I got it, Mrs. Unold, I got it….

I don’t know how many of you can remember the day you “got it,” but I can. Clearly. I don’t remember the actual “date” of course, nor ever really what time of year, but I think it was Spring of 1983.

I was sitting English class with the rest of the pseudo-brainiacs of my rural, country, shit-kickin’ high school. The truth of the matter is that we were quite a diverse bunch because some people’s parents lived in the country because they were quite wealthy and could afford a hundred acres of luscious horse farm; some were so dirt poor they couldn’t afford decent screens on their trailer in Hog Valley. (Yes, there is a Hog Valley, Florida.) We had about a 49/49 black/white ratio with the other two percent being various shades of whatever. But skin color alone would tell you nothing of our diversity; you’d have to factor in, among many other divisions, rednecks vs. potheads, horse farmers vs. dairy farmers, simple country folk vs. those destined for the Ivy Leagues.

In English class that day were one or two smart jock types, several cheerleaders (I wasn’t one), a number of nerdy but wickedly funny guys, and lots of band members (yes!) in the “advanced” classes. We had a mix of the popular and the not-so-much but this group of kids, for the most part, always seemed to have the same classes.

Now, we were smart, but pretty typical kids, and today we were studying poetry. Squished into our 1940s style slide-in wooden desks, books tucked under the seat, with the appropriate amount of slouch for the guys and side-ways curl for the girls, we read aloud, stanza after stanza of 19^th century British poetry. Yep, poetry. Mrs. Unold (real name, folks, and it’s pronounced “mizzez you-nold”) was sitting in her own 1940s desk, the top scattered with decades of carved initials and sanding where the more, ahem, inappropriate remarks had been removed by the custodial staff or the offenders in detention. And here it is, the poem:

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME.
by Robert Herrick, 1891

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,     Old time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to-day     To-morrow will be dying. That age is best which is the first,     When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst     Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time,     And while ye may go marry: For having lost but once your prime     You may for ever tarry. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,     The higher he’s a-getting, The sooner will his race be run,     And nearer he’s to setting.

 

Imagine, if you will, a class of unsophisticated, heavily Christian, hormone-hyped, basically bumpkins reading aloud Mr. Herrick’s words. After the last line was uttered in the halting monotone of a 16 year-old voice, Mrs. Unold stared at the class. We stared back.

“Well?”

Silence.

“What does it mean?”

Glances exchanged, looks of confusion, and still, the silence. Ten seconds pass, twenty, thirty.

“What point, children, is Mr. Herrick trying to make?”

Ms. Unold holds our collective and slightly stupid gazes till she’s had enough of our dumb-asses.

“It’s about sex!” Her hand slams down on the top of the desk, “It’s about getting it on!!” Slam. “It’s about ‘what are you saving it for?’!” One slam for each syllable.

And the light bulb went on, the darkness disappeared, and I got it.

Not the sex part. No, Mrs. Unold and Mr. Herrick could not overcome 16 years of Reverends’ Chapman, Henry, Walker, et al reigning down hellfire and brimstone in regards to normal, healthy biologic functions. And I was still way too young to realize I was, in fact, living under Damacles’ sword – time.

I got the words. Language. Meaning. Rhythm. Meter. Beauty. Emotion. Love. Fear. Joy. In an instant, it all made sense. Words on paper transferred one person’s intention to another person across time. Mr. Herrick was talking to me. His message had meaning — relevant, real meaning — to me, personally, and I felt it like a lightning bolt.

Moreover, like a giant puzzle that magically formed a perfect picture, I saw that words were the pieces. I think I must have read that poem a hundred times. The sense of “getting it” was so strong. Soon, I was reading Shakespeare’s sonnets and understanding the meaning behind them:

LX

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,

So do our minutes hasten to their end,

Each changing place with that which goes before

In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

Nativity, once in the main of light,

Crawls to maturity, wherewith, being crowned,

Crooked eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight

And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,

And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,

Feeds on the rarities of natures truth,

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow;

    And yet, to times, in hope, my verse shall stand,

    Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

 

And when I went to college to study theater and acting, my mastery of language grew so that when Roger Rees (of Royal Shakespeare fame) conducted a master’s class he whistled in appreciation at my ability, at the age of 20, to nail in performance this particular piece of the master’s work.

I got it.

And as I started making a minor living as an entertainer I was able to read scripts and instantly go to the meaning of the words. Like one of those pictures that make no sense until you stare at them just right and a 3-D image “magically” appears, I could look at the words and in seconds see the meaning in stunning reality. I was, and I think still am, a rockin’ good sight-reader.

I got it.

And as I grew in the craft of acting, using words to create new life, I started to see how both the writing and the intent could be shifted and manipulated to vary meaning and outcome. Change this word for that you could completely change the imprint left on the reader’s soul. Move a word from here to there, and what was benign could become sinister and vice versa.

I got it.

And as I aged off the stage and started writing words as opposed to performing them I realized that I — little ol’ me — could have the same effect across time as Mr. Herrick and Mr. Shakespeare. Now I’m not so vain as to think my efforts are quite to their standards, but I’m also not so modest as to think it isn’t pretty damn good. I write for this blog, which is mostly for myself and I’m lucky that some of you folks seem to enjoy it, and find it entertaining and maybe even enlightening on occasion. And I write for clients, who are trying to impart something worthwhile to their visitors, customers, and other strangers.

Words are not only my joy but my living. I write for pleasure and for profit and because I’m reasonably good at it I enjoy the fruits of this labor. With my Beloved, our company also spreads a little wealth around; I hire other writers and performers, buy goods and services, and certainly give a good percentage to Uncle Sam.

It was you, Mizzez Unold, who made it all possible. One day in maybe the Spring of ’83, you connected two dots for one little Redneck kid in a nothin’ little town in jerk-water Florida… and the world unfolded. And my life changed forever and for the better. I hope over the past 27 years I’ve applied this moment of clarity in positive ways and used my humble powers of prose for good and not for evil.

And so, to you Mrs. Unold, I want to leave you with this – Thank you. Your beauty, your skill as a teacher, your willingness to get to the meat of a matter, your daily commitment to the often ungrateful, unwilling, and oh-so-unknowing teenagers, and certainly to this one, has transcended time and place. One day I may be able to do better, but for now, I have to steal from my main man, Mr. Willie Shakespeare:

And yet, to times, in hope, my verse shall stand,

    Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.