THERE I WAS
My hearing aids are carefully kept in a gray felt case in the middle drawer of an antique desk I bought myself for a birthday gift back in 1950. Supposedly it belonged to Mark Twain but no emanations of his genius transferred to me, except maybe one. It was odd and usually happened in the late afternoon when the sky was fading into night. I smelled cigars. If I knew a good one from a bad, I would guess these whiffs were mediocre, not fit for a king but good enough for Robert E. Lee.
I've had a lady bug crawling thru my mind and body since the library teacher read stories to first graders about Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. They enchanted me. I badly wanted a raft, a good friend and a mighty big river. My mother had no idea of where my mind often was and kept buying me dolls, little ones, big ones who talked and walked. Even though they bored me, I pretended I loved them and let my merry-go-round mind hear clanky muffled music.
When she passed, my ties to our old house passed away, too. Slowly the staleness, stacks of saved dolls dissolved in my tears and I set out to find Tom and Huckleberry myself. I took a three day cruise down the Mississippi, sat on a hard wooden deck chair, its padding shabby, staring out at the muddy water, small waves and big circles. Tom dropped his oar from the raft. Huck didn't hesitate and jumped into the river. He had to get that oar back, fast, before the raft hit a shoal and they would both be marooned there forever. If Tom drowned, Huck would be alone. He swam as fast as he could. I woke from a short nap. My face and my blouse were wet. The deck around me was dry.
My plan was to visit Calavaris County, maybe find the Celebrated Jumping Frog that once was there, or its descendants. A statue, a big one, stood in the town square with a short bio of Mark Twain. Did Calavaris bring him his fame or did he bring fame to Calavaris? Tom might have known know but I didn't. I stood in the hot sun and read about Mark, suffered the loss of two of his children, saw a daguerreotype of Clara, the only child of his who lived to adulthood. Little sad shivers cooled away the heat. The smell of ink, the cacophony of pounding presses, beckoned Samuel Clemens into a printer's shop. I saw him walk in and I followed. Those presses had claws, grabbed him, awakened his mind, loosened his stubby fingers. The stories wrote themselves. The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calavaris County met Tom, Huckleberry and me. We become one.
It was time to leave, find my place in reality and I fly home, see my dolls still sitting on shelves, waiting for me to play with them. I didn't. I looked out the kitchen window and realize the back porch needed painting and most likely so did the entire house. Outside was an old chair that had seen much better days. I leaned against it, smelled a cigar and the old chair became a white wicker one. Mark's wife had placed a pitcher of iced tea on the lopsided table. It didn't fall off. There were several tall empty glasses and I had no idea at all who else was coming. Laughter surrounded me. Tom and Huck , their pants slightly torn, appeared from nowhere. They looked around, asked me where Mr. & Mrs. Clemens were.
The smell of a strong Cuban cigar stopped me from moving, from replying. I couldn't figure anything out--yet knew for sure-- there I was.
No comments:
Post a Comment