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A while back, we invited listeners to send us a short story or a poem about their homes for a feature called "Stories from Home." We're resurrecting this feature, but we're calling it "First Person" a place for you to give us your stories, poems, or short fiction. So far it's been a resounding success with entries from all over the country—and beyond. Frankly, we're a bit overwhelmed. Be patient with us as we continue to post the best of the bunch.  Interstate 10 Exit 140 By Gloria Sanders (06/26/08) The homeless wait here for a ride. I am a frequent observer. FRIDAY P.M. The man is sitting in a wheelchair behind the steel barricade. Another man is with him. As I drive by, I muse how a man in a wheelchair came to be there. SATURDAY P.M. The man is waiting in the same place. No companion, I note. SUNDAY NOON The man is sitting in the same place, doesn't look as if he has moved since I last saw him. There is a jolt in my belly and I wonder if he is dead. It is worrisome. I call the Gospel Mission for advice and a nice man tells me that the Mission opens at 5 P.M. and they can give him a bed and a meal. If I am concerned about his welfare, I can call the police. I do. The officer is damningly polite. "Is the man inebriated or causing a disturbance? It's not against the law to sit at the side of the road." Stupid, stupid. I had failed to assess the man's condition, had sought to shift responsibility. I drive back to the exit, make a legal U turn, park on the shoulder. The man is hunkered against the wind, wearing a heavy jacket, an overall, substantial boots, and a cap drawn over his ears. An upturned black plastic bucket holds a large plastic mug at hand. His eyes are closed and I lean near him and ask, "Are you OK?" He starts a bit and speaks, "Oh, yes, I am a tough nut, tough as the earth..." Read more...  East-West Moon By Michele Wick (06/26/08) The moon is a sliver of shadow and shimmer hung on a black velvet sky. From its zenith it peers o'er a welter of tears for the soldiers whose days have gone by. The mothers they cry for their babies have died and the fathers heave dry as a stone. The brothers lament, while their sisters are spent of the laughter they once called their own... Yellow ribbons wrap trees from the plains to the seas but the oaks whisper lingering doubt. Why did we go? Who else will lay low? And how will we ever get out? As the moon fades to gray, and veils our dismay, it ascends in a far eastern sky. From its zenith it peers o'er a welter of tears for the soldiers whose days have gone by. Read more... | | | |
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