Stanley's Heart
 

“Stanley’s Heart”


The frigid South Dakota wind sliced through Stanley Gardener’s weathered cheeks with little mercy as he closed the rickety wooden shed door and headed towards the house, the frozen earth crunching under his boots. Under his flannel-covered left arm was a large piece of wood that he had been saving for this special occasion.

The sun reflected haphazardly off of the icy ground, momentarily blinding him along his path. The thermometer read in the low thirties at noon, which was downright tropical, compared to how it would feel when the sun stepped aside for the moon and the wind chill kicked up with a vengeance. No matter. By then, he would be sleeping soundly next to his wife of 47 years, warm as a bug in a rug with not a care in the world.

In the meantime, he had one important task left for today, a handmade gift to create. From this gnarled ugly wood, he would carve a special wooden heart, then present it to his wife after dinner as a token of his continued love and devotion to her. Perhaps it wasn’t much of a gift and certainly she deserved better. A fine silk dress, perhaps, or maybe a fox coat to keep her warm. Unfortunately, his meager funds dictated otherwise. And besides, he knew she would understand.

She always understood.

And so, with the sharpest knife at his disposal, gripped firmly within his chapped hands, he sat on the back porch and dug deeply into the wood, determined to remove each and every part from it that wasn’t a heart. These were the words of advise his father had given him many years ago when he was first learning to work with wood. “Remove all the parts that don’t belong until all that is left is what is supposed to be”, his father had said. Stanley had passed the same words of wisdom down to his own children. Someday, he hoped that they would be sitting on this very porch passing them down to their own kids.

Occasionally, Stanley would stop to take a hearty swig of whisky, to steady himself and help warm his soul. Truth be told, it would have been far more comfortable to do this work in front of the wood burning stove but then he would miss the favorite part of his day, not to mention the mess he would make in the living room. Lydia certainly wouldn’t approve of having her favorite area of the house turned into a woodworking shop, even for a gift as special as this.

No, as he did each and every day, he would watch the sun as it began its slow descent under the horizon, blanketing his beloved farm, the one that had fed his family for the better part of 70 years, into darkness. It was like watching God paint a masterpiece in front of your eyes. Missing the sunset meant you didn’t care; that you took such beauty for granted. Stanley took nothing for granted.

As he whittled away, he couldn’t help but ponder why someone as amazing as Lydia had chosen someone like him to spend her life with. Unlike her, he could barely make his way through the simplest of books and didn’t have an ounce of good looks to make up for it. All he had going for him was the strength (and looks, as it were) of a grizzly bear, coupled with a profound devotion to his family. Somehow, that was enough for her. Thank God that was enough for her.

As the carving took shape, and the whiskey bottle grew empty, he held up his creation, brushing off the excess chips of wood. The edges could have been smoother and it wasn’t perfect, by any means, but she would still love it because it came from his very own hands.

He could relate. The peaches that he had eaten this morning were especially sweet, juicy and flavorful, simply because they had been canned by Lydia’s loving hands. In fact, when he was done with her present, he decided that he would finish the jar he had opened earlier and savor every bite as if it were his last.

As the trees along the desolate farmland danced back and forth in a mock waltz, and the last remnants of the brief winter light gave way to the long and bitter cold of evening, Stanley finished up by carving a short and simple message into the wooden heart.

“My heart is yours”, it said.

Stanley smiled and finished off the last swig of whiskey, his legs feeling a bit shaky from the effects. Overall however, he felt better than he had in years, maybe even a few years younger. Entering through the back door of the farmhouse, he placed the heart on the kitchen table, took his time finishing up the jar of peaches, and then headed upstairs to the bedroom. Opening the closet, he grabbed two of the softest quilts he could find, ones made by the same loving hands that had canned the peaches. They would be perfect to share with Lydia tonight. He wandered back through the kitchen, quilts under his arm, grabbed his last bottle of whisky and the gift he had made, and headed back out the way he came.

He carefully spread the blankets out on the frozen ground and in the solitude of this winter’s eve, laid down upon them, cradling the wooden heart close to his own. He drank as much whiskey as he could muster and unbuttoned his flannel shirt.

“It really isn’t that cold tonight”, he decided, knowing that, if he were lucky, a feeling of profound warmth would soon spread throughout his blue-tinted skin, aged from three years of misery that seemed like eternity.

Gently kissing the carved wooden heart, he said aloud “Happy Valentine’s Day, my dearest Lydia. We’ll be together soon”. Smiling, he reclined next to the snow-covered tombstone and gently drifted off silently into the frozen Dakota night.

wow

Um, MBC- are we really supposed to see suicide as romantic?

It worked for Christopher Marlowe.

And Shakespeare.

It's funny but I had to try to read beyond the ninth word three times because the first two times I got mentally sidetracked with thinking about Perry Mason and how much I miss that show and then about being babysat by my great-grandmother as a kid because that is where I watched the show (every day, at noon, on channel 12 through my entire childhood).

I was alluding (poorly apparently) to the continuing theories that Marlowe (or Edward De Vere, or Bacon or...) was the actual author of Shakespeare's work.

I guess I don't find it romantic- IMO.

Sorry, I didn't actually give any thought to the meaning of your example, GD. That should have been apparent to me.

Nephythys, I don't think suicide is often ever considered romantic in real life, but it is often is artistically as an active expression of the way we feel.

In a similar vein, is it romantic when one person in an old couple dies and the other goes into a tailspin and dies shortly afterwards?

Anything can be romantic if it is well written - which this story accomplishes quite well. That's the beauty of our language, the fickelness of emotion and the openess of the human heart. Good work MBC.

In "The Notebook" yes.

IRL- no.

I don't love the story. I do like that you showed your readers the emotion and didn't tell your readers the emotion.

I'd probably think about suicide if I lived in South Dakota, too.

And to be honest, I'm not sure how I feel about it either. I wrote it simply to write, something I'm trying to do as much as possible these days. And when I find something that I don't consider absolutely awful (which is somewhat rare), I like to share it in the hopes that I'll get some feedback. This certainly didn't disappoint in that respect, and I appreciate the comments, both good and bad. If I didn't want any criticism, I wouldn't have posted it.

Without going into too much detail about why I wrote what I did, I will comment that I don't happen to find suicide all that romantic either, and have pretty strong feelings against it. The character in the story, however, saw things differently.

I have to add to the chorus and ask you directly - Do you really think that no one finds Romeo and Juliet romantic? Heart-breakingly so, of course, but still romantic?

How is this more real life than "The Notebook"?

I suppose you also hate West Side Story?

I think she was talking specifically about the old people dying together idea, not the suicide one (which she may not find romantic either in fiction or real life). Nobody commits suicide in The Notebook.

So if it's romantic in The Notebook, why not in MBC's story? Neither are "IRL" -- so, and not to stifle your criticism, but ... huh??

As for myself ... aside from finding it a wee bit treackly and the wording a touch too florid for its own good here and there ... it was a very moving tale evocatively told.


To which I add, quite sincerely ... bravo.

No one committed suicide in the Notebook- they were so in sync with each other that they died together- that was romantic.

I have never thought of Romeo and Juliet as romantic- no matter the version. In fact I find it a study in really bad communications. I did not say no one finds it romantic- but I do not.

I love West Side Story- for the music. The story is also well done, though I will point out no one committed suicide in that movie either.

I respect what MBC said though- he is not enamored of the idea of suicide being romantic either- but sometimes your writing and characters go places you may not normally venture.

What's romantic is the notion that one can't live without the other. I don't look at this story, or Romeo and Juliet, and think, "how romantic that they committed suicide," but rather "how romantic that they love each other so much that one can't live without the other." In reality, this can be extremely NOT romantic (twisted versions end up as murder-suicides). But this is fiction, and one of the things I look to fiction to do is bring forth an emotion.

For this particular story, it's not a new concept, but what I did like was the ambiguity in the man's intent. It's not clear how conscious he is that he *is* committing suicide. And if he's not conscious, is that because of the whiskey or because of toll three lonely years have taken on his mind?

And, to be honest, everything I write goes places I don't normally venture because I'm admittedly very green. I'm just taking little nibbles on various subject matter to see what I can bring out of myself.

In this case, the idea presented itself after a lengthy conversation I had with a dear friend who lost his father a year ago. His mom hasn't been able to come to grips with the loss and tells her son that every night when she goes to sleep, she hopes she doesn't wake up. I watched my father go through his own grieving process which was lengthy and very sad.

I thought about Valentine's Day being one of those holidays (like Mother's Day) that everyone adores until the person you show affection to on those days is no longer here. From that point on, it becomes a day that you dread like the plague.

Lastly, one of the things I've yet to get out of my mind is how happy my roommate seemed on the day he chose to take his life. How sad it would be, feeling so much pain that the prospect of today being your last is what makes you happiest, something to celebrate.

Again, I appreciate everyone's comments.

Hmmm - I thought you were taking on Tracilicious' challenge of the power of Love versus the power of Loss and thought you did a crafty job of piecing the two together

How odd. As a matter of fact, I had pondered her idea numerous times but just wasn't getting anywhere with it. After lots of thought, I put it aside and figured I'd come back to it when I was feeling more creative.

Strange that it seems to have seeped out of my subconscious without my even realizing it.

I liked it, MBC. Thank you.:)

You make it sound like finding suicide romantic is an impossibility for "us", when in fact, the most famous romantic story in the history of the written word includes suicide.

So?

Are we really supposed to see suicide as romantic? I can see how not being able to live without each other is- but not suicide.

I am glad MBC appreciates all feedback- I fail to see why I need to justify not finding it romantic.

If we're talking about "Romeo and Juliet", I must say that my perception of the story has changed from when I was a teen to now as the mom of teen girls. Now, I think the story only proves a kid should obey her parents.

I felt that way about it even when I was a kid, but then even then I didn't have much tolerance for the romantic dramas teenagers create for themselves.

That said, I can see the potential for romance in suicide, though it would always also be tainted by tragedy. The two certainly aren't exclusive of each other.

Picking up on this, Motorboat Cruiser- what if you amplified the tragedy in Stanley's suicide by giving him a grown child and some grandchildren who will find his frozen body? They're back at the farmhouse, maybe. Or a dog! A faithful farm dog that Stanley leaves back in the farmhouse when he goes out to die. As it is, you only have death - winter, old age - and brittle textures - hard wood, crunchy snow. A little contrast, maybe?

Maybe it's personal experience- which of course means we are going to see this through that lense-

I find suicide to be selfish. A man who loves his wife, but is more than willing to abandon the rest of his living family to join her in death is not romantic to me. It's selfish.

It hits a nerve- so that is MY reaction to the piece.

I think all of us perceive things differently because we are bring different experiences to our current state of perception. Writing hits us all at different levels, which is part of it's beauty and fun.

As for justification.....this is a discussion board and therefore we discuss things.

I understand discussion boards-please don't be condescending.

But conversely, I've recently been told by some that demanding justification is not discussion and that it can be an indicator of being a prick.

I agree that suicide is selfish, but that doesn't exclude romantic elements either. Pure altruism doesn't exist and selfishness is found in every action. But then I view suicide as a selfish decision but not one that it inherently an unreasonable decision.

While I think we could discuss this topic further, (but I am disinclined to do so) I'll just say that I generally think it is important to remember the purpose of this board and the the definition and elements of discussion.

I have no idea what to say here. Lot of thoughts.

MBC - Good ideas, not your best but a very good attempt. :snap:

Its a tough subject and, as was said, one that taken differently by each individual. The reactions are "healthy" I think. The subject of suicide in these types of stories, IMHO, is just for playing with the readers emotions. No more than any other emotion put forth in storytelling. Romeo and Juliet is tragic and in thier deaths- irony. Whether that, or MBC's story is "romantic" is up to the reader and how they view it.

I revisited this story today and found a lot (namely, unnecessary adjectives) that bugged me. I tried to clean it up a bit, and if anyone has the time, I would be interested to know if the newer version shows any signs of improvement.

If anyone has an interest in helping out, thanks in advance. :)


“Stanley’s Heart”

The frigid Dakota wind sliced through Stanley Gardener’s cheeks with little mercy as he closed the wooden shed door and headed towards the house, the frozen earth crunching under his boots. Under his flannel-covered left arm was a piece of wood that he had been saving for this special occasion.

The sun reflected off of the icy ground, occasionally blinding him along his path. The thermometer read in the low thirties at noon, which was downright tropical compared to how it would feel when the sun stepped aside and the wind chill kicked up. In the distant sky, a collection of gray clouds hinted that more snow might be expected this evening. It was of no concern - by then he would be sleeping soundly next to his wife of 47 years, warm as a bug in a rug with not a care in the world.

In the meantime, he had but one task left for today, a handmade gift waiting to be created. From the piece of gnarled wood, he would carve a heart and present it to his wife after dinner as a reflection of his love and devotion. Perhaps it wasn’t much of a gift and certainly she deserved better; a fine silk dress, perhaps, or maybe a fox coat to keep her warm. Unfortunately, his meager resources dictated otherwise, and besides, she would understand.

She always understood.

And so, with the sharpest knife in his arsenal, gripped firmly within his chapped hands, he sat on the back porch and dug deeply into the wood, determined to remove each and every part from it that wasn’t a heart.

Occasionally, Stanley would stop to take a hearty swig of whisky, to steady his hands and warm his soul. Truth be told, it would have been more comfortable to do this work in front of the wood-burning stove indoors. That would mean, however, that he would miss the favorite part of his day, not to mention the mess he was likely to make in the living room. Lydia certainly wouldn’t approve of having her favorite room turned into a woodworking shop, even for a gift as special as this.

No, as was his daily routine, he sat and watched the sun begin its slow descent under the horizon and blanket his beloved farm, the one that had fed his family for the better part of 70 years, in a cloak of darkness. He likened it to watching God paint a masterpiece in front of his eyes. To Stanley’s way of thinking, missing a sunset meant that you didn’t care; that you took such displays of beauty for granted. Stanley took nothing for granted.

As he whittled away, he couldn’t help but ponder why someone as wonderful as Lydia had chosen to spend her life with him. Unlike her, he could barely make his way through even the most elementary of books and didn’t have an ounce of good looks to make up for it. All he had going for him was the strength (and looks, as it were) of a grizzly bear, a detailed knowledge of farming, and an uncompromising devotion to his family. Thank God that was enough for her.

As the carving took shape, and the whiskey bottle grew empty, he held up his handiwork, brushing off the excess wood chips. The edges could have been smoother; it wasn’t perfect by any means. Still, she would adore it, for it was his hands that carved it.

He could relate to that feeling, all too well. The peaches that he had eaten this morning were especially sweet and delicious, simply because they had been canned by Lydia’s loving hands. In fact, when he was done with her present, he decided that he would finish the jar he had opened earlier, the only one that had remained on the pantry shelf, and savor every bite as if it were his last.

As the trees along the desolate farmland danced back and forth, swaying to a silent waltz, and the last remnants of light gave way to the long and bitter cold of evening, Stanley finished up by carving a short and simple message into the wooden heart.

“My heart is yours”, it said.

Stanley sighed and finished off the last swig of whiskey, his legs feeling a bit shaky from the effects. Overall, however, he felt better than he had in a long time, maybe even a few years younger. Entering through the back door of the farmhouse, he placed the carved heart on the kitchen table, took his time finishing up the jar of peaches, then headed upstairs to their bedroom. Opening the closet, he grabbed two of the softest quilts he could find, both crafted by the same loving hands that had canned those succulent pieces of fruit.

“These would be perfect to share with Lydia tonight” he decided. Quietly shutting the door behind him, he wandered back downstairs and into the kitchen, both quilts under his arm, grabbed one more bottle of whiskey in his right hand, the gift he had made with the other, and headed back out the way he came.

With a light snow falling around him, he carefully spread the quilts out on the frozen ground. And in the solitude of this winter’s eve, he laid down upon them, cradling the wooden heart close to his own. He drank as much whiskey as he could stomach, set the bottle carelessly aside and spilling what remained, and began to unbutton his flannel shirt.

“It doesn’t seem all that cold tonight”, he concluded. Besides, he knew that if he were lucky, a feeling of profound warmth would soon spread throughout his blue-tinted skin, aged from three years of misery that seemed like an eternity.

Gently kissing the carved wooden heart, he spoke quietly; “Happy Valentine’s Day, Lydia. We’ll be together soon”. And with a trusting smile, he reclined next to the snow-covered tombstone and gently drifted off into the frozen Dakota night.

MBC, were you even trying to romanticise suicide, or is that just a perception that was sort of picked up and ran with? I certainly didn't get that from reading this- I felt badly for the poor guy missing his love.

Nope. :) But it does make for interesting discussion.

And 3894, I'm intrigued by the idea of contrast that you bring up. We'll see what happens when I revisit this story in a few weeks.

This entire discussion gives me plenty of food for thought, which is really what I was looking for. Y'all never disappoint. :)