Paul S. Gifford

MEMORY

Dear reader… Picture a blistering, cold wintry day in England in say, oh how about, 1976.

Now imagine further, if you would be so kind, a town – we can call it Erdington – on the outskirts of a much bigger city, you may have heard of called Birmingham – a wonderful historical city that is directly in the heart of England. It is a day where snow had gently decorated the normal grey city, giving it a truly picturesque almost magical appearance… It is the day after Christmas, or how it is known in many parts of the world, Boxing Day-a day where you might correctly suppose, fairy tales can sometimes on the rarest of magical moments indeed come true.

Imagine right there in Erdington, dear reader, just off the main street filled with a vast variety shops, banks and cafes, all closed on this particular day, such a place as a three storied Victorian house. A house that had seven bedrooms and was home to a rather prosperous and distinguished family no doubt, perhaps a family that even had a small fleet of servants taking care of it for them… A house that was surely once exceedingly grand and splendid, a house though that in modern times had been converted into three modest flats, a flat for every level.

Do you see it? Can you see the faded carpet and the well trodden entranceway? Good.

Now picture a young, pale boy with mousy brown badly styled hair, dressed in hand me down, out of date, clothing. An oversized pair of glasses, whose frame is kept together by scotch tape and are perched perilously on the boy’s nose. He is an unusually quiet boy, insecure and incredibly shy and is normally found buried in a book.

He has just eaten a delicious traditional holiday meal of turkey, roast potatoes, stuffing, peas, mince pies with custard, and all of the wonderful side dishes and sauces that traditionally accompany a good old fashioned English styled Christmas feast. This delicious faire was lovingly prepared by his mother

The day before, Christmas, the boy spent with his father, as his parents were divorced. After dinner, and before the Christmas pudding and custard, a cracker was pulled. Inside would have been a riddle, a small toy, and a silly paper hat. He would have placed that hat on his head-which made him look even goofier than usual-but he did not care as he was enjoying himself immensely.

It would have been about then, that his mother would have brought out of the bedroom, perhaps from a hiding place on top of the wardrobe, a large brightly colored box and grinning broadly presented it to the excited young man.

The boy’s eyes would have gazed over with delight at the site of such a large gift. After giving his mother a hug, can you imagine a smile, a really big smile on the young boy’s face, as he eagerly tore off the wrapping paper?

‘I wonder what it is?’ he must have surely thought. But deep down I suspect that he knew all the time what it was. It was something that he had wanted for a very, long time.

Moments later, the boy had tears in his young blue eyes as he realized it was indeed what he had always wanted… a typewriter.

Now, you must understand something. That boy since as long as he could remember had loved one thing more than anything else… Reading. Yes from the age of seven he was devouring books. By the time he was nine and ten, he was reading H.G. Wells, Jules Verne, Roald Dahl, Charles Dickens and so, so SO many others. For you see, he had a sad life. His parents were divorced and his brother and sister had left home. This meant that he got to spend a lot of time by himself. But through the books he read he lived a very exciting life. He traveled in space, to the bottom of the ocean, back in time, and even into the future… all from the safety of his bedroom, all through the power of the written word.

As the boy proudly examined the turquoise blue electric typewriter that his mother had just given him… Tears streamed down his face-and then, with a particularly silly Christmas hat still perched on his head, he began to type. His mother could never have realized what an important, meaningful present that was. As when he began to write, his imagination began to run and run and run. In fact his life would never be quite the same again.

Well, all that surreal magic happened over thirty years ago. Years later that boy, as a young man, left Birmingham and England far, far, far behind him… As he and his father moved to California to begin a new life. And what a life it was for that young boy. His mother, unfortunately, died several years ago back in England. His father is still doing well, and now is in his early eighties.

And what happened to that boy? I hear you ask dear reader… Well, surely by now, you must have guessed. He continued to read, dream and more importantly perhaps write. In fact these days he even has had a few stories published.

That boy, of course, well it was me.

Submitted for the December 2008 IWVPA Club Theme Project, “Glad Tidings of Great Joy”