Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #468: Note


Taking Dictation

She had spent her middle school years passing notes
on wide-ruled paper with the fringe that came
from being ripped out of a Lisa Frank notebook,
her girlish cursive in shades of pink
that she liked to call her invisible ink–
strategically chosen to impair
Mrs. Sikeston with her 20/100 vision.

There were the notes she took in high school
on unlined, “open-ended” printer paper–
filled from corner to corner
with concrete poetry and spirograph designs
that she wheat-pasted to the walls of her room.

There were the notes she left for her mom on the kitchen counter
where she would see them,
letting her know where she was and with whom.

There were the notes she wrote in everyone’s yearbook
that year of 1999 at William J. Woodham High School,
telling them that if they ever came across the name
of Lauranne Huntington,
they would know that she had made it as an author,
for she believed that Lauranne–
not Laura–
was destined for literary greatness.

There were the notes she took in college–
of biology and anthropology,
and every other -ology–
her streams of consciousness sometimes
drowning out the drone of the professors
who taught in the physical and biological sciences department.

There were the notes she took when she
interviewed faculty and students
and covered events for the college newspaper,
with bold circles wherever there was a
Who, What, Where, When, Why, How,
for every question had to start with one of these.

There were the Post-It notes she left all over the house
when she was practicing her Spanish,
the magnetized letters on the refrigerator that spelled “Want Sex”
(which was more of a warning than anything).

The pink had deepened into red by then,
even as she had deepened into whom was meant to become;
just as her haikus–
once so abstract and emo–
had deepened into the personal narratives
that were as concrete and real as she was.

There were the rejection slips
that she tacked over the old poetry
in her childhood room
where the walls and furniture were as white
as the curtains and bedspread were pink–
this place where she would still come to write
while her mom and dad watched her girls.
The notes she took at the monthly board meetings
helped her learn to listen while writing–
to listen more and better.

The notes she took to remind herself how to do something
helped the next person not have to learn the hard way,
for every position she left,
she left behind an account of everything that she had learned
and everything that she knew they would need to know.

The notes her daughters brought home from school
let her know the things she should notice
but didn’t always have the time to;
and then there were the notes she took,
reminding herself to take the time to notice.

There were the notes she wrote in the Christmas cards
she made out of scrapbooking scraps and brown paper bags.
The messages in the numerous thank you notes she wrote–
both on the job and off–
they were all her handwriting and her handiwork.

She never became Lauranne Huntington,
but rather the Laura Hunt
that people felt they knew–
the Laura Hunt they wanted to know.

But the notes that truly captured the essence of who Laura Sawyer (nee Hunt)
were not these,
but were the music notes that the man she loved placed together
in memory of her.


Childhood Memories: Pen Pals


Bridge to the Sun

It was in Miss Flowers’ seventh grade English class that we participated in the pen pal program as a group.  (Miss Flowers was married, but all teachers are “Miss” when you’re little, especially in the South.)  The idea of a pen pal seemed strange and wonderful to me, before the Internet connected the world like it does today.

My pen pal’s name, I still remember, was Chiho Fukasawa, and she lived in Japan with her pet bird, Boota.  The letters were written lightly in pencil on what I called rice paper, but my dad called “onionskin” or typewriter paper—so unlike my purple script (which came from a giant pen that wrote in different colors) on Lisa Frank stationery, the envelopes sealed with stickers rather than my spit.  My best friend and I, would read each other’s letters over Damian’s slushes or chocolate milkshakes at lunchtime, wearing off the last of our Bonne Bell lip gloss.

What was also nice about that class was that it was in one of the outbuildings, so if you had to go to the bathroom, you got to be outside for a little bit.  Because the Deep South part of Florida had problems with mildew, due to the thick humidity, the outbuildings seemed less gross because they weren’t near the moldy-smelling bathrooms.

I like to say it was a noteworthy year.  It’s interesting how the best writing years of my youth coincided with being best friends with Jessica McBride.  Third grade (in which Jessie and I shared a class and a Brownie Girl Scout troop) was the year of the journal, and the seventh (when we shared most of our classes) was the year of the letter.  It was before the advent of the e-mail (at least for me), and I loved writing in cursive; I was often told my penmanship resembled calligraphy.

Letters from Chiho remind me of simpler times, when getting a letter in the mail was still exciting, but not a phenomenon, and back when grandparents would send a ten-dollar bill tucked inside a birthday card.

Every two weeks, a batch of letters would come.  Sometimes the teacher would have us read the letters aloud, but I was always too shy; I would try to get Jessie, who was my opposite in every way, to do it for me.  Then after class one afternoon, Miss Flowers gently told me that I wasn’t reading my words, but someone else’s, so there was no need to be bashful.  Though I still didn’t like getting up in front of class, it wasn’t so bad after that.

I remember reading the letters thinking how much Chiho, even though she was from an entirely different culture, sounded just like me, with a best friend, a pet, favorite foods.  Those letters showed me that kids all around the world wanted the same things, whether they had them or not.

My mom worked for the post office, and so I would show her the envelope with what I called the Japanese calligraphy on it, and the unfamiliar stamps; every letter is still tucked away in their original envelopes.  Chiho would mention the plum and cherry blossom trees, and I would write (sometimes in acrostic) about the magnolia trees, our gardenia bushes, and the azaleas that would bloom, as I liked to say, “out of the blue”, despite a lack of care.  (This was back when I wanted to be a botanist and grow the toffee apples mentioned in “The Chronicles of Narnia”.)

The year of the pen pal (once summer hit, my mom stashed away the letters and Chiho and I lost touch) was one of the best of my life.  It was the year I learned to write about my life through letters, the year I learned how to turn my ordinary life into an extraordinary read.  I will never know if Chiho believed my letters (though she loved them anyway), but even though we were only long-distance friends for a season, the memories of her letters and the last year Jessie and I would be friends, are as vibrant and crisp as apples in the fall.