by cheri block
You will forgive me today, won’t you?
Instead of telling stories about literature, education, human foibles and courage, I am throwing confetti (from my shredder) above my head and letting it sprinkle to the floor in a one-woman celebratory moment.
It’s OK that I do this, right? After all, I’ve spent a lifetime cheering on everyone else: my students, my family members, old and new friends. Sure, it’s OK.
Down at the crusty old post office yesterday, I struggled to release a wedge of mail from our box. I pulled and twisted. Damn junk mail, I thought. On the counter I dumped the pile and began to sort. There among magazines and catalogues, I saw the sweetest sight I have seen since 1961 when Mayor Art pulled out my name from a wine barrel and held it up to the television camera for all to see: a literary magazine, Tangents, published yearly by Stanford University had arrived in all of its splendor.
And on the lower right hand corner, my name (my name!) jumped into my brain in what could only be described, perhaps by Carl Jung, as a deep psychic moment.
All alone by the post office boxes I stood, a little Cheri with a big prize, wishing to share my tiny moment of success with strangers. Or with my dad who is dead.
A writer all my life, and as one of my friends, Roy, recently observed about me , “One compelled to write, ” I had finally mustered the courage to submit a piece for consideration, albeit a silly little story about two children, one bossy and one compliant, participants in a secret bathtub ritual known only to the two of us as Footstool.
When I enter my little classroom at Mill Creek Academy tomorrow, and greet my 12 budding grammarians, I will remind them to live their dreams.
Anything is possible.