Terry

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Posts by Terry

• 
  50

  Is this a BEAUTIFUL STORY--or what?

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. experiences

  is this a beautiful story, or what?.

  act one________.

  now in an ordinary romance of the golden hollywood era, the boy goes off to war while the young lady waits nervously for his safe return.in a cary grant, debra kerr movie, the two vow to meet after a certain period of time and tragic circumstances intervene.. in my story, the young man is a conscientious objector who goes to prison instead of off to the vietnam war.

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• 

  Terry

  There is a moral to the story.

  When you open a door on powerful emotions you've locked in a vault, not just the POSITIVE emotions come rushing out. No. All the negative ones are set loose, like Satan from the abyss.

  All in!
• 
  10

  ON THE REBOUND (Jr. High School memory)

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. experiences

  " the girl was from a snobby family, and her last name actually was"rich," terry rich.

  it was terry rich and only terry rich.why?

  you know what a straw poll is?".

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  Terry

  I will read your story next time online.

  Um, uhhh, okay. Say what?
• 
  10

  ON THE REBOUND (Jr. High School memory)

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. experiences

  " the girl was from a snobby family, and her last name actually was"rich," terry rich.

  it was terry rich and only terry rich.why?

  you know what a straw poll is?".

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• 

  Terry

  ON THE REBOUND
  _______________

  I was 14 years old and my heart had already cracked into crumbs.
  I was a too shy boy in my first year of Jr. High School and I had fallen with a loud "Thud!" The girl was from a snobby family, and her last name actually was"Rich," Terry Rich. This rhymes with "very rich."

  She could be cast as the pretty girl in any Hollywood movie because she had a natural allure; sort of a cross between Tuesday Weld and Jean Seberg.
  All the boys in school ever argued about centered on whetherTerry or Esther Wenger was the prettiest.

  Esther was beautiful, no mistake about it. She was in my classroom too, but Esther was nice to me and I had no difficulty with my verdict. It was Terry Rich and only Terry Rich.
  Why? Because Terry was impossible. She was unattainable. She was prickly, while Esther was easy to talk to and made everybody feel wonderful.

  The boys who tried to court Terry were burned down to the ground inside of a minute's conversation. Terry Rich had a quick mind and she did not suffer fool's easily. Teen boys are let's face it, horny fools.

  Teenage boys have an out-sized ego and a few hacks of Terry's machete were wound enough to send them scurrying with their tumescent tails between their legs.

  (Cue my story)

  I was reared as a child by a Mother possessing a sharp tongue who could eat men for breakfast in any arguments. I had trained with the Heavyweight Champion of the World Maneater. This would be identified by any Psychiatrist today as completely dysfunctional--and believe me--it was.

  However, as an analytical person, I had broken down my Mother's strategy and tactics into little blocks of information. I saw how she marshaled her forces to keep her opponent off balance. Her key objective, you must realize, was not simply to win an argument or fight; it was to annihilate her adversary and reduce him to a gibbering blob of ectoplasm! Military tacticians would proudly tell you this was a "scorched Earth" policy. Win at any cost.

  Mom was not afraid to destroy in order to win. She was the prototype of the Jihadist with the dynamite vest--with the sole exception--you were the one blown up and your relationship would come splattering out of the sky in trails of smoking shrapnel.

  Guess who absorbed the lessons of her arsenal as he stood in a neutral corner, trembling with fear? Her little boy, of course.

  _________

  MORNINGSIDE JR. HIGH

  Terry Rich felt familiar. She was my Mom writ large. Creepy as it sounds, I could hardly find myself attracted to anybody easy-going or untroubled. I went for the magical, exotic and untameable of my species. Yes, I had become Co-Dependent. If I met an intelligent, quick, magnificent woman with a troubled soul, my eyes lit up and my eager heart quickened its beating. It was a mysterious telepathic bonding; a kind of tango; and I had learned the steps to perfection.

  ____________

  I obtained Terry Rich's phone number from her brother. I got him to tell me in advance when the best time of evening would be favorable for a phone call to his sister.
  At first, I thought it would be an excellent idea if I crafted some kind of List of Topics to use as a cheat sheet. Then I reversed my decision. I am a counter-puncher. My talent is responsive. I suck at throwing the first punch. I'm not aggressive, but I am hell-on-wheels at giving as good as I get. I'd let the killer shrew throw the first haymaker and rely on my Mom-training to do the rest.

  ____________

  Monday Afternoon 1961

  I smiled at Terry Rich today as she stood holding court with her "Me too" adoring worshippers. I let her lock on and load, but I turned away at exactly the right moment--before she could react negatively.

  I wanted to be noticed but not yet judged.

  She knew me from all of our classes at school. I was the Straight A student who had won the Spelling Bee for Tarrant County. I was the quiet one who had never spoken a word to her. She was the preening beauty in fierce competition with Esther Wenger for all the chips.

  __________

  The telephone rang. My stomach twisted into a knot.
  Her voice sounded like buttery Southern biscuits steaming under a honey crust: delicious and savory.

  "Hello."

  "Hi,Terry. This is Terry Walstrom. I'm in all your classes at school.

  "Oka-a-a-y."

  "I thought you might want to know something because it's about you."

  "Um, what now? What do you mean?"

  "The guys at Morningside are going to conduct a Straw Poll on Friday. You know what a Straw Poll is?"

  "No--I mean, not exactly."

  "Well, that's okay, you can ask somebody about it."
  "Huh?"
  "It is very stupid and childish. The guys are voting on who is the prettiest girl in our school. It has come down to either Esther Wenger or Terry Rich."

  "Nuh-uhhhh. That's crazy."
  "Of course it is. Public opinion always is. I mean, "Who cares" what all the boys in school think?"

  "(Silence)"
  "So far, opinion is about fifty-fifty. It could go either way."

  "Who is behind this? Somebody must be jerking everybody's chain."

  "Yes, you're right. There is somebody. But, we're all sworn to secrecy. By the way, are you going to the school Carnival on Friday? If you are, and you don't have a date, I'd like to take you."

  "Say what? I can't think about that right now."

  "This is Monday. The Carnival is Friday. I guess I'll ask Esther, maybe she can make her mind up."

  (At this point, it should be pretty obvious what I'm doing. I don't think it was obvious to the voice on the other end.)

  "Why would I want to go on a date? I hardly know you."

  "Ha-ha-ha. That's funny, Terry. A date is how you get to know somebody. You've got it backward. I just thought it would be fun, and that you could use some moral support in case the vote didn't go your way."

  "What do you mean?"

  "As you say, we don't know each other, but you don't strike me as a person who has grown accustomed to being in second place, or as a runner up."

  "Second place? No! Not hardly."

  "Well, stop and think about it. You've developed a reputation at school as being a bit of a snob and it---"

  "What? I'm not a snob! Who says that?"

  "It doesn't matter. Perception is reality to a lot of people. Guys talk. The consensus is out there: you're hard to talk to and you don't cut anybody any slack--but Hey! I don't believe it, or else, why would I be calling you for a date? I'm shy. I'm not anxious to have my head handed to me by some snobby girl--am I? No."

  "That's ridiculous, calling me a snob. That makes me very angry."

  "Don't shoot the messenger. I'm giving you 'head's up' and that's all there is to it. If you'd like to have moral support on Friday, I'll be there right beside you. If you don't, that's okay too. It's your choice."

  (Silence)

  "Oh--you know what--if you can keep a secret, I'll tell you whose idea this Straw Poll is, but you have to promise not to divulge who told you. Not ever."

  "Okay. Yes, tell me!"

  "Promise?"

  "Promise."

  "It's your brother, Jay. You know him better than I do. He seems to enjoy stirring the pot. For example; recently our first black family moved into my neighborhood. I've become friends. Your brother Jay has been telling everybody in school something hateful. He calls me a "Ni**er Lover." I don't appreciate it. He likes to turn people against each other. I guess it all starts at home, eh?"

  "I don't want to talk about this. He's a little shit. I'm going to have his guts for garters."

  "I don't blame you. So listen up. I'll be at the Carnival on Friday. If you see me there and you want to hang-out, that'll be great. If not, well--it's been nice talking to you. Good Luck with the Straw Poll."

  (End scene.)

  _________________________

  I didn't run into Terry rich at the Carnival. The scuttlebutt was that she had left early after the Straw Poll results had been announced. Esther Wenger won by a landslide. Terry Rich had made too many enemies with the same mean spirit her brother Jay used to make enemies for life.

  My phone conversation with that girl lingers in my memory for two reasons.
  First of all, I took the initiative. I drove the topic. I kept her off balance, and I didn't feel nervous. All of this from a shy kid with no life experience.
  Second, I had set myself up to fail. There was no way Terry Rich was going out on a date with me. No way. I was proving to myself I was not afraid to fail or prove myself equal to the task of enduring her sharp tongue.

  I felt badly for days.
  I couldn't get a handle on why I was so depressed. Only many years later did it become clear. The depressing part of this puppy love for Terry Rich came down to one thing: I CHOSE BADLY.

  I was attracted to misfortune, failure, misery, conflict--but for a purpose!
  I was determined to rise above it--crack the code--win the day, and turn lemons into lemonade.

  Dammit--I AM A COCKEYED OPTIMIST!

  _____________________________________________

  ON THE REBOUND (Floyd Cramer)

  
  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UKwq6UW9bnU

  Floyd Cramer was a Nashville piano player. He developed a quirky style with
  originality in his music compositions and performance.

  Floyd brought originality to his music AND becoming the world-famous originator of the NASHVILLE SOUND.

  ON THE REBOUND is perhaps my favorite piece of music from the early 60's.

  
  
• 
  50

  Is this a BEAUTIFUL STORY--or what?

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. experiences

  is this a beautiful story, or what?.

  act one________.

  now in an ordinary romance of the golden hollywood era, the boy goes off to war while the young lady waits nervously for his safe return.in a cary grant, debra kerr movie, the two vow to meet after a certain period of time and tragic circumstances intervene.. in my story, the young man is a conscientious objector who goes to prison instead of off to the vietnam war.

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  Terry

  Thanks, all. Heartbreak is never fun, but at my age--wow--very intense.

  _______________

  Finklestein: Just out of curiosity, is she still involved with the JWS ?

  No, she faded from the JW's while she was a Pioneer. She had been serving where the "need is greater" and kept noticing she and other sisters were treated like shit, and with no concern for their safety in troubled areas.

  Once she left, that was it.

  Her sister and parts of her family are still active JW's, but they don't shun her because she was never DF'd.
• 
  31

  2015-11-18-BOE--Credits to jwfacts!

  by Atlantis in

  1. watchtower
  2. bible

  thanks to mr. jwfacts we now have a copy of this letter.

  i would have posted it on his thread but there was already 2 pages of replies and i didn't think the link would be seen.. thank you again mr. facts!.

  .. click the green download button.. http://wwwb.fileflyer.com/view/bbduxaa.

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  Terry

  Star Chamber
• 
  50

  Is this a BEAUTIFUL STORY--or what?

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. experiences

  is this a beautiful story, or what?.

  act one________.

  now in an ordinary romance of the golden hollywood era, the boy goes off to war while the young lady waits nervously for his safe return.in a cary grant, debra kerr movie, the two vow to meet after a certain period of time and tragic circumstances intervene.. in my story, the young man is a conscientious objector who goes to prison instead of off to the vietnam war.

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  Terry

  UPDATE

  _______

  Such things are, of course, personal and private, but I can speak with enough generality as to betray no confidence.

  My heart is broken. There is to be no mending.

  We said our final "Good-bye."

  Mine was the reckless heart. I opened it to feel. Today I surely do that very thing, I FEEL. Brokenhearted.

  Nobody at fault.

  Just is.

  I'm just so out of practice feeling, I think I'm going to die.
• 
  15

  A True short story

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. experiences

  ____a true story___.

  shortly after the incident, i drove back along the pacific coast in a euphoric daze of confusion, tears, and exhilaration; there was no place for it to go inside my head.

  i pulled over on the shoulder of the road and sat in stunned silence.

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  Terry

  About a month ago I was re-reading MOBY DICK, and when I came to the ending, I was shocked.

  I remembered the ending of the movie with Gregory Peck and not the actual ending in the book!

  I like Ray Bradbury's ending better :)
• 
  1

  TWO for the ROAD

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  these are 2 of my favorite things i've written:.

  in the pumpkin patch with henry.

  fond memories in the pumpkin patch with henry,white carpeting of snowflakes on the lawn.

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  Terry

  These are 2 of my favorite things I've written:

  __________________________________

  IN THE PUMPKIN PATCH WITH HENRY

  ________________________________

  Fond memories in the pumpkin patch with Henry,
  white carpeting of snowflakes on the lawn. . .
  shy giggling and frosty smiles abounding
  as chirpy birds and squinty squirrels look on.

  The photograph indelible as memory
  I'm holding in an autumn sunburned hand
  a whoosh of wind is rustling all about me
  whispering of lost Octoberland.

  Tiny hands upon the orange pumpkin
  Wide-eyed eager laughter in the chill
  Where's the boy who flew away to summer?
  Tomorrow beckoned him to distant hills.

  Every heart holds tight a fragile moment
  tender to the touch and precious long.
  Fond memories in the pumpkin patch with Henry,
  whispering it's soft October song.

  __________________
  A poem by Terry Walstrom

  ________________________________________

  GREEN

  ______

  
  

  The Goddess of the Green is in her garden
  with hands of tan and wisdom in her spade
  granting to each winter prisoner pardon;
  there her tears and loving kindness laid

  Amidst the sparrows, ants and prickly thistledown
  she wields her spade and shadows fall away;
  A smattering of butterflies come whistle down
  the wind,
  as each and every blossom finds the day

  Cherishing each thirsty autumn seedling
  as she kneels she sets her prayers to ground;
  a chastened, sassy, winter weed clings
  edgewise to her spade,
  so Mother Earth's sweet womb shall soon abound.

  The Goddess of the Green is in her garden
  with eager hands she prunes what falls away
  Life is only built upon what came along and now is gone
  Till secrets of the heart have had their say.
  _____________________________

  A poem by Terry Edwin Walstrom
• 
  15

  A True short story

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. experiences

  ____a true story___.

  shortly after the incident, i drove back along the pacific coast in a euphoric daze of confusion, tears, and exhilaration; there was no place for it to go inside my head.

  i pulled over on the shoulder of the road and sat in stunned silence.

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  Terry

  You guys are incredibly supportive!

  I can't thank you enough for the encouragement.
• 
  15

  A True short story

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. experiences

  ____a true story___.

  shortly after the incident, i drove back along the pacific coast in a euphoric daze of confusion, tears, and exhilaration; there was no place for it to go inside my head.

  i pulled over on the shoulder of the road and sat in stunned silence.

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  Terry

  ____A True Story___

  Shortly after the incident, I drove back along the Pacific Coast in a euphoric daze of confusion, tears, and exhilaration; there was no place for it to go inside my head. I pulled over on the shoulder of the road and sat in stunned silence. I couldn’t move forward. I simply could not return to work from what had started as a casual lunch overlooking the beach and tossed waves, ending up becoming a kind of. . . miracle.

  Moments later, thoughts inside my head still reverberated as though I were a bell struck into vibrations beyond control. I trembled. My hands were shaking. I was laughing and nodding my head: first “yes” and then, “no.” It happened. No, it could not have happened.
  And yet—it did!
  ______________

  CALIFORNIA 1976

  ______________

  It is mid-day.
  Southern California sprawls like a lazy beachcomber glowing orange from the dazzling sun.
  Indolent charm swarms like a flock of gliding seagulls hanging in the air. This is my land of milk and honey. I hoard each golden moment with a greedy savoir-faire, having left my bitterness with Texas in the rearview mirror of my car. This isn’t Fort Worth, Cowtown anymore—this is Playa del Rey, California.

  Yes-s-s-s!

  I had departed work at the art studio in El Segundo early, enjoying the drive to the beach with the top down on the Fiat Spyder, savoring a feeling of relaxation stretching to an endless horizon.
  As I often do, I pulled up close to the embankment overlooking the sandy strand, only a brief jog away from the Pacific Ocean's mysterious, restless call.
  I’ll ruminate, listening to Dave Grusin’s Sweetwater Nights on the Blaupunkt as I munch cucumber sandwich squares, sipping brisk Evian and steeping in the half-dream of April’s sunlight.
  _________

  Back “home” in Ft. Worth, I had planted faith and sacrifice, only to reap thistles and despair. The long, rolling highway west brought tomorrow to my dreams. Behind was now behind me, and ahead was looming large.
  Yesterday I was nobody and nothing. Today I’m on my way to being everything and somebody. Now the old useless waste of myself was roadkill on my resume. Before, I was a janitor, telephone solicitor, day laborer on beer trucks, toiling for pennies in despair.
  Then, I woke up.

  I sat up out of my slouch and blinked through the windscreen.
  Out of the corner of my peripheral vision there was motion. A flurry of movement tugged at my eyes. Something was up! My first hint that anything was going on arrived with slamming car doors.

  I surveyed the scene. Cars were stopping in the middle of the road as people dressed in business clothes, or shorts and tank top, or slinky dresses and pearls all momentarily lost their wits and abandoned whatever occupied their lives—but for what reason?

  I turned my head to face a wave of mass hysteria finally reaching my senses, and I found myself scrambling to eject from the car seat, springing into the headlong, mad dash toward the ocean.
  "We are creatures in the wild", I thought, " and we are spooked."

  A horrible possibility passed through my reckoning.
  “Somebody has drowned!” Oh God—do I really want to see that?
  “What if it is a child?” Horror gripped my heart—but the frenzy of the moment impelled me forward with all the others.

  I topped the gentle rise which hid the apron of sand from the surf—sprinting foremost toward rising voices ringing in awe and wonderment. There it was—at that very moment—stopping me dead cold, beholding the incredible circumstances just up ahead.
  I gasped—Oh My God!
  _____________

  HALF DEAD

  I beheld a throng of humanity reaching out, madly pushing their naked hands toward and against the glistening bulk of an enormous beached whale—impossibly marooned—likely half dead.

  My heart filled with a spontaneous rush of compassionate madness—exactly as all the others—instinctively!
  We surrounded it. I laid my trembling palms against this miraculous living being, pushing against its damp flesh as all of us summoned strength.

  This was the largest living thing I’d ever beheld! Its panicked eye stared imploringly at our feeble efforts. I listened to the uncanny whoosh-whoosh of its labored breathing. We were electrified and determined in our resolve to achieve this one impossible thing without doubting it must be done.

  Somebody cried, “Boats are coming! Boats are coming!”

  As we all heaved and hefted and grunted against the awesome mammal’s wall of living flesh, more and more of my fellow creatures arrived. We were as a swarm of ants bent to the task of rescuing an elephant.

  I turned my head to behold an extraordinary mixture of old and young, wealthy and down-and-out, ordinary humans stretching out their arms—pale or tanned—freckled or porcelain, as though about to seize hold of the secret of life itself balanced on the threshold of eternity.

  How could we know what to do?
  Moments before, hadn’t boundaries and walls and fences baffled our connection with each other? Where exactly were we in the Family of Man, the Eco-system of Mother Earth—the bond of Nature itself?
  Wasn't the answer all around me?
  The natural goodness of man suddenly revealed itself as no hollow fable to disbelieve any longer. We had not been summoned, seduced by rhetoric, or cajoled by false promises of reward. Each of us—all of us had been thunderstruck toward a purpose written in our bones: We survive together or die alone. If you save one living thing—you save the world entire.

  Several boats arrived and towlines were secured to the narrow section of the creature’s tail. My conscious mind dissolved into final efforts.
  Hundreds of hands pushed, pulled, and grappled as the taut ropes stretched to the breaking point, and boat engines strained to limits unknown.
  I beheld this staggering crew of humanity welded into unity of purpose one last time—searching with my artist’s eye for details to be etched into memory for the dark times yet to come.

  Two little girls in party dresses, spattered with mud, squealed at the adults close by.
  “Help him—Mommy—help him!”

  Executives in expensive suits, derelicts reeking of cheap wine, blue-haired grandmothers, housewives, out-of-work starlets, throngs of teens, tattooed body-builders, and every other sampling of our species—were bound in spirit to the task at hand.

  And then—it was over! Just like that.
  ____________

  Straightaway, the orca flipped front to back, heading out to sea with a gaggle of frantic fishermen cutting at their ropes lest the loosed ocean mariner become tangled or restrained.

  As quickly as it had begun, it ended.
  ________

  All of us were panting like workhorses at the end of a day of plowing. One by one, we looked up at each other, toward a dawning realization of mystery.
  What had just happened to us?

  We started to cry, one by one—weeping as though the face of God had appeared to us all in a cloud. Then, we paused and laughed hysterically. Children screamed in celebration, jumping up and down in the sand. This was our proud, jubilant exultation celebrating life itself!

  It seemed as though nobody really wanted to leave the scene.
  We somehow knew—this had been our day to share a miracle we’d never know again. Gladdened hearts would slow in exultation and the luster of heightened experience could fade in radiance—eroded in the telling to those who could not possibly understand.

  One by one, soaked to the bone, stragglers seem to blink and come to their senses. The so-called real world returned. As we separated, none of us could refrain from taking parting glances toward the horizon.
  What did any of this mean? Why had it happened?
  What greater lesson had been missed?
  ________

  I returned to my car and dug some spare clothes from the trunk; sand was in my nose, eyes, ears and hair. I smelled like the ocean. I smelled like . . . the orca.

  I drove back along the Pacific Coast Highway in a euphoric daze of confusion, tears and exhilaration; there was no place for it to go inside my head. I pulled over on the shoulder of the road and sat in stunned silence. I couldn’t move forward. I looked at my watch for the time—it had stopped. Was it my watch, or was it time itself?

  Here I was and everything had changed for me. Was it as simple a lesson as "We're all in this together?" Or, was it, "Don't get trapped?" I felt foolishly naive and incredibly wise all at the same time.

  I simply could not return to work from what had started as a casual lunch overlooking the beach and tossed waves and feathery clouds, ending as this miracle. Yet—I returned to work anyway.

  I began excitedly telling my friends what had occurred, but all they could see and feel had to do with how bad I smelled and how much sand I was tracking into the art studio.

  I took the rest of the day off—to the relieved blessings of one and all.
  Back home, it took hours of scrubbing before I was back to normal.

  That was the saddest moment of my day.

  ________________

  Terry Walstrom