Pebbles of Time

Pebbles of Time

My feet barely touched the floor, as I walked down the aisle to receive the coveted “Roe Fulkerson Award.” The gold and crystal chandeliers in the banquet hall, at the famous Cliff House at Pikes Peak Hotel, were only bright blurs. I had difficulty distinguishing any of the faces that were now standing in applause of my award. I truly needed to focus. Desperately, I sought something on the stage to focus on in order to get back my bearings. The first thing that came into focus was the Kiwanis seal that currently seemed to float in front of the podium instead of hanging from it. I knew I would have to change my focus once I got to the stairs of the stage. I prayed my feet would be back on the ground by then.

I had nearly sunk into the chair when my essay began to be read. By that time I had decided I must have gotten honorable mention in their publication The Annual National Publication of Young Americans Essay Collection of The Kiwanis International.

I had listened to the reading of the third place writer, Joseph Whitney from Coronado High School, he was a 10th grader. His modern perspective on the symbolism in the design of the American Flag was well received. The second place essay was written by Carol Gigney a 12th grader at Wasson High School. I was going to Wasson next year. Carol’s essay made me cry. I truly could see her sitting in the train car surrounded by all the heavy tapestry of the time, mending Mr. Lincoln’s cloak as he struggled out loud for the right words while penning the “Gettysburg Address”. I had allowed myself for the ten minutes it took for her principal to read her essay to escape to the train. Feeling it rock as it rattled down the track, I could almost smell the sweet cherry tobacco in Mr. Lincoln’s pipe, which Carol so colorfully described.

Then the president called my principal, Mr. Nelson, to the podium. I was utterly surprised. In my confusion, I looked at Mr. Judy, my sponsoring teacher, as I thought only one essay per school was allowed for submission. Mr. Judy would only smile at me, and his wife reached out her hand and reassuringly patted my arm that was resting on the table. I started hearing my own essay as Mr. Nelson, read it. At first I wanted to hide. I was bringing attention to myself, to my family. This was NOT good! We weren’t allowed to bring attention to ourselves. But, surely this time would be okay because it was a good thing. I had won first place for the State! At least it should have been ok, but you don’t know my family.

I could no longer hear Mr. Nelson as he read it. I saw his face, I saw the audience laugh, I even saw the tears as he finished but, I didn’t hear anything past the first line. My heart was too busy filling with fear as I recalled the continuous squabble in my house for the past two weeks. I had tried to explain that I had not submitted my essay, Mr. Judy had submitted it. Mr. Judy would take me to the ceremony if it were inconvenient. I had to explain several times that his wife would be there as they kept trying to make him out to be some kind of pervert. They couldn’t understand that each teacher had submitted 10 works from their students, and then the staff reviewed them and selected which one was to be submitted to represent our school. Out of 100 submissions, the staff had selected my work! This was a statewide contest and each school was allowed one submission. There were over 250 submissions, out of those 250 only 10 of us were invited to the banquet and only three of those would be published.

This would be a dream come true! Journalism had always been my hopes for my future. It would be the way out of my life. One of the few dreams I had left in my heart was to become a well-known writer. To be published and studied like Pearl S. Buck or C.S. Lewis. Words were powerful to me. They were strong enough to create new laws, paint pictures, influence committees and change lives. Some people thought this was a little grandiose; while others believed it was possible. We didn’t have computers then but I sure could make the typewriter burn. Mr. Judy used to call my typewriter my burning bush. Once the paper was put in place the keys in my tool of choice would fly and a message would be swiftly and skillfully inscribed. The whole world went away except the words that needed to be read. That little box with the letters was my escape and the hopes of all my future. Mr. Judy had bought this typewriter for me after my parents had destroyed my last one. He knew how the words would flow so quickly I could not write them fast enough. That little box was my rescue. It captured every word. It kept up well with my thoughts as I gave them life with the clicking of my fingers on the letters that when manipulated just so would combine to create a story.

I had lied to my parents and said that the principal would come to the house and talk to them if they refused to let me go. They were afraid enough of child services, so they bought the lie. When they asked me about where I would get a dress, I told them that Mrs. Brown, Gayle’s mother, had offered to alter one of Gayle’s dresses. Then they got upset because Mrs. Brown might think that we’re some sort of charity. They also wanted to know why she knew before they did. What kind of picture of our family was I painting for people? Again, I lied. I told them that Mrs. Brown had been working at the school helping Mr. Judy when he found out. Then they asked why would she be helping Mr. Judy, unless perhaps they were having an affair? I assured them that she was only there during school hours when other teachers were around.
This torrent went on for over four hours. Why can’t they just be happy for me? Why do they have to ruin everything?

Why, oh why, didn’t I just listen to Gayle? She’s the best friend anyone could have. She suggested I not even tell them. “They’ll take ALL the joy out of it” she had yelled at me when I said I didn’t want to lie to them and that maybe they’ll be proud of me. Gayle said that she knew better than I just how talented my family was at making the most important, wonderful things turn into something ugly, perverted, and nightmarish. I should have just asked to spend the night with Gayle like she suggested but, being only 15, I was naive enough to believe they just might be ecstatic. I wanted to believe my parents loved me and wanted good things for me. However, they only made me feel worse than dead; they made me feel empty.

Oh now I’m crying! I hoped Gayle was right about this make-up. She had boasted how well it covered as she fervently worked to hide the not yet faded marks that had been left on my face. These marks were the inscription that my parents had made when they realized that while they had destroyed my typewriter and burned my journals in an effort to stop me from writing, I continued to display my insolence, by giving my thoughts life through ink and paper. In addition to the make-up that Gayle had provided, Mrs. Brown had replaced the short sleeves on the dress she had made for me, with long sheer ones to conceal the scratches and bruises on my arms.

Beginning to climb the stairs, I remembered how I almost hadn’t made it tonight. Another torrent had started this morning before school but I refused to let them upset me. Mr. Judy took a good look at me this morning and told me I would be present in his class but not in school. It was not until just before 7th period, which was when I had his class that I understood what he meant. He had taken Gayle and I to her house, where we met Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Judy. The women worked hard to make me feel pretty, for what was to be the most important event in my future. Mr. Judy went back to the school to finish out his day and I later discovered that most of the staff was in on this conspiracy. I felt so important by the time I got here.

Why am I thinking about this? I’m almost at the top of the steps, if I don’t refocus soon I’ll trip. I certainly am grounded now, having allowed my memories of the past two weeks to deflate the joy.

A lot of people believe in me and they put a lot into helping me get here. I have to enjoy tonight, and take away everything I can from it. I’ll be paying for this for months. I have to make it worth it. My feet are back on the ground and my confidence is almost gone, but I’m duty bound to enjoy, or at least try to enjoy, tonight for all these people.

Holding my head up and my back straight I begin to climb the stairs, grateful that tears are actually appropriate now. No one needed to know that they weren’t initially tears of joy. It’s one thing for them to ruin my life, it’s another when I disappoint others because of them.
Not sure if others saw it or if it was just something inside, but I felt myself stand up a little taller and a little straighter. I held my head just a little higher, praying my heart would follow and that I would be able to replace the anger and hurt I felt with just a little pride and joy. I had learned through years of practice to portray the emotions needed by drawing on the ones I truly felt. Few people saw through me. Perhaps I should look more seriously into an acting career? However, tonight though I will receive this award for all the people that do believe in me, at least the me they perceive me to be.

As I stretched out my hand to Mr. Nelson to receive my award, cameras started flashing. I wonder why I didn’t notice them before? The rest of the night is hard to recall. It seems to be very much a blur, except that I seem to recall forgetting the price I paid and will pay, for a few hours and just enjoying all of the attention and praise. My picture, along with the other two winners, was printed in all the newspapers for the next two weeks. Even The Rocky Mountain News did a series of articles on the event. The three of us were published as representatives of the state of Colorado. Everyone had been there including Governor Lamm, Senators Hart and Haskell, as well as several other important people in the state.

The next month I was to be accompanied by Mr. Judy to Chicago to compete on the national level. However, I had “fallen down the stairs” again and was unable to go. Instead, the 2nd place author, Carol Gigney, represented the state of Colorado. Carol won first place in Chicago. She came home with a full scholarship to the University of Colorado School of Journalism. I was devastated. I literally languished for months. The words that used to flow so freely from so deep within just DRIED up. For the first time I knew what it was like to be truly empty. I dropped out of the Latin Club, resigned as co-editor of the school newspaper, dropped out of Junior Achievement. I no longer struggled with the occasional desire to die. I was too empty to feel anything. But worse than that the words would no longer flow. Words had always sustained me through past hurts, they were no longer there for me. My lifeline had been stolen. My destiny changed. I felt the control that words gave me had now been erased and were nothing more than an organized collection of letters on a page.

This was over 20 years ago. Today I still struggle with taking “pen in hand”. Why had I allowed a dam to be built and hold back the words? I really don’t know. There have been so many things in my life that I have stood up and fought hard for. This time though, the pain had been unbearable.

Now the dam is about to burst. The words didn’t really dry up after all. I feel them today as I again sit at a keyboard allowing them to escape. The words have continued to flow over the pebbles of time. Instead of coming to the dam and resting, they have pressed up against the wall creating an occasional leak. But now the leak has become a crack, and soon it will burst. The words will flow freely once again.