Soul Shelter

Our Soul Shelter First-Person Essay Award bronze prize of $250 went to Florida writer Vance H. White for “The Bard of Gooseneck Bay,” an inspiring piece that reminds us how work of the hands and life close to the bone can yield fine philosophy.

• The Bard of Gooseneck Bay by Vance H. White •

It is often said that no one has greater impact on our lives than those who teach us. Truly great teachers are the ones for whom no other vocation is possible. Long after they supposedly retire, they can be found in our communities still teaching, constantly searching for opportunities to impart the knowledge accumulated over a lifetime. They have no choice. They are teachers and teachers must teach.

A stranger’s simple knock at my door announced the arrival of Warren Able in my life. A vigorous and unassuming man in his early sixties, he looked every inch the mad professor with his graying shoulder-length hair, faded yard-sale clothing, and totally disreputable beard. Piercing and intelligent hazel eyes calmly appraised me as he declared himself a recent graduate of bricklaying school who wished to propose a trade.

“As a bricklayer, I’m somewhat slow, but very precise,” he stated in the clipped and stilted tones of a transplanted Brit. “I understand you will soon be building your personal home and I would be pleased to construct the fireplace in exchange for carpentry instruction.”

What he said was true, as a career carpenter turned General Contractor I had a certain reputation in the community for skilled work and after many years of creating other people’s dream homes my turn had come round at last.

Looking carefully over the old man’s shoulder for a rusty shopping cart and the inevitable Will Work for Food placard and finding none, I hesitated a moment and then invited him in. Despite appearances, there was a dignified demeanor about the man that bespoke integrity and I was intrigued. In terms of life-lessons it was one the best decisions I ever made.

Seated inside at my kitchen table, he told stories of the turbulent Sixties as we got to know one another, and of his early years as a young and idealistic teacher in the Peace Corps. From the Sudan to the sun-washed shores of the Greek Isles, a Master’s degree in English literature had been his ticket to the world.

“Actually old stick, before I retired and attended bricklaying school, my last bit of construction experience concerned thatched huts in Africa,” he confided over a glass of wine.

Laughing at the irony of a 1960’s peacenik ultimately retiring as a Director of Education for the United States Air Force, we sealed our bargain with a handshake and parted company. Later, while clearing the table, I discovered an old and tattered copy of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. The first of many literary gifts to follow, it was a very fine read about the Beat generation.

Warren’s first day on the job got off to a rather shaky start when the crew took one look, mistook him for a homeless person and threw him off the jobsite. Arriving late that day, I quickly apologized and made introductions. Rather than choosing to take offense, the old scholar politely shook hands all around and quietly went about his work.

Though the workmen were wary at first of this odd old bird who patiently mixed his mortar while lecturing my Labrador retriever who sat at rapt attention in hopes of wine, bread, and cheese, it wasn’t long before I began to notice changes in the men’s daily routine. They no longer scattered far and wide at lunch, electing instead to gather around and listen as the old man related timeless stories from the great works of literature. The radio was played less and less as people began to discuss what they had heard.

Having carefully laid his trap, the savvy old educator slowly began introducing his beloved books. The dog-eared copies he bought at yard sales and secondhand stores were placed in a cardboard box that became our “library.” A person making a selection would receive just enough background to pique their curiosity and it was, “Off you go to read it then.” Adventure stories proved the most popular with these poor, hard-working men of the Deep South and they eagerly devoured the works of James Fenimore Cooper, Richard Henry Dana, Daniel Defoe and Mark Twain among many others.

Once, the Professor disappeared for three whole days; giving rise to rampant worry and speculation. “He’s been captured by the treehuggers and released into the wild somewhere,” the plumbers joked. “He’s got good instincts and will eventually find his way home, be patient,” they counseled themseleves.

I couldn’t help but notice a lot of backward glances and worried expressions during those three days, but a part of our bargain together had been to let him proceed at his own pace and to respect his privacy, so I refrained from checking up on him at home. As it turned out, the old boy had simply immersed himself in Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past and lost track of time for a while.

As I sit writing this in my living room many years later, comforted by the cheery warmth of crackling logs in my fine English-style fireplace, I can’t help but feel I received the better part in the bargain. The things I taught him about load calculations, roof framing and general housecraft pale in comparison to the things I learned by simple exposure to this wise and gentle soul.

“Most people are like the great deep-water sharks,” he told me one day. “Engineered by nature without flotation bladders, these particular sharks swim through life lashing out and taking a bite at everything they encounter, exhausting themselves until they sink into the depths and are crushed by the pressure of their circumstances. Occasionally, a smart one will swim out of the deep water; separating himself from the pack, taking only what he needs and conserving his energy until he reaches a shallow ledge where he can rest. Be a smart shark, seek out your ledges in life upon which to rest and comfort yourself, refuse to be crushed by the pressure and despair of everyday living; and as the inevitable hour approaches, read this.”

I still have that battered paperback copy of the collected works of Dylan Thomas. I have no idea how long he carried it around with him but the original price on the cover reads thirty-five cents. And the passage he marked for me?

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night. …

Warren Able recently moved to Washington State, where he owns property purchased long ago in anticipation of his permanent home. In his sixty-seventh year now, armed with the tools of his trade and the construction knowledge he acquired, he is hard at work building his final ledge. Somewhere in the deep woods of the Pacific Northwest, the words of William Shakespeare ring out in equal measure to the rhythm of hammers — and the teacher is teaching.

Vance H. White is a daily writer who is endlessly fascinated with parking words next to each other and rearranging them until they make sense.

Says White of this winning essay: “It is my sincere hope that everyone should meet a Warren Able along life’s path. To live life in each and every precious day is the true secret to ‘making a living’ and has very little to do with empire-building.”