How does a writer measure success?  One night, success measured me.

THE NIGHT I WROTE MY PULITZER PRIZE WINNER

As a writer, I felt that someday, somewhere my work would touch human hearts, bridge continents, unite generations.  One night it did.

I was at McKelvey's Tavern, sipping Amber Bock. The "Blues Band" was on a break.  A small, white-haired man sat two barstools away. I’ve got ten kids," he bragged.   "And two grandbabies on the way.   My youngest daughter is in the army. I think the world of that girl. Last five years she's been in Germany."

"Does she call you?" I asked.

"Sometimes.  But with her schedule and the time difference we don't talk much any more." His lips tighten as he stared into his beer. "It costs a bundle to phone over there. She tells me, 'Call collect, Dad.'  Nah, I can't put that expense on her."

"Write a letter," I suggested.

"Can't hold a pen," he said.  "I've had four strokes. My arm is paralyzed." To show me, he lifted the lifeless limb with his good hand.

I grabbed my journal, opened to a clean page and leaned forward, pen in hand.

"What's her name?"

"Suzie."

I looked into his bloodshot eyes and asked, "Shall I start with 'Dear Suzie,' 'Hi Suzie,' or 'Suzie, how the heck are ya?"

"All of that," he grinned and exhaled smoke.

"Dear Suzie." Slowly I repeated, then penned the words. "You talk, I'll write."He pressed the stub of his cigarette into the small,tin ashtray, reached for another Camel, lit and inhaled.

"Tell her I'm down to one pack a day . . . and . . . I eat every day . . . at the Senior Center. The food is wonderful. Spaghetti, cake, ice cream. All you can eat." He chuckled, "just no beer."

I listened and wrote non-stop."Tell her I think the world of her.    Tell her Jen and Dave are getting married and Pat and Tim are getting divorced.  Tell her Uncle Wilbur is still up on Sauvie Island, workin' the Pumpkin Patch. "That's where all my kids grew up."

As I listened, a kind of intimacy opened between the wizened faced man and me. "Tell her not to worry.  I've got no complaints.  I dance every night I can."  His eyes filled with light.  Tell her to remember Grandpa Jones.   He died jogging—at 104.  That gives me more than twenty years. "Tell her . . . I think the world of her." His voice quivered. He gulped his beer, then wiped his mouth.

Two blank lines remained on the second side of the paper. I picked up his limp arm, placed my pen in his rigid hand and squeezed his fingers. "You sign it," I urged.To add leverage he couched his left hand around his writing hand.  

I watched him etch each stroke.  The scribble read "Jove Da." I knew he meant "Love, Dad." The pen rolled out of his hand. His right arm flopped to his side.  With his left arm he reached a finger beneath his glasses, wiped a tear ."Thanks," he said in a half whisper, then cleared his throat.

"No big deal. I write in this journal every day." I patted his shoulder and left saying, "When the Blues Band plays next Saturday, you bring Suzie's address; I'll bring a stamped envelope."On the way home, I wept. I knew what I had just written was my Pulitzer Prize. 

This story was published in A Second Helping of Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul, available in Spanish and on cassette. 

http://www.amazon.com/Second-Chicken-Soup-Womans-Soul/ 

Shinan's  story, "My Pulitizer Prize Winner"  is  available in spanish. Find this heartwarming story in "A Second Helping of Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul." Una 2 a Racion De Caldo De Pollo Para El Alma De La Mujer Jack Canfield, author: http://www.ecampus.com/book/9688905860