Tenderness and Meat Loaf
Continuing in our revision diary category posts, this week we are sharing an essay by Jack Shea, one of two essays that our guest judge Brenda Miller chose as honorable mention in our recent contest.
My developmental editing comments inserted into Jack’s entry and Jack’s re-entered revision for our Writing It Real Fall 2009 No-Contest Contest illustrate how reader response helps a writer put required information on the page. In Jack’s case, he has a cast of characters to introduce while trying to keep a surprise for the ending and so there is a delicate balance of what to put in and what not to say. Still, we have to feel as if we are clear on who’s who all along. Jack also has to make sure the reader doesn’t misconstrue his character as he tries to be self-effacing while elevating the character of someone close to him.
Here is Jack’s initial entry, followed by my suggestions inserted into his text, his revised entry and our judge’s comment.
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Tenderness And Meat Loaf
by Jack Shea
Sunday morning in the supermarket, a packed Shop-Rite, shopping cart fender-benders all over. They should blare a traffic report: “Heavy volume in aisle 2; try aisles 4 or 5 as alternates.” This day is no ordinary Sunday; it is Father’s Day. My wife Joan has her list, as always; she lives by lists, and thank God for it. On this one are the components of our father’s dinner, featuring the special meat loaf he likes, the one made with cream of mushroom soup, a recipe from our friend Mary. We’ve christened it the “Mary loaf.”
Later when Joan starts working in the kitchen, I head to my office for a few hours; anything to avoid food preparation. We agree to meet at his house at five o’clock — her with the food, his card, and his gift, me with my fingers to operate the remote for his nifty flat screen TV.
She arrives a few minutes past five, finding the two of us in his room comfortably glued to the U.S. Open golf coverage. She hands him his gift (Bill Buckley’s final book Flying High, a tribute to Barry Goldwater, both heroes of his), and hugs him tight. He remains seated because he has no choice; Parkinson’s disease prevents him from getting up on his own.
“Hey Dad, what’s cooking?” she asks.
“You tell me, you’re the chef.”
She chuckles, “Meat loaf, the way you like it. How does that sound?”
“I’ll take it.”
She lingers, asking how his week was, telling him how spry he looks for a 91-year old guy. She knows how to get to him, how to push his buttons and make him laugh. And though it’s hard for him to express, he loves her for it. I love her for it, and I don’t mind expressing it from the rooftops.
His youngest daughter Erin, who lives with him, helps Joan in the kitchen. Since Erin doesn’t share his taste for meat loaf, Joan picked up a pasta dish at Paparazzi on the way over…one more good deed for the day. Joan fixes his plate — a slab of meat loaf smothered in thick mushroom gravy, mashed potatoes, carrots, and broccoli. Since his teeth (the originals) are brittle, he can’t eat the corn on the cob, so she cuts off the kernels and serves them in a separate dish. She clears the Sunday papers from his tray table, puts the plate down, and sets the knife and fork. He struggles now with eating, so some food falls short of his mouth, but Joan is there to retrieve the morsels and wipe his mouth and chin.
She loves to get right in his face and pepper him with questions: “How are you feeling? Have you been outside? What are you reading? Are you sleeping okay? Is Reggie (his caregiver) showing up on time?”
“One question at a time, will ya? You’re making me dizzy.”
Back and forth they go, holding hands, all natural, all sweet.
“Are you finished, Dad? Don’t you want the rest of the meat loaf?” He seems to have declared a ceasefire on dinner. “You’ll have it for the next few days, something to remember me by.” He laughs. After one last removal of food droppings and a gentle wipe of his face, she takes our plates to the kitchen and transitions into clean-up duty. I stay with him, fixated on the story of Tiger Woods, on his bad knee, trying to win his 14th major tournament. I also want no part of clean-up duty.
By seven-thirty he has nodded off, so I nudge him and say it’s time for bed. With Erin’s help, Joan and I hoist him off the comfy chair, wait for his legs to stabilize, then set out for the bathroom just steps away, but for him now, a difficult journey. Reggie normally handles this part, but he has Father’s Day off to be with his family. The bathroom is small, so Erin drops off and I hang onto his hands while Joan removes his pants and disposable underpants. We position him on the toilet, and give him a few minutes to conduct business. Once he signals, we get him up and Joan cleans the appropriate area, and puts on a fresh diaper. We reverse course back into the room, and maneuver him into bed. She tenderly kisses him goodnight.
With some energy left, Joan enlists Erin for a covert assignment behind enemy lines: organizing the massive amount of paperwork — financial statements, bills, brochures, magazine articles, on and on — which he has scattered throughout the house. Meanwhile, I settle into his electric comfy chair and play with the controls like a five-year old. For two hours the operatives surgically attack the enemy positions, showing no mercy, rounding up the prisoners and placing them alphabetically in plastic bins. The casualties are deposited into a plastic garbage bag. Mission accomplished…service above and beyond the call of duty.
It is now 10:00 P.M. and she is ready to go home and collapse from exhaustion. I too am tired from sitting on my bony ass most of the day.
One may assume that I have described a dutiful, loving daughter’s devotion to her aged father on Father’s Day. But the gentleman is not her father; he is my father. Of our four parents, he’s the last one standing . . . or sitting. Perhaps other daughters-in-law out there minister to their fathers-in-law in similar fashion — with compassion, without complaint. If so, they constitute a rare and cherished breed — noble souls who seek to bestow attention and laughter and dignity upon worthy recipients, regardless of circumstance. I love my wife for many reasons, but none more than her compulsive desire to help others — family, friends, even strangers like the distraught woman named Georgia whom she befriended, consoled, and took home with her on 9/11. Her guiding principle — others come first — is simple in concept, consistent in application.
Although we arrived in separate cars, we leave together in mine. Her tears begin as I pull out of the driveway, and I am ready with the Kleenex. The loss of her own father Arthur, a man she adored, still hurts after 11 years. On this day, especially, the sorrow resurfaces. The weeping subsides as we arrive home; I dab at the rivulets of tears, now drying on her cheeks. The phone rings: “Joan, it’s Marie.” She greets her older sister and begins a fresh round of crying; I hand her a fresh box of Kleenex.
****
My Notes To Jack’s Inserted into His Entry
Sunday morning in the supermarket, a packed Shop-Rite, shopping cart fender-benders all over. They should blare a traffic report: “Heavy volume in aisle 2; try aisles 4 or 5 as alternates.” FUNNY OPENING; I LIKE IT! This day is no ordinary Sunday; it is Father’s Day. My wife Joan has her list, as always; she lives by lists, and thank God for it. I ALSO LIKE THIS THANK GOD FOR IT—IT’S ALWAYS NICE WHEN A HUSBAND APPRECIATES HIS WIFE’S HOUSEHOLD MANAGEMENT ABILITIES! On this one are the components of our father’s dinner, featuring the special meat loaf he likes, the one made with cream of mushroom soup, a recipe from our friend Mary. We’ve christened it the “Mary loaf.” I THINK THE FATHER CAN ONLY BE ONE OF YOUR FATHER’S OR IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU ARE SIBLINGS (BUT SEE THE NOTE AT THE END).
Later when Joan starts working in the kitchen, I head to my office for a few hours; anything to avoid food preparation. We agree to meet at his house at five o’clock — her with the food, his card, and his gift, me with my fingers to operate the remote for his nifty flat screen TV. OKAY, SO THERE IS A DIVISION OF THE SEXES WHEN IT COMES TO LABOR—IT WOULD BE REALLY GOOD FOR THE ESSAY TO KNOW WHOSE FATHER THE TWO ARE BRINGING DINNER TO. ALSO, THE SPEAKER MIGHT GO ON A BIT LONGER ABOUT WHAT DRIVES HIM AWAY WHEN IT COMES TO FOOD PREPARATION.
She arrives a few minutes past five, finding the two of us in his room comfortably glued to the U.S. Open golf coverage. She hands him his gift (Bill Buckley’s final book Flying High, a tribute to Barry Goldwater, both heroes of his), and hugs him tight. He remains seated because he has no choice; Parkinson’s disease prevents him from getting up on his own. THIS IS WELL-PACED IN TERMS OF US SEEING WHERE THE FATHER LIVES, WHAT HIS POLITICAL LEANINGS ARE AND WHAT HIS SITUATION IS. I KNOW THE SPEAKER ENJOYS THE TV, BUT IT IS STILL VERY ENDEARING THAT HE IS SHARING HIS TIME WITH THE FATHER.
“Hey Dad, what’s cooking?” she asks.
“You tell me, you’re the chef.”
She chuckles, “Meat loaf, the way you like it. How does that sound?”
“I’ll take it.”
She lingers, asking how his week was, telling him how spry he looks for a 91-year old guy. She knows how to get to him, how to push his buttons and make him laugh. I AM NOT SURE OF THE JOKE HERE—IS HE 91 OR IS THIS A BLACK HUMOR JOKE BECAUSE HE ISN’T BUT IS ILL WITH PARKINSON’S? And though it’s hard for him to express, he loves her for it. I love her for it, and I don’t mind expressing it from the rooftops. I LOVE THIS ADORATION OF THE WIFE!
His youngest daughter Erin, who lives with him, helps Joan in the kitchen. Since Erin doesn’t share his taste for meat loaf, Joan picked up a pasta dish at Paparazzi on the way over…one more good deed for the day. Joan fixes his plate — a slab of meat loaf smothered in thick mushroom gravy, mashed potatoes, carrots, and broccoli. Since his teeth (the originals) are brittle, he can’t eat the corn on the cob, so she cuts off the kernels and serves them in a separate dish. She clears the Sunday papers from his tray table, puts the plate down, and sets the knife and fork. He struggles now with eating, so some food falls short of his mouth, but Joan is there to retrieve the morsels and wipe his mouth and chin. I LIKE THIS CLOSE UP OF JOAN. I AM FEELING LIKE THIS ISN’T YOUR FATHER OR HER FATHER, BUT PERHAPS SHE IS A HOSPICE WORKER. I AM SURPRISED THAT THE DAUGHTER ISN’T MORE INVOLVED IN FATHER’S DAY—IT SOUNDS LIKE SHE IS A CARETAKER AS WELL AS REGGIE AND TIRED.
She loves to get right in his face and pepper him with questions: “How are you feeling? Have you been outside? What are you reading? Are you sleeping okay? Is Reggie (his caregiver) showing up on time?”
“One question at a time, will ya? You’re making me dizzy.”
Back and forth they go, holding hands, all natural, all sweet.
“Are you finished, Dad? Don’t you want the rest of the meat loaf?” He seems to have declared a ceasefire on dinner. “You’ll have it for the next few days, something to remember me by.” He laughs. After one last removal of food droppings and a gentle wipe of his face, she takes our plates to the kitchen and transitions into clean-up duty. I stay with him, fixated on the story of Tiger Woods, on his bad knee, trying to win his 14th major tournament. I also want no part of clean-up duty. UH-OH, THIS SELF-REVEALING INFO MAKES ME FEEL A LITTLE ANGRY. I DO LIKE THAT THE MEN WATCH TOGETHER AND THIS OFFERS SOMETHING–COMPANY FOR DAD–BUT I AM UNSURE HOW TO TAKE THE SHUCKING OF DUTIES THING THAT SEEMS IMPLIED.
By seven-thirty he has nodded off, so I nudge him and say it’s time for bed. With Erin’s help, Joan and I hoist him off the comfy chair, wait for his legs to stabilize, then set out for the bathroom just steps away, but for him now, a difficult journey. Reggie normally handles this part, but he has Father’s Day off to be with his family. The bathroom is small, so Erin drops off and I hang onto his hands while Joan removes his pants and disposable underpants. We position him on the toilet, and give him a few minutes to conduct business. Once he signals, we get him up and Joan cleans the appropriate area, and puts on a fresh diaper. We reverse course back into the room, and maneuver him into bed. She tenderly kisses him goodnight. A DIFFICULT AND WELL DONE DESCRIPTION.
With some energy left, Joan enlists Erin for a covert assignment behind enemy lines: organizing the massive amount of paperwork — financial statements, bills, brochures, magazine articles, on and on — which he has scattered throughout the house. Meanwhile, I settle into his electric comfy chair and play with the controls like a five-year old. For two hours the operatives surgically attack the enemy positions, showing no mercy, rounding up the prisoners and placing them alphabetically in plastic bins. The casualties are deposited into a plastic garbage bag. Mission accomplished…service above and beyond the call of duty. I AM NOT SURE OF THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN JOAN AND ERIN. I AM NOT SURE OF ERIN’S ABILITIES TO TAKE CARE OF THINGS. WHY IS THE PAPER WORK OUT OF CONTROL?
It is now 10:00 P.M. and she is ready to go home and collapse from exhaustion. I too am tired from sitting on my bony ass most of the day.
One may assume that I have described a dutiful, loving daughter’s devotion to her aged father on Father’s Day. But the gentleman is not her father; he is my father. Of our four parents, he’s the last one standing . . . or sitting. Perhaps other daughters-in-law out there minister to their fathers-in-law in similar fashion — with compassion, without complaint. If so, they constitute a rare and cherished breed — noble souls who seek to bestow attention and laughter and dignity upon worthy recipients, regardless of circumstance. I love my wife for many reasons, but none more than her compulsive desire to help others — family, friends, even strangers like the distraught woman named Georgia whom she befriended, consoled, and took home with her on 9/11. Her guiding principle — others come first — is simple in concept, consistent in application.
Although we arrived in separate cars, we leave together in mine. Her tears begin as I pull out of the driveway, and I am ready with the Kleenex. The loss of her own father Arthur, a man she adored, still hurts after 11 years. On this day, especially, the sorrow resurfaces. The weeping subsides as we arrive home; I dab at the rivulets of tears, now drying on her cheeks. The phone rings: “Joan, it’s Marie.” She greets her older sister and begins a fresh round of crying; I hand her a fresh box of Kleenex.
THESE LAST TWO PARAGRAPHS DO SOLVE MOST OF THE MYSTERIES EXCEPT THE ONE ABOUT ERIN—THE SPEAKER DOESN’T SEEM TO HAVE ANY RELATIONSHIP WITH HER—THERE’S NO DESCRIPTION OF HER, NO DIALOG, NO MENTION OF WHAT HE NOTICES IN HER. I THINK IT IS POSSIBLE TO SAY MORE WITHOUT GIVING AWAY THE SURPRISE OF WHOSE FATHER THIS IS. THE PROBLEM AT THE TOP WILL BE HOW TO SAY “OUR FATHER” AND NOT SOUND ODD. MAYBE DAD? OR HIS NAME?
I LIKE WHAT YOU ARE UP TO HERE, JACK, AND OF COURSE LOVE THE PRAISE OF JOAN. WHAT I WONDER ABOUT IT WHAT THE SPEAKER FEELS ABOUT SEEING HIS FATHER IN THIS CONDITION AND SPENDING TIME WITH HIM. HE IS GRATEFUL TO JOAN AND ADORING AND SELF-REFLECTIVE ENOUGH TO INTIMATE THAT HE WOULDN’T BE UP TO DOING ALL OF THIS, BUT I MISS KNOWING MORE ABOUT WHAT HE FEELS AS HE WATCHES TV, HOW THAT KIND OF BEING TOGETHER IS IN KEEPING WITH HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH HIS DAD OR A NEW WAY OF BEING TOGETHER. MORE, MORE, MORE! BUT BE CAREFUL NOT TO LOSE THE TONE YOU HAVE ESTABLISHED WHICH IS WONDERFUL!
****
Jack’s Revision:
Tenderness And Meat Loaf
by Jack Shea
Sunday morning in the supermarket, a packed Shop-Rite, shopping cart fender-benders all over. They should blare a traffic report: “Heavy volume in aisle 2; try aisles 4 or 5 as alternates.” This day is no ordinary Sunday; it is Father’s Day. My wife Joan has her list, as always; she lives by lists, and thank God for it. On this one are the components of today’s dinner, featuring the special meat loaf the man likes, the one made with cream of mushroom soup, a recipe from our friend Mary. We’ve christened it the “Mary loaf.”
Back home I help Joan unload the groceries and line up the ingredients and accessories for the special dinner. I then leave her, heading to my office for a few hours of paperwork (my usefulness in the kitchen is limited to pre- and post-cooking duties). We agree to meet at his house at five o’clock — her with the food, his card, and his gift, me with my fingers to operate the remote for his nifty flat screen TV.
She arrives a few minutes past five, finding the two of us in his room comfortably glued to the U.S. Open golf coverage. She hands him his gift (Bill Buckley’s final book Flying High, a tribute to Barry Goldwater, both heroes of his), and hugs him tight. He remains seated because he has no choice; Parkinson’s disease prevents him from getting up on his own.
“Hey Dad, what’s cooking?” she asks.
“You tell me, you’re the chef.”
She chuckles, “Meat loaf, the way you like it. How does that sound?”
“I’ll take it.”
She knows how to get to him, how to push his buttons, how to make him laugh. And though it’s hard for him to express, he loves her for it. I love her for it, and I don’t mind expressing it from the rooftops.
His youngest daughter Erin, who lives with him, helps Joan in the kitchen. (Afflicted with Asperger’s syndrome which severely limits her ability to manage normal household affairs, Erin is glad to have Joan direct her activities.) Joan fixes his plate — a slab of meat loaf smothered in thick mushroom gravy, mashed potatoes, carrots, and broccoli. Since his teeth (the originals) are brittle, he can’t eat the corn on the cob, so she cuts off the kernels and serves them in a separate dish. She clears the Sunday papers from his tray table, puts the plate down, and sets the knife and fork. He struggles now with eating, so some food falls short of his mouth, but Joan is there to retrieve the morsels and wipe his mouth and chin.
She loves to get right in his face and pepper him with questions: “How are you feeling? Have you been outside? What are you reading? Are you sleeping okay? Is Reggie (his regular caregiver) showing up on time?”
“One question at a time, will ya? You’re making me dizzy.”
Back and forth they go, holding hands, all natural, all sweet.
“Are you finished, Dad? Don’t you want the rest of the meat loaf?” He seems to have declared a ceasefire on dinner. “You’ll have it for the next few days, something to remember me by.”
He laughs. After one last removal of food droppings and a gentle wipe of his face, she takes our plates to the kitchen and transitions into clean-up duty. I offer to help, but she says it’s okay, stay with Dad. I’m kind of glad, because we’re both fixated on the story of Tiger Woods, on his bad knee, trying to win another major tournament.
He and I are comfortable in one another’s presence, not in the chatty manner employed by Joan, but in the quiet male bonding mode. Sports, particularly baseball and more particularly the Yankees, have always provided grist for our conversation mill. When all else fails, I can bring up Jeter’s slump or A-Rod’s home run barrage. We don’t talk as much business or politics any more. Though still surrounded by newspapers and magazines, he tends to nibble at the headlines now, rather than devour the full stories. Having been fit and active well into his eighties, the transition from independence to infirmity has been tough to observe. He doesn’t complain verbally, but sometimes his eyes betray the melancholy of a benign imprisonment.
By seven-thirty he has nodded off, so I nudge him and say it’s time for bed. With Erin’s help, Joan and I hoist him off the comfy chair, wait for his legs to stabilize, then set out for the bathroom just steps away, but for him now, a difficult journey. Reggie normally handles this part, but he has Father’s Day off to be with his family. The bathroom is small, so Erin drops off and I hang onto his hands while Joan removes his pants and disposable underpants. We position him on the toilet, and give him a few minutes to conduct business. Once he signals, we get him up and Joan cleans the appropriate area, and puts on a fresh diaper. We reverse course back into the room, and maneuver him into bed. She tenderly kisses him goodnight.
With energy remaining, Joan enlists Erin for a covert assignment behind enemy lines: organizing the massive amount of paperwork — financial statements, bills, brochures, magazine articles, on and on — which he has scattered throughout the house. Meanwhile, I settle into his electric comfy chair and play with the controls like a five-year old. For two hours the operatives surgically attack the enemy positions, showing no mercy, rounding up the prisoners and placing them alphabetically in plastic bins. The casualties are deposited into a plastic garbage bag. Mission accomplished…service above and beyond the call of duty.
It is now 10:00 P.M. and she is ready to go home and collapse from exhaustion. I too am tired from sitting on my bony ass most of the day.
One may assume that I have described a dutiful, loving daughter’s devotion to her aged father on Father’s Day. But the gentleman is not her father; he is my father, and Erin is my sister. Of our four parents, Dad — at 92 — is the last one standing . . . or sitting. Perhaps other daughters-in-law out there minister to their fathers-in-law in similar fashion — with compassion, without complaint. If so, they constitute a rare and cherished breed — noble souls who seek to bestow attention and laughter and dignity upon worthy recipients, regardless of circumstance. I love my wife for many reasons, but none more than her compulsive desire to help others — family, friends, even strangers like the distraught woman named Georgia whom she befriended, consoled, and took home with her on 9/11. Her guiding principle — others come first — is simple in concept, consistent in application.
Although we arrived in separate cars, we leave together in mine. Her tears begin as I pull out of the driveway, and I am ready with the Kleenex. The loss of her own father Arthur, a man she adored, still hurts after 11 years. On this day, especially, the sorrow resurfaces. The weeping subsides as we arrive home; I dab at the rivulets of tears, now drying on her cheeks. The phone rings: “Joan, it’s Marie.” She greets her older sister and begins a fresh round of crying; I hand her a fresh box of Kleenex.
****
While judging the first three place winners in our contest, guest judge Brenda Miller praised two more essays, Jack Shea’s and one by Karen Call, which we’ll publish next week. She wanted to select them in addition to the three she already had and remarked: “Tenderness and Meat Loaf” and “The Annual Christmas Dress Shopping Trip” are authentically sweet, compassionate pieces. I really like these writers because of the empathy they are showing.”