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Northern Michigan University NMU Commons All NMU Master's Theses Student Works 2011 Long Walk on a Strange Road Thomas E. Rich Northern Michigan University Follow this and additional works at: https://commons.nmu.edu/theses Recommended Citation Rich, Thomas E., "Long Walk on a Strange Road" (2011). All NMU Master's Theses. 491. https://commons.nmu.edu/theses/491 This Open Access is brought to you for free and open access by the Student Works at NMU Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in All NMU Master's Theses by an authorized administrator of NMU Commons. For more information, please contact [email protected],[email protected]. LONG WALK ON A STRANGE ROAD By Thomas E. Rich THESIS Submitted to Northern Michigan University In partial fulfillment of the requirements For the degree of Master of Arts Graduate Studies Office 2011 SIGNATURE APPROVAL FORM This thesis by Thomas E. Rich is recommended for approval by the student’s thesis committee in the Department of English and by the Dean of Graduate Studies. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Committee Chair: Jennifer Howard, MFA Date ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- First Reader: Sandra Burr, Ph.D Date ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Second Reader: N/A Date ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Department Head: Raymond J. Ventre, Ph.D Date ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Associate Provost and Dean of Graduate Studies: Date Terrence Seethoff, Ph.D OLSON LIBRARY NORTHERN MICHIGAN UNIVERSITY THESIS DATA FORM In order to catalog your thesis properly and enter a record in the OCLC international bibliographic data base, Olson Library must have the following requested information to distinguish you from others with the same or similar names and to provide appropriate subject access for other researchers. Thomas E. Rich August 25, 1986 ABSTRACT LONG WALK ON A STRANGE ROAD By Thomas E. Rich Long Walk on a Strange Road is a collection of stories. In them, isolated characters contend with the immediate challenges of their environments. In the absence of other human beings—and, in some cases, any life at all—they are, paradoxically, more attuned to the rest of humanity than ever before; their personal contexts take on as much reality as the curious paths on which they walk. We are, after all, social creatures; take that away from us, and we recreate it. i Copyright by Thomas E. Rich 2011 ii DEDICATION To Elise, the strangest and most splendid find on my own long walk. iii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS For unwavering support, optimism, and advice, my thesis director, Jen Howard. For unwavering support in other projects, thereby enabling this one, Ray Ventre, Laura Soldner, and Lesley Larkin. For camaraderie, encouragement, and feedback, the members of the NMU Creative Writers’ Club. For commiseration, fellowship, and good cheer, my fellow graduate students. For all of the rest—and begging pardon for the omission—all of those dear people not listed here. This thesis follows the format prescribed by the MLA Style Manual and the Department of English. iv TABLE OF CONTENTS Introduction……………………………………….……………………………………….1 The World Ends; Time Passes...……….………………………………………………….3 A Cruel and Stupid Lizard…………...……………………………….…………………...9 Go Down, You Gray-Eyed Horses………………………………………………………19 Captain Montain’s War…………………………………………………………………..34 Bibliography……………………………………………………………………………..57 Appendix A: The Heroic Age……………………………………………………………58 v INTRODUCTION The thing that I like best about being a writer is that not only can you get away with telling fantastic lies, but everyone sort of expects you to. I refer not only to the delightful lie of a well-told story, but also to the more mundane lies we tell one another about what and when we intend to write. For example, I remember going down to Jen Howard’s office and telling her, with a straight face, that I planned to have most of the writing done by the end of summer 2010, so that I could spend the school year revising. “That’s a great idea,” she said. “Sure you will,” said her expression. “But seriously. I’ll see a first draft in, what, February?” Which is more or less exactly how it wound up happening. Looking back at my thesis proposal I find a great deal more misinformation. For instance, I wrote that “somewhere between eight and twelve” short stories would be written: I completed four. I managed to completely fail to vary my point of view and entirely evade describing “groups of characters cut off from a broader civilization.” Some variety crept in with the ages and genders of my protagonists, but overall these stories do not constitute a survey of isolation. They’re four ways of approaching the same theme: “the relationship between solitude and memory, between the collective world that came before the character was isolated and the singular world that comes after.” Continually, I find that the more isolated I am, the more the rest of the world intrudes. During my time at Northern I’ve spent a lot of time walking alone, either roaming the streets of Marquette after dark or climbing Hogsback and Sugarloaf. I’ve spent a good deal of time watching storms down at Picnic Rocks. I wonder what other 1 people are doing, what they would say if they were around, if they wonder when I’ll be back. Memories come back more vividly than they ever do in a crowded room and I imagine my way through lengthy, rambling conversations. I am, of course, an incredible narcissist. Out of those walks, though, grew a sense that we commune best with the rest of our species when we have them at an arm’s length, that when we’re alone—sitting on a cold shore in a storm, walking along an empty street after midnight, standing by a little stream deep in the woods—our personal contexts, memories, and experiences rise up and become as real as the physical world around us, to the point that sometimes we remember the imagined or remembered events more than the walk itself. In the end, it wasn’t the technical decisions or proposed thematic concerns that mattered; the stories had already written themselves, one step at time. 2 The World Ends; Time Passes There were two of them, a man and a woman, standing on a dirt path somewhere in Idaho, facing one another, unspeaking. All that remained of the old world were those few who roamed in little tribes that aped the vanished in their laws and chants and fierce songs. But they were few and dwindling, and most of the people who still walked the earth did so in solitude, all but bereft of words. Somewhere on an Idaho backroad he spotted her, and he only managed to separate her from the rest of it—the rest of the mass of wordless things, indistinguishable one from another, even motion and immobility becoming the same—because she was running. Like him. She came out of the trees on one side of the road, descending the embankment with light ease, landing on the ball of one foot and pushing off even as she landed, bounding lightly across the road to leap the other embankment and disappear again. A quick flicker of long legs, a swirl of hair. Gone. What else could he do? He followed. The last words she had were an Australian by a campfire slowly playing an old wooden guitar and singing the same chorus time and again—darling, darling stand by me, oh won’t you stand by me—slow and monotonous, without tune or pitch, his eyes closed, the firelight grabbing at his fingernails on each downstroke and making them sparks, the stars high up above them and the circle of light and the dark around it and the cattle station around that and the ocean and world around that even. Just the Australian 3 man in a workshirt with a hole worn in the right cuff and the buttons undone to show the clean white of the undershirt, the whole of him perched on a cut ring of log somewhere out in all of that land, singing slow and soft—darling, darling stand by me, oh won’t you stand by me—a monk at prayer, a mendicant in her wilderness, a light and a face and the words that framed them all and made them into a memory. There were other images, an infinitude, but they had lost their words and she could no longer make sense of them. All day, every day, endlessly she thought of them, or experienced them, but if there was another man or guitar or Australia she didn’t know it; save that long-gone singer, her images had lost one another, like pieces of a puzzle taken to different rooms. Some key strand had broken, and bit by bit the web of connection and implication, synonymy and similarity, logical chain and random linkage had unraveled. But for the Australian she had the words; he, she knew, was a memory as all of the other images may or may not have been. When the broken web became too much, she clung to him, knowing he was an Australian man holding a guitar in his hands and sitting on a log and singing and wearing a shirt. The words worked in that context. Other things that happened to her couldn’t latch to one another, couldn’t set themselves in opposition and become real. They happened around her or maybe they happened in her mind— racing down a wooded path, screaming into the sky, eating a thousand different meals— she couldn’t tell anymore. But she knew that the Australian had happened in the past, when there had been others, when she could look around and order things and connect them. 4 Once, after the words had been lost, she had bent down to drink from a still pond and seen a face looking back at her.

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