LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
On a Day Like Today...Love Letters in the Sand |
by Glen Pruitt |
I only have to close my eyes, and I drift back through the years to my tenth grade English class in high school. Even now I clearly remember my teacher, Mr. Sterner. In his late twenties, Mr. Sterner could not only discuss poetry and literature, he could "hang ten" with the best of them at the local beach. Thats right, Mr. Sterner was a surfer. He was a beach bum, as proudly proclaimed on the tank-top he wore at the student-faculty basketball game held in the school gym that winter. He was also an attractive man, at least in the eyes of an impressionable sixteen year old boy in Third Period Sophomore English. I would sit in the second row, gazing attentively at Mr. Sterner as he explained "alliteration" and "assonance" (the repetition of, respectively, consonant sounds or vowel sounds in poetry). Mr. Sterner would always give me a "+" on "pays attention in class" on my report card. Actually I was simply delighting in how his chin whiskers danced whenever he bit his bottom lip in deep thought. One day, Mr. Sterner announced that we were beginning a new unit in class: Speech Writing. The first speech that we would write would be an expository speech. This type of speech gives the listeners information or directions so that they can accomplish some sort of task. Simply put, it is a "how-to" speech. Mr. Sterner even asked us to title our speeches in just that manner (i.e., "How to Sew on a Button", "How to Make Coffee in a Percolator", etc). "What should I write my speech about?" I asked myself on the school bus ride home. The suggested topics were boring, or things that I couldnt do (in fact, even today some twenty years laterI STILL dont know how to make coffee in a percolator!) And the bottom line was, of course, that I wanted to please Mr. Sterner. So I thought and I thought and I thought. Then I got it, a sure-fire, no-way-I-could-lose, wont-he-be-impressed idea. Finally, the day came that brought my turn to present my speech to the class. I strode confidently to the front of the classroom, carrying a small bag of props at my side. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," I began. "Today I am going to instruct you on the fine art of Writing a Love Letter." My opening remark was met with some giggling from the back rows of the class. Perhaps the subject matter made some students uncomfortable. More likely, they doubted my expertise on the topic. Oblivious to the jeers of my fellow students, focusing only on the reactions from Mr. Sterner, I continued my speech. In a mock-serious tone, I extolled the virtues of selecting the proper writing instrument. The use of crayons shows that the writer is in touch with his inner child. A fountain pen indicates that the writer is old-fashioned. A wide-tip magic marker suggests that the writer is bold and impetuous (or simply needs a great amount of attention!) A 29 cent blue ball-point would be chosen by someone practical and down-to-earth, or by someone with limited financial resources. I went on to describe how to choose the most appropriate writing paper for the intended recipient, various salutations and closings, and often-used similes and metaphors in romantic writing. I finished my presentation with my piece de resistance...splashing the completed letter with after-shave lotion borrowed from my fathers medicine cabinet! Everyone knows that, for a love letter to be successful, it should be as pleasing to the nose as it is to the eye and ear. I got an "A" on my speech, and my reputation as a "love letter writer extraordinaire" was then well-established. However, I have a confession to make: when I made that speech in tenth grade English class, I had never written a love letter in my life. It was a sham. I was an impostor, a boy with big dreams and big words...and a big heart, with no one with which to share it. So I kept my expository speech locked away deep inside of me, in a secret place that we all have, if we look hard enough for it. Two years later, I met a guy named Bill. I knew from the moment that I saw him that he would be a part of the rest of my life. He was in his mid-twenties, a man of the world, supporting himself by working full-time and living in an apartment with three other people. I was then eighteen, enjoying my last summer at home before heading off to college. We spent time together that summer. We would go roller-skating at the local roller rink. We would spend evenings in his apartment, playing "Uno" with his roommates. We would eat leftover pizza stashed in the refrigerator. All too quickly the summer was gone and as I left for college, we shared a first kiss. That was our first kiss, and it would remain the only kiss we would share for a number of years. I was 161 miles away at college and without a car. A few months after I left for school, Bill moved to North Carolina. The number of miles separating us increased. Though we were apart physically, we grew very close... as friends. We began writing letters to each other. At first the letters were casual, full of chatty news of final exams, apartment hunting, family gatherings. As time went by, the letters became more thoughtful. We let down our defenses. We shared our hopes and our dreams, as well as our fears and our insecurities. Through these letters, I experienced the triumph of Bill opening his own business. He delighted in my experiences in community theater. Together we supported each other through loves won and lost, the deaths of family members and friends, and the search for meaning in a world that doesnt always seem to have it. I wrote Bill a letter yesterday. As I finished it, I realized that maybe my speech in tenth grade was prophetic. Maybe I WAS a "love letter writer extraordinaire". In sharing my life, I was sharing my love. But thats true of all of us. In some way, each of our LIVES becomes a love letter to the people we hold dear. It is written with gentle words and kind deeds. It is punctuated with joyful laughter and sealed with comforting hugs. Remember that today as you write the love letter that is your life. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 8, No. 1, February 6, 1998. |