Apparently, it's a very weak signal.

 

Some years back I worked at San Dieguito Hospital.  My job was to help prepare the meals, deliver to the rooms and clean the dishes afterwards.

I did this job while also attending college.  None of this, however, kept me from writing.  No matter what I’ve done in life, I have always written.

I tell you this to explain the following adventure.  On every dinner tray there was a paper placemat, then the dishes, silverware, etc.  On the back side of the placemat, I would write a short story or a silly poem.

One day I discovered that a girl in room 918 was writing back to me on the same placemat.  She explained that she was assigned to The Cracker’s Ward.  That was the psychiatric section of the hospital.  None of the hospital staff called it that, just the residents.  She went on to explain that they thought she was crazy.  She never said why.

We wrote back and forth right up until I left that job for a higher paying one.  I never met her and have no idea what ever happened to her.  I simply enjoyed having someone write back.  It gave a little deeper meaning to my job and gave me something to look forward to.

Several years later, I took a job as a machinist.  I operated a milling machine, making parts for something, I have no idea what.  The thing is two machines from mine was another writer.  Once we discovered that, we would take turns writing something, then tossing it over for the other to read, then he or I would add to it and toss it back.  It was fun and made the day pass a little faster.  We ended up staying friends, even though we each ended up several states away from each other. 

He died this year, and although I will miss him, I will always hold tight to the memories of us tossing our notes back and forth, hoping the boss never caught us.

Unlike baseball or golf, writing is a solitary adventure and when I come across another like soul, someone who shares my passion for words I can’t help but quietly rejoice in the friendship.

This Blog is like an antenna, sending out my message, hopeful someone out there sees it and writes back.  I understand that it may be me, sitting here in The Cracker’s Ward, but I have to try.

 

 

Z. Corwin