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A Place to Call Home

by A. S. Dodge

200 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-0406; ISBN 1-4120-0043-2; US$18.99, C$28.99, EUR18.90, £13.10

A PLACE TO CALL HOME is a thematic chronicle of life in the working class as experienced by the author in poems. It is a reflection on the contrasts of such a life and the hyberbole of the American Dream.

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About the Book      About the Author      Sample Excerpts      Catalogue Info

About the Book The book "A Place to Call Home" is, in some small part, the author's biography - not a recording of individual episodes or events, but of emotions and thoughts at various stages in life. It is about the search to belong, to fit into a world that can be confusing. Most people experience such feelings at some stage in their life, but some feel more than others do. This, then, is the book of the consummate outsider in American society. It is about growing up in the lower working class - the unskilled factory laborers' world - under the old auspices of the American Dream in a world that seems to deny the existence of, or the opportunity for, such a dream. It expresses that anger and frustration, the observations, and the occasional joys of someone who grew up in the working class but had an eye that tried looking past that horizon of old brick buildings and housing developments. It is not that one can't overcome the obstacles which society places in the way; it is about the emotional toil that is extracted in such efforts. Each chapter is a mockery of the classical "Seven Ages of Man" writings. Each section vaguely deals with periods in life such as childhood, schooling, the search for religion, the working years, family, and so on. Poems written at those specific times are intermixed with poems looking back from later times to contrast the changing moods and visions of life. The core poems in this book follow the crests and valleys of emotional development in the author's life, but slowly and ultimately build to a crescendo of primal scream outrage and anger, followed by the calmer acceptance and resignation that come with middle age. The poems are predominantly from the years 1985-1997, with a few poems coming from earlier eras or more recent ones. The book is about contrasts so prevalent in America: the promises of the Camelot years and the realities of America at the end of the 20th Century; about wanting to believe in equality when everything is so unequal. The work is a documentation of a struggle to climb from anonymity and despair, if just to achieve something slightly better than what one's grandfather had. It is, lastly, about trying to find a place where one can be content and accept the terms of life.

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About the Author Anthony Scott Dodge was born December 19th, 1964 in Toledo, Ohio. He is the fourth child of five in a working class family - his father and, occasionally, his mother were factory workers.In his early years, his family, like many, moved around as his father searched for getter jobs or better neighborhoods. By age 7, Anthony had lived in many different cities and attended three different schools. His family eventually returned to Toledo and settled in a working class housing development (small, cheaply built, cheaply sold homes) where the moody young boy was identified as a gifted student. It was in the enrichment programs where Anthony first became aware of class attitudes within the enrichment program and schools in general. He eventually worked his way through high school and, after declining an appointment to West Point, through college. His restlessness was evident in his attending three colleges during his four years before graduating from the University of Toledo with degrees in Education, English, and German. Anthony began work as an English and German teacher in 1987, and after stints in other towns, returned to Toledo to teach. He met Joyce Ellen Redding in 1983. They were married in 1987 and now have 3 children - Laurelyn (1988), Elizabeth (1992), and A.J. (1995).

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Sample Excerpts

ENTROPY The distant sun stretches out Its tentacled arms of light, As it sinks, Trying to find some point or cloud To grab hold of And remain aloft in the sky A little while longer. But the ink-splattered moon Has already risen, So the sun relinquishes its hold And slips below the gray border lines Of trees, rooftops, and telephone poles. Hesitatingly, The first stars shine out meekly, As their curious light Could contain itself no longer And venture forth a look. When, finally, The evening star shines full, The rest, singly, or in pairs, Also begin to shine out As their fear leaves them. The sky is then stripped In orange, violet, blue, and dusk-black, Which waxes as others wane. There are computers and machines Which say these first few stars Are one-one-millionth of a millimeter More distant in the sky Than they were 20 of 50 years ago; That they are moving even further apart Each night. Someday, in fact, Polaris will no longer be in the north, And the Big Dipper will seem a hook; But I can not tell with my ruler. Is it that we are so immersed In the basic knowledge That these points of light Are 5,869,713,600,000 times "X" miles away That it is hard to believe that anyone, Anyone Could possibly think These stars were really right there Small, heavenly lights in our atmosphere? But they grow so distant so soon, And the light takes a year longer To ever reach here. In fact, It is said, Many of the stars we see tonight Exploded or died long ago, Well before we were ever born. And thoughts, dreams, and prayers (if they did) Of the worlds which circled around Never rode upon the light waves here; And if there was any knowledge That may have been useful, To us, It never reached. At last count, There were over five billion Points of light. And each continues To move away from the others. Communication is cut off or broken, And some vanish from view Without ever being noticed or recorded. Then, sometime, We may be so far away From the others, That we many be darkened forever; And the skies, As well as minds, Will be dark, Without enlightenment. And yet, All this is beyond my vision, Rulers, and telescopes. Whether it is truth or theory Remains for the scientists to learn, I can not decide for myself. Then again, When one reads the evening paper And sees that They are burning flags In Beirut and Bonn, Books in Tupelo and Tehran, That over 700 people Were murdered in Detroit last year, And the CEO of Chrysler made $22 Million While laying off 1,200 workers last year, One can, Almost, Begin to believe.

A PLACE TO CALL HOME (JUST A DREAM) A full grass yard Without weeds, A chain-link fence Shining in the summer sun, And a choice of Aluminum In yellows, reds and whites; Three rooms or four, Ranch, split-, or tri-level, And a full basement would be nice; And windows, Oh, yes, windows, Lots of windows And thin, beige curtains To admit the spring breezes And the shining summer sun; Maybe a pool in the back And small, golden-brown dogs Yapping in the front yard, And marble sidewalks All even-level and straight; With laughing children Learning how to ride their bicycles, And waving neighbors always smiling "Hi" Who invite you in for a cup or two, And the only serious problems Are whether the Tigers or the Indians Can find the solid pitching To turn them into contenders again; And even you boy is happy enough To mow the lawn on Saturdays.../ And for all this You have sacrificed Your youth, your strength, And your vitality, Welding bolts onto one-inch screws, Making cars that all look alike In their skeletal form. And, banging all around you Are the pounding computerized presses Which send sparks flying in your sparse hair And in your eyes. Grease and Oil Cover you from head to boot; And bells, Not from churches, Are still ringing in your ears When the sacred horn blows at five. And when each ten-hour day is done And you are wanting to go home, You get into your old Granada And hope the battery is not dead. You drive back to the duplex With the tattered screens And the dirt and crabgrass yard. Wishing there was enough left over From a paycheck To paint the outside walls, Or at least the window trims. And pulling into the driveway You swerve to avoid the broken glass Left by a speeding car Blowing out its stereo In the middle of the night. Walking up the creaking steps Amid the din of distant fire alarms, You hear the t.v. From next door And know that deaf old Mr. Watson's home... Sitting on the green sofa, Pressing the remote control, You slouch back and try to sleep a bit Before dinner is put on the table. And, fading into the twilight Of the early evening nap, Ignoring the six-o-clock report And fears of another lay-off, You drift upon a sub-conscious vein To that place, Where, deep inside You have not quite yet pulled the plug And left to die In some arid desert of the brain, The Dream. The longing is buried, But still alive, And echoes flow from far away Across the smokestacks And rising hills, Into the clearing brightness Of the ever-shining suburb sun, Of that place, A place to call home...

ICH BIN (EIN)...TOLEDOAN Look, In the microscope Of the magnifying glass, Do you see them? Do you know them? They are the trapped people. Trapped, Within the dotted red and black lines On Rand-McNally maps. the unremembered faces In the shopping malls, but stops staring, Or the unemployment lines. Somewhere, On that half-inch yellow square Is almost half a million people Living, working, Learning, praying, Dying. From this angle, You can not tell the Projects From the Hills, The industrial complexes From the country clubs, The parks from the cemeteries. From this angle, It is clear to see Why there is a belief That events surrounding yellow dots, Or pink, blue, green, and orange areas Have very little weight Or importance here. Obviously, The fragile red lines That might link them Would break under such strain. Closer, If one imagines, Are the smaller borders: Townships, precincts, School districts, And backyard fences. Not to mention Ignorance, apathy, bigotry, And egocentrism. There, Each person has their point Where they are surrounded By all they know and want, Fear and misunderstand, As well as their needs, And the bills that follow. Not sure, If those fine red lines To the rest of humanity, Or even their own sanity, Are still intact. And every many has his Toledo. Where he stands Somewhere in the middle Of Detroit, Cleveland, Columbus, Chicago, And Ada. Here, he reads The Blade, Shakes his head, And wonders if Jeep will close And put him back on call At the union hall. Caught amid the swirling tides Of an entire planet beyond his reach, Yet surrounding him. And feeling trapped within, Trapped without, His eyes may look up As the stars draw their circles, Peering from his boundaries Of dotted lines In yellow fields, Crying as an ignorant Kennedy: "Ich bin (ein) Toledoan..."

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Catalogue Information

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