Second Thoughts ~ A Christmas Memory
By: Aramis Thorn
Tags: Christmas, Love, Jesus, Following Christ, Writing

Here are those lines that were so desperately and badly written by eight-year-old me.

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.

Miss Smith’s Second Cry

Sometimes, when you are just acting out of love, you find out that you have power. The power of which I speak is that over the human heart. It is the power to move it to places it did not intend to go or perhaps places that the heart did not know existed, but longed for just the same. I mentioned earlier that Miss Smith cried three times; the first being when I asked her to be my mom, the third when she was forced from our classroom by politics. Her second cry was all my doing. I also mentioned earlier that I was in love with Miss Smith and that love and its pure and simple fruit is what brought tears to her eyes and changed the path of my life forever.

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 ͡°)

Every human story is part of the great story that leads to the Father getting everything back to Good.

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Here are those lines that were so desperately and badly written by eight-year-old me.