Getting a Little Creative

"'Ten good lines out of four hundred, Emily—comparatively good, that is—and all the rest balderdash—balderdash, Emily.'
'I—suppose so,' said Emily faintly.
Her eyes brimmed with tears—her lips quivered. She could not help it. Pride was hopelessly submerged in the bitterness of her disappointment. She felt exactly like a candle that somebody had blown out.
'What are you crying for?' demanded Mr. Carpenter.
Emily blinked away tears and tried to laugh.
'I—I'm sorry—you think it's no good—' she said.
Mr. Carpenter gave the desk a mighty thump.
'No good! Didn't I tell you there were ten good lines? Jade, for ten righteous men Sodom had been spared.'
'Do you mean—that—after all—' The candle was being relighted again.
'Of course, I mean. If at thirteen you can write ten good lines, at twenty you'll write ten times ten—if the gods are kind. Stop messing over months, though—and don't imagine you're a genius, either, if you have written ten decent lines. I think there's something trying to speak through you—but you'll have to make yourself a fit instrument for it. You've got to work hard and sacrifice—by gad, girl, you've chosen a jealous goddess. And she never lets her votaries go—not even when she shuts her ears forever to their plea.'"
From Emily of New Moon By L.M. Montgomery

It's been a while since I've posted because I've been overwhelmed with my academic writing (the reason I'm in the UK in the first place, so I figure I should spend at least a little time on it.) I figured - might as well share some of this writing with my blog peeps. Now, don't get frightened. I'm not going to post my 5,600 word Critical Theory essay. While the title - "The Seductive Exchange Between the Subject and the Object in the Modern Self" - might sound risque, to be honest it's a lot of philosophy and most people don't find that sexy.
Instead I'm going to share a little piece I whipped up today for my Spring semester course - Seven Basic Plots. It's rough, of course (I mean, I started it today, finished it today, and haven't had any of my writing friends give me feedback) but I kinda like it, and I hope you do too!

The Plot

By Amy

There was something sad about that plot. Those on all side of it consistently received offerings of plants, flags, or flowers. In the five years I’d worked at the cemetery the only attention given plot 492 was that provided by me when circled it with my mower.

When I first started as a groundskeeper for St Martin’s Cemetery I’d paid little heed to the comings and goings; how people chose to commemorate their loved ones was none of my concern. Yet with time came reflection – you can’t see hundreds of funerals and thousands of mourners without stopping to think time at some point.

I don’t remember when I first began to provide better care for plot 492. It snuck up on me - one day I was slowing down the riding mower to ensure that I could get as close to the headstone as possible and the next I found myself using the weed-wacker to clear the grass around the base after I’d finished with a nearby oak.

His name was Ernest Johnson.

Usually I don’t stop to read the writing on markers. It’s depressing to identify names, relationships, experiences, with the hundreds of bodies decomposing beneath my feet. I preferred to see the beauty in the peace that hung over the graveyard. My favourite time of day to work was sunrise. Streaks of colour shooting through the sky and the dew sparkling on the granite, marble, sandstone, and slate creates a world that resided on a different plane. Shadows are deeper; light is brighter.

I first saw the name on the headstone of 492 on one of those serene mornings. Clouds from a storm during the night still blocks most of the sun, but for a moment here or there a ray of light shot out and caressed the graves. Trudging towards the garden shed, I took note of damage the wind had wrought on the trees. As I approached 492 I saw that an especially large branch had broken from a neighbouring maple. Instead of passing it by, like I had every other downed limb, I stopped to remove it. As I cleared away the debris, a cloud shifted, and a shaft of sunlight darted through, illuminating the grimy face of the stone. I couldn’t stop my eyes from reading what was written there:

Ernest Johnson

May 3, 1950 – April 1^st 2005

he died as he lived

The epigraph gave me pause. From what I’d gathered during my time caring for the grounds around the headstones, people seemed to like putting things like: beloved father, loving mother, or darling daughter on the markers. Maybe that is why I couldn’t get 492 – Ernest Johnson – out of my head for the rest of the day. My eyes kept shifting in that direction and I found myself finding excuses to walk through that section more than usual.

Over the next fall and winter I took a little extra time each day to swipe my hand across the top or front of Ernest Johnson’s headstone to clear away the leaves or snow that may have collected on it. I started to think of him as Ernie. Not that I talked to him, but I often wondered about who he had been, what he had done and –more importantly – why he was alone in the world.

At some point during late spring I came to the conclusion he must not have any family. I’d worked at the cemetery long enough to know that even the most ignored plots got at least a visit once a year – on second date listed on the stone. People often seemed to forget about a dead “loved” one, except for on that day.

April 1^st came and went – but still Ernie had no visitors.

The next day I brought a marigold and planted it in front of the gravestone. Over the course of the summer I stopped by once or twice a week with my watering can and made sure its thirst got quenched.

“You know, Ernie,” I said one day in August, as I pulled a weed from the base of the flower. “I’m as alone as you are. We make quite a pair, don’t we?”

I glanced around, realizing that I’d spoken aloud to a tombstone, then stood up, and rushed away.

For the rest of August I avoided plot 492.

That Labor Day my brother invited me up to his family’s cabin for the weekend. Usually I cried off, I didn’t like kids, water, or barbeque – so I never saw a reason to put myself through the torture of three days of them.

The call with the invite came in while I was on the rider so I was listening to the voicemail as I headed home for the day.

“Hey Sam. It’s your brother. I know you’ll say no, but here it goes – come with us to the cabin next weekend. The kids won’t bother you, they’re mostly grown and do their own thing, and I really miss you. Please. Anyway, call me back.”

I stopped walking as I pressed the end button, dialled my brother’s number, and hit send.

“Bruce here.”

“Hey, it’s Sam.”

“Good to hear your voice. It’s been too long.” There was a pause which I didn’t fill. “You get my message.”

“Yep…” I started to give my customary refusal when Ernie’s tomb caught my eye. The marigold was wilted and most of its petals were scattered on the ground.

“I thought I might join you this year.”

Silence of a different kind hung over the line. T be honest, I think I might have been as shocked by my words as my brother.

“I’m so glad.”

My brother didn’t say anything else for several minutes. Finally, as I slip behind the wheel of my car, I said, “What time should be at your house?”

“Wheels up at 7AM on Saturday, so any time before that works.”

“See you then.”

My brother only said, “I’m so glad,” again, and disconnected.

----

Autumn came and went and soon the leaves began to blanket the cemetery with a golden coat.

After the phone call with my brother I’d gone back to caring for Ernie’s grave, but I never spoke to him again.

One brisk November morning I was rushing through my rounds and found myself in the 400 block just before noon. The sun was bright but it couldn’t stave off the bone chilling indications that snow would most likely arrive during the night.

Habit drew me towards Ernie, but I abruptly halted about three plots away.

Standing beside the grave was a young woman with a young man’s arm around her shoulder.

“We don’t have to be here, honey.” I saw the man’s hand squeeze her gently.

I couldn’t help overhearing their conversation and in reality I wanted to know.

“Yes, I do.” Was her voice shaking?

The two stood there for a few minutes without exchanging any words, but I detected subtle shuddering in the woman’s breathing. Was she crying?

“He doesn’t deserve these,” the woman finally said.

“Maybe they aren’t for him.”

She lifted her head from his shoulder and tilted her face so their eyes could meet, “what did I ever do to deserve you?”

Leaning down he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, “what did you do to not deserve me?”

Simultaneously they turned into an embrace.

“I’ll wait for you in the car.”

The man seemed reluctant to pull away and turn towards the path. Once they separated, I realized that there was a substantial bulge under the woman’s jacket.

“I won’t be long.”

“Take as much time as you need. I’m not going anywhere.” His comment caused the woman’s hand to rise to her mouth and her breathing to hitch.

“I love you so much.”

“I love you more than could ever be dreamt of in your philosophy.”

A small laugh slipped between the woman’s lips, “English nerd.”

I could hear the smile in the man’s voice when he replied, “yep.”

A moment later I found myself alone with the woman as she turned back to face the headstone.

“Hello, Dad.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised by her words, but I was.

“I’m going to have a baby.” Her hand rose from her side and, I assumed, came to rest on her stomach.

“This is the only time I’m going to visit you. I just wanted to tell you that Andrew and I are happy. I’m happy, probably for the first time since I can remember.”

She stopped talking and I figured that she would leave. Instead she reached out and brushed off the leaves that had collected on top to grave marker.

“I just wanted to tell you that you didn’t break me. I’m still here – despite you. And I wanted to swear before you that I am going to be a better parent than you. I…” Her voice cracked and I had the urge to go comfort her. “I am happy.” She repeated.

She turned and slowly worked her way towards the path. Suddenly she stopped and faced the grave again.

“God damn you to Hell, Ernest William Johnson.” She spat out. “I will never forgive you for what did and the best way I can think to punish you is to be happy in spite of you.”

She left. I watched until she disappeared. She didn’t turn or glance back once.

For a few minutes I stood unmoving and gazed at Ernest Johnson’s tombstone.

A vibration in my jacket pulled me from my reverie. I withdrew my phone from my packet and answered.

“Hey, Bruce.”

“Sam! Meredith wanted me to check on your E.T.A. so she can start the turkey in time.”

“I should be there around four.”

“Sounds good. Oh, and Britta’s bringing home her new boyfriend from college.”

“You planning to meet him at the front door with your shotgun in hand?”

Bruce’s laughter echoed over the line, “Thought about it, but Meredith told me I couldn’t have any apple pie if I did.”

“And we all know how you feel about apple pie.”

We hung up and I glanced at plot 492 before going to finish the last of the tasks keeping me at the cemetery.