A different perspective

Gone. It was gone. Two hours of work – gone.

My editor at Fayette Woman had challenged me on matters of punctuation, possessive plurals specifically, and I took the bait. She gave me one more chance to get it right by letting me proofread it myself.

I learned something about myself, one recent late night. I’ve got a competitive streak I didn’t know was there – and my chief competitor is me.

Furious as I get when someone “corrects” my mistakes incorrectly, I get 20 times that ticked when the perpetrator is myself. It doesn’t happen often, but I have to admit, it does happen.

So. After weeks of writing, checking and rechecking, I got the story done and in. It came back with some suggestions and corrections. Corrections! Turned out one of our word processors had failed to “wrap” text properly, and a pair of quotation marks was left out of place in the middle of a line, instead of becoming the first character on the next line.

Don’t worry if that doesn’t mean anything to you. Doesn’t really matter. The story is really that I worked very late making the alterations and rechecking notes and writing to the subject of the story for verification of some statements, religiously “saving” as I typed, and grew so close, so close to completion.

That’s when it happened, and I have no idea how. The entire story disappeared. It was gone, and I searched everywhere – everywhere! – for it, in vain.

How long have I been messing with computers? I’ve never bragged I was good at it, have I? I’ve tried to be humble. Haven’t I blended the right measure of modesty with my sanctimony? I didn’t deserve this.

By now, Dave, in bed, was fussing about my being up so late. I grabbed a blanket and my pillow, promising I’d take my shower right now so I would not disturb him, and then I’d sleep on the couch.

“She needs this in the morning, Dave. I have to get it finished.”

Himself the victim of such dilemmas, he agreed reluctantly, and I took my shower, brushed my teeth, and felt a little fresher when I went back to the computer.

Almost immediately, I got results. I found the original copy with my editor’s suggestions all over it in several colors of highlight. The file had “temp” on it, but I didn’t know where to look for temp files.

Then I looked at the text more closely. All her revisions and questions were there, bold and bright, but none of my responses.

Mine were gone.

I had to do it all over again, but at least I could still remember most of what I had done, and just did it again and posted it. I explained to the boss what happened and promised I’d throw myself at her feet in apology if I sounded too sharp.

That was about the time tornadoes, flooding, and blizzards were ravishing the country. Like I cared. I just shivered on the couch until I went to sleep and was wakened by Dave about 8:30. He was going to drive to Lake Eufaula to check the boat, since some of the weather passed close by. Would I come along to keep him company?

Uuhhh. Sure. I needed to get away from the computer, and I knew the ride down through Luthersville and beyond would be beautiful and refreshing.

We turned on the weather station while we ate some breakfast, and then learned that rough weather was not the only tragedy on the news. There was a bus. It lay like a toddler’s toy, broken, like a dead thing.

Reports changed as the bus was lifted to its wheels. How many dead? Not sure. Was another vehicle involved? Don’t think so. Alcohol or drugs involved? Don’t know. Tests are pending.

Then before a forest of microphones, the kids tried to make sense of what had just happened to them. Having been asleep until the crash, there wasn’t much they knew, except that they had somehow survived. Four of their fellows did not.

Can you imagine the moments after the accident? Not enough that a ton of stuff, baseball equipment, luggage, electronics – and boys – had just run through a blender. It was dark. Total chaos – one boy said he couldn’t tell if he was standing on a duffle bag or the body of a teammate – and in the dark.

Imagine how disorientated they must have been. And so far from home and family.

What a way to adjust your perspective. A lost document. A lost son.

Our hearts were heavy for families who received phone calls in the dead of night. I don’t know a parent who isn’t gripped with icy terror when a child is not home and the phone rings in the dark. You relinquish your most precious treasure to strangers, and the phone rings in the dead of night.

It has always been thus, and it will always be. We have to give them their own lives to live. We’ve done all we can and then we let them go. In the dead of night.