For a while the stories to be written did and didn't seem autobiogaphical.  Afterall, sometimes all of us girls amounted to one generic female.  And during war times it wasn't safe to tell the stories with any sense of present.  Then too, there were stories better left untold because of the choice of privacy.  

     And, an incredible feeling of inadequecy (sp?).  Between not having "mastered the craft" and some sort of unworthiness in not amounting to the same, there were crippling moments of (i)can't write it(i).

     "Well, they didn't kill each other."  A cooking pot was slowly moved back and forth over the coals.  "What was it like?" 

     "I've not got a metaphor." 

     "Did either of them seem, I don't know, angry?" 

     "It was late midmorning when your man walked up the road but on the edge, in the shadows." 

     "Where was my Dad?" 

     "He'd been folding and unfolding a personal size pizza box and kind of overseeing the morning fire which we kept small because nobody caught a fish.  Though, you know us homebodies, the routine matters more than actually eating sometimes." 

     "Until it doesn't because of work." 

     "Your man only glanced at the fire before asking rather dry-mouthed and stiff-voiced, 'Mr. M., Can I speak with you privately?' 

     "Your Dad carefully put the pizza box in his inside pocket." 

     "My note.  Near his heart." 

     "And he said, 'Alright, okay.'  But then he walked about ten feet away." 

     "What did you do?" 

     "I asked right out loud if I should leave." 

     The edges of the beans started to bubble crispy.  "Your Dad said (i)No(i), and your man said, (i)Yes, leave(i).  To which your Dad tapped on the outside of the pocket and gave an overriding (i)No(i)." 

     "Men." Then a sigh. 

     "Then your Dad rolled up the shirt sleeves that were sticking out of his coat.  And your man asked, 'Mr. M., are you angry?'  He didn't answer at first.  He took a rolled up crossword puzzle out of his back pocket and a pencil from another pocket and wrote something." 

     She rested the cooking beans on the matada.  And unfolded the note.

     (i)I don't want to find it in a trash bag.(i) 

     She passed the note to me as tears fell from her eyes and she didn't wipe them away.

     There had been all sorts of stuff found in the trashbags of what went through the campground as our generation (i)taking a stand(i).  Anything with what had been human life was taken to a special chapel.  There people had been manning a vigil.  And there, too, some different denominations of religion's group representatives were holding meetings in the parking lot to discuss resources and programs.  Late into the night in her travels my own mother stayed at the chapel praying the Rosary.  Her list of intentions and people to pray for had grown to twice its original size on the visit.