"what it is that burns," part one
"In the barn?" the child asks. "Daddy has a drawing table in the barn?" This discovery intrigues him. Inevitably the question "why" emerges from the child's five-year old mind. The child's mother shares this dialogue with him upon his return from a disappointing day at the office. She shares this conversation with him in the kitchen while she washes dishes and while the children sleep in their beds. He examines the refrigerator for signs of something he thought was there but is no longer.
"Are we out of Yuengling?" he asks with his hand on the handle of the closed refrigerator door.
"He really takes after you," the mother says.
"Who?"
"Your son."
"Right," he says turning his attention to the old stereo on the kitchen counter. The stereo was a gift when he was in high school--when compact disc players were a new feature for a home stereo system. The stereo rested on a bookshelf next to an old wooden drawing table. That too was a gift--a drawing table. His parents had high hopes for his creative interests and endeavors. He spent hours drawing images of old barns, flowers, Native American crafts, and Victorian houses while listening to music. Steel crow quill nibs nestled in balanced wooden Koh-I-Noor holders were his tool of choice. Dr. Martin’s Bombay India Ink performed the duty of translating his imaginations into lines that grew into drawings and paintings. This adolescent desire grew into a college career. However, on the university application he did not understand the difference between a fine arts major and commercial arts major. All he wanted to do was find a major where he could learn to draw and paint better. Little thought was given to a post-graduate vocation. According to the student information package, the amount of credits to graduate with a major in commercial arts required fewer hours to complete than a major in fine arts. So, he applied as a commercial arts student and was accepted. He packed his father’s college footlocker with his belongings and headed to South Carolina to study art.
He turns on the stereo’s radio. He missed tonight’s installment of World Café, and turns it off. His wife says something about how he should schedule time to paint something with his son this weekend.
"Are we out of Yuengling?" he asks again.
"I'm sorry. I don't even have your food ready," she says as she crosses the kitchen to retrieve items from the refrigerator. "You didn't call."
"Oh, yeah, sorry... forgot."
"I made quesadillas earlier. I thought you'd be back by seven," she says turning the front burner of the stove to "4" and placing a quesadilla in the middle of a frying pan. "Now it's eight."
"Sorry, it took longer than I thought to finish the proposal."
They don't say anything for a few moments. The sound of the kitchen fan and sizzle from cheese on the hot pan fills the silence between them.
"You want me to finish that?" he asks--though in reality it is a statement.
"That's fine," she says. "The salsa I made for lunch is in the fridge."
"Right," he says taking up a position in front of the stove. She returns to washing dishes.
"Your son and I spent some time reading through that art catalog while the baby was taking a nap. Maybe you should paint something with him this weekend."
"What art catalog?"
"It arrived in the mail today."
He hates and loves that his wife tells him that his oldest child is interested in the drawing table, and the art catalog. The thought of coming home from the office to find him sitting at the drawing table working on a new creation fills the father with joy and melancholy at the same moment. Deep within him the feel of a pencil or marker between finger and thumb as it conjures and image from tree pulp ignites a dormant flame. "Find what it is that burns in your heart and do it," Kent Nerburn writes in his book Simple Truth. But he has no time for drawing. His neglected sketch books have been replaced with a laptop and an executive desk diary in order to work, track time and money and other business matters. Instead of drawing and painting, he now hires people to do that which he longs to rekindle.
"Anything else?" he asks.
"Some bills."
"Are we out of Yuengling?" he asks with his hand on the handle of the closed refrigerator door.
"He really takes after you," the mother says.
"Who?"
"Your son."
"Right," he says turning his attention to the old stereo on the kitchen counter. The stereo was a gift when he was in high school--when compact disc players were a new feature for a home stereo system. The stereo rested on a bookshelf next to an old wooden drawing table. That too was a gift--a drawing table. His parents had high hopes for his creative interests and endeavors. He spent hours drawing images of old barns, flowers, Native American crafts, and Victorian houses while listening to music. Steel crow quill nibs nestled in balanced wooden Koh-I-Noor holders were his tool of choice. Dr. Martin’s Bombay India Ink performed the duty of translating his imaginations into lines that grew into drawings and paintings. This adolescent desire grew into a college career. However, on the university application he did not understand the difference between a fine arts major and commercial arts major. All he wanted to do was find a major where he could learn to draw and paint better. Little thought was given to a post-graduate vocation. According to the student information package, the amount of credits to graduate with a major in commercial arts required fewer hours to complete than a major in fine arts. So, he applied as a commercial arts student and was accepted. He packed his father’s college footlocker with his belongings and headed to South Carolina to study art.
He turns on the stereo’s radio. He missed tonight’s installment of World Café, and turns it off. His wife says something about how he should schedule time to paint something with his son this weekend.
"Are we out of Yuengling?" he asks again.
"I'm sorry. I don't even have your food ready," she says as she crosses the kitchen to retrieve items from the refrigerator. "You didn't call."
"Oh, yeah, sorry... forgot."
"I made quesadillas earlier. I thought you'd be back by seven," she says turning the front burner of the stove to "4" and placing a quesadilla in the middle of a frying pan. "Now it's eight."
"Sorry, it took longer than I thought to finish the proposal."
They don't say anything for a few moments. The sound of the kitchen fan and sizzle from cheese on the hot pan fills the silence between them.
"You want me to finish that?" he asks--though in reality it is a statement.
"That's fine," she says. "The salsa I made for lunch is in the fridge."
"Right," he says taking up a position in front of the stove. She returns to washing dishes.
"Your son and I spent some time reading through that art catalog while the baby was taking a nap. Maybe you should paint something with him this weekend."
"What art catalog?"
"It arrived in the mail today."
He hates and loves that his wife tells him that his oldest child is interested in the drawing table, and the art catalog. The thought of coming home from the office to find him sitting at the drawing table working on a new creation fills the father with joy and melancholy at the same moment. Deep within him the feel of a pencil or marker between finger and thumb as it conjures and image from tree pulp ignites a dormant flame. "Find what it is that burns in your heart and do it," Kent Nerburn writes in his book Simple Truth. But he has no time for drawing. His neglected sketch books have been replaced with a laptop and an executive desk diary in order to work, track time and money and other business matters. Instead of drawing and painting, he now hires people to do that which he longs to rekindle.
"Anything else?" he asks.
"Some bills."
Labels: narrative non-fiction
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Thursday, January 24, 2008.
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