Wording

Wording

“Exploring, in baby steps, I welcome the ghosts………” Clayton sighed. “Now who do I talk to. I suppose I should just go talk to dad. I hate this English teacher! Giving us these dumb ‘stems’. That’s what he calls them.” He felt something. The hair on his neck was standing up, his neck was prickling, he was suddenly cold. “Is anybody there?” His adolescent voice hesitated, not sure what he should do. “Mom?” There was no sound except for a slow soft breathing. “Dad?” His voice was barely a breath.

“Yes, son, it’s me. Your father. What’s that you were saying about your English teacher? You know I’m your English teacher ~ or have you forgotten?” Walking down the hall from the funny little room he called his den, Richard overheard his son worrying over the English assignment. Another essay set for his students, he sometimes had a perverse, but brief, sense of glee when he saw all the students faces. Mostly annoyance. When he heard “I hate this English teacher.” he was sorry for setting them an almost impossible task.

“How can I help you, Clay? Come on out to the garage. I’m going to work on the Mustang before supper. We can talk about how to deal with this horrible English assignment. That teacher? He doesn’t sound like a very nice guy!” Richard Ellington ~ Mr. Ellington to his students ~ leaned against his son’s bedroom door. 

Clayton slumped in his chair as soon as he heard his father’s voice. “Oh, Dad. You are a nice guy. When you’re being a teacher in class maybe not so nice. But what about the ghosts?! It’s not like it’s Hallowe’en. This doesn’t even fit in Christmas.” He got up from his chair, “Sure, I’ll come to the Mustang with you and watch you work.”

~~~~~

“Help me up, son.” Richard, on the flat creeper, rolled out from under his ‘baby’. He reached out his hand to his son. Clayton helped his father up. They both wiped the grease from their hands. “Let me tell you something about ghosts. Even Charles Dickens had his own ghosts.” He saw the puzzled look on his son’s face. “You do know who Charles Dickens is, don’t you?” 

"Of course dad, but he wrote about ghosts.” He shook his head at his dad. Richard went on “Where do you think he got all his characters from? Where does any writer find their characters? They are all ghosts before they are put on the page! Thin, translucent and can vanish in an instant. Even then, the reader can only see them in their heads. So when you’re writing, just describe what and who you see in your head.”

Clayton had turned and walked away, shaking his head. “I knew it was a mistake to talk to dad about this. Now he’ll have to change the assignment because he’s helping me. All the kids pick on me anyway.” In a sing song voice he said “ ‘Your dad’s the teacher. You’re the teachers pet. Your dad’s the teacher. You’re the teachers pet.’ Who knows what he’ll come up with next. I won’t ask mom or dad next time.” He went in the house, closed the door and left his father standing scratching his head. Only the sparrows on the fence seemed interested.

“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”

~ Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums