Do you have moments in your life that you return to time and again? I don't know what it is about those moments, maybe it was who I was with, what was said, where we were and what we were wearing, but they remain. Those moments become the foundation of the narrative of a life, or maybe they are just times we hold close because we don’t want to forget them.
I had the best 8th grade English teacher of all time- his name was Greg Cantrell- and he was beloved. He was the first person to unlock my love of writing (born from a love of reading, for which I credit my librarian mother and the librarians that followed her: Mrs. Roller, Mr. Varner and Miss Billie Jean Scott).
A writer is born in the library.
Mr. Cantrell was still in his twenties when I was thirteen. We were a ragtag bunch in 8th Grade English- all kinds of kids. This was southwest Virginia- sons and daughters of coal miners, sons and daughters of transportation- the trains that transported coal- and of course, all the business that crops up around those endeavors: machinists, engineers, architects, builders, construction. Big Stone Gap was a true representation of working people who relied on Mother Earth for her sustenance. At the outset, you had a practical vision serving an impractical world, or at least that’s how I thought about creativity- poetry, writing.
Mr. Cantrell needed a way in to communicate with us to encourage us to write, so he began with song lyrics- knowing that Steely Dan and Paul Simon and the Chi-Lites had more to say to us than Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (who I also happened to like).
But first- wardrobe. For a few years in a row- maybe three or four, my dad had a tradition whereby he took his daughters individually to buy an outfit. This is already a strange story because we wore the clothes that were made in his factory- or the clothes made by our relatives who had factories in the north- so to go and buy a dress for a kid in our family made no sense. But, I remember going with my dad- alone- (I’m one of seven) and having some time with him to chat. (That’s another Substack. My father is his own book.) But for now, the outfit of my thirteenth year, which remains a favorite. It was a deep denim blue dress made of brushed cotton with a round collar, waist with a self tie bow in the back, and a nice feature of red buttons up the back that looked like cinnamon candies. It was long sleeve with a slight balloon at the wrist. And over it- an attached polished cotton apron in a plaid of reds and blues with two deep pockets. I wore it with navy blue suede clogs that had a strap on the back. Three inch heels on the platform- a little ridiculous- but they were comfortable. I tried not to wear them because I didn’t want to wear them out! I have tried to find a similar pair of those shoes ever since, and I fear I will see Jesus before I see those shoes ever again.
Mr. Cantrell asked to speak to me before class. I had written a story about a weather girl who jumped off a building. Looking back, I think it might have been some kind of wellness check. I assured him I had no intention of jumping off of anything. I wouldn’t have worried if I were him because there were only two story buildings in Big Stone Gap, and with my luck I’d probably just have broken a leg. He didn’t laugh, but I did. I took a seat at my desk, which had been moved into a circle. This is how he taught us, so that we were all equal storytellers and we could see one another- an Appalachian writing workshop- a think tank.
Once all the kids had drifted in, class began. We were using Paul Simon’s The Boxer as a prompt when one of the students asked Mr. Cantrell about a concert he had attended that weekend. Mr. Cantrell wanted to know how the kid knew he had been at a concert, and he said that he had Miss Mullins for homeroom and she mentioned it. Mr. Cantrell smiled- we didn’t know which teachers were friends with each other, but evidently these twenty-something young teachers had a social circle.
Mr. Cantrell had gone to see Roberta Flack in concert in Knoxville, Tennessee. He spoke of her artistry. The grand piano on the stage, a Steinway. The fans cheering and hollering. Sometimes Roberta had to stop and take in the love before resuming the song she was singing again. He spoke of great art being personal- to the artist who relays that to the audience- and to the audience who receives it. One of my wise guy classmates tried to sing like Roberta and of course got to the lyric lay with you from The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face. I just glared at him. Everything wasn’t about sex, but I was in the transitional year where everything was about to be about sex and it really annoyed me. This wasn’t a moment for silliness- Mr. Cantrell had been to church. And today, I learned of the passing of Roberta Flack- and that voice. It brought me back to the day, with Mr. Cantrell (who passed on young) and Roberta Flack and Paul Simon and my clogs, and I’m heartbroken for all of it- for all of us. The past, when you’re in it, doesn’t seem so great sometimes, but when you’re in the future, and in the present moment, you realize how important it all was. The past informs the way you see the world- and how to live in it. Your memories fuel your creativity- down to your shoes.
Oh, Adri, what a perfectly told story and what a connection to today's news of Roberta's death. In my forty-some precious years as a teacher or a principal, I had many similar conversations with the hundreds of young people who walked in and out of my life. I wonder if any of those conversations left impressions as vivid as Mr. Cantrell's and yours.
La bellezza della gioventù! Captured so poignantly as always by @adrianatrigiani