Arizona Blue--Gunfighter, in: "The Written Word" (#33)) 1843))
Arizona Blue—Gunfighter, in: “The Written Word” (#33)
The Summer of 1843 (A Story out of Chicago)
Arizona Blue, could not of course, write or read for that matter any language whatsoever, and he was but eleven years old; he pronounced words of one to two syllables for the most apart, as was his vocabulary simpler.
Subsequently, he wanted to learn, but he was too anxious, busy fighting at school, working at home, always anxious, restless—unstill.
Every morning he’d consequently direct himself down a path to the school, with good intentions to go, but in the interest of truth, I must say, he seldom make it to the school, Sid Milliard, a close friend, a year older, would be waiting somewhere along that path, waiting for him, and most of the time he found Blue, and they’d go get drunk in the nearby crematory, putting their homemade whisky jugs on the tombstones, talking, drinking, until they’d pass out from the moonshine Sid’s father made in the back of his store in Quincy, Illinois. His mother, Maria, simply said “Son like father,” but it worried her to the marrow of her bones that he was not getting any worthy education in reading or writing. But again she confessed to her sister Sally by letter, “In my life so perfectly I understand, Blue is like his father, in many ways, he is a most exquisite nuance for a son, but I love him.”
And in the summer of 1843, Sally invited the family down to Chicago, both sisters had an idea. (It should be said, Maria was cleaver indeed, well read, and knew the written word well, and perhaps to a high degree the unspoken word as well, for she was a survivor; her vocabulary was a master of intricate words if she wanted to use them; she was breed at an all female college, one a famous poet attended during her times, in New England.)
Blue often thought, ‘If I had one third, just one measly third of my mother’s intellect, I’d be ranked high among my peers, but he liked the art of fighting, and shooting, similar to his father. And he was torn on the drinking part, but he drank nonetheless, often, but at his young age, it seemed more of an emulating thing, than anything else.
I suppose one could say, Blue’s father—in comparison to his mother—was extraordinarily simple, and many of his words were unutterable, thus, communication lay very deep in respect for his father, and the son gave it (father like son; or the other way around), and of course this concerned Maria.
—One day after their arrival in Chicago, Maria introduced Blue to his Aunt Sally Cowden, and her daughter, Sheila. She was all of seventeen years of age, and Blue of course six years younger, but he was big for his age, and serious in his composure, they took a liking for one another, like white on rice, right away. In any case, the two sisters enjoyed the summer together, as Blue’s father was working on a farm outside of Quincy trying to get enough money together to head out west once they got back to the city, in early September.
As a result, the secret of Blue’s learning was really connected to his attraction to Sheila, one Blue would never forget. That summer proved to be an intense study into words, reading, spelling, and Blue concentrated very deeply on this, it would be a period of time he’d never replicate again.
It began and ended with an innate and homogeneous tactile liking between Sheila and Blue—one that seemed to appear with an almost unspeakable ease. As always his mind raced, and thus, picked up her daily lessons quite easily, and in time, she would become a teacher, her life’s goal.
But it would be back to Quincy for Blue and his mother, and then out west, as his father was buying the wagon and supplies needed for the long journey, and on that journey is where Blue would earn his future reputation.
Written EP, Lima, Peru, 6-6-2007
The Summer of 1843 (A Story out of Chicago)
Arizona Blue, could not of course, write or read for that matter any language whatsoever, and he was but eleven years old; he pronounced words of one to two syllables for the most apart, as was his vocabulary simpler.
Subsequently, he wanted to learn, but he was too anxious, busy fighting at school, working at home, always anxious, restless—unstill.
Every morning he’d consequently direct himself down a path to the school, with good intentions to go, but in the interest of truth, I must say, he seldom make it to the school, Sid Milliard, a close friend, a year older, would be waiting somewhere along that path, waiting for him, and most of the time he found Blue, and they’d go get drunk in the nearby crematory, putting their homemade whisky jugs on the tombstones, talking, drinking, until they’d pass out from the moonshine Sid’s father made in the back of his store in Quincy, Illinois. His mother, Maria, simply said “Son like father,” but it worried her to the marrow of her bones that he was not getting any worthy education in reading or writing. But again she confessed to her sister Sally by letter, “In my life so perfectly I understand, Blue is like his father, in many ways, he is a most exquisite nuance for a son, but I love him.”
And in the summer of 1843, Sally invited the family down to Chicago, both sisters had an idea. (It should be said, Maria was cleaver indeed, well read, and knew the written word well, and perhaps to a high degree the unspoken word as well, for she was a survivor; her vocabulary was a master of intricate words if she wanted to use them; she was breed at an all female college, one a famous poet attended during her times, in New England.)
Blue often thought, ‘If I had one third, just one measly third of my mother’s intellect, I’d be ranked high among my peers, but he liked the art of fighting, and shooting, similar to his father. And he was torn on the drinking part, but he drank nonetheless, often, but at his young age, it seemed more of an emulating thing, than anything else.
I suppose one could say, Blue’s father—in comparison to his mother—was extraordinarily simple, and many of his words were unutterable, thus, communication lay very deep in respect for his father, and the son gave it (father like son; or the other way around), and of course this concerned Maria.
—One day after their arrival in Chicago, Maria introduced Blue to his Aunt Sally Cowden, and her daughter, Sheila. She was all of seventeen years of age, and Blue of course six years younger, but he was big for his age, and serious in his composure, they took a liking for one another, like white on rice, right away. In any case, the two sisters enjoyed the summer together, as Blue’s father was working on a farm outside of Quincy trying to get enough money together to head out west once they got back to the city, in early September.
As a result, the secret of Blue’s learning was really connected to his attraction to Sheila, one Blue would never forget. That summer proved to be an intense study into words, reading, spelling, and Blue concentrated very deeply on this, it would be a period of time he’d never replicate again.
It began and ended with an innate and homogeneous tactile liking between Sheila and Blue—one that seemed to appear with an almost unspeakable ease. As always his mind raced, and thus, picked up her daily lessons quite easily, and in time, she would become a teacher, her life’s goal.
But it would be back to Quincy for Blue and his mother, and then out west, as his father was buying the wagon and supplies needed for the long journey, and on that journey is where Blue would earn his future reputation.
Written EP, Lima, Peru, 6-6-2007
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 3:32 PM
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