A TEACHER TAUGHT ME By Brian Nace

Recalling the source and instant I wanted to become a writer has its difficulties, as far back as I can remember I have always wanted to be a writer. I have also had ideas of fortune and fame, and writing as an avenue to understand my thoughts and the outside world, but I do have fears and doubts. Yet, one formative incident does stand out.
At age thirteen, I had an experience which provoked me to write the first story I remember writing.
I was a paperboy. I delivered the evening news on a bicycle, but this type of job no longer exists. Contemporary Child Labor laws, the prospect of unescorted preteens going into potentially hazardous situations where they might be sexually assaulted or worse, the decline of evening newspapers, and kids not wanting menial jobs ended this chapter of American history by the mid 1990’s. I did not last long as a paperboy, but many laments could be made for the innocent days when a kid could make a few good bucks for an hour of work and get to know everyone in the neighborhood. And, getting to know someone is what this story is about.
About a hundred years ago it seems, and on a cold winter evening, I was making collections for my route. I had never met Mrs. Schubert at 18 Hanover Street. I was not sure she existed either, except for the fact her paper was always gone from the door and she consistently left her weekly money in an envelope sticking out her mail slot. But, she did not do it that night.
I thought maybe she had died, or maybe she had forgotten and would leave the money next week. So, I deposited the paper to the left of the front door where I always did and started down her front steps and onto the sidewalk. A breeze picked up and as I pulled my knit cap over my ears, it occurred to me I should go back to see if she was alright, and a small twinkle of silvery phosphorescent light appeared directly in front of me. It happened quickly and disappeared. I had never seen such an effulgence of light trails play on my eye, but I interpreted it as a “good” sign, and I turned back toward her house.
A tall gray haired woman with tight matt curls stood in the doorway wearing a t-shirt and jeans, with a short apron around her waist. “Come on up young man, I’ve got something for you,” she called out, and when I reached her door I realized she was holding a tray with a plate of freshly baked cookies and a gold rimmed glass of red punch. The sweet smell of baking and burnt chocolate brought a smile to my face, it was the most delightful scent, I knew I was in for a treat, and I became intoxicated with joyful anticipation.
I introduced myself excitedly. I told her I was glad to finally meet her, and I asked her to pay her bill. She invited me in, and put a hand on my shoulder before she closed the door. As she offered the punch and a cookie, light from a suspended crystal chandelier caused her green eyes to sparkle like my grandmother’s. The cookie crunched and tasted great, the chocolate was rich and dark too, and her fruit punch was real strawberry, guava, pineapple, and ginger ale.
I noticed a modern style beach painting behind us and I paused to admire the simple graphic quality of its crashing wave. She said her late husband Earl was fond of the sea, and painted all the seascapes in the house. Her traditional living room had a celadon color and the layered texture of many fabrics, and the dining room had a round table big enough for twelve. We passed though a butler’s pantry, and when we got to the kitchen she stopped to check another batch of cookies still in the oven. She motioned for me to sit at yellow breakfast table, while asking me what grade I was in, she wanted to know if I had read any Shakespeare, and I found out she used to teach at the old elementary, which was now the local crafts center.
I told her I had just read MacBeth and with a bit of hubris I recited the lines “double double toil and trouble fire burn and cauldron bubble.” She laughed and assured me she was not a witch and wished the absolute best for me. She marveled at how I was the only paperboy she had ever had who regularly delivered the paper on time. “Like clockwork,” she said I was.
A buzzer made a sonorous clanging, and she took a baking sheet of chocolate chip cookies from the oven, insisting I have a few warm gooey ones. I indulged her and myself. She began telling me the importance of work and purpose and she paid me for the next two weeks from a small beaded purse with folded bills and coins. She was impressed with my diligence on my paper route, but I told her it was due to pressures from my stepmother. I had a few houses left on my route and I told her I had to be going, but she said they could wait.
“I know people, and you see things most people can’t,” she declared as she filled my glass with more punch. “I think you’re a writer, if you decide you want to write,” she continued while pushing a piece of paper and a pencil, from the other end of the table, in front of me.
As it turned out, that night I had a homework assignment to write a story about my happiest moment. I told her I was thinking of writing about the day I found a baby rabbit on my back porch, how I had fed it, had given it water, and how it survived despite my father saying it would die in a day.
“Marvelous,” she exclaimed and she had me tell her the story. She helped me break the story into a rough outline, and write five paragraphs. I told her that was a lot, but she assured me it was easy. She explained the importance of a good beginning, a midpoint of fresh tension, and the final resolution with a payoff. She quickly proofed my work and gave me advice on making the final draft before she sent me on my way with a plastic bag of cookies. I practically floated down the street, high on the experience.
At home I sat down at my desk, I removed the folded story from my jacket’s inside pocket and I took my school workbook from my book bag. I changed nothing, but I did name the rabbit Sparkle. It was the name my sister had given him. My family had decided on it with a vote, and I had never liked it until that night.
I had spent an hour at Mrs. Schubert’s house, but I never saw her again. She continued to leave her money in its place, I had no reason to knock, and she never came to the door. Eventually, I quit delivering the paper, because I did not need the money, I did not like carrying a heavy paper bag and the weather was frequently a difficult problem.