Hiroshima -- Detail

John Hersey jumps right into the story, going into the lives of six survivors of the Hiroshima bombing. A lot of past readings take a bit too long to get into the main action of the story -- which isn't necessarily a bad thing -- by including too much background into the situation at hand, but Hersey goes directly into their lives. I think it's just a matter of preference as to what readers like.

Specifically about Hersey's use of detail, one of my favorite sentences was on page three about Mr. Tanimoto:

"He wore his black hair parted in the middle and rather long; the prominence of the frontal bones just above his eyebrows and the smallness of his mustache, mouth, and chin gave him a strange, old-young look, boyish and yet wise, weak and yet fiery."

I enjoyed how the detail narrows as the sentence finishes. It's not particularly specific, but allows the reader to have a vivid picture of his own interpretation. I have my own idea of what an "old-young look, boyish and yet wise, weak and yet fiery" may look, but others probably have a wildly different outlook on Tanimoto.

I couldn't find much of a pattern in his detail. For some, they were very concise and short, while others like the aforementioned quote trails on and on. The one consistent piece was that he tells it like it is, never really digging too deep into the historical or scientific background.

"Both he and Mr. Matsuo reacted in terror -- and both had time to react (for they were 3,500 yards, or two miles, from the center of the explosion). Mr. Matsuo dashed up the front steps into the house and dived among the bedrolls and buried himself there. Mr. Tarimoto took four or five steps and threw himself between two big rocks in the garden ... He felt a sudden pressure, and then splinters and pieces of board and fragments of tile fell on him. He heard no roar."

My reading went by not as quickly as I'd like. The use of detail was sporadic throughout, not in any bad way, I just couldn't grasp the complete thought process Hersey had while writing about these six survivors. It was a highly informative piece that wrote about the Hiroshima bombing in a much different angle and perspective.

The Voice

Jake stands near the kitchen island waiting for his father’s response. Jake’s brother, Zach, waits as well, while sitting at the dining room table, about to ask his father the question again.

“So, are you going to answer or what? Who are you taking to the Pirates game with you.” Their father, who was normally a very still and calm man, squirmed with irritation at his sons’ redundant questions.

“What’s the hold up, pops?” Jake added.

The father, about to respond, was overtaken by another inquiry.

Zach asked what it was going to take for his father to pick him. He laid out his reasons. Jake rapidly recoiled by listing his own qualifications to make up for the brief silence.

The 56-year-old father, soon to be 57, rose from the couch, glared at his two sons with a hint of agitated anger and walked outside to find some kind of reprieve.

The two sons followed, each trying to be the first one to reach their father. The Pirates were playing the Philadelphia Phillies that night and competing for first place in its division this late into the season for the first time since 1997. It was only July.

“I’ve made up my mind,” the father said. “I want to let you two know that I will be taking neither of you.”

Each son looked at the other, a bit perplexed.

Minutes later, the mother of the two sons walked past them confidently loaded with a sly smirk.

There was the other ticket, snug in the back left pocket of their mother’s cargo shorts. 

How They Met

My mother was never afraid to meet new people. She preferred if they reciprocated her emphatic enthusiasm but had no trouble filling the gap for a lack of energy.

She was popular in school, but not the kind of popular that others felt threatened to introduce themselves. She grew up in a small rural town, was a “pretty damn good” majorette in high school she said—although that hobby ceased once she stepped foot on Clarion University’s campus as an undergrad studying to be a teacher—and stood behind a cause to keep peace alive.

My father may have not received the best accolades in high school, but he likes to call himself a professional in the school of street smarts. As a young child, he would walk outside of his urban home and fill a wheeled cooler with beer bought from his mother Mable the day before. He would drag the cart through nearby construction sites selling the ice cold drinks to the workers for double the price. Everyday he would come back with the cooler empty, but his pockets quite the opposite.

He knew college was a possibility, but never felt it was absolutely necessary. In the fall following his high school graduation, he had a few choices but landed as a Golden Eagle, sharing the same mascot as my mother.

The two met in the bedroom of a mutual friend sophomore year. My mother had noticed my father as soon as he walked in, not for his charming looks, as he likes to think, but rather because of the large black eye he received the night prior from a friendly squabble turned ugly with one of his fraternity brothers. They barely talked all night, aside from a brief introduction, but found each other alone in the same bedroom when their friends left to get more drinks.

My mother asked about my father’s life. She held back her enthusiasm; she said she wanted him to start the conversation. My father was reluctant at first. He made sure he was never too confident, past experiences proved it to be a failed strategy. He made a joke. She laughed. She made a joke. He laughed. A mutual interest sparked.

Their friends returned with the drinks. Their exclusive conversation stopped, but the two kept staring at each other all night. The party ended but not before my father wrote down his apartment number on a scrunched up gum wrapper. They each left with a smile.

They began to talk more, which led to the two of them running into each other at the campus gym and cafeteria, which led to lunch and dinner at formal restaurants, which led to my father’s attempt at asking my mother to attend his fraternity’s formal at a nearby cabin secluded in the woods of central Pennsylvania, which led to them “going steady,” as my father likes to say, a term my mother hates.

Time went by, their dates grew in number. Marriage was next. You know the story.

PG on Western Psych Shooting

The Post-Gazette has an emotional piece out today about the Thursday's events and how they shaped the lives of those involved.

Click here to read the full article.