Happy Christmas Dear Reader,
In my book Sheetrock
on the Road, I tell many stories about
my youth. Most of those stories are
conglomerates or fiction in one way or another.
The story I share tonight is one that happened just as written. I gift it to you in hopes that you will find
a way to open who you are to the possibilities that are real.
As in many of the
tales about my youth, most of the events in this one happened when I was on the
edge of my eighth year. The crushing
horrors to soon enter my life were not yet upon me and the tutelage of my
Grandfather was still strong within me.
Had I known what was up the path I may have refused to go along it any
further. Had I had a choice I would
probably not have gone any further at all.
Miss Smith’s second
cry was the second to last best moment of my seventh year. It shaped a part of me into the man who dares
to ask you to read his meager scratching.
This singular event echoes still in my heart, mind, and soul.
The other character
in our short vignette is a typewriter.
That typewriter’s name is Deviled Ham.
It got this name during my adolescent angst years during which it was
the victim of my very bad and dangerously hammy teenage poetry.
It is an Underwood
Leader. When I inherited it the ribbon
was old, the keys stuck, and the carriage return sometimes came off when
used. Made in the early years of World
War I, my Great Grandfather used it as a war correspondent in France, England,
and eventually Germany. I wish it could
tell me the stories that it once told the first time the Western World tried to
undo itself.
This portable
typewriter was gifted to me by my Mother and my Nana as a way to
keep me out of mischief. Had they
imagined the mischief that lay ahead due to my writing, they might have burned
the Underwood and punished me just on principle.
The Underwood,
however, was mine. I pecked and typed
and pawed at it. Mom showed me about the
home row and proper typing but I had no interest in that until nine years
later, but that is also a different tale saved for a later volume. Miss Smith is the one who allowed me to
release the true power of the Underwood Leader.
Just eight short
days before Christmas and only one day before Christmas break, we were told to
write a Christmas poem. Miss Smith said
that it could be about anything concerning Christmas as long as it was neatly
written and grammatically correct. I was
still in love with Miss Smith and ignored everything but my typewriter when I
got home. I would craft the best poem
ever.
My small mind
imagined her face as she read the poem.
I could hear her rejoicing at the brilliance of my writing and begging
me to come live with her forever.
Frankly, I was the sappiest second grader ever. I spent four hours writing and typing. I had no typing paper so I used the striped
Blue Horse paper we used in class.
Feeding the paper in
carefully I struggled at first to line up the blued lines with the typing. I soon realized that both were out of
alignment and it would not work. I typed
on. The Underwood had an old ribbon and
was rarely clear. I typed on striking
the keys harder to get a clearer image.
The electricity went out and Mom brought in a candle so I would not be
afraid. I became inspired.
I crafted 16 lines
of pure literary genius in all caps. It
did not scan, the rhyme scheme did not work, and there was no definable
tempo. There is however the heart behind
it. I retyped it but still had to XXXX out a word that was misplaced. The poem was written.
The next morning, I
took my carefully protected sheet and placed it in the “in” basket on her
desk. To our surprise, just after the
morning Bible reading, our recitation of the memorized Christmas story, and
lunchroom mothers appeared with Christmas party treats and games. It was not until the last hour of school that
Miss Smith grabbed the stack of poems and began, one by one to read them. It was obvious she was taking a moment to
peruse each of them before reading them aloud.
All of them were on Blue Horse paper.
I could tell through the translucency of the paper when she had picked
up mine. It was the only one that was
typed.
She paused longer
than most before beginning to read. She
took a deep breath and her cheeks reddened.
As she read the first line one tear, then another slipped down her ivory
cheeks. She pressed on and read it with
depth of feeling that I had not imagined my words could command. She looked up at me, and through the gentle
rain of tears whispered, “Thank you, Aramis.”
Lightning struck.
I realized in that
moment that Miss Smith had been moved by my fumbling words. Miss Smith was weeping at what she perceived
to be beauty. I had pulled the
proverbial sword from the stone and the kingdom of writing became mine to
command. In that moment I knew that
being a writer would be an amazing thing.
Years later, after
Miss Smith had mostly faded from my mind, my mother gave me a gift. It is perhaps the finest gift she has ever
given me. It sits on my desk at this
moment. It is a black iron picture
frame. In the frame under the glass is a
single sheet of Blue Horse paper. It has
16 lines of poetry and the date 12/17/67.
There is also a brown stain next to the second stanza. It is the dried remnants of one of Miss
Smith’s tears.
The path ahead held
many painful and horrid moments for me.
Miss Smith’s love and kindness allowed me to keep some small footing
through the things that evolved in my life over the next years. I did not really write again until I was in
the seventh grade. By then what I wrote
was messy and dark. I think we will stay
with the pleasant for the moment. Miss
Smith deserves her own bit of fame without the shadows that lay ahead for
me.
I am looking at that
framed bit of Blue Horse paper and feel a longing to see Miss Smith smile just
one more time. A tear to match hers is
in my eye. I feel the happiness of that
second grade me in a way I have not felt it for many years. The love of that woman and her love of my
meager writing set the stage for me to survive the vicious storm brewing on my
horizon.
Here are those lines
that were so desperately and badly written by eight-year-old me.
A CANDLE MAKES ME THINK
THE FIRST STAR SO BRIGHT
BECAUSE IT SHINES XXXX
JUST LIKE THAT LIGHT
IT CAME UPON CHRISTMAS NIGHT
IT SHONE, IT SHONE
SO VERY BRIGHT
THAT THREE RICH WISE MEN
CAME THAT NIGHT.
COME YE WISE MEN,
COME, OH COME
BRING NO CANDLE
MY STAR IS BRIGHT
LIKE YOUR CANDLES
COME SEE THE LORD
BORN THIS NIGHT
12/17/68
I love you Miss
Smith, wherever you are. I am forever in
your debt for your love, honesty, and encouragement. If you read this and recognize me, I would
love to hear from you. If we do not meet
until the end of all things, I will still have a big hug and the highest regard
for you. You made a difference in many
lives including mine.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
Mat 13:52 So Jesus said to them, "That is why every writer who has become
a disciple of Christ’s rule of the universe is like a homeowner. He liberally
hands out new and old things from his great treasure store.”
(͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
Contacts for Aramis
Thorn:
#aramisthorn
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Here are those lines
that were so desperately and badly written by eight-year-old me.
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