My grandfather was born in 1907, I told the kids. I was on the floor, and they were on pillows in a semicircle around me. I told them how in the summers we would camp in the woods in Michigan. How we had campfires in the evening.
Imagine it, I said. There we were in a clearing in the woods with trees all around us and a circle of stones with a fire burning in the middle. And there were old pine stumps in the fire from when they cleared the White Pine long ago, and that wood burned hot and bright, and fingers of orange flames danced toward the sky and lit our faces as we sat there in that clearing under the stars.
And sometimes, I told them, my grandfather would remember a poem he memorized when he was young. Because he was born in 1907, and they did things differently back then. Kids had to memorize poems. Long poems. Serious poems. And they had to get up in class and recite them from memory.
So sometimes he would remember one of those poems and start reciting a few lines, and we would all be quiet. Because if we said anything he might stop. Imagine it, I said. Sitting there with orange firelight on our faces.
Have you ever been in the dark someone would shine a flashlight on their face up from their chin and go, “Boo hoo hoo ha ha ha!” I asked. Yes! they shouted. Well it was kind of like that, I said. (Although truth be told, I was now mixing various childhood memories into a single story.) The orange light would be shining on him where he sat, and shadows would dance on his face as we sat in silence listening to his poetry.
I said all this as a way to explain why I was in their class that day. As a way to explain why I was there to recite poetry.
I told them about the woods and the fire and the dark starry skies of a lifetime ago. And I told them about my grandfather’s poems.
And they sat in their semicircle in silence. Watching me with wide eyes. Waiting for a poem.