Son of the Academy

“Who is he? Who is he? Truly he is a Son of the Academy.”

At times he shone magnificently like the Andromeda Galaxy or like the Great Orion Nebulae, twinkling both in the skies above us and in the classrooms--in front of us. I was privileged to be taught by him in the ‘Fifties and ‘Sixties, and appreciated him even more in the ‘Seventies and ‘Eighties.

Swedenborg described a man he had once known on earth, who communicated with him from heaven. This friend could manifest himself by pleasant and enjoyable representatives, such as beautiful colors of every kind, and colored forms, and by infants beautifully decorated and clothed. I immediately was reminded of our mystery teacher. When we run out into the back yard to see the infrequent rainbow glimmering in grey clouds still full of moisture, I think of Mr. Academy. Both Swedenborg’s friend and our teacher acted with a soft and gentle influx, and insinuated themselves into the affections of others with the purpose of making our lives pleasant and delightful.

His twinkling eyes remind me of the Orion Nebulae, the Andromeda Galaxy, the rainbow sparkling in the clouds, and the family campfire. He is easily able to illuminate the darkness and bring light and warmth to whole groups of gathered individuals during their natural and spiritual quests in his classrooms to determine their identity, their purpose, their mission, and their belongingness.

I sit at a small table, drink an green iced-tea latte, take bites from a blueberry scone topped with an occasional small pat of butter from Glenview Farms, and I glance out the window and for a moment - I thought I saw a phantom rainbow in the sky. I close my eyes and feel the warm campfire presence of this mystery man and am warmed by the memories. I turn to the very last page in the New Church Life, and see all that’s left of my imaginary campfire. The embers glow, sparkle, and twinkle up at me. Dismayed, I read in black print under Deaths: Mr. Charles Snowden Cole, at Bryn Athyn, Pennsylvania, May 18, 2008. 93….

He wasn’t just Mr. Charlie Cole. He was Professor Charlie Cole. He was Dean Charlie Cole. I hear a bell ring in the Children’s Reading Room nearby and think, “Charlie just became an angel.” I think of meteor showers from the Orion Constellation, and console myself that, “The Orionides will remind me of Charlie Cole every October 21st….” I remember the Andromeda Galaxy’s misty patch of light took two million years to reach us, but now, like Charlie Cole’s twinkle, its gleam will be with us forever. Okay, Charlie’s earthly body is gone from us. But everything he stood for, corresponded to, and represented lives. His campfire never dies. It just turns to the man we all called charcoal (CharCole), still warm and light and alive, full of all the love he gave us; full of all the love we gave him back….

Genealogical Memories

As the Gilbert & Nora Smith Family Reunion in Tucson comes to a close, I think that perhaps my penchant for writing stories comes from my grandfather. Here's an excerpt from one of his stories:

Memories of childhood center for me in the larger town of Easton. The stable, the family horse and buggy. Father was also a horse-trading parson. The stable, most enchanting of all places. I drew horses on scraps of paper, interminably sketching that subtle line that runs from the ears to the tail, over the parapet of intervening stalls. I remember riding with Father on preaching expeditions to what then seems far distant villages, waving sad good-byes to Mother as she stood, beautiful, like an angel in the lane. It broke me up to leave her for an over-night journey with Father. But it was fun with Father too. I remember how eagerly I contested with him, on the return trip, to see which would be the first to lay eyes upon the Easton standpipe.

I remember watching in summer the terrifying clouds blowing up a “gust,” old Mr. Gelon across the way, standing in his shirt sleeves, with his red beard blowing, welcoming the coming storm as relief from sultry afternoons; the torrential rains which sometimes followed, flooding the gutters on Railroad Avenue, filling the dirt street with rivulets through which the horses splashed; the joyful aftermath of tramping with bare feet in the dammed up rainwater along the side of the road until there were vast areas of soft black mud to “sqush” in and out between the toes; revelling in winter in the deep moist snow that hung thick on peach, poplar, and maple; watching rich Miss Covey, daughter of the livery man, jingle furiously by in her black slay behind high-checked black horses; in the dreamy autumn, lying in the sheltered angle of the front porch, out of the wind, watching the tossing tops of the poplars, their leaves turned up, and catching the broken sound of the voices of people passing, distorted voices in the noisy breeze; just dreaming, and wondering at the mystery of consciousness, and why it was that I was I.

Excerpt from Tornado Alley Fever

Finishing touches on my latest book: Tornado Alley Fever:

Annie brushed tears away from her eyes. Please God, no more trials! Give me my ticket to heaven—life with Luke right here on earth….She picked up the sound of the approaching Army transport. Far down the runway, but coming toward her, the plane’s wheels tantalizingly sailed long over the runway and touch down with a distant double- erk—erk from the protesting wheels on the two main landing gears. She breathes outward slowly, savoring the wheels-down. Annie’s heart squeezes tighter and tighter with every concrete section of runway as the plane taxies up to a stop, its propellers spinning soundlessly.

Ten base hospital attendants follow the two air base’s runway attendants as the privates push the big stairway up to the plane’s left fuselage, and stand at the bottom, waiting for the steward inside to crank the door open. The door opens and the attendants run up the stairs. In less than two minutes, five wounded soldiers are carried off the transport on stretchers—one right after the other, with two attendants carrying each soldier and loading him onto a hospital gurney. Five ambulances leave before anybody else comes down the stairs. Seven soldiers on crutches come next, making their way carefully, and manfully down the long flight of stairs and heading toward an old beat-up brown Army bus. Double that number walk down the stairs unaided, and then nobody appears at the top…