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Unassisted Human Flight
Sewanee Review ( IF <0.1 ) Pub Date : 2021-01-06 , DOI: 10.1353/sew.2021.0007
Allan Gurganus

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

  • Unassisted Human Flight
  • Allan Gurganus (bio)

My first night as cub reporter and they send me to a four-hour County Sewage Hearing. I call that hazing. You try distilling lively prose from Wastewater Issues.

To be safe, I'd worn my best blue thrift-shop blazer. But when I afterwards approached Falls, NC's mayor, he clammed up. I'd asked one question but he heard: I lacked a brogue of sufficient Dixie humidity. He sensed a newbie would have no info worth swapping. I knew nothing yet of hog prices, storm damage costs, proof the Presbyterian pastor kept an open tab at Discount Adult Art. Having been assigned a town of 6,000, I found its every citizen obsessed with one thing only: the other 5,999.

And after five years' reporting here? I talk slower, think faster, scratch anywhere. The blazer? Long since replaced with denim work clothes. People here now know my name because I know theirs. And today, with regret, I leave Falls . . .

This must be my last Herald Traveler column. Our editor has spent years slashing my discursive if clarion copy. He's presently vacationing at Myrtle Beach. Mel has finally agreed to let me "go [End Page 183] long, however many farewell pages." He left one urgent Post-it: If need be, cut the issue's "Want Ads." But "Recent Arrests" and the Hardee's ads are sacred, okay?

I've been summoned to Richmond's big-league paper from this noble farm team. Let me thank you, reader, for your patience in watching a boy from Akron come to consciousness in plain, stark civic view. You have been patient as my accent lost its harder corners. Consonants seem Midwestern fencing now. The South is all nougat vowel.

This much I have learned from our small town: whatever story the Herald sent me out to cover was never the one locals tried telling me instead.

Today's column finally gives the people what they want. This is the tale Falls has pleaded for these five years: our secret "miracle" too long ignored. My last seven weeks have been taken up with the sad facts of the Mahon family drowning. If the reader is tired of this tragic act, imagine how Falls' feature writer feels. In brief, the Mahons, farmers long established in our county, inherited a motorboat. It arrived at night, and the father and mother and five children decided to take said craft for a test spin in their farm's biggest irrigation pond. The eldest son had brought his pistol. He intended to fire off a traditional New Year's Eve round overhead. Somehow the gun discharged into the bottom of the fiberglass boat. No one was hurt, but bullets shattered the boat's underside. This would have meant nothing if any of the Mahons could swim. Shortly after the pistol fired, the motor stalled, and, out that far on water after midnight, the thing slowly sank. Since the nearest neighbors live three miles away, no shouts were heard. Come morning, only a boat trailer hinted what had happened. The Mahon drowning seemed the last tale I would tell here. Then the one printed below took me—after the dredging misery of the Mahon deaths—to heights unguessed. [End Page 184]

This morning I and my cat (named "InkJet," enemy of sparrows, five years' chunkier) head north, leaving behind the story I feel proudest of. It proved my hardest interview to land but will be the easiest to remember.

How His Tale Recruited Me

A short old white man hoisted one thrashing catfish. It hung alongside him nearly half his length, black as motor oil. I photographed these two beside the victor's farm pond.

"You think this fish is something? Know who your paper keeps missing? 'Miracle Boy.' Not even my catch here can touch him. Imagine a local human flying. Thirty-odd years back, one naked boy 'flew' most of a mile. No fake wings. No helium or nothing. The sky it someway took him in then coughed him back down home alive. I swear.

"Your editor made you drive clear out here, son. Why? To report my hooking...



中文翻译:

无人飞行

代替摘要,这里是内容的简要摘录:

  • 无人飞行
  • 艾伦·古格努斯(生物)

我作为崽记者的第一个晚上,他们把我送到了一个为时四个小时的县污水处理听证会。我称那为令人毛骨悚然。尝试从“废水问题”中提取生动的散文。

为了安全起见,我穿了最好的蓝色旧货西装外套。但是,当我随后接近北卡罗来纳州市长福尔斯时,他叫了起来。我问了一个问题,但他听到了:我没有足够的Dixie湿度。他感觉到新手将没有值得交换的信息。我对生猪的价格,风暴造成的损失还一无所知,这证明长老会的牧师在折扣成人艺术展上保持了公开的地位。在分配了6,000个城镇之后,我发现它的每个公民都只沉迷于一件事:另一个5,999。

在五年的报告之后呢?我说话慢,思考快,随处可见。西装外套?很久以来用牛仔布工作服代替。现在这里的人知道我的名字,因为我知道他们的名字。今天,我遗憾地离开了福尔斯。。。

这一定是我在《先驱旅行者》专栏中的上一篇。我们的编辑已经花了很多年削减我的话语副本。他目前正在默特尔比奇(Myrtle Beach)度假。梅尔终于同意让我“走很长的[结束第183页],尽管告别页面很多。” 他留下了一封紧急的便条纸:如果需要,请删减该问题的“广告”。但是“最近的逮捕”和哈迪的广告是神圣的,好吗?

我被这个贵族农场团队召集到里士满的大联盟论文中。读者,请允许我感谢您耐心地看着来自阿克伦城的一个男孩以朴素,鲜明的公民视角进入意识。您的耐心等待着我的口音失去了硬朗的角落。辅音似乎是中西部的栅栏。南方都是牛轧糖元音。

我从我们的小镇中学到了很多:《先驱报》发给我讲的任何故事,从来都不是当地人试图告诉我的。

今天的专栏终于为人们提供了他们想要的东西。这是福尔斯在过去的五年中所诉说的故事:我们的秘密“奇迹”太久以来都被忽略了。我的最后七个星期被马洪一家淹死的悲惨事实所困扰。如果读者对这种悲惨的行为感到厌倦,请想象一下福尔斯(Falls)的故事作家的感受。简而言之,在我们县长期建立的农民马洪斯继承了汽艇。夜幕降临,父母俩和五个孩子决定在农场最大的灌溉池塘中试乘上述手工艺品进行试验。长子带来了他的手枪。他打算解除传统的除夕回合开销。枪以某种方式排入玻璃纤维船的底部。没有人受伤,但是子弹击碎了船的底部。如果任何马翁人会游泳,那将毫无意义。手枪开火后不久,电动机失速了,午夜过后,在水面上的那一刻,东西慢慢沉了下来。由于最近的邻居居住在3英里之外,所以没有听到任何喊叫声。早晨到了,只有一艘拖车暗示了发生了什么事。马翁溺水似乎是我在这里要讲的最后一个故事。然后,在马洪(Mahon)死亡的疏mis苦难之后,下面印着的一张纸带到了我无法估量的高度。[第184页]

今天早上,我和我的猫(被称为“喷墨”,麻雀的敌人,五年笨重)向北走,留下了我最引以为傲的故事。事实证明,这是我最难的一次面试,但最容易记住。

他的故事如何招募我

一个矮个子的白人吊起一只th脚的fish鱼。它挂在他身边近他一半的长度,黑色为机油。我在胜利者的农场池塘旁拍摄了这两张照片。

“你以为这条鱼是什么东西?知道你的论文不见了吗?'奇迹男孩。' 甚至连我这里的渔获物都无法碰到他,想象一下当地的人类飞行,距今已有30多年了,一个裸体男孩大部分时间都在“飞行”一英里,没有伪造的机翼,没有氦气或一无所有。他还活着回到家,我发誓。

“儿子,您的编辑让您开车离开这里。为什么?要报告我的迷恋...

更新日期:2021-03-16
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