to him, he was aware of the exact distance of 354.6 feet he had travelled to their front door, the 15.8 feet to the table and the 0.2 feet he had moved when the lady tall one had accidentally bumped him with her elbow.

She did it quite by accident and appologised profusely but hadn't the presence to return him to his previous position. He thought it rude and in spite of her thoughtless attitude, and apparent lack of attention to his whereabouts, formed a brown spot just below his stem. "That will show her."

His next thought was not yet fully grasped when the knob on the great brown door creaked clockwise. "They're home," he realized. He looked at the clock to see how long they had been gone but suddenly remembered that leaves are greener during the summer. Peaches, so as not to feel lesser for lack of time awareness, distract themselves with all sorts of thoughts. This time it was leaves. The next time it could be a bowl of pine cones.

He may have continued on with the leaves but their footsteps began to move up the stairs. There were five steps (it wasn't a full staircase), each with its own unique creak which he had learned quickly. At any given moment, he would know exactly where on the stairs they were and whether or not they had remembered to remove their shoes.

The creaks sounded heavier this time. They were ascending with more weight than usual. He thought perhaps it was an extra layer of clothing or another peach or two from the market. "More friends," he thought. Any remote possibility of gaining more friends excites peaches so.

But as she sat the additional weight down on the table, the peach wish he had been asleep with the others. He wished he hadn't been conscious to see the horrible array that had been placed in his direct line of sight. He nearly began oozing juice from anywhere he possibly could. The horror of such a crime. As he struggled to understand exactly what would bring a tall one to commit such acts, he noticed a few words printed atop its structure.

"it Pla" it said.

Struggling to read further, he lost track of the tall ones' activities in the kitchen. He knew they were talking though not about what. "It just seems to be missing something," one said to the other. "Missing what?" he thought.

He turned to see their faces and perhaps gain a bit more understanding of their conversation. It was too late to notice the knife but he had just enough time to finish reading the words on the plastic cover that had been placed beside him. It was then he realized his fate.

"Fruit Platter"

Writer's Block

(rī-tûrz blŏk), n.

1. A usually temporary condition in which a writer finds it impossible to proceed with the writing of a novel, play, or other work.

2. A usually temporary psychological inability to begin or continue work on a piece of writing.