Monday, January 6 The Anarchist Cookbook

WELCOME BACK

Words of wisdom for the New Year

Moving on

In class:  We are finishing up the close reading of the Vietnam theme as exemplified in Louise Erdrich's short story "The Red Convertible" and Tim O'Brien's "On the Rainy River" with a recent article written by William Powell, the author of The Anarchist Cookbook.  Class handout / copy below. 

Our goal is to look at how the text is organized and how the author's word choice allows us as readers to look deeper into the text, to see under the surface of the words. This will culminate with a critique of what is written.

We are trying a new type of close reading exercise. Here's how it works: 

1. Silently read the short article.

2. Now we are going to look at how the article is organized. For each of the five paragraphs, write a sentence that explains the main idea the author is making, that is the same as his thesis statement or controlling idea. These should be succinct (brief and to the point)

3. Now with a pen or pencil, reread the text, underlining the four words that you think best express the author's main idea in the article. Yours will unlikely look like your neighbors'.

4. As a class, we'll review these. Be prepared to explain why you chose these. (application)

4. Finally, incorporate those four words in a couple or three well-written sentences that describes how Powell builds his argument that supports the theme / main idea / controlling idea of the article. (standard grammar / punctuation / spelling)  class participation grade. (evaluation)

. 

William Powell

theguardian.com

Forty-four years ago this month, in December 1969, I quit my job as a manager of a bookstore in New York City's Greenwich Village and began to write the Anarchist Cookbook. My motivation at the time was simple; I was being actively pursued by the US military, who seemed single-mindedly determined to send me to fight, and possibly die, in Vietnam.

I wanted to publish something that would express my anger. It seems that I succeeded in ways that far exceeded what I imagined possible at the time. The Cookbook is still in print 40 years after publication, and I am told it has sold in excess of 2 million  copies.

I have never held the copyright, and so the decision to continue publishing it has been in the hands of the publisher.

I now find myself arguing for it to be quickly and quietly taken out of print taken out of print.  What has changed?

Unfortunately, the source of my anger in the late 60's and early 70's – unnecessary government-sanctioned violence – is still very much a feature of our world. The debacle of the US invasion of Iraq is yet another classic example. It still makes me very angry. So my change of heart has had less to do with external events than it does with an internal change.

Over the years, I have come to understand that the basic premise behind the Cookbook is profoundly flawed. The anger that motivated the writing of the Cookbook blinded me to the illogical notion that violence can be used to prevent violence. I had fallen for the same irrational pattern of thought that led to US military involvement in both Vietnam and Iraq. The irony is not lost on me.

To paraphrase Aristotle: it is easy to be angry. But to be angry with the right person, at the right time and to the right degree that is hard – that is the hallmark of a civilized person. I continue to work hard, in an Aristotelian sense, to be more civilized.

Thursday, December 19 last day for "Rainy River"

How many draft-age American males do official statistics record as immigrants to Canada? 
Canada’s Immigration Statistics show that about 16,000 American males aged 19-25 formally immigrated to Canada in the period 1966-1972

By 1977 Carter pardoned by some source estimates a total of 11,000 American offenders at large, the “overwhelming majority” in exile.

There is an ELA review class after school today in room 237. 
In class: you are finishing up the graphic organizer for Tim O'Brien's "On the Rainy River." Please keep in mind the following: 

The goal is to use complete sentences into which you have woven textual evidence- which, of course you have set off with quotation marks- into your sentences. Remember that the material must be able to stand independently.  AVOID IT whenever possible; find another noun.  
Strategy: 1. read the questions 2. read the assigned text. 3. reread and find the evidence that supports your response. 4. check for capitalization, spelling, grammar and punctuation.  Remember that this is equivalent to two writing grades. Due today at the end of class today or you may come and finish at the review session in 237.

Wednesday, December 18..."On the Rainy River" graphic organizer continued and draft notice

In class: 1. newspaper article referring to burning of a draft card. Note how it concludes with "you can't burn what you hate."  Question: so what's the point?

2. continuing with the "On the Rainy River" graphic organizer.  Remember that you must have complete sentences. Weave textual evidence, which has been set off with quotation marks, into your response.

Review of strategy: 1. read the questions 2. read the assigned text. 3. reread and find the evidence that supports your response. 4. check for capitalization, spelling, grammar and punctuation.  Remember that this is equivalent to two writing grades. Due Thursday at the end of class.

On May 17, 1968, a quiet suburb of Baltimore became the flash point of the movement to end the Vietnam War.

Nine members of the Roman Catholic Church broke into a Selective Service office in Catonsville, Md., and stole hundreds of files containing the draft records of young American men about to be sent to Vietnam. Using homemade napalm, the group — which became known as the "Catonsville Nine" — set the papers on fire.

Later that year, they would be tried and convicted of destroying U.S. property, destroying Selective Service files and interfering with the Selective Service Act of 1967. But their trial made Catonsville a focal point of anti-war rebellion.

The Catonsville action was organized by the now-deceased Father Philip Berrigan, who earlier that year had joined three other people in pouring their blood on another set of draft files.

Other members of the group included Mary Moylan, George Mische, Tom Melville, Marjorie Melville, John Hogan, David Darst and Tom Lewis. Father Daniel Berrigan — the ninth member — was recruited by his brother, Philip, to take part in the action, which began when they infiltrated the Selective Service offices on Frederick Road.

"We had been briefed as to the location: second-floor office. Two of the women of our group engaged the women in the office in conversation as the rest of us went for the files," Berrigan says.

The activists, however, met with some resistance, and a Selective Service clerk, Mary Murphy, had to be physically restrained.

"We took the A-1 files, which of course were the most endangered of those being shipped off," Berrigan says. "And we got about 150 of those in our arms and went down the staircase to the parking lot. And they burned very smartly, having been doused in this horrible material. And it was all over in 10 or 15 minutes. The police had been summoned, and we were found in a circle around the fire."

Dean Pappas, a longtime political activist from Baltimore, helped the Catonsville Nine make the napalm from soap chips and gasoline.

"For us in the anti-war movement in 1968, the Catonsville Nine action had a tremendous catalytic effect," Pappas says.

He credits the Catonsville affair with dramatically increasing the level of activity and interest among anti-war protesters.

"If somebody had told us a year before that we'd have 3,000 people in the streets of Baltimore marching against the war in Vietnam, we would have been incredulous — 'No, that can't happen.' And it did," Pappas says.

For Stephen Sachs, the U.S. attorney for the District of Maryland who led the prosecution against the activists, justice was served once the convictions were handed down.

"You can't just burn what you hate," Sachs says. "The key to democracy is process."

Tuesday, December 17---"On the Rainy River"- graphic organizer

"I can see an old guy staring at me.  Elroy Berdahl: eighty-one years old, skinny and shrunken and mostly bald.  He wore a flannel shirt and brown work pants. His eyes had the bluish gray color of a razor blade, the same polished shine, and as he peered up at me I felt a strange sharpness, almost painful, a cutting sensation, as if his gaze were somehow slicing me open."

Today after school in room 237..  retest for anyone who wishes to change his or her abysmal grade from last Friday's test on the figurative language terms and vocabulary from "Rainy River."
ALSO: ELA review....we are working on the graphic organizer as a group. Bring your story.

In class: continuing with the graphic organizer. The goal is to use complete sentences into which you have woven textual evidence- which, of course you have set off with quotation marks- into your sentences. Remember that the material must be able to stand independently.  AVOID IT whenever possible; find another noun.  
Strategy: 1. read the questions 2. read the assigned text. 3. reread and find the evidence that supports your response. 4. check for capitalization, spelling, grammar and punctuation.  Remember that this is equivalent to two writing grades. Due Thursday at the end of class.

This is due by the end of class on Thursday.

Monday, December 16 "On the Rainy River"

RETEST or Make-up for last Friday's vocabulary quiz o the figurative language terms and "Rainy River" vocab tomorrow after school in room 237
Over the next four days, we are completing the graphic organizer for Tim
Brien's story "On the Rainy River"


To begin;
Starting the story

Focus Your Reading

1. “On the Rainy River” is told from the first-person point of view.

2. • The narrator is a character in the story and so participates in the events he recounts.
– Readers see things through the narrator’s eyes.

3.• His comments and descriptions convey the difficulty of the momentous decision he faces.

4. In this story, the author blurs the line between fact and fiction by calling his narrator “Tim O’Brien.”
– The story, however, is work of fiction.

5. • As you read, notice how O’Brien’s use of the first person point of view affects your feelings about the narrator.

READ THE FIRST  PARAGRAPH  SILENTLY, UNDERLINING THOSE WORDS AND PHRASES THAT STAND OUT AS MARKERS THAT GIVE YOU INSIGHT INTO THIS CHARACTER'S FEELINGS, THOUGHTS OR PERSONALITY. BE PREPARED TO EXPLAIN YOUR REASONING.

On the Rainy River” by Tim O’Brien            name _____________________________________________

From paragraph:  “In June of 1968….undead.”

Use textual evidence to respond to the following:

1.       Although the narrator considers himself “politically naïve, “ what are three of the reasons he considered the war in Vietnam to be wrong?

a._______________________________________________________________________________

b. ________________________________________________________________________________

c.________________________________________________________________________________

2.       Who are the men “in pinstripes” and what problem do they have. (In your response, you will paraphrase who these men are and then take material directly from the text.

__________________________________________________________________________________

_____________________________________________________________________________________

From paragraphs  “In any case…”Nothing,” I said. “Wait.”

Use textual evidence to respond to the following:

3.       The narrator observes that hat the energy he expended against the war was an “abstract endeavor.” Why does he view his “ringing doorbells” and “uninspired editorials”  in this manner?

________________________________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________________

From paragraph “I spent the summe….in my wallet.” Again, use textual evidence.

4.       O’Brien ends the paragraph by noting that “also the draft notice [was] tucked away in my wallet,” after giving a vivid description of his summer job.  List three of steps needed to process a pig.

_________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

5.       Why does O’Brien employ such powerful imagery in this paragraph?

_________________________________________________________________________________

From paragraphs “In the evenings…to at another human being.”

6.       O’Brien uses the following simile to describe his life: “All around me the options seemed to be narrowing, as if I were hurtling down a huge black funnel, the whole world squeezing in tight.” Using textual evidence, explain his conflicting thoughts. Weave examples into your own sentence.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

From paragraph “At some point in mid-July …for plain and simple reasons.”

7.       Use text to answer the following: How did O’ Brien’s “thinking about Canada” change from an abstraction to a concrete idea?

____________________________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________________________

8.       To what psychological disease does O’Brien compare his “moral split?”

_____________________________________________________________________________________

9.       From what would O’Brien be exiled, if he were to move to Canada? (use text)

______________________________________________________________________________

__________________________________________________________________________

10.   What role do “the polyestered Kiwanis boys, the merchants and farmers, the pious churchgoers, the chatty housewives, the PTA and Lions club” play in O’Brien’s “fierce arguments” when he cannot sleep at night. (Incorporate specific text into your sentence.)

_____________________________________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________________________________

From paragraphs “I was bitter…love Tim.”  What words does O’Brien use to describe how he “felt something break open in [his] chest?”

11.   ___________________________________________________________________________

From paragraphs “I drove north…to the front porch.”

12.   How does O’Brien describe “riding on adrenaline?” (Use text)

_________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

13.   What parallel does O’Brien make with the “Rainy River, which separates Minnesota from Canada?”  (Use text)

_________________________________________________________________________________

14.   Describe the Tip Top Lodge. (use text)

________________________________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________________

From paragraphs “The man who opened …I’ll bet.”

15.   Describe Elroy Berdahl and why he was “the hero of [O’Brien’s] life? (Write one affective sentence,weaving in the text)

___________________________________________________________________________________

__________________________________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________________________________

From paragraphs “We spent six days…but I doubt it.”

16.   What does O’Brien remember most about Elroy, and why do you think this was significant?

__________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

17.   Give an example of when Elroy uses a “small, cryptic packet[ ] of language.”

_________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

From paragraph “One thing for certain…to terrible and sad.”

18.   How is O’Brien’s mental anxiety reflected in his body?  (Weave the text into your response; remember to use quotations.

 ______________________________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________________________

From paragraph “I’m not sure how,,,the right thing.”

19.   O’Brien speaks of how Elroy’s “reticence was typical of that part of Minnesota, where privacy still held value.” According to O’Brien, what was the real reason behind the silence? (Use text)

_________________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________________

From paragraphs “Some of this Elroy…the man knew” (182)

How does Elroy settle the bill with O’Brien?  Weave text into your response.

20.   ______________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

21.   What was in the emergency fund?

______________________________________________________________________________

From paragraph “Looking back after twenty years…wherever I end up”

22.   O’Brien imagines “slipp[ing] out of his kin, hovering a few feet away while some poor yo-you with [his] name tried to make his way toward a future he didn’t understand.” What purpose does this scene serve in the story?

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

From paragraphs “on my last full day…there’s a hard squeezing pressure in your chest.”

23.   How did Elroy bring O’Brien “up against the realities?”  Weave textual evidence into your response.

___________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

__________________________________________________________________________________

24.   Write three examples of imagery from these paragraphs.  (quote)

a.       _________________________________________________________________________

b.      _________________________________________________________________________

c.       ________________________________________________________________________

25.   Why does O’Brien use imagery here? Find the textual example.

_________________________________________________________________________________

From paragraphs “What would you do?....My Khe”

26.   Why had Canada become “a pitiful fantasy” for O’Brien? Weave in text from the paragraph.

___________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________

__________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________________

27.   What “chunks of [his] own history flashed by, “ as O’Brien sat so “close to the shore?” (Again, weave these into your own sentence.)

_________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

28.   Why does O’Brien conger up images of his wife and “unborn daughter?” What purpose does this serve?

_________________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

From paragraphs “The little aluminum boat…I was a coward. I went to war.” 

29.   What reasons does O’Brien give fro not jumping off the boat and going to Canada? Weave in several examples from the text into your own sentence.

--

30.   In a thoughtful, well-written response, explain why O’Brien observes that  he went home and “then to Vietnam, where [he] was a soldier, and then home again. [He] survived, but it [was] not a happy ending.”

________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

Friday, December 13 "On a Rainy River" day 3; tests on story vocab and figurative language

In class: test on 10 vocabulary words from "On a Rainy River" and figurative language material from Monday and Tuesday.

Starting the story

Focus Your Reading

1. “On the Rainy River” is told from the first-person point of view.

2. • The narrator is a character in the story and so participates in the events he recounts.
– Readers see things through the narrator’s eyes.

3.• His comments and descriptions convey the difficulty of the momentous decision he faces.

4. In this story, the author blurs the line between fact and fiction by calling his narrator “Tim O’Brien.”
– The story, however, is work of fiction.

5. • As you read, notice how O’Brien’s use of the first person point of view affects your feelings about the narrator.

READ THE FIRST  PARAGRAPH  SILENTLY, UNDERLINING THOSE WORDS AND PHRASES THAT STAND OUT AS MARKERS THAT GIVE YOU INSIGHT INTO THIS CHARACTER'S FEELINGS, THOUGHTS OR PERSONALITY. BE PREPARED TO EXPLAIN YOUR REASONING.



This is one story I've never told before. Not to anyone. Not to my parents, not to my brother or sister,
 not even to my wife. To go into it, I've always thought, would only cause embarrassment for all of us, a sudden need to be elsewhere, which is the natural response to a confession. Even now, I'll admit, the story makes me squirm. For more than twenty years I've had to live with it, feeling the shame, trying to push it away, and so by this act of remembrance, by putting the facts down on paper, I'm hoping to relieve at least some of the pressure on my dreams. Still, it's a hard story to tell. All of us, I suppose, like to believe that in a moral emergency we will behave like the heroes of our youth, bravely and forthrightly, without thought of personal loss or discredit. Certainly that was my conviction back in the summer of 1968. Tim O'Brien: a secret hero. The Lone Ranger. If the stakes ever became high enough, if the evil were evil enough, if the good were good enough-I would simply tap a secret reservoir of courage that had been accumulating inside me over the years. Courage, I seemed to think, comes to us in finite quantities, like an inheritance, and by being frugal and stashing it away and letting it earn interest, we steadily increase our moral capital in preparation for that day when the account must be drawn down. It was a comforting theory. It dispensed with all those bothersome little acts of daily courage; it offered hope and grace to the repetitive coward; it justified the past while amortizing the future.

Thursday, December 12 Tim O' Brien's "On a Rainy River" day 2

DUE FRIDAY: figurative language test and 10 vocabulary words from "On a Rainy River"  The figurative language terms are what  we did in class on Monday and Tuesday, whilst the ten vocabulary words are on Wednesday's blog.
In class today; you will need your handout of the short story. I have no extras; if you loose yours, you can get a copy on line or on Wednesday's blog.

Background
1. The Vietnam War (1957-
1975) was one of the most
controversial military
conflicts in the history of the
United States.

 2. The U.S. entered the war in
1964 in hopes of preventing
the spread of communism
throughout Southeast Asia.

3. During the course of the war,
nearly 3 million Americans
were sent overseas to
defend the South Vietnamese
government against a
takeover by Communist North
Vietnam and the Viet Cong,
a South Vietnamese
Communist rebel force.

4. During the war, nearly 2 million
men were drafted into the military.

5. Those who were drafted but who opposed
the war faced a difficult decision:
– risk their lives in a foreign war they
couldn’t justify.
– risk imprisonment at home by refusing
to serve.

6. Some burned
their draft cards
as a form of protest.
• Others fled the
country, most often
by crossing the
border into Canada.

In class today: please read the introductory material to the story and answer the questions on the accompanying handout. This is due at the end of class. 
 Name________________________________________________

“On the Rainy River”  organizer for the introductory material.  Respond to each of the following by quoting the text. Weave the response into your own sentence, adjusting, abbreviating and augmenting as needed. Remember to use brackets, as needed. DO NOT PARAPHRASE; neither should you pull out whole lines of text.

1.       What previous exposure to the military did O’Brien have as a child?

2.       What were O’Brien’s initial plans after graduation? What ultimately happened? (Write one sentence, using clauses and a semi-colon as needed.)

3.       What is the essential question that O’Brien explores in his writings?

4.       In what ways, does the story reflect “O’Brien’s own conflicted decision to go to war?”

Wednesday, December 11..."On a Rainy River" by Tim O' Brien day 1

Friday, December 13 you will have a test on the figurative language terms that we covered in class on Monday and Tuesday. This will be a matching of the 10 terms listed, NOT AN IDENTIFICATION OF HOW THEY ARE USED. AS WELL, this will include the 10 words below, which are defined on the blog. You have a class handout.
In class: we are beginning a chapter from Tim O' Brien's novel "The Things They Carried" entitled "On a Rainy River." You will receive only one copy. If you loose it, you will need to go on line to get another. There is also a copy below on the blog.
We are going to commence the story by watching a clip from the film "Apocalypse Now".  Reflect on the following and be prepared to share.    
What is an apocalypse? Is this an apt title for this scene? What is the film maker trying to do here?

 Quick Write: due at the end of class in well-written sentences.
In this story, a young man must decide whether
to fight in a war he opposes.
– Under what conditions would you be willing
to fight in a war?
– Under what conditions would you be unwilling to fight?

• acquiescence-noun-the reluctant acceptance of something without protest. to acquiesce is to accept 
• consensus-noun general agreement.  "a consensus of opinion among judges"
• fathom-verb  to understand (a difficult problem or an enigmatic person) after much thought.
• impassive-adjective- not feeling or showing emotion. "impassive passersby ignore the performers"
• imperative-adjective- of vital importance; crucial."immediate action was imperative"
• platitude-noun a remark or statement, esp. one with a moral content, that has been used too often to be interesting or thoughtful            "she began uttering liberal platitudes"
• preoccupied-verb  past participle: preoccupied (of a matter or subject) dominate or engross the mind of (someone) to the exclusion of other thoughts         "his mother was preoccupied with paying the bills"
• pretense-noun  an attempt to make something that is not the case appear true. "his anger is masked by a pretense that all is well"
• reticence- noun-reserve: the trait of being 

uncommunicative; not volunteering anything more than necessary

• vigil-noun, a period of keeping awake during the time usually spent asleep, esp. to keep watch or pray.

Apocalypse Now helicopter attack
Note that the music is Richard Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries."  This was written in 1851, as a battle cry.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKaYOW9zMoY


"On a Rainy River' by Tim O'Brien

 This is one story I've never told before. Not to anyone. Not to my parents, not to my brother or sister, not even to my wife. To go into it, I've always thought, would only cause embarrassment for all of us, a sudden need to be elsewhere, which is the natural response to a confession. Even now, I'll admit, the story makes me squirm. For more than twenty years I've had to live with it, feeling the shame, trying to push it away, and so by this act of remembrance, by putting the facts down on paper, I'm hoping to relieve at least some of the pressure on my dreams. Still, it's a hard story to tell. All of us, I suppose, like to believe that in a moral emergency we will behave like the heroes of our youth, bravely and forthrightly, without thought of personal loss or discredit. Certainly that was my conviction back in the summer of 1968. Tim O'Brien: a secret hero. The Lone Ranger. If the stakes ever became high enough, if the evil were evil enough, if the good were good enough-I would simply tap a secret reservoir of courage that had been accumulating inside me over the years. Courage, I seemed to think, comes to us in finite quantities, like an inheritance, and by being frugal and stashing it away and letting it earn interest, we steadily increase our moral capital in preparation for that day when the account must be drawn down. It was a comforting theory. It dispensed with all those bothersome little acts of daily courage; it offered hope and grace to the repetitive coward; it justified the past while amortizing the future.

In June of 1968, a month after graduating from Macalester College, I was drafted to fight a war I hated. I was twenty-one years old. Young, yes, and politically naive, but even so the American war in Vietnam seemed to me wrong. Certain blood was being shed for uncertain reasons. I saw no unity of purpose, no consensus on matters of philosophy or history or law. The very facts were shrouded in uncer¬tainty: Was it a civil war? A war of national liberation or simple aggression? Who started it, and when and why? What really happened to the USS Maddox that dark night in the Gulf of Tonkin? Was Ho Chi Minh a Communist, nationalist savior, or both, or neither?

What about the Geneva Accords? What about SEATO and the Cold War? What about dominoes? America was these and a thousand other issues, and the debate had spilled out across the United States Senate and into the streets, and smart men in pinstripes agree on even the most fundamental matters of public policy. The only thing that summer was moral confusion. It was my view then, and still is, that make war without knowing why. Knowledge, of course, is always imperfect it seemed to me that when a nation goes to war it must have reasonable con the justice and imperative of its cause. You can't fix your mistakes. Once people are dead, you can't make them undead.

In any case those were my convictions, and back in college I had taken stand against the war. Nothing radical, no hothead stuff, just ringing a few bells for Gene McCarthy, composing a few tedious, uninspired editorials for the newspaper. Oddly, though, it was almost entirely an intellectual activity. Some energy to it, of course, but it was the energy that accompanies all abstract endeavors; I felt no personal danger; I felt no sense of an impending my life. Stupidly, with a kind of smug removal that I can't begin to fathom, that the problems of killing and dying did not fall within my special province.

The draft notice arrived on June 17, 1968. It was a humid afternoon, I recall cloudy and very quiet, and I'd just come in from a round of golf. My mother and I were having lunch out in the kitchen. I remember opening up the letter, scanning the first few lines, feeling the blood go thick behind my eyes. It wasn't thinking, just a silent howl. A million things all at once-I wasn’t for this war. Too smart, too compassionate, too everything. It couldn't happen to me, above it. I had the world dicked-Phi Beta Kappa and summa cum laude and of the student body and a full-ride scholarship for grad studies at Harvard. A maybe-a foul-up in the paperwork. I was no soldier. I hated Boy Scouts and camping out. I hated dirt and tents and mosquitoes. The sight of blood made me sick and I couldn't tolerate authority, and I didn't know a rifle from a slingshot.

I remember the rage in my stomach. Later it burned down to a smoldering pity, then to numbness. At dinner that night my father asked what my letter said, "Nothing," I said. "Wait."

At some point in mid-July I began thinking seriously about Canada. It lay a few hundred miles north, an eight-hour drive. Both my conscience instincts were telling me to make a break for it, just take off and run like the devil and never stop. In the beginning the idea seemed purely abstract, the word Canada printing itself in my head; but after a time I could see particular shapes and images, the sorry details of my own future-a hotel room in Winnipeg, a battered old suitcase, my father's eyes as I tried to explain myself over the telephone. I could almost hear his voice, and my mother's. Run, I'd think. Then I'd think, Impossible. Then a second later I'd think, Run.

I was bitter, sure. But it was so much more than that. The emotions went from outrage to terror to bewilderment to guilt to sorrow and then back again to outrage. I felt a sickness inside me. Real disease.

I drove north.

For a while I just drove, not aiming at anything, then in the late morning I began looking for a place to lie low for a day or two. I was exhausted, and scared sick, and around noon I pulled into an old fishing resort called the Tip Top Lodge. Actually it was not a lodge at all, just eight or nine tiny yellow cabins clustered on a peninsula that jutted northward into the Rainy River. The place was in sorry shape. There was a dangerous wooden dock, an old minnow tank, a flimsy tar paper boat house along the shore. The main building, which stood in a cluster of pines on high ground, seemed to lean heavily to one side, like a cripple, the roof sagging toward Canada. Briefly, I thought about turning around, just giving up, but then I got out of the car and walked up to the front porch.

The man who opened the door that day is the hero of my life. How do I say this without sounding sappy? Blurt it out-the man saved me. He offered exactly what I needed, without questions, without any words at all. He took me in. He was there at the critical time-a silent, watchful presence. Six days later, when it ended, I was unable to find a proper way to thank him, and I never have, and so, if nothing else, this story represents a small gesture of gratitude twenty years overdue.

Even after two decades I can close my eyes and return to that porch at the Tip Top Lodge. I can see the old guy staring at me. Elroy Berdahl: eighty-one years old, skinny and shrunken and mostly bald. He wore a flannel shirt and brown work pants. In one hand, I remember, he carried a green apple, a small paring knife in the other. His eyes had the bluish gray color of a razor blade, the same polished shine, and as he peered up at me I felt a strange sharpness, almost painful, a cutting sensation, as if his gaze were somehow slicing me open. In part, no doubt, it was my own sense of guilt, but even so I'm absolutely certain that the old man took one look and went right to the heart of things-a kid in trouble.

We spent six days together at the Tip Top Lodge. Just the two of us. Tourist season was over, and there were no boats on the river, and the wilderness seemed to withdraw into a great permanent stillness. What I remember more than anything is the man's will, almost ferocious silence. In all that time together, all those hours, he never asked the obvious questions: Why was I there? Why alone? Why so preoccupied? If Elroy was curious about any of this, he was careful never to put it into words.

My hunch, though, is that he already knew. At least the basics. After all, it was 1968, and guys were burning draft cards, and Canada was just a boat ride away. Elroy Berdahl was no hick. His bedroom, I remember, was cluttered with books and news¬papers. He killed me at the Scrabble board, barely concentrating, and on those occa¬sions when speech was necessary he had a way of compressing large thoughts into small, cryptic packets of language. One evening, just at sunset, he pointed up at an owl circling over the violet-lighted forest to the west.

"Hey, O'Brien," he said. "There's Jesus."

The man was sharp-he didn't miss much. Those razor eyes. Now and then he'd catch me staring out at the river, at the far shore, and I could almost hear the tumblers clicking in his head. Maybe I'm wrong, but I doubt it.

One thing for certain, he knew I was in desperate trouble. And he knew I couldn't talk about it. The wrong word-or even the right word-and I would've disappeared. I was wired and jittery. My skin felt too tight. After supper one evening I vomited and went back to my cabin and lay down for a few moments and then vomited again; another time, in the middle of the afternoon, I began sweating and couldn't shut it off. I went through whole days feeling dizzy with sorrow. I couldn't sleep; I couldn't lie still. At night I'd toss around in bed, half awake, half dreaming, imagining how I'd sneak down to the beach and quietly push one of the old man's boats out into the river and start paddling my way toward Canada. There were times when I thought I'd gone off the psychic edge. I couldn't tell up from down, I was just falling, and late in the night I'd lie there watching weird pictures spin through my head. Getting chased by the Border Patrol-helicopters and searchlights and barking dogs-I'd be crashing through the woods, I'd be down on my hands and knees-people shouting out my name-the law closing in on all sides-my hometown draft board and the FBI and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. It all seemed crazy and impossible. Twenty-one years old, an ordinary kid with all the ordinary dreams and ambitions, and all I wanted was to live the life I was born to-a mainstream life-I loved baseball and hamburgers and cherry Cokes-and now I was off on the margins of exile, leaving my country forever, and it seemed so impossible and terrible and sad.

I'm not sure how I made it through those six days. Most of it I can't remember. On two or three afternoons, to pass some time, I helped Elroy get the place ready for winter, sweeping down the cabins and hauling in the boats, little chores that kept my body moving. The days were cool and bright. The nights were very dark. One morning the old man showed me how to split and stack firewood, and for several hours in silence out behind his house. At one point, I remember Elroy put down his maul and looked at me for a long time, his lips drawn as if framing a difficult question, but then he shook his head and went back to work. The man's self-control was amazing. He never pried. He never put me in a position that required lies or denials. Simple politeness was part of it. But even more than that, I think, the man understood that words were insufficient. I was ashamed to be there at the Tip Top Lodge. I was ashamed of my conscience, ashamed to be doing the right thing. Some of this Elroy must've understood. Not the details, of course, but the plain fact of crisis.

On my last full day, the sixth day, the old man took me out fishing on the Rainy River. All around us, I remember, there was a vastness to the world, an unpeopled rawness, just the trees and the sky and the water reaching out toward nowhere.

For a time I didn't pay attention to anything, just feeling the cold spray against my face, but then it occurred to me that at some point we must've passed into Canadian waters, across that dotted line between two different worlds, and I remember a sudden tightness in my chest as I looked up and watched the far shore come at me. This wasn't a daydream. It was tangible and real. As we came in toward land, Elroy cut the engine, letting the boat fishtail lightly about twenty yards off shore. The old man didn't look at me or speak. Bending down, he opened up his tackle box and busied himself with a bobber and a piece of wire leader, humming to himself, his eyes down.

It struck me then that he must've planned it. I'll never be certain, of course, but I think he meant to bring me up against the realities, to guide me across the river and to take me to the edge and to stand a kind of vigil as I chose a life for myself. I remember staring at the old man, then at my hands, then at Canada. The shore¬line was dense with brush and timber. I could see tiny red berries on the bushes. I could see a squirrel up in one of the birch trees, a big crow looking at me from a boulder along the river. That close-twenty yards-and I could see the delicate lat¬ticework of the leaves, the texture of the soil, the browned needles beneath the pines, the configurations of geology and human history. Twenty yards. I could've done it. I could've jumped and started swimming for my life. Inside me, in my chest, I felt a ter¬rible squeezing pressure. Even now, as I write this, I can still feel that tightness. And I want you to feel it-the wind coming off the river, the waves, the silence, the wooded frontier. You're at the bow of a boat on the Rainy River. You're twenty-one years old, you're scared, and there's a hard squeezing pressure in your chest.

What would you do?

Would you jump? Would you feel pity for yourself? Would you think about your family and your childhood and your dreams and all you're leaving behind?

Would it hurt? Would it feel like dying? Would you cry, as I did?

I tried to swallow it back. I tried to smile, except I was crying.

Now, perhaps, you can understand why I've never told this story before. It's not just the embarrassment of tears. That's part of it, no doubt, but what embarrasses me much more, and always will, is the paralysis that took my heart. A moral freeze: I couldn't decide, I couldn't act, I couldn't comport myself with even a pretense of modest human dignity.

All I could do was cry. Quietly, not bawling, just the chest-chokes. At the rear of the boat Elroy Berdahl pretended not to notice. He held a fishing rod in his hands, his head bowed to hide his eyes. He kept humming a soft, monotonous little tune. Everywhere, it seemed, in the trees and water and sky, a great world¬wide sadness came pressing down on me, a crushing sorrow, sorrow like I had never known it before. And what was so sad, I realized, was that Canada had become a pitiful fantasy. Silly and hopeless. It was no longer a possibility. Right then, with the shore so close, I understood that I would not do what I should do. I would not swim away from my hometown and my country and my life. I would not be brave. That old image of myself as a hero, as a man of conscience and courage, all that was just a threadbare pipe dream.

It was as if there were an audience to my life, that swirl of faces along the river, and in my head I could hear people screaming at me. Traitor! they yelled. Turncoat! I felt myself blush. I couldn't tolerate it. I couldn't endure the mockery, or the disgrace, or the patriotic ridicule. Even in my imagination, the shore just twenty yards away, I couldn't make myself be brave. It had nothing to do with morality. Embarrassment, that's all it was.

And right then I submitted. I would go to the war-I would kill and maybe die-because I was embarrassed not to.

Around noon, when I took my suitcase out to the car, I noticed that his old black pickup truck was no longer parked in front of the house. I went inside and waited for a while, but I felt a bone certainty that he wouldn't be back. In a way, I thought, it was appropriate. I washed up the breakfast dishes, left his two hundred dollars on the kitchen counter, got into the car, and drove south toward home.

The day was cloudy. I passed through towns with familiar names, through the pine forests and down to the prairie, and then to Vietnam, where I was a soldier, and then home again. I survived, but it's not a happy ending. I was a coward. I went to the war.