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"Hurt"
by Claude Hall
Chapter Three
Human Resources Technologies--with its
floor-to-ceiling glass walls above the first
floor--looked more like an office building than a
medical facility. It was located in an unlikely place
for a hospital--on the edge of a shopping center. Off
to the right was a drug store and supermarket. Like
HRT, they never closed.
HRT, unlike the supermarket and the drug store,
however, was listed on the stockmarket pages of the
newspaper. That had surprised me. But J.D. Candor
said it was a pretty good stock. I picked up the
newspaper in the employee lounge and thumbed through
the pages. Someone must have taken out the
stockmarket reports. I couldn't find them.
J.D. was disturbed that I was in the lounge.
He glared at me.
"I don't know how to talk to a girl," I explained
"Then don't talk. Just stare at her with those big,
moony eyes."
"I...."
"Shut up! I can't stand to talk to you."
He grabbed me by the teeshirt and led me to the
elevator. For a guy who wasn't all that tall and
certainly not as big as me, J.D. was pretty strong.
Of course, I don't suppose I protested all that much.
A few moments later, he shoved me into a room on the
third floor and closed the door behind me.
She was absolutely the most beautiful thing I have
ever seen. I tried to think of something to say. I
really didn't think she'd be interested in the fact
that the stockmarket reports had been taken from the
newspaper downstairs in the employee lounge. I tried
to think of something else.
"You're Chuck, aren't you?"
She was sitting up in the hospital bed, an open book
in one hand.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Thank you for saving my life."
"It wasn't really me," I tried to explain. "My
friend
J.D., he...."
"He said you tore off the door of the car with an
enormous surge of almost super-human strength and used
a pocket knife to cut me loose from the safety belt.
That you were afraid the car might explode into
flames."
"J.D. said something like that?"
"Yes. He told me an immense lot about you. Does that
surprise you?"
"I...I guess it does. J.D., he doesn't talk much."
"How'd the meeting go? J.D. said he had to leave
because there was a meeting of some kind with the
boss?"
"Okay, I guess."
She smiled. Suddenly, I could see what J.D. meant
about those eyes. Maybe it was the makeup she used or
something, but her eyes looked like silvery moons to
me. And her smile was warm and made you feel good. I
even liked her voice. The only way I could describe
it later to J.D. was that it was pretty.
Long, red hair fell over her shoulders in a shiny,
fiery mass just like Maureen O'Hara in "The Quiet
Man." She seemed quite a bit younger than the girl in
the movie, though I've always had trouble telling just
how old some of the actors and actresses might be.
They sometimes pretend to be younger than they really
are. And sometimes older.
"And you didn't do all of those wonderful things?"
"They weren't all that wonderful," I said. "And
I...well, I guess I was in a hurry. About your car
door, I mean. I don't want you to think I run around
tearing off car doors all of the time."
"I promise not to think that," she said.
She gave a small laugh that sounded like distant
bells, but I instinctively realized she wasn't
laughing at me. Not really.
"You hurt bad?"
"No," she said. "Not even a scratch."
She stretched out both arms and kicked once with each
foot beneath the sheets to prove that she'd escaped
the car wreck relatively without injury.
"You're lucky. That was some car wreck."
"I've always been a bit lucky," she said. "As they
say, a touch of the Irish. I think I was in an
immense state of shock when I got here, though.
Everybody seemed surprised that I wasn't dead.
Finally, a doctor came."
"It was a really bad accident," I said. "Bodies
scattered around like someone had dropped a sack of
groceries."
"And I was the only survivor?"
I nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
"Maybe I had a bit more than just a touch of the
Irish," she said very softly.
"I'd say so."
"How many people were killed?" She toyed with a gold
ornament on a necklace around her neck as if it were
worry beads.
"I don't really know," I said. "I guess I sort of
shut those things out. Being an ambulance driver in
this town, with so many accidents and all, is
sometimes, well, unpleasant. I try not to think about
things like that."
"A psychological defensive mechanism."
"I guess so."
"You've been driving an ambulance for quite a while?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"How many years? You can't be much older than me."
"I guess it hasn't really been that long. It just
sometimes seems like a long time. Like forever."
"I know that feeling," she said. "I work in the
campus bookstore at UNLV. It's not the most exciting
job in the world."
"Don't get me wrong; driving an ambulance is fun at
times."
"I got that impression last night. You must have been
driving a hundred and fifty miles an hour! Your
friend--J.D.?--if he hadn't held me down, I would have
been tossed onto the floor."
"I apologize," I said.
"No need for that. I like to drive fast. Maybe
that's what happened last night. I was going a little
fast." She paused. "I would like to ride in an
ambulance sometime. Could I?"
"I don't know," I said. "No one ever asked that
before. What if there's a rule against it, I mean.
Maybe J.D. would know something like that."
"Will you ask?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good! I would immensely like to go out chasing fires
and traffic accidents and all those things one night.
Soon."
"Well, I...."
"I'm Doris O'Connor. I'm a student at UNLV."
"Chuck. Chuck Southheim."
"Are you also going to UNLV?"
"No, ma'am. All I do is drive ambulance."
"I'm trying to learn everything!" she said. She held
up the book. It was a textbook.
"Everything?"
You sound skeptical. But it's true. This semester,
I'm taking mythology which is absolutely ridiculous,
of course...the book, not the course...but fascinating
when you see how wrong they are. And I'm taking
philosophy, which seems to me to be very close, more
close than you can possibly imagine, to mythology.
I'm also taking Greek."
"Greek? Why Greek? There's not much chance of
talking it unless you're planning to become a belly
dancer."
"Hey! You have a sense of humor after all. I like
that. I think a sense of humor is one of the most
important things in the whole world. Especially today
when there's so much tragedy all around us. Don't
you?"
"I guess so. I never thought much about it. I didn't
even know I had a sense of humor."
"But you do! I also like the way you smile. The
corners of your mouth go all whing whang."
"My mouth does not go whing whang."
"Yes, it does. The reason I'm taking Greek is because
my mother is of Greek descent. My father's Irish. He
was born in the county Cork. And you know where that
is, of course, and what it means."
I didn't, of course. But I didn't want to tell her
that I didn't know anything about Cork. It seemed
rather important to her. I don't know why. I thought
it was better just to get out of that room so I
wouldn't have to answer questions like that. I
literally had to escape. I think she would have gone
on talking like that, talking a mile a minute, for
years. She talked with the speed of light! I
eventually sneaked in an excuse about J.D. needing me
in case there was a trouble call and got out of that
room about as fast as I could.
When I got back to the employee lounge, J.D. looked
over the edge of his newspaper and then at his wrist
watch.
"Well?"
"She sure talks a lot," I said.
"All women talk a lot. I meant, what do you think
about her?"
"She has a pretty voice."
"She's sexier than hell," said J.D. "And her
breasts
are phenomenal. You asked her for a date?"
"No."
I was shocked that he'd seen her breasts.
"Go back up there and ask to see her again."
"I can't just do that."
"The hell you can't."
"She wants to ride in the ambulance one night."
"Well, at least that's something," he said.
Satisfied, he poked his head back into his newspaper.
"I told her there might be a regulation against it."
"Bat guano with all regulations," snarled J.D. "Of
course, she can ride in the ambulance. Go back up and
tell her."
"Well...."
"March!" he said. "And take this with you."
He tossed me a box of candy from beside him on the
couch.
"When did you get this?"
"Drug store a few minutes ago."
"I can't just give her this."
"Sure you can. That's what girls are for...getting
candy. Keeps the candy businesses in business."
It was only a small box of candy. I felt a bit
foolish about it.
"It's pretty small," I said.
"However," said J.D., "the idea is a big one.
Didn't
you like her?"
"I don't have any reason to give her candy," I said.
"Sure you do. She's a girl. That's reason enough."
I sat down in the easy chair. It wasn't all that easy
and it certainly wasn't comfortable, but it faced the
television set and a movie with Ronald Reagan was on.
I couldn't remember the name of the movie, but I
thought it was the one where he got up on the wrong
side of the horse.
"This is a good movie," I said.
"It is not. He never made a good movie. It was in
his contract. He could only make bad movies. Anyway,
I told you to get back upstairs. And I meant it."
I shook my head.
"It just doesn't pay," I said.
"What doesn't pay?"
"You know. I'm worried about...about my problem."
"You? You don't have any problem, you big baby. So
you get a little nuts once a month when the moon comes
out. That's no problem."
"I've tried staying inside, J.D. Doesn't work all
that well. I can feel the moon. You know?"
"So the moon comes out. You're out of town on
business those couple of days. Big deal. Anyway, I'm
not suggesting you marry her. If she has any sense at
all, she won't even like you." He shrugged his
shoulders. His voice lost some of its characteristic
squeaky flavor. "Just ask her for a date. Take her
out to a movie. Or whatever young people do these
days."
Reagan petted his horse on the neck in the movie on
television. Then he walked around the horse and
climbed up on the correct side.
"Must have been a different movie I was thinking
about," I said.
"What?"
"He gets up on the wrong side of the horse in one of
his movies."
"Bat guano!" J.D. said. "We were talking about
women.
Get your dog-goned ass upstairs and give her the
candy!"
He almost laughed. It was more like a little
squeak-squeak. I heard Braun, the big boss, laugh
once. It was a hard rasp and almost hurt my ears.
J.D.'s laugh, though it wasn't really a laugh, of
course, sounded more like he had something struck in
his throat.
"This is not a funny situation," I pointed out.
"I just made a joke," he said.
"The joke wasn't funny either," I said.
"Little you know. That's your major problem. Too
damned young to know anything."
He lapsed into silence behind his newspaper.
"I'll go upstairs," I said finally.
"About time," he said without looking up.
"I'll tell her the candy is from you."
"You do that and I will pay you a visit one night."
"You wouldn't!"
"Why not?"
"I'm a friend."
"What difference would that make? People like me, we
think we're doing you a big favor. We don't have
friends anyway."
"I've got mirrors everywhere," I said, just to let him
know.
"Mirrors never mattered. A folk tale."
"And a cross ornament on the wall."
He shrugged.
"And I keep garlic around."
"I know," he said.
"You know about the garlic?"
He shrugged again as if a mere shrug answered
everything. Then added: "I hate garlic. I wish
you
wouldn't eat that stuff. Sometimes I can smell it on
your breath."
"Oh. For a moment, I thought you'd...you know."
"Not yet. But if you don't get upstairs...."
"I'm going." I got up and drifted toward the door,
the box of candy in my hand. "Did you really look at
her breasts?"
J.D. glared at me above his newspaper for a long
moment.
"No," he said.
For some reason, I felt a great weight lift from my
shoulders. I don't know why. I didn't even know the
girl. Not really.
I was still thinking about her breasts as I came back
into the hospital room. She had the sheet pulled up
tight about her shoulders, but anyone in his right
mind could tell she had marvelous breasts. I guess
that's how J.D. knew about them.
The problem with J.D. is that you can never tell. If
he had a good friend, I guess it was me and I guess I
didn't even know him very well. He was hard to know.
And even more difficult to figure out.
It was as if I'd never left her room. She probably
hadn't even stopped talking. And she knew
instinctively that the candy was for her so I didn't
even have to say anything about it.
"Ethel M Chocolates!" she said, taking them from my
hand. "How nice. I really like them, although, to be
perfectly honest, I'm afraid to eat too many of them
for fear I might get drunk. They have tons of alcohol
in them. Did you know that? And quite a few
calories."
"No," I said. "I didn't know about the alcohol.
I'm
sorry."
"Why be sorry? These are absolutely the best
chocolates in the world and they're made right here in
Las Vegas. Did you know that?"
I was beginning to realize that I didn't know a lot of
things and I was feeling a little embarrassed about
it.
"No. Here in Las Vegas?"
"I've been in the factory. They have tours," she
said. "Would you like to me to take you on a tour of
the factory one day?" She must have thought I nodded,
because she continued talking. "Of course, I'd much
rather tour something like Red Rock because Ethel M
means calories plus and Red Rock means exercise. I
could take you there instead. If and when I get
another car. I suppose my car was wrecked pretty bad,
wasn't it."
This time, I did nod.
Her hand immediately went to her mouth and covered it
in a half-playful gesture.
She became quiet. And seemed a little passive, as if
I might have hurt her feelings although I certainly
hadn't intended anything like that.
Then, "I talk too much, don't I?"
"A little," I said hesitantly.
"I know. Everybody says I talk too much."
"It's okay," I said. "Because I don't talk much at
all."
"Good. Because I can do enough talking for the both
of us."
"Sounds okay to me," I said.
"Then I can ride in the ambulance?"
"I checked it out with J.D. He said he didn't know
anything about any regulation against it."
"Good."
"And I like the idea of Red Rock," I said. "I've
never been to Red Rock."
"Never? It's just to the west of town and it's
absolutely one of the most beautiful places in the
world."
"I guess I don't get around much."
"An ambulance driver who doesn't get around much. You
are a funny one, Chuck."
"I guess I am," I said.
(to be continued)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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Commentary
by
Claude Hall
November
3, 2003
I cannot remember them all. And anyway,
the girls had
married names that I heard, but forgot. To me, they
still looked much too young to be associating with us
old people and I swear most looked as if they had not
gained a pound nor a single gray hair since
cheerleader days for the Winters High School Blizzards
or when they performed in the high school play or just
winked at the boys. Helen Howard, way back when, was
named most representative girl in high school and she
still is. Her effervescent personality filled the
room; she knew everyone and made everyone feel special
on Friday, Oct. 22, 2003. That girl should have been
in politics or CEO of some worldwide corporation.
Who was the nice girl that sat across from me at a
table? Koleta Glover? She probably introduced
herself and I, king of misplaced names, messed up once
again. My apologies, quite humble, to all those I
didn't remember and, in fact, truthfully and sadly
don't remember now, but 50-plus years is a long time
and you and I traveled many a different mile over
those years...often strange roads in my case. (Whups.
Just found out that was Mary Kurtz across from me;
poor Koleta died several years ago of cancer,
according to Robert Davis, and that leaves me to
wonder why you and I survived and friends fell.)
I had a very pleasant conversation with Roy Rice
(Royrice@gte.net), a fellow
journalist Friday evening.
Nice guy. But everyone seemed to be darned good
people. And "nice" is not the word I wish to
use, but
if I said "superlative" someone would more than likely
remark that this wasn't the Rice they knew. Garner
Young, to be frank, is the kind of person you wish had
lived next door all of your life. He, too, would rank
among the superlative. Rice told me that Winters--as
well as several other little towns--has its own radio
station now; the studio is in Abilene 41 miles away.
My brother Buddy (buddyhall@sbcglobal.net)
and I drove
up Thursday from Houston the night before the reunion
of the Class of 1953 of Winters High School. We
twisted through the fabled Hill Country, dodging
prickly pear cactus that seemed to be devouring the
hills. The old Brady power plant with its battleship
gray floors that I crawled before I could walk is
gone. The Brady Creek, like the town named after a
mapmaker who mistakenly thought it was the Colorado,
is dry (the town's first name was Brady's Mistake).
Buddy and I swam, usually sans attire, above the
little dam circa 1939-41. No one swims there now.
And I mourn the missing pecan trees that once donned
the banks of that then tepid creek.
We stayed in Ballinger Thursday night and had coffee
with Max Wolverton and his wife Shirley the next
morning. Billy Joe Buchanan (bbuchanan@bwoodtx.com)
said later that Max was the most gifted athlete he'd
ever met. I agree. I told Max over coffee that I'd
spun tall tales about his basketball abilities for 30
years, but I didn't tell those tales anymore because
every kid could do those things these days on a
basketball court. In 1950, Max, then quite unique,
could run across the court, jump into the air and do a
360, catch a pass about the free-throw lane, and score
a basket before landing. And I will never forget the
night he busted a basketball game in San Angelo
asunder by hitting the first four baskets. All from
center court. Heck, even the kids of today can't do
that! LeBron James, Jason Kidd eat your heart out! I
was telling this story to Garner Young
(gyoung@web-access.net)
during the reunion and he
said, "Claude, I was on that team and still remember
it." If Garner remembers it, then I haven't been
lying for 50 years and that's sort of nice to know.
At 71 years of age, I sometimes remember lies better
than the truth. You might say that I'm presently
meandering through my Ben-Gay years.
Buddy and I ate Thursday at the Lowake Steak House
west of Ballinger--steaks so huge you don't ask for a
doggie bag if you've got leftovers (and you will), you
ask for a little red wagon.
Friday, Buddy and I left Max after a couple of hours
of coffee (Max, incidentally, worked on the drilling
crew that dug atomic bomb test holes at Yucca Flats,
Nevada) and drove over to Winters early and drove
around. A couple of places where we lived are now
grassy lots. The C. L. Green Feed Mill where I worked
for a year after graduating from high school in 1951
is now something else and I'll be frank: I do not miss
that feed mill. The power plant that was once managed
by my father, Johnny Jefferson "Red" Hall, is dark.
The movie theater is now something else and the
grocery store where Buddy sacked groceries Saturdays
while attending high school is something else.
Bradshaw? Crews? Gone. As are several
"towns" in
the area. Wingate hangs on, but not with gusto.
Plowed land suitable for cotton goes at $400 an acre;
land with mesquites suitable for deer hunting goes for
up to $800 an acre.
Texas writer Joe Nick Patowski (joenickp@yahoo.com)
in
a recent email had mentioned the Shed. I picked up
the Agriplex Flyer while Buddy was buying a couple of
Blizzard jerseys for his grand children in
Heidenheimers and there was an ad about the Shed. So,
Buddy and I drove out on the other side of Wingate and
finally found it in the cotton fields, but it wasn't
open. You can imagine my surprise the next day when
Hollis Dean, the owner of the Shed, and his crew
showed up to provide us with a barbecue lunch at
Winters High School. I told Hollis about Joe and that
also rated me a special sandwich with barbecue,
jalapenas, and sauce prepared by Hollis himself.
Phe-nom-e-nal! Buddy said something about giving me
his old pickup next year if his current endeavors go
well and if he does I'm taking Barbara and we're
driving from here (Las Vegas) to the Shed for dinner.
Guarantee you!
Among the charming ladies and sage varmints there
Friday evening at the reunion and the next day were
Ouida Lewis, Barbara Minzermayer, Archie and Minor
Nelson (Minor is a retired air force colonel), Suvern
O'Dell (Smodell2@aol.com),
Richard Pullin, Robert
Davis (davis.cr206@juno.com),
Quentin Stanley, Ketta
London (Nonniecase@aol.com),
Benny Mayo
(sbmayo1ps@ont.com), Nita
McLeroy, Betty Mapes
(mzbette@aol.com), Jean
Parramore, Bobby Holland
(maz83@aol.com), Buck
Buchanan who now lives in
Brownwood, Garner Young, Roy Rice, Dalvin Awalt, Benny
Colburn (bcolburn@abi.tconline.net),
Jerry Dobbins
(jldobbins@comcast.net),
and Wendell Dorsett
(Wndorsett@aol.com).
But the room was crowded and
although I made an attempt to shake a few hands I
missed a hell of a lot of fingernails. Just wish I
could have been more pleasant, more gregarious; guess
I should take lessons from Helen Howard Smyth.
Ruenell, who had been married to Dennis Poe, a former
mayor of Winters, and had since remarried after his
death, was there; I believe she'd driven over from San
Angelo. Ketta London told me David Casey said to say
hi.
Friday evening, most of us went to see the Blizzards
play San Saba. The Blizzards got beat, but I recall
other games that we won. I was the water boy for the
Blizzards the game that Wayne Badgett
(c_badgett@hotmail.com)
scored four touchdowns in the
first half and the coach, Gordon Woods (yes, the
now-legendary Gordon Woods), jerked him out of the
game just so the other team would have a chance. Was
that really 54 years ago?
Loved the CD. Don't know where the music came from,
but it was acoustically superb. Tasteful selections,
too. Free, too.
Saturday morning, Buddy and I attended the class
meeting. Garner Young mentioned that donations were
needed to pay for the next reunion and my brother
Buddy dropped a thousand dollars in the hat. Then
that great barbecue lunch catered by the Shed. Then
Buddy and I headed back to Houston. And a day later,
my wife Barbara (who'd been helping Buddy's wife
Maudell spend Buddy's money) and I took a plane back
to Las Vegas.
OTHER MATTERS
Richard Ralston, dickralston@yahoo.com:
"Just
finished your book online and am impressed with your
writing skills. Good to read your thoughts again,
since I was an avid Vox Jox reader for many years.
But, the reason for this message is your book, 'This
Business of Radio Programming'. You sent me a comp
copy when I was a station manager at Oklahoma State
back in the 70s. Shared many stories with the
students at the time. Now, I find out you sent that
copy to me out of the goodness of your heart at your
own expense. So, I owe you for whatever the price of
the book is or was worth. Still have my copy. Email
me an address and I'll send you a check. If it wasn't
for a 40-year-radio career and bar-b-que at Coopers in
Llano recently I might not be so sentimental. Thanks."
The truth is that I was hoping to get the radio book
adopted by several universities as a textbook.
Textbooks make fortunes! I emailed Richard that
"We're even. Always were. Always will be.
The fact
that you got the book, read it, shared it is
everything that I could possibly wish. Are you still
in the Stillwater area? Ever run across the name
Harry Heath? I earned my master's at Phillips in
Enid, now dark. Bill Randle persuaded me to come
there, do PR, teach, study. From there, I taught at
the State University of New York at Brockport for
quite a few years. Now retired in Las Vegas.
Coopers, eh? I might be passing through Llano in a
couple of days. My Texas swan song, I think. Good to
hear from you. Thanks. Would like to know about your
career for my website."
Richard came back with: "Yes, I know Harry Heath.
Print ink runs deep in his blood. He created quite a
stink in the late 70s at OSU when the state broadcast
association voted to split the print and broadcast
programs. Education is more political than I ever
imagined, even though I was warned before I accepted a
job there. The station I managed is now gone. The
program kaput. But there are some damn good
broadcasters still out there doing real radio. Steve
Goddard in Phoenix, Gary Reynolds at KMEO/Dallas, John
Durkee/KRMG/Tulsa, Dennis Ray (Yelton)/Lawton, OK.
And so many sales executives I forget the names. I've
worked with Lee Bayley, Les Garland, Paul Berlin, Hal
(Moore), Charlie (Martin), Danny Davis and Paxton
Mills. Once competed with Eddy Payne (Jimmy Rabbitt).
I think he won. And, I've been fired by Paul Drew.
Never had a mentor, but Dick Schmitz in Tulsa and
George Basil (Scooter) Segraves in Lafayette, LA, were
always there to listen. I'm now retired, living in
Colorado. Been here for almost 25 years. Carrying on
an internet relationship with a high school classmate
who lives in Northern California who only knows how to
turn on or off a radio. But, life goes on. Peace, my
friend."
Carson Schreiber, carsonschreiber@socal.rr.com,
sent
me a note with a few fire photos taken from his
Chatsworth home in the San Fernando Valley of Los
Angeles. "It's so beautiful and so calm, how can
anything be wrong, let alone a major catastrophe? I
can't believe how high the smoke clouds are."
I was really surprised to hear from Reggie Lavong via,
evidently, the link that Larry Shannon provides in
Radio Daily News. Last I saw of him, he was
introducing a major rock group on stage at the Plaza
Hotel in New York City during a radio programming
conference. Reggie had, without question, one of the
greatest voices in radio. During his hayday, he was a
major radio personality in Philadelphia. He was a
radio god. I'm flattered that he remembers me.
Reggie Lavong, Gnoval@aol.com:
"Saw your book on
line. Just thought I'd say hi and how are you. Hope
things are going well. Please email me."
Gaffney, Karin, Karin_Gaffney@URMC.Rochester.edu:
"I'm sure you don't remember me, but I found your
website and had to email. You were my first
journalism professor at Brockport. I took my first
class with you in the fall of 1987 and was hooked. I
became a journalist, working after graduation at Wolfe
Community Newspapers in Rochester for a few years,
then moving on to a daily in Portsmouth, NH, and a
daily in Watertown, NY. I am back in Rochester now,
working at the University of Rochester Medical Center
in PR. I also am a children's writer. I'm thoroughly
enjoying your website. Hope you are well."
I wrote Karin, who has a website of her own at
www.karinwrites.com,
that I was grateful for her
letter because it's sort of nice to know when you've
done a little good along the way. I've always
tried--and enjoyed being around people who also
tried--but sometimes you just never know about the
results.
Jerry Boulding, RadioDr1@aol.com,
regarding the first
chapter of "Hurt": "Very good. I
thoroughly enjoyed
it. You are a gifted writer and a good friend. Keep
'em coming."
Turns out my son Darryl also likes "Hurt." It's
a sly
fantasy, of course, meaning that there are some "cute"
things about it that lifts it from the realm of horror
and makes it more pleasant to read. The major problem
with writing is that you seldom know whether you've
achieved your purpose or not. As the writer, you
probably like your creative effort much better than
those reading it.
Claude Hall
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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