I was seven-years-old and in love. To my shame, I've forgotten her name, but my second-grade teacher left a deep impression on me. Nothing sexual at that point, but certainly a longing for her affection. She was young and beautiful and a child of the sixties, complete with rock star boyfriend, brightly patterned mini-skirts and all things "Age of Aquarius." She "punished" disruptive male students by making them sit on her knee but somehow my strategies to that end ever only landed me in the corner.
I chose to channel my unrequited love into my first work of fiction. My beloved handed out two sheets of fullscap along with a sticker. The assignment was to write a short story on the subject of the sticker--mine was a tiger. I dove deeply into the process, my first effort at creative story-telling and a true labour of love. I remember the room and the desk where I wrote the tale of "Tiger the tiger" and I recall my parents peaking through the doorway, proudly witnessing the artist at work.
I remember the day I strode to Voyageur Elementary School to deliver my handiwork. I remember how cold that Winnipeg winter morning was. I remember my excitement and how proud I felt of the finished product. So proud, in fact, that before entering the school, I attempted a preliminary act of daring. I would tight rope walk along the top rail of the iron boot-scraper. I recall mounting, catching my balance, extending my arms and stepping forward. Alas, the ice! I slipped badly, stradling the bar and landing full-force on my young testicles! Oh, the excruciating pain! The traumatic embarrassment! The waves of nausea!
I gathered the remaining crumbs of my dignity, my shattered pride and my scattered notebooks. Gratefully, few seemed to have noticed the bruised fruit of my arrogance. I limped feebly into the school and down the hall to Ms.____'s homeroom. I reached into my parka pocket to retrieve my Tiger story--and found it was empty. Panicked, I returned to the scene of my accident and scoured the snow for the lost parchment. Nada. Gonzo. And an emotional hole opened in the pit of my stomach. All was lost.
I had neither the time, energy or heart for a rewrite. My parents and teacher conferred, confirming completion and forgiving the missing assignment. But that didn't heal the wound. I made a vow to myself that day--my promise to Little Bradley. One day, I will complete the work. It won't be about the Tiger and it won't be for my teacher. It will be a gift to that broken-hearted child with the bruised nuts.
I am now 56-years-old. After nearly five decades, through the guidance and generosity of my dear friend and co-author, Paul Young, I have kept my promise. I've finally delivered my first work of fictional truth-telling, miscarried on the icy iron rail in February 1972. The Pastor: A Crisis is my gift to Little Bradley. Even the novel's dedication ("For Jacki") is to one of Little Bradley's very best friends.
Paul and I pray that by reading The Pastor: A Crisis, others like me would experience the healing of bruised and wounded child parts that we recount in its pages. "Trust the ripples," Paul says. I do. I really do.
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