By Allison Russell
Editor At Large
A lifelong hidden talent should not be kept under wraps. A tragic event showed me that my passion for writing could aid in the pursuit of my future.
Ever since I knew how to hold a pencil, I knew how to productively splash my thoughts on to paper. A child’s typical reaction to a teacher assigning an essay is that of moans and groans, but I could never understand why I actually enjoyed the work whether it was fictional, research, or creative. Throughout the 21 years of my life, not once have I viewed writing as a burden but as my companion. However, I portray writing as a private practice. I tend to feel uncomfortable sharing my work with others and I’m terrible at receiving praise. Writing is my safe haven, my crutch.
Whenever I felt the slightest feeling of confidence in my writing, the first person to acknowledge it was my grandfather. He saw the gleam in my eye and the way my demeanor would flood with creative juices when I talked about any aspect of writing. I admired my grandfather from the very start. I placed him on the highest of pedestals. He had a spacious office chock full of books and odd knickknacks, adorned by the musty smell of pipe smoke. It was in that creative space that I spent countless afternoons as a child writing, doodling, and engaging in any constructive task under his watchful eye and doses of encouragement. My grandfather molded my imagination.
Throughout my senior year of high school, I sat back and watched my peers get accepted to prestigious universities with their majors set in stone. But there I was, awkwardly floating on the less promising seas of my senior year. I had no idea where I wanted to attend college, let alone what major or career I wanted to pursue. Writing was always my niche, but I was totally blind to the idea of applying it to my future endeavors.
Needless to say, I breezed through two years at both Eastern and Southern Connecticut State Universities as a dreaded “undeclared” student. I enrolled in courses that I wasn’t interested in and felt like a defective human being for not knowing my place in the academic world. I beat myself up about it day in and day out. I filled roughly four or five journals, writing more in those two years than I ever have, still continuing to keep my writing “talents” under lock and key. Not only was I letting myself down, I felt as if I was letting my grandfather down as well. I was at a personal and scholastic standstill.
******
It’s an ordinary, particularly upbeat afternoon in February 2006. I’m making my routine visit to my grandparents’ condominium for the usual conversation over a cup of tea. The purpose for my visit is to simply catch up on things: my life, my job, my non-existent boyfriend. They always appreciate a spontaneous visit.
I make my way to the living room and sprawl out on the ground. It’s something I always do maybe because the warm, clean carpet engulfing my body feels like home. I lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the my grandparents’ muffled words flowing from the kitchen. All I’m thinking is “God, I love this place. I love my grandparents so freakin’ much.”
My grandfather is sitting in his usual spot at the kitchen table with newspapers dispersed at his place setting. Instead of being a lazy bum in the living room, I take a seat next to him. He lowers his thick-rimmed glasses and sparks a conversation consisting of politics and technology, his routine weapons of choice for our casual chitter chatter. His intellect and vocabulary are above and beyond me, but I soak up each of his words like an eager sponge. I can feel the dreaded topic surfacing: my future.
“I’m telling you Allie, utilize your writing talents,” he says, “and establish a career for yourself.”
I fidget in my chair, and my palms feel clammy. “I know, I know. Maybe. We’ll see,”
“The future is at your fingertips. With an education, you can accomplish anything, Allie,” he says, “Whether it’s writing a children’s book or working for a major publication, apply it somewhere. You’re young, and writing is your passion. Make it happen.”
I awkwardly and regrettably change the subject. We ping-pong our conversation a bit longer until I hug him, tell him I love him, and leave.
****
That was the last time I enjoyed my grandfather’s company. One month later on March 20, 2006 he passed away tragically. Although it aches my heart to reflect upon our final moments together, it ignites feelings of contentment as well. I credit my grandfather for surfacing the thriving “writer” in me, but I never took the time to thank him for doing so. Ironically, his death fuels me to write nowadays. His ultimate dream was to see my writing published. He would drill the idea in my head on a daily basis, but I thought that notion was completely out of reach.
So here I am, presently attending Housatonic Community College as a Journalism major and an active staff member of Horizons. As much as I don’t want to dwell on my grandfather’s death, I can’t help but admit the void that penetrates deep within my chest every time I see my articles published. However, every time I put a pen to paper, I do it strictly for him and I do it with a smile. Whenever I hold an issue in my hand, I think to myself, “What would he think of me now?”
Oh what I would sacrifice for one last casual afternoon at the kitchen table; to burst through his front door with my published articles in hand. Our last conversation still lingers in the corners of my mind. It’s the fire under my butt that drives me to expose my writing rather than submerge it. Unfortunately, through my grandfather’s death, I experienced the birth of my dream.
An ode, a reflection, a sense of closure; this piece serves all these purposes. A mentor, a best friend, a genuine intellect; my grandfather served all these roles. He still remains on the high pedestal I placed him on as a child and until we meet again that is where I will keep him.
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