Then Like the Blind Man: Orbie's Story

Начало книги

That having been said, two memories served as starting points for a short story I wrote that eventually became this novel. One was of my Kentucky grandmother as she emerged from a shed with a white chicken held upside down in one of her strong bony hands. I, a boy of nine and a “city slicker” from Detroit, looked on in wonderment and horror as she summarily wrung the poor creature’s neck. It ran about the yard frantically, yes incredibly, as if trying to locate something it had misplaced as if the known world could be set right again, recreated, if only that one thing could be found. And then of course it died. The second memory was of lantern light reflected off stones that lay on either side of a path to a storm cellar my grandparents and I were headed for one stormy night beneath a tornado’s approaching din. There was wonderment there too, along with a vast and looming sense of impending doom. For these and many others of my childhood memories I must thank my grandparents. Had I not been exposed to their homespun, wizened and sometimes carping ways I would not have been able to begin my short story much less this novel. The same goes for my dear, good-hearted parents who survived the bad times to enjoy the good.

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