|
As writers and poets, I somehow wanted to share this little story with this
list - which some might have seen on my blog - a story - particularly for
those among among us who live around our elders, their joys and complaints.
Enjoy:
Friday evening I went to Richmond to have dinner and visit with my mom - who
is now 89. When young her aspiration was to be a writer - in fact, during
her twenties and thirties, she wrote and published both short stories and
articles. However, fate and four children, led her, and eventually my father
into urban and environmental politics. Most of her writing went into citizen
research and policy statements. Yet, now in her waning years, she
continually expresses disappointment that she did not fulfill her dream to
become known as a writer - going as far to discount her considerable
accomplishments as an activist politician.
So, this particular evening, rather than again listen to this reoccurring
lament, I decide to dust off my old skills as a creative writing teacher to
see if we can still get something out of her!
While she sits on the couch, I claim a ripe peach from the kitchen, turn
off the PBS News Hour, and put the fruit into the gentle grip of her hands.
Since itıs hard for her to still manually write, I open my journal and pull
out my pen to transcribe whatever she might have to say.
I start with a simple question:
"Mom, how would you describe the peach?"
"It has very formal outside," she says, slowly sliding one of her hands
around it its circumference. "It is outlined very carefully. It is not
irregular. The colors are lovely, soft and expanding into the whole
operation."
"Do you mean out into the world?"
"No. I am not trying to go outside the limits of what I know about. I see
predominantly a deep rose. Underlying it is a smattering of gold.
It has the softness of a rose. When you touch it, it is very accommodating.
It calls you right in. It's a happy peach."
"Do you want to compare the peach to anything?"
"I don't want to compare it. Just from being out in the light, heat and the
very cold weather we have had, the exterior is harsh looking. You know
something has happened to the peach. It's been out in the world, just like
what happens to very young men."
She pauses to look at the base of the fruit.
"Down here at the bottom," she continues, "It is smooth and delightful. But
when you get up to the higher part, its own significance is not that
important. It's waiting for someone else to come and do something else to it
- different than its first go around. In its first go around, there were no
indications. Now there are indications of things they want to do, things
that they will do, and things nice to have done. I know from having studied
other pieces of fruit that they will do things that are significant - they
shine in the sun. They make the passerby recognize them, all of which adds
to the glory of the fruit. Some will get more glorious than others."
My mother pauses. While she's talked, she has continued to palm the sides of
the peach.
"Am I getting too bookish," she looks at me, smiles and asks, almost a
combination of pleasure and embarrassment by her outlay.
I laugh. She pauses again.
"Is this a classroom project. Is this what you do? Where do you this?"
"I'm doing it right here, Mom."
I read her back the piece. She does not comment. She smiles and looks
pleased with herself. As I am. Indeed, it is sweet to hear her without
complaint.
**
Nicely enough, my mom - when I go back this Friday - wants to do 'another
one.' Well, the plums in the yard are also ripe for the picking and telling,
too.
Stephen V
Blog: http://stephenvincent.durationpress.com
|
