J.L. Scott

Ashland MFA Alum & MFA Faculty

THE INSTRUCTION MANUAL

My dearest Love, 

I cannot imagine what it is like for you. I have tried, but my mind seems unable to stretch to that moment, to meet you there in my imagination. I don’t know what to say. Is it hard for you just to read this? Or are you cherishing each word, each pen stroke? 

You have always been a wonderful father. The children adore you, and I have adored you for that. I hope that will never change, that you will always be the fun-loving Daddy they and I have known. But raising kids isn’t easy. Especially alone. I don’t want you to ever be left without support, be left feeling alone. So here I’ve written out what I could think of that might help you. There are notes on everything I could think of. I hope you find it helpful. 

My heart, my love, and all my self are with you, always. 

~Hannah

The most important times during the day for the psychological development of a child are the three minutes immediately after waking, the three minutes right after school, and the last three minutes before bed. No matter what has happened during the day, or the day before, make sure that those minutes are full of love and understanding. 

I stood in front of the door, my hand hovering over the handle, looking to any passerby as if I was mere seconds from entering. I had been standing there, like that, my hand outreached, for probably ten minutes. Or maybe not, but it felt like it had been that long. I had walked slowly down the empty, 3 AM corridors, passing public lounges filled with comfortable couches and TVs, little kitchenettes stocked with snacks and pre-made sandwiches, large fish tanks sporting large, colorful fish. It was all very posh. Surprising, really. But it was lost on me. There was no amount of comfort or free goodies which would allow me to paint the picture of some nice hotel in my mind. 

Before my fingers could actually close around the doorknob, it swung back, and a young nurse with a surprised look nearly collided into me. I stepped back quickly, allowed her out of the room and the door to swing close behind her. 

“You can go on in,” she said with a brightly muted smile, “He’s not awake, but it’s ok.” 

“Oh,” I said, grasping, “I don’t want to bother him if he’s sleeping.”

“I don’t think there’s anything that could bother him now,” the nurse said with an apologetic twist of her lips, “You go on in and sit with him.” 

“Right. Okay. Thank you.” My hand once again lifted for the doorknob, and then I turned, as if remembering, “But my brother. He won’t know where to go. Maybe I should just go wait for him at the front door.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said that unwitting nurse, “We’ll make sure he finds it when he gets here.” She stood there, that stupid smile still on her face, waiting. So I grabbed the knob, pushed the door inward and stepped forward. 

It was a nice room, really. The door closed behind me, and it really could have been a hotel room, with the private bathroom just inside the door and the little coat nook opposite, a long, low dresser topped with a coffee maker and a TV channel guide. There was non-distinct art on the walls and a sitting chair with matching ottoman, a little couch that no doubt folded out uncomfortably. The medical bed centered against the far wall, a headboard of monitors and tubing, sort of ruined the effect. 

Daddy had been broad and thick in his youth, and through his middle years, and honestly for as long as I could remember until maybe just a year or so ago. A Midwestern farmboy, raised on meat and potatoes, his dark hair had finally faded to gray and white about a decade ago, his short trim beard following suit. The gray didn’t seem to bother him, since his hairline stayed where it should, and anyways, he would say, “A grandpa is supposed to have gray hair.” 

He didn’t look so bad here, in the soft glow of a single table top lamp, the monitoring devices muted from their incessant beeping, the trappings of a hospital replaced with those of a three star hotel. His skin looked less blue and ashen, his skin a little less like too much paper wrapped around a wooden dowel frame. In the hospital, he wheezed and coughed, but here in the Hospice he seemed to be breathing soundly, that is, sleeping soundly, and I felt awkward again after my initial relief at his improved appearance, like someone who’s walked in on something they shouldn’t have. I turned as if to leave without even considering it, stopped when the thought of that nurse still standing outside the door, filling in her papers, crossed my mind. 

I took my coat off, one sleeve at a time. It was spring – most people were in sweaters and flip-flops already. But I was cold, and refused to switch out my heavy winter coat for my lighter spring jacket. I was the youngest of the two of us, me and my brother, and I had been waiting for him to arrive for days now, to take over things, but first his wife had been sick, and then his flight had been cancelled and rescheduled, and things with Daddy had happened much more quickly than anticipated, and now here we were. I draped the coat over the back of the armchair and sank down into it, my feet firmly on the floor, my knees bumping into the edge of the ottoman. 

“Oh, Daddy,” I whispered.

Physical connection is important for human beings. Children rely upon the assurances of positive, supportive touch from parents. This could mean anything from a hug to a pat on the head or back. Both children should receive some type of reassuring touch at least 8 times a day; 12 or more in times of duress. 

His hand was lying there, palm down, flat against the thin blanket, his long, crooked fingers stacked next to each other like logs next to the fireplace. His right hand was the one they had used to place the IV for the pain meds, so I sat on his left. This was the hand that had my name tattooed across his knuckles, and it had always been my favorite. As a child, my brother and I had always made sure to hold whichever hand had our name on it when crossing the street or strolling through a carnival. I had secretly always been glad that it was with his left hand that Daddy strummed his guitar because I had somehow come to the belief at the tender age of five that the audience could see my name better when he was strumming. When we were little, Daddy would tease us about it, crossing his arms when we reached for him so that we’d end up with the “wrong” hand. Before the Year of Momma, Daddy teased us a lot – he was really just a big kid, chasing us around the yard playing tag, schlepping through creeks with us and digging through mud until we found a crawdad or tiny fish, raking leaves into a pile over and over and over again, just so he could throw them at us as we jumped in. Momma always told us that he only teased people who he liked, and then she’d wink and say “That’s why he never teases me,” which we would all laugh at because, of anybody ever, Daddy liked to tease Momma the most. 

Daddy liked teasing his grandkids, too. I wasn’t sure if my brother would have his two with him when he arrived – I was hoping not. I was hoping they’d get to remember him the way he was at Christmas, the last time they saw him, just a few months ago, when he was chortling away as he assailed them with mixed nuts from behind the couch, daring the youngest to an aerosol whipped cream fight over the pumpkin pie. It would be better to remember him like that, rather than this way, this long sleeping form in a beeping bed, shallow and pale, waiting for his body to finally fail. For all I could tell, he may not even still be in there. 

“Gail?” 

“Geezus, Greg!” I hissed at my brother as I clutched at my heart, “I nearly jumped out of my skin.” 

“Sorry,” he said, moving fully into the room. My brother was built just like Daddy – tall and broad, with a wide brow and big ears he kept tucked under slightly shaggy brown hair, his shoes special ordered in a size 16 from an online store. I watched the color drain from his face as his eyes fell on Daddy, his cheeks sinking in just a little, like he’d lost fifty pounds in that three seconds. He moved around to the other side of the bed without taking his coat off, lifted Daddy’s hand into his own and dropped his head. I didn’t say anything, didn’t move. We sat like that until another nurse came in to check on Daddy’s vitals again. She and my brother made small talk, pleasant enough for the circumstances, and she offered to help him drag the chair from the corner over to the side of the bed, so he could sit while holding Daddy’s hand. He hadn’t even taken his coat off yet. 

“Did you bring the kids?” I asked when she had gone and Greg had finally sat down, never having let go of Daddy’s hand. 

“I dropped them and Lisa off at the hotel before I came over,” he answered, “It was late, they were tired from the flight. Jet lagged.” I nodded. There was the hint of pink and yellow in the sky outside the window, though you couldn’t see the horizon over the cluster of trees that backed the Hospice Center. 

“Were Phil and the kids here already?” Greg asked. I shook my head.

“They were in bed already when the hospital called. It was almost midnight.”

“I’m sorry, Gail. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.” 

“It’s not your fault. Unless you called down an ice storm to ground your flight?” His lips twitched, nearly pulling up into a smile. I waved a hand, “You’re here now.” 

“I promise, it won’t have to be you this time,” Greg said, nodding at me over Daddy’s body, “You don’t have to stay. You can go. I’ll call you.”  I almost let a tear escape the corner of my eye and trickle down my cheek, but caught it just in time. Thirty years later and Daddy on his deathbed, I didn’t think I should still be shedding tears over Momma. 

“It’s okay,” I said, swallowing against the swelling of my throat, “I’ll stay.” Greg nodded silently. I thought that at any moment, he might start to cry. I could see the tears already building up in his eyes. I wondered how he would make it through the Service, if there was a service, if Daddy hadn’t outright forbidden it in his will. Those arrangements had all been made years ago, first in the Year of Momma and then updated annually until I had reached adulthood, and then every five years after that. Greg had helped Daddy with it, at first, and then it had been me. But last year, when the five year came around again, Daddy had insisted that he didn’t need to update anything and we hadn’t made a visit to his lawyer. I did, however, get BBC’d on an email from that lawyer, a form letter saying that all changes were now applied and the will updated. For the first time in my adult life, I had no idea what my father’s dying wishes were. 

Ironic. 

Discipline must be tailored to the child. Where Greg is sensitive and will bend to the burden of guilt and disappointment, Gail is stubborn and independent, and will require harsher sanctions upon misbehavior. Don’t let gender stereotypes guide you – pay attention to them as individuals, and make decisions based on their temperaments, rather than your own expectations. 

By the time the sun had risen fully, I needed a break. Greg and I had sat together, on our respective sides of Daddy, unable to talk about him and unwilling to talk about anything else. There would be stories later – there were lots and lots of stories, and people would want to tell them, and hear them. It seems to be the way we humans cement people in our minds, like reciting the times tables – repetition secures those neural networks, protects them from erosion. But for now, before the passing had yet taken place, those stories were unbearable. 

I wandered out to one of the lounges, an empty one, though I could hear voices from down the hall and expected to be joined at any moment, and rummaged around in the little kitchenette. Someone had stacked covered plates of bacon and eggs in the fridge, placed a loaf of bread and a tower of those little individual jams you find at restaurants near a pristine toaster on the counter. It was all free, but still I tallied up the cost in my head, keeping track of the size of donation our family should make when all of this was over. I pulled two plates from the fridge and slipped the first into the microwave, smashing four pieces of bread into the toaster. Greg liked toast. I did not. For months after the Year of Momma, Daddy would put toast on my breakfast plate and grumble then when I didn’t eat it, transferring it to Greg’s plate instead and heaping extra sausage on my own. 

“I don’t understand how it is you don’t love carbs the way your Momma did,” he finally said one morning as he scraped bacon grease out of a pan and into the trashcan, “Greg loves carbs.” 

“But you don’t,” my eleven-year old self pointed out, “You love meat. Me too!” I remember Daddy pausing in his scraping of grease, his shoulders folding in just a bit, though he didn’t turn around. I was on the brink of asking him if he was okay when he finished with the grease and turned around. 

“That’s true. Fine. No more toast for you!” 

It’s not exactly the kind of story you tell at a funeral. Remember how much Daddy liked meat more than carbs? It was the kind of detail that only held significance when held up against the fact that Momma had liked carbs so much more than protein. Somehow, it seemed, everything about Daddy led back to Momma. 

______

Momma had known she was going to die. By the time I was nine, she had already been fighting the cancer for five years. The day she found out it had finally migrated to her brain, Greg and I were home from school. I remember Momma walking in, her eyes not seeing where she was going, her lips lifting into a smile reflexively as we said hello. I do not remember her and Daddy talking, only that she went straight to her room and didn’t come out again. Daddy told us she didn’t feel well and to leave her alone – an excuse and a mandate we were well familiar with by that point. 

But in the morning when we got up, it was to the smell of bacon and eggs and toast and coffee. Momma was in the kitchen, standing over the stove in her robe, humming along to the radio. I fell the last two steps off the staircase and tumbled into the kitchen and wrapped my short arms around her lumpy middle. 

“Do you feel better now, Momma?” I asked. She tousled my hair. Her green eyes were actually twinkling.

“Yes, sweetheart,” she said, “I feel much better. In fact, I’m going to feel better for the rest of my life.” 

It was mean, maybe. Of course I thought that the rest of her life would be a long time. At least until I was an adult, probably until I was married and had children of my own. It was only a year later, when I was ten and she was lying in a different bed, in a different Hospice Center, that I realized she had meant exactly what she had said. We always called it The Year of Momma because everything that year was orchestrated to create memories with her, about her. There was a big family road trip to some of the wonders of North America, Momma took me to Ireland and Greg to Mexico; she and Daddy went on a European Tour. There were late night lightning chases culminating in corn-field picnics, Saturday morning cartoon snuggles, flour fights while making cakes and cookies, and red-light car-karaoke. Momma joined all the committees at school, went to every Girl Scout meeting, every basketball game. There were no doctor’s appointments, no medicines, no hushing and shushing cause Momma had a headache. I can’t remember a single time she scolded me or punished me that entire year. That was The Year of Momma. 

Eating dinner together is absolutely vital. Studies show that children who ate dinner at the table, without the TV on, with their families fewer than five times a week were 50% more likely to have poor grades, engage in risky behavior (like drug or alcohol use) and to be in legal trouble. Children who ate dinner with their families seven times a week (on average) showed increased emotional and psychological stability. 

I ended up eating Greg’s plate of bacon and eggs and even a slice of his toast before guiltily pulling a third plate out of the fridge to heat up for him. My phone buzzed in my pocket while the microwave was whirring and I only answered it because I saw that it was my husband. 

“Hey. How’s it going?” he asked. I could hear him, but his voice was lowered enough for me to know that he was trying not to let the kids hear. 

“About as well as you’d expect,” I answered, keeping my own voice lowered for other reasons. 

“Any news?” 

“Nothing definite. He’s been asleep all this time. In a coma, I guess. The nurse says he might not wake up before . . . before.”

“I’m so sorry, honey,” Phil said, his voice breaking just a bit, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Just keep the kids busy. I don’t want them to see him. They should remember him . . . the way he was on Sunday at lunch. Fun. Happy.”

“Are you sure? You don’t want me to come, at least? I’m sure my mom would take them for a while. She could take them to a movie or something.”

“Do they know? Do they know what’s going on?” I asked, some urgency gripping my chest, “Did you tell them? What did you say?” 

“I just said you went to visit Grandpa because he wasn’t feeling good. They’re fine, they’re playing.”  

“Ok,” I said, “Ok. Greg showed up a few hours ago, so . . . so, I’m not alone. You stay home with the kids. There’s nothing to see here. I’ll call you when something happens.” He said okay, but still sounded like he might want to argue. He and Daddy were close, as close as a father could be to the man who married his daughter, I suppose. Maybe it was selfish of me to tell him to stay away. The thought occurred to me only after I’d said “I love you” and put the phone back in my pocket. 

I carried Greg’s food back to the room with a piece of paper towel over it, trying to keep it warm. He hadn’t moved from Daddy’s side, still gripping Daddy’s limp right hand. I put the plate on the bedside table where he could reach it, and moved back to my own side of the bed. Daddy did not look any different than he had twenty minutes ago. 

“It feels so different,” Greg said. I had been staring at the indistinct artwork hanging over the dresser. I dragged my eyes away from it and over to my brother’s face. He wasn’t looking at me. 

“What does?” 

“Just . . . this whole thing. I mean, with Momma, it was different.”

“Of course it was,” I said, “She was young. We were young. She had cancer. We had Daddy. The only thing that’s been the same is that it happened just as quickly. Remember, Momma was fine one day and the next week we were at her Remembrance Service. She didn’t want us to call it a funeral, remember? Five days ago me and Phil and the kids had Sunday Lunch with Daddy, like we do every week, and he seemed perfectly fine. Better, actually, because he was playing with the kids, throwing nuts at them and stuff, teasing them. Like he used to do when we were little. Remember?” 

“I remember,” Greg nodded, “It was different after The Year of Momma.” 

“I guess he had to grow up.” I shrugged. Daddy was never the same, really, after The Year of Momma. I didn’t think about it much growing up, but after having my own kids and watching Phil play with them, I would remember when Daddy used to play with us and had suddenly realized that after the Year of Momma, he never really had again. True, we were older, pre-teens, and maybe it would have tapered off anyway. But really, I think, being the only adult in the house killed his playful side. 

“So did you,” Greg said. He still wasn’t looking at me. I let my eyes slide back to that non-descript painting. The only thing I could say about it for sure was that it wasn’t red and orange. 

“And we didn’t get a Year of Daddy,” I said, “That’s another thing that’s different.” 

Girls who drink more than one to two sugary, caffeinated drinks per week enter pubescence earlier. It is, psychologically and socially, better for a boy to enter pubescence early, while early-onset of pubescence in a girl can cause psychological, emotional, and social problems. If Gail enters pubescence early (defined as before the age of 13), be aware of her self-esteem, body image, and social interactions. 

I don’t like to wait. Of course, most people these days are impatient. We check our phones at red lights, during commercials. More children every year are diagnosed with ADHD. Even my own daughter had been labeled with Attention Deficit Disorder. I tried not to pace. There wasn’t enough space in the room, and anyway, it would make Greg nervous. He was always better at waiting patiently.

He got that from Momma. We had been told our whole lives that we were both perfect mixes of our parents. Where Greg got all his looks from Daddy, big and broad and brown, he got his temperament from Momma: slow, and calm, and rational. When I hit thirty, I looked in the mirror one day and realized that if I took a picture and set it in a frame next to one of Momma, we’d look like sisters. She had not made it past forty, so now when I looked in the mirror it was always with a question. Would Momma’s hair have started to go white just there, at the temples? Would Momma’s face have wrinkled and lined like this? Would Momma have spread out in the thigh and the hip and the butt? 

But I was Daddy’s daughter too, and everyone knew it. Daddy lost his temper quickly, and gained it back just as quickly. Daddy always wanted to do things his way, the first way he thought of, and wouldn’t try your much more logical approach until he’d already broken something. Daddy wore his heart on his sleeve. Daddy was honest. Daddy was loyal, sometimes to a fault. And Daddy was impatient. 

So what was he doing, I wondered, trapped in that tiny hospice room, dragging this out so long? Couldn’t he get on with it, so we could get on with it? What was he waiting for? 

“I’ve got to go to the bathroom.” Greg’s announcement startled me. I blinked my eyes and rolled my head around on my neck. 

“I’ll stop by the kitchen and grab something on the way back. It’s almost dinner time. Did we eat lunch?” He stood up and gently laid Daddy’s hand flat on the bed, being sure not to disturb the lines of liquid sleep spilling into his veins. 

“I’ll only be gone ten minutes or so,” Greg said as he moved around the bed toward the door, “I can call a nurse, if you want.” He paused at the door. 

“I’m a big girl, Greg,” I said. I heard the door open, “But don’t dawdle!” 

The door shut. I was alone in the room with my dying father. It wasn’t the first time I’d been in this situation. I had been alone in the room with Momma when she finally flatlined. It wasn’t as dramatic as it sounds. In fact, I don’t think I even knew it had happened until the nurse came rushing in, flapping around the monitors, glancing at me every two seconds. I had been sitting there quietly, my one hand in Momma’s, my other holding open a book I wasn’t really reading. Daddy and Greg had stepped out – to get food, or go to the bathroom, I don’t remember. The room wasn’t as nice as this one. People weren’t as generous to dying people then. But I was alone, and Momma was asleep, and then she wasn’t asleep. She was dead. 

I don’t think it would have bothered me so much if everyone else hadn’t been so bothered by it. The nurse was frantic, Greg kept saying he was sorry, and Daddy brushed the hair back from my face over and over and over again, whispering “Poor baby, my poor baby.” I got so overwhelmed that I started sobbing, and didn’t stop until an hour later. I had no wish to repeat that experience. 

I took to pacing. I had gone at noon to get more food from the kitchenette and called Phil to check on him and the kids, to give him a no-progress report. I didn’t want to call him again, now, when there was no reason except that I didn’t want to be alone. Phil was a good man – as much like Daddy as he could be without driving me to drink or do drugs. He worked short hours, liked to pick the kids up from school, work on homework with them, cook dinner, do the dishes. I knew he would drop everything and rush out if I called and asked him to. But instead, I paced. 

The door opened. It was a nurse. She nodded politely as she passed me and checked Daddy’s wrist, his monitor, smoothed a wrinkle out of his blanket. 

“He’s been unconscious twenty-four hours,” I said. She smiled bleakly.

“Sometimes folks are here for a few hours,” she said, “Sometimes they’re here for a few days.” I rolled my eyes at her back as she left the room. Behind me, someone cleared their throat. I didn’t turn around. Greg had not come back in the room, behind the nurse. 

“Hannah?” I closed my eyes and forced air through my nose. I turned around. 

“No, Daddy,” I said, moving to his side and taking his left hand up in mine, “It’s me. It’s Gail.” His eyes were open, still green speckled with gold, the whites now a bit yellowed. He had not moved his body. I wondered if he was paralyzed. 

“Oh, Hannah. I’m glad you’re finally here. I was waiting,” he said. His eyelids had started to drift down already. My mouth was dry, my throat was tight. 

“It’s okay, Gene,” I said for him, “I’m here.” 

“I missed you.” 

“I know.”

“Did I do it right?” His eyelids flew back up, “Did I do okay?”

“Do what right?” I asked. 

“Raising the kids. I followed your book, your instructions. I followed all the rules. Best I could. I know . . . I know you would’ve done it better. Would’ve been fine if I had been the one to go first. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, if I messed it up.” 

“Daddy, no,” I said, and now I couldn’t keep the hot water from sliding down my cheek, “You did it perfect. You were perfect.” 

“I did? Well. There really is a first time for everything.” The corners of his mouth sort of twitched, as if he were trying to smile but couldn’t quite lift the muscles. His eyes were slowly closing. “I left the key to the attic on the counter for the kids. They’ll find it all, up there. I gave them the letters you left for them, every year, like you said. And at their weddings, and when they had their first kids. But I left everything else up there, just like you had it. That way they’ll know. They’ll know how much you did that year, to make sure their lives were good, and how hard I tried to make sure everything went the way you planned it.” 

“You were an excellent, excellent father, Gene,” I sniffled, wiped the tip of my nose on my shoulder. Both of my hands were wrapped around Daddy’s, the letters of my name just peeking through my fingers. 

“Hope it’s not too disappointing. You didn’t leave any more directions for this long. Gail’s youngest is ten now. She’ll remember me just fine, like you wanted. I’m a bit tired, is all. And I miss you.”

“It’s fine, Gene. You did enough. You did a good job. You . . . ” My mouth went dry and I tried not to choke on the words, “You go ahead and rest, now. The kids’ll be fine. I’ll watch after them.” 

“Oh, Hannah,” he sighed, “Thank you.” 

_______

Daddy had, in fact, changed only one element of his will. He had left specific instruction as to how he wanted his Remembrance Service to proceed. We were to serve only junk food – cookies and cake and donuts and chips and pretzels and pop and beer – and we were to play classic rock and metal as loud as the venue would allow us to. There was to be no crying, and if anyone gave a speech it had to contain at least one tawdry or bawdy joke. 

The house was nearly empty already. At some point, Daddy must’ve started to get rid of things. The dining room set, at which we had sat to family dinner practically every night until I left home for college, was still there. All of Momma’s souvenirs and trinkets were still set out on their shelves, but the couch and armchair and TV were all gone. We could find none of the things that would’ve meant Daddy still lived there – his beard trimmer, his crossword puzzle books, his favorite slippers, his coffee mug. His vinyl collection was split into two stacks of boxes, one labeled “Greg” and the other labeled “Gail.” The kitchen was bare, except for one pot, clean and put away, and one plate and one fork and one spoon and one knife. 

And the key to the attic, sitting on the counter. 

I did not want to go up there. Greg made me. Neither of us had been in the attic since The Year of Momma. Daddy kept it locked, and only went up there when we were out of the house or asleep. The stairs creaked as they took the weight of two people, and the door squealed as it opened far enough for two people to enter. 

It was a big, open room, about half the footprint of the house in the front. The eves were slanted at an angle to match the pitch of the roof, and there was one round window in the wall opposite the door that looked down on the front yard.  There was a desk sitting just in front of it, and to either side of the desk were three short shelving units. The ones to the left were neatly organized with mostly empty plastic tubs, each labeled something like “Letters for Gail” or “Letters for Greg.” On the right, the shelves were filled with books and magazines which bore titles like “Child Psychology” and “Helping Your Child Through the Death of a Loved One,” and “Adolescent Girls: A Daddy’s Handbook.” 

And on the desk, centered just so, was a thick black notebook, college ruled. On the front was embossed, “Instruction Manual.” Greg turned and left, the stairs squeaking behind him. I used just the tips of my fingers, and lifted the front cover of the notebook.  

“Oh, Momma. What did you do?” 

______

J.L. SCOTT WRITES LITERARY, SPECULATIVE, YA AND ROMANCE FICTION. SHE HOLDS A BA IN FICTION FROM ASHLAND UNIVERSITY, AN MA IN FICTION FROM CLEVELAND STATE UNIVERSITY AND AN MFA IN FICTION FROM ASHLAND UNIVERSITY. SHE TEACHES WRITING AT ALL LEVELS, FROM COMPOSITION TO CREATIVE WRITING, AT SEVERAL UNIVERSITIES. HER TEXTBOOK ON COLLEGIATE WRITING IS USED BY ASHLAND UNIVERSITY FOR THEIR CORRECTIONAL EDUCATION PROGRAM, THE LARGEST PRISON-EDUCATION PROGRAM IN THE COUNTRY. SHE LIVES WITH HER TWO CHILDREN IN RURAL OHIO, AND SPENDS THE SPARE TIME SHE DOESN’T HAVE ON PAINTING AND REFURBISHING OLD FURNITURE.