by JC Roberts

Once upon a time, in April of 1972, a boy of 10 was sitting on the back porch of his home in Dunmore, Pennsylvania. He could hear the radio playing through the open kitchen window. A screechy man was singing and playing the harmonica. The boy craned his ear up as high as he could towards the window, trying to catch the words floating between the notes. He realized that he had heard songs before, but never heard the music of the words. And, just like that, he heard his first Bob Dylan song. That’s an actual memory; a vivid page of life that is always present in my mind, not one that depends on remembering and retelling the scene to make sense of what’s remembered.  

The radio was on a shelf above the sink, and my poor Grandmother had her hands busy in the sink. I heard the rattle of silverware and the sounds of clean plates and bowls kissing the dish rack. She was speaking Italian, and from her tone, I surmised it wasn’t anything flattering towards Mr. Zimmerman. So, on he droned, on she muttered, and on I listened. That was my first exposure to what I imagined was poetry. 

Not long after, I began writing down the lyrics of every song I listened to. A song stopped, and I stopped. A new song started; I started. I can still see all the scrap paper, neatly cut canvases of old brown paper shopping bags, and discarded sheets of junk mail I had collected. I never had to ask for paper; I didn’t want anyone to know what I was doing. After all, I never saw anyone in my home writing anything except bills or maybe a card for someone. Did they write letters? Did they know how to write? Did they write just to write like I was? It was a mystery, and I was content to keep my mystery cloaked in shadow. 

By age 12, I had begun to buy dime-store notebooks. The kind that had thin covers and thinner pages. Pages that would fall out at the slightest sign they were being treated roughly. If you weren’t careful, they’d randomly fall out as you walked around the house. Little notes and stupid kid shit that would betray our secret confidence if not watched like a hawk! Occasionally, I’d be met with a raised eyebrow and a subtle but firm question. 

“What’s this, John?”  

My eyes would dart to the little tattletale rat fink piece of paper between my mother’s fingers. I’d think as quickly as possible and usually lean on the only bestest, prepubescent excuse I could think of. 

“It’s for school, ma.” And I’d gently reach for it. Freeing the escapee and returning it to its cell between the flimsy card-like walls of my notebook. 

“That’s for school? A story of a fish that somehow got on a bus going downtown to buy sneakers for its fins because the sidewalks are hot? That’s for school?” I’d shrug, smirk, and slip back into my room. I’d giggle to myself, turn on the Emerson radio next to my bed, and begin again. 

I always had multiple notebooks engaged throughout middle school, high school, and college. One for the shit I was supposed to be paying attention to and the other for the good shit I wanted to pay attention to. Occasionally, I’d get snagged with my nose and pen in the wrong one. I was fortunate, however. Usually, my teacher or professor would pick it up from under my pen, pause their lecture, and read a few lines. Sighs and rolled eyes would accompany the returned, closed, face-down concubine, and, more importantly, their book was slid under my nose in its place. Worst-case scenario? I’d be told, “You can pick this up after class.” The day I first heard that was the day my secret got out. 

Mr. Paul Bradican was my Literature teacher in 1978. I was a sophomore and was supposed to be listening and reading along with “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” I was charting other courses around The Mariner, and with multitasking not a polished skill of mine at the time, I took my eyes off the horizon and ran aground. My notebook was seized. 

Mr. Bradican was still active in the National Guard. He graduated from Dunmore High School in 1956, was a ’61 graduate of the University of Scranton, and was a sergeant in the R.O.T.C. during his high school teaching days. The odds of his being a Vietnam veteran were pretty good. Though he was not an unusually big man, I was just a kid; he was my teacher, and I got caught screwin’ around. I was a bit intimidated, to say the least, by the thoughts of my possible demise.  

I waited until the class had emptied and approached his desk.  He sat back in his chair, opened my notebook, and began reading all in one motion. After a very long minute, he leaned forward, putting my notebook in front of him on his desk, still turning pages. I stood there not knowing if I was gonna shit, piss, puke, or all of the above, but I was prepared; I eyed the door, ready for a quick escape. He finally closed the notebook, handed it back to me, and sat back, cradling his chin in his palm and tapping a finger under his left ear. 

“So, tell me. What were you doing here?” 

I didn’t know what to say, I stammered. 

“Well, umm, Mr. Bradican, I, umm, was ahhh…” He sighed and sat forward. 

“John! Be direct! Stop evading. I asked a question; give me an answer! Tell me, what are you writing here? What’s your topic?” He tapped the tip of his index finger on my notebook. 

Whooooaaaaa! My mind slipped a few gears. Was he asking me what I was writing about? No one ever asked me what I was writing about! So, I prodded lightly. 

“Are you asking me why I was writing instead of listening, or are you asking me what I was writing about?” 

To my astonishment, he sat back hard and laughed!  

“Well, you have the instincts of a writer! Always question and take nothing at face value. Yes, I know the Ancient Mariner is boring, and I’m asking you what you’re writing about…YOU! He leveled his gaze at me, “I know what Sam Taylor Coleridge was writing about. I don’t know about you!” 

I didn’t need much coaxing to start talking about my writing, and I still don’t. I started talking excitedly in crazy, run-on sentences, stammering, tripping, and stumbling over the words falling out of my mouth, but that was only in my mind, the stammering and stumbling. I caught myself listening to what I was saying. I was making some sorta’ half-assed sense! Yes, I was laying out the blueprints for him. I was explaining my writing process to him before I even knew I had one! 

“Well, I’ve been playing with the words to ‘Like a Rolling Stone,’ the song by Bob Dylan. You know, Bob Dylan, right?” His eyes widened, accentuating his wide grin. 

“Yes, I know Dylan. What were you playing with? I noticed you didn’t say his lyrics. You said his words, how come?” 

I was on fire; my thoughts were racing, and I felt the excitement running through my veins! I never talked to anyone about my still-budding love affair with words. 

“They’re only lyrics if there’s music behind them. If you take the music away, the words are still there! They still tell a story. So, I was rearranging them. I was writing them backward, moving lines, and putting my own in. I bet there are at least three separate stories in that song!” 

He laughed. Boy, did he laugh! I felt my forehead crinkle up and stepped back. Was he laughing at me or laughing at the excitement in my voice? 

He smiled and said, “I’m not laughing at you, so get that look off your face. I’m laughing at the fact that you’re rearranging Dylan’s words. You think you can do a better job?” 

A great sigh escaped from my lungs; I had been holding my breath.  

“No, sir. I don’t think I can do a better job. I can’t sing like him either.” 

He laughed again. “Nobody can sing like Dylan, thank God! And a song without music is what we call Poetry. The words sing, just like in “The Rime.” Do you read any poetry? Do you want to be a writer? What else do you read?” 

The questions landed on me like raindrops, random and all over my head. With every questioning raindrop, I wanted more! I wanted the sky to open up and let the downpour of questions and answers, words and reasons, soak and waterlog my soul! 

“No, I don’t read any poetry unless you think that reading the lyrics inside the album sleeves while I listen to the music is reading poetry. Writing would be pretty cool, but there’s no money in it. You can’t make a living being a writer.” There was silence. An easy understanding silence. 

“Sounds like you may have been talking to someone else about this. Sounds like you may have heard someone talking about the subject. Maybe someone who thought writing was an easy task and a quick way to make a buck found it’s a long, tediously delicate journey. Coming from a kid who understands words vs. lyrics, they don’t sound like your words. I will write down a few authors’ names for you. A poet, an essayist, a novelist, and a journalist. They are pretty much the same in that they all write, but their styles are uniquely different. The genres in which they create their work are different. You know what genre means, right?” 

I thought for a second and answered. 

“Yeah, I mean yes, sir. Like horror, drama, daytime soaps, and sitcoms, right?” 

He stared at me. “Uh-boy, another T.V. kid! Could you do us all a favor, John? Please turn off the television and open these books I’m suggesting. The world will thank you.” 

I nodded; he wrote. 

He suggested I read “The Road Less Taken” by Robert Frost and The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner, Issac Asimov, Kurt Vonnegut, and Papa, Ernest Hemingway. 

“If you like stories from different points of view, Faulkner is your guy. And Frost, well, Frost is the Grandaddy of the Modernists, in my opinion. Look that up when you’re down at the library, Modernist. The rest are all heavy hitters as well. Take your time. Read what strikes you; the rest will follow.”   

Now, he had raised himself from behind his desk and stood behind his podium. He was packing up his briefcase when he stopped and looked me in the eye. 

“And as far as your statement, you can’t make a living being a writer? You’re correct. Writing makes a living out of you. Remember that. The words live in you. Do you think you could give them a place to sing? Learn to do it well, master the craft, and  you’ll be just fine.” 

On my way home that afternoon with Robert Frost tucked under my arm, I’d stop every once in a while, open up the book of poems, and read random lines. I read them over and over, just random lines. I heard the music they made, I heard the music of language, and I wrote down what I heard. I was almost forty-five minutes late getting in, yet it was the fastest, longest walk home ever.  

I sat during dinner, just listening to the conversation around the table, hearing the same music. I unconsciously began tapping my foot, and I felt my head gently swaying from side to side. My mom thought I was dozing off and tapped her fork on her plate, saying,  

“You’d better get in early tonight.” But when I picked up my head with my eyes wide open, my ‘ol man added, 

“Nah, Bea, he’s not sleeping, Eisenstein is daydreaming again.” I smiled, finished up dinner, and headed to my room to read and listen to music. 

 All these years later, I remember Paul’s advice. I give the words a place to live and sing on my pages. I’m trying to do it well, master the craft, keep pushing farther, and live up to what the words say as they sing to me. I’m just tryin’ to stay in tune, just bleeding enough to keep my voice and the words flowing. 

I have my own students now, after a long road of figuring out who I am. I still talk excitedly about the language, the stories, and the poetry it creates, and try to infect them with my passion. Sometimes it works when I hear one of them say, “Ya know, Professor JC, I can hear it!” 

The Sound and the Fury still lives on my bookshelf. “The Road Less Taken”? We diverged in the woods along the way, and I took the less-traveled one. Frost’s words still ring true. I’m glad for the path I’ve chosen. Asimov took me to the stars; Vonnegut brought me back home. Hemingway? Well, Papa taught me that writing was easy. All I needed to do was sit at the typewriter and bleed. 

And, just like that, I’ve become a writer, a teacher, a singer of songs, who I always needed to be,  I think.