Village Voices is the showcase of creativity by the members and volunteers of The Village Common of Rhode Island. We welcome submissions in all media: 2- and 3-dimensional art, creative writing, transformative ideas, crafting, and art collections. As important is the personal stories that accompany each submission.

See the guidelines for submission.

Peter Viner-Brown
Biographical Sketch

I was taught at The King’s School in Grantham, England, but not in the old Hall. It was being used as a gymnasium when I was there - about 350 years after my old pal Izzy, who inspired me to study physics. This led to a well regarded establishment of higher learning where I came away with a B.Sc (Hons) and a wife-to-be (WTB). Marriage plans had to wait for degrees to be completed and jobs to be obtained. I had to put in time ‘at the mill’ - in my case the enormous Ratcliffe-on-Soar power station in Nottinghamshire which had been built on the site of Robin Hood’s childhood home (just kidding!). After deciding that I had inhaled enough coal dust and poisonous gas for a lifetime, I sought safety at a nuclear power station at Bradwell in Essex. Here it is glowing in what looks like the pink light of sunset (it always glowed like that, no matter what time of day!). Wanting to avoid a permanent glow of my own, it was time to make my way to the former colonies in the Americas from whence my WTB hailed, get wed and find a job. This time I would be helping to make electricity from the wind and joined U.S. Windpower Inc., in Burlington, MA. Here I am atop a wind turbine with a colleague who typified those attracted to wind power at the time, apart from me! As we stood admiring the Vermont mountainside, he decided it was the perfect time and location to enjoy a marijuana cigarette. Never fear, we all got down safely! Next, I became attracted to computer programming, and then all things Information Technology (IT). This kept me occupied and employed as one of these (baby) showed up and turned into one of these (teenager), at which point Tristan departed for the Big Apple to become a performance artist. Then it was time to retire from IT and I found joy as a volunteer in Fear Abatement Therapy (FAT), otherwise known as teaching math. I discovered a quirky little school on the East Side of Providence, School One, where I might inflict this craft on some unsuspecting young people. And it was here that life took an unanticipated turn. Another School One practitioner of FAT, this time applied to fear of the blank page, enticed me into a multi-generational writing workshop called ‘Working Stories’. I discovered that, even though I could write about my life experiences, I wasn’t able to read them aloud to the group. Childhood fears had reached up and stopped me. For the final class presentation, I was paired with one of the students who was trying to escape the depression that followed a very traumatic event in her life. Facing our fears together, we climbed up onto the stage, shared our stories with the audience, and descended transformed. She went on to emerge from her depression and I began my journey as a writer.

      During one summer sojourn from teaching, I was looking for something to keep me out of trouble and discovered Providence Village. They were looking for volunteer drivers and handy persons who could do small jobs for their members. This seemed to fit the bill, so I applied and got in! Ever since, my life has been enriched by the people I’ve met and the stories they have shared.

Following are a couple of my pieces from the recent Village writing workshop run by Eve Kerrigan herself.

West Country Workshop

          The West Country - the peninsular that makes the UK look like it’s sitting down with its legs stretched out. ’Tis the land of King Arthur, ship wreckers and smugglers, tin mines, ancient stone circles and burial mounds, dramatic coastlines and beautiful fishing villages. It’s the place that late on a summer’s day, as I walked by the sea, I suddenly felt desperately homesick. As I contemplated another visit, I wondered if it would happen again?

          ‘Polruan Workshops: Come Visit Us and Fulfill A Dream!’ - exclaimed the online ad. Located right at the mouth of the River Fowey there were workshops that beckoned people like me: Self-taught, Jack of All Trades (and Master of None). Here we could spend a week or two learning something from true artisans about how to form metal or work wood. For a while we could submerge ourselves in the craft that we loved, and contemplate what life might have been had we not become salarymen.

          I can’t sleep on planes so a trip east was a blessing. Leaving east coast America late in the day, I found myself speeding towards the approaching European dawn through an abbreviated night. I knew that I would have just enough stamina to get to my final destination before my brain decided to shut me down. At that point nothing would stop me from descending rapidly into a deep, babylike sleep until the following morning when I would awake, ravenous for a Full English Breakfast.

          I woke in a panic. The windows were in the wrong place! Where was I? Laying stock still, I allowed myself to become fully awake. Like Dr. Who, gingerly stepping from the Tardis, I looked around and discovered that I was in a hotel in Cornwall. And like Talking Heads, I began to answer the question: ‘How did I get here?’ As my heart rate subsided, the events of the previous day came back into focus. I was in a room at The White Swan (no doubt known locally as ‘The Mucky Duck’). It was quaintly furnished and welcoming. And it smelled nice. Imperial Leather - posh soap! I’d made a good hotel choice. I followed the perfume into the Lilliputian bathroom. There it was on the sink - a cake of caramel soap with a red and gold label on top. It took me back to visits with my grandmother, herself a native of this enchanting land, and in an instant I was sad. But no time for that - get up and get going!

          Full English Breakfast - who was I kidding? Nowadays, I could just manage a bowl of cereal and some toast, all washed down with a ‘nice cup of tea’, or two. The breakfast room was a sunny adjunct at the back of the hotel with views over the town and of a sliver of clear horizon that was the sea. To my joy, the lady overseeing breakfast was middle aged and liked to chat. Due to my years in the former colonies, my ex-fellow countrymen thought I was an American. This was a good thing as they were generally more polite and helpful. Of course, she wanted to know where in America I was from. I could hear my grandmother asking, “Where be ‘e from?” Cheryl used a more modern vernacular. I told her that I was from ‘near Boston’ - a place most people had heard of. Trying to explain that Rhode Island wasn’t actually an island, and then how far it was from a place they would know, had become tiresome long ago. She soon extracted why I was there and passed on some recommendations for restaurants and the name of a taxi driver who could get me to the workshop in the morning. I had considered renting a car, which in my younger days would have been an adventure. Now, driving on the left, which was the right side, after driving on the right, which was the wrong side, was too much for my aging brain.

          Jake was a good driver but not much of a conversationalist. He was probably connected in some way to Cheryl, and she did all the talking. Walking into the workshop, I noticed a group forming at the far end. But before I ventured over, I stopped to look around. I was in a temple - a sacred place to those who like to form things from nature. The wide, heavy planks of the floor had been Pollocked over the years with paint, varnish, splatters of molten metal, gouges from dropped tools and a blackening that could only have been caused by fire. A cacophony of different smells assailed me - the remnants of hot and molten metal, wood that had been worked until it smoked, the incense of solder and the sweat of human toil. They hung in the air and would never go away. The barn was filled with benches, metal seats and all the tools that a craftsman’s heart could possibly desire. Quiet now, it would soon hum with industry as acolytes applied the skills that they were learning to their art. At the end of the day they would have in front of them what had only existed in their imaginations at the beginning. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it would be beautiful.

          It was a small group which is what I had hoped for. There were multiple genders which were revealed as we introduced ourselves. I was going to have difficulty remembering the desired pronouns but I hoped that they would forgive someone who had trouble remembering people’s names, let alone anything else. I had a nice feeling that this group was going to gel. Nobody was going to pretend that they knew more than they did, and nobody was going to feel too embarrassed to ask a question. And so it was. The week flew by and I tried my hand at the skills that I had first encountered when I was young. Then I had been convinced that they were just stepping stones to something better. I had heard the call back then but had ignored it. I had moved into the life that I was supposed to have - university, a proper job, security, a pension, and finally the relief of retirement.

          That week my dream had been fulfilled, just as promised. I was now slightly better at tin-smithing, brazing and welding. I was a lot better at blacksmithing, my favorite activity. Nothing compared to drawing a white-hot iron from the forge and beating it into shape as it slowly cooled to an angry red. Nothing compared to the vicious hiss of steam as it was quenched. I envisioned myself a muscled, bearded giant garbed in a blackened leather apron, sweat glistening in the light of the fire. Really, I was just a white-haired old man, muscles straining, T-shirt drenched, but with a smile on his face that told the world that he was having a bloody good time.

          I was over the vast Atlantic watching the day end. I had some new friends, some of whom I might see again, and lots of lovely memories. There had been no homesickness. My life may not have followed the path that I sometimes wished for, but it had been good and I was content. Somewhere in the hold of the giant aircraft was my suitcase and packed carefully in the middle was the gift that I had made for my wife. It was a flame-cut heart hewn from a sheet of stainless steel, the blast from the cutting torch inscribing iridescent colors at its edges. As it had fallen to the floor, I realized that it was just like we were - not perfect, but enduring and, in our own way, beautiful.

Frequent Journeys

          I used to dread it, this journey. Necessary to survive but completed only when unavoidable, it meant immersing myself into a sea of humanity, most of whom, like me, didn’t want to be there. Tired faces, bodies clothed in outfits that had been worn for too long. Strained attempts to be polite using up the little energy each of us had left. How I hated these trips to the supermarket.

          That was long ago when my job took up so much time. And when there was a child in my life. I would leave the pressure cooker of work, weave my way through the thick traffic and, on my journey home, Stop & Shop. I had a favorite place to park, where few others did, near the little used door at the far end of the store. It was a mystery to me why nearly everyone else crammed their cars into the limited parking spaces near the main entrance. I suspected that, if it was possible, many would order in advance and drive through, stopping briefly to open their trunks to have their groceries thrown it. We had drive-through banks and eateries, why not a drive-through supermarket?

          During these exhausting excursions, I wasn’t really aware of anybody. I had to interact with the people at the deli but they were just ‘bots dressed in stripy outfits and funny little hats that took your order and procured it with great efficiency. I could hear my mouth making acceptably pleasant noises: “Hello, how are you?”, “Yes, a bit over is fine” and “Bye, thank you very much”. You weren’t supposed to talk with the girls at the registers as it would reduce their efficiency, and anyway, they didn’t want to talk. They were on automatic pilot and they didn’t want anyone interrupting their protective, soporific state. What a shock it would be to emerge from their comforting torpor in the middle of their shift to discover that they were check-out girls. Bad enough that they had to do it at the end of the day. But then they would be able to escape to their homes and quickly submerge themselves in another dream space.

          One evening as I headed towards the registers, I looked up to make sure that I was maneuvering myself and my cart successfully through the gray sea of shoppers and found myself looking into the sad but intelligent eyes of a careworn face - a face I can still see in my mind’s eye. We never spoke but each of us instinctively knew that there was a connection. From then on, each time I visited the supermarket, I sought her out and invariably we would see each other and a small smile would pass between us. She seemed to be there every day and I got the idea that she had worked there for a long time. I wondered about her life and what experiences had given her such a kind look. Years later, long after my frequent trips to Stop & Shop had ceased, I happened in one day and there she was. I felt guilty. Should I explain my absence? But there was no need. The half-smile and a slight nod was enough. The message: ‘I’m glad to know you’re still around.’

          I’m retired. My son is a man in his thirties. Stop & Shop is out of the way for me now. The small, local supermarket is my grocery destination these days. It’s a bizarre little place with worn floors and very old shelving. It doesn’t have anywhere near the choice of the gargantuan, antiseptic, aesthetically superior markets. The fruit isn’t polished and neatly stacked. The vegetables aren’t all of a uniform size, and they tend to migrate into each other’s territory. If you think they’re out of broccoli, take a look amongst the cabbages - chances are a few crowns are visiting for a chat. The customers seem to annoy the Produce Boys who are always piling one thing or another into mounds that are designed to collapse as soon as you touch them. Standing around hoping they will notice that you’re trying to get to the carrots doesn’t work. A very apologetic ‘Excuse me’, followed by a finger pointing at what you want usually does the trick. Resigned and glowering, the Produce Kings will stand back, hands on hips and with a look of restrained fury.

          Having crossed the ‘No Man’s Land’ of the produce department, you find yourself in the relative calm of the aisles. There’s one more obstacle to overcome though. It’s the free coffee station, inconveniently situated at the choke point between produce and the rest of the store. It’s coffee and it’s free. Everyone has to have a cup, and it has to be concocted to individual tastes. So, you have to wait until the perfect combination of coffee, sweetener and cream has been achieved by everyone who has lined up with their shopping cart. Don’t think of trying to squeeze by. The idea that someone might be trying to cut in line could lead to serious injury.

          Tuesday morning. This is the first day the week’s sale items are put out and the retirees are out in force. Produce on board and coffee secured, the day’s outing can begin. Leaning heavily on their carts, a camel train of ancients winds its way at a glacial pace up and down the aisles. Frequent stops of many minutes can be expected as concentration is lost. A slow reboot in the cranial cavity is only achieved after intense scrutiny of an item at eye level - one that is never purchased. And of course, they are deaf, or pretend to be. Repeating ‘Excuse me’, at higher and higher decibel levels only attracts negative attention, so it’s best just to turn around and find another route. And I do this with a smile on my face - maybe it won’t be long before I have to hitch my camel to their train!

          There are a few benefits to growing older and one is the mellowing that occurs along with the wrinkles and grey hair. I don’t feel as frantic as I was in the Stop & Shop days and it shows. Now I engage with the people in my supermarket, apart from the Produce Boys. I’ve gotten to know some of the shelf stackers. One is a young woman who always wears the same clothes - jeans and a grey fleece. She is very efficient and apparently self-absorbed but will stop in an instant to help you find something, insisting that she walk you to its location. Another is an older man who has a physical disability and for whom talking is difficult. He spends his days restocking the cartons in the dairy fridges - all of which have to be lined up with military precision. When he’s not too busy, I go out of my way to say ‘good morning’ to him. ‘Good morning’ is his preferred greeting and one that he has the least difficulty repeating.

          My shopping’s done and there’s one thing left - go and chat with the check-out ‘girls’. There’s Jean who has a very kind face and fantastic silver hair. She has to wear wrist supports because of Carpal tunnel problems. I don’t let her pick up my bags. Then there’s Millie who is petite and cheeky and likes to flirt. I always play along and we end with a meaningful look as she hands me the receipt. No matter who it is, I try to strike up a conversation and I’m often rewarded with a bit of pleasant banter. Then I emerge into the world with my groceries and a warmer heart.