If you will kindly bear with me, I shall write about myself in the third person, since I should feel much freer and more comfortable that way.
Edmund St Clair St James was born in 1953 in a small coastal town, that shall remain at this stage nameless. He was an only child. His father was elderly, a retired bank manager, who died soon after Edmund was born, leaving a leaving a large collection of rare stamps and Edmund and his mother in modest but comfortable circumstances.
When he was five years old, a curious young Edmund upset a pot of cabbage soup boiling on the stove over himself, and was thereafter hideously scarred. It was thus in some ways a lonely childhood, but not an unhappy one, with the company of his dear mother, and a range of absorbing interests, such as the collection of insects and of pre-decimal coins. (If anyone reading this should happen to possess a spare example of a 1953 Coronation sixpence, Edmund would indeed be glad to hear from you.)
We shall pass quickly over Edmund's adolescence; suffice to say that he received a sound enough education to attain an advanced library qualification, the Certificate of the New Zealand Library Association, at the age of 21 (the glad news coming on the very day of his attaining his majority, thus giving cause for a happy double celebration toasted in mother’s elderberry wine). Edmund is believed to be the youngest person ever to be awarded that distinction. He soon afterwards accepted a position at the Invercargill branch library of the New Zealand Society of Accountants, where he rapidly rose through the ranks to the position of Deputy-cataloguer, in which role he spent some thirty fruitful and productive years.
Three years ago Edmund took early retirement to look after his dear mother at home, who had suffered a stroke which left her paralysed in all extremities. Edmund has never married, but has looked after a series of what he likes to call his little animal friends, and, once he has mastered the skills of digital photography, will regale you, dear reader, with photographs of his cat, 'Nancy', named thus after his favourite poet, Edna St Vincent Millay (“Not with Libations,/But with Shouts and Laughter”; etc.).
Edmund’s interests are various and include not only numismatics but also reading, tatting, and, of course, gardening (he prides himself on his petunias). There is between times nothing Edmund likes better than a quiet evening in winter beside the fireside with the gentle puffing of his pipe and the rustle of his newspaper for company; and in summer perhaps a gentle paddle at the seaside (with dear mother in her wheelchair watching from the shore). In recent years, Edmund has taken up the art of creative writing, and has made several essays into verse, modelling his novice attempts upon the work of his favourite poets, William Wordsworth (of ‘Daffodils’ fame), Arthur Clough (the early years), and Ella Wheeler Wilcox; but none, of course, can compare to the immortal work of dear Edna St Vincent Millay.
He, again with some trepidation, takes the liberty of submitting to the reader's charitable judgement one of his recent verses below ("a poor thing but mine own").
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
8 comments:
Dearest Edmund
I wept when I read your story. The image of a young boy scarred strikes a chord with me and indeed mirrors my own experience in ways. For although I was never scarred in an accident, I was born with a disfigurment which means I have spent most of my life alone. Children can be cruel Edmund, we both know this....
My parents died when I was only young, taken by the great storm of 1968. I grew up with my uncle, a strange man who loved me dearly but never showed the affection a young child needs. I think in many ways he was conflicted. He never married and worked in the local library as an assistant of some sort.
When I was 16 he went out one night, never to return. No note was left, and I was left to cope as best I could by slowly selling posessions and working nights at the local dairy. After seven years he was declared dead and the house sold as per his wishes and the proceeds given to the local YMCA. I found myself homeless...
Oh I find I have rambled enough. Edmund, you talk of being scarred as a child, and yet I see nothing but beauty in your words. I wonder, are you the kindred spirit I have been seeking? Please leave a comment and if you think we might be suited perhaps we could meet....???
Dear, dear Petunia,
Your sentiments do you credit, as does your beautiful name, which I am sure reveals a soul as sensitive and as lovely as the blossom itself. I, too, am touched by your tale.
However, dear Petunia, I fear that unless your name holds a secret that I could only dare to hope it hides, I could never be more than an epistolatory soul mate to you. (Dare I suggest the reasons for this might become apparent from a closer reading of my biographical notes.)
I feel a poem coming on. Farewell!
Edmund.
Dearest Edward
Your words sing to me as the trees on a warm summers eve. I have re-read your biographical notes, and although I think I understand what you hint at, my heart cannot be held in check. It is true that I may not have the body you long for, but I do truly believe our minds might meet where only hearts dare to play.
Could it be too much to hope for that in our solitude we may find a path to happiness?
P.S. Do you still eat cabbage?
Yours in soul
PL
Dearest Edmund
I just re-read my post and realised I made a typographical error with your name.
Please forgive me
Petunia
Dear Petronella,
Of course I forgive your slip with my name. How could I ever hold such a trivial detail against a person so obviously caring and considerate as you?
Your words inspire me. Perhaps you are right. The beauty of your soul is such that it would help us overcome any obstacle. And I am sure you would barely notice such trivial details as my fastidiousness, the need I feel to wash my hands thirty times each day, a minor - very minor - problem with incontinence, and the strange barking noises I make from time.
With some trepidation, dare I suggest that we meet?
I will be standing beside the lily pool in the Wintergarden at the Domain next Sunday at 1.38 pm. (the time fits in with the buses, since I don't drive). I will be the one wearing a white gardenia in his buttonhole and pushing a wheelchair.
Dear Petronella, farewell until then!
Edmund
Oh Dearest Edmund
Dear I hope, that by calling me Petronella you are comparing me to the daugther of St Peter? You make me blush sir....
Cleanliness is as always next to godliness and I can only but admire a man who washes his hands so many times a day. I will not even comment on the incontinence, love knows no bounds good sir. The mind and soul erase the ills of the body.
With this in mind and before I risk rejection. I should tell you I was diagnosed at an early age with hirsutism. To my mind it is only slight and has proven a bonus to me as I have been able to sell hair for wigs during the leaner times..... Some have been cruel to me over the years because of this and this has led me to be somewhat of a recluse in my later life. I thought it only fair to tell you Edmund, before we attempt to meet....
I wait on your word.
Your Petronella
PS. You never answered whether you still ate cabbage?
My dear Petunia,
I fear my use of 'Petronella' was just a slip of the pen (I suppose that in today's digital world it would be more accurate to use the term 'slip of the pinkie'.) Forgive me.
Please be assured that hirsutism is not a problem to me. I have long adored animals.
Provided, that is, your hair is not red, to which I sometimes have an allergic reaction.
Since we are both in a confessional mode, I must gingerly add that from time to time I suffer from bouts of flatulentia maxima, from chronic gingivitis, and even (once in a very rare while) trimethylaminuria.
That is one reason among others I had suggested meeting in the heavily scented purlieu of the Wingergarden hothouses.
It is also the reason that, alas, I no longer eat cabbage or fish.
Unitil Sunday, then, adieu!
Edmund
Dearest Edmund
Alas I must write to apologise, but I am unable to make the Wintergarden today (I so love your deliberate error with Wingergarden. You really are a man of letters)
You see, the Wintergardens was the site of a tragic accident which saw my parents demise. As you know they passed in the great storm of 68, but what I didn't tell you was they were both instantly killed by decapitation, when a pane of glass fell from the hothouse roof during the storm. It is not generally known this happened, as the council hushed it up and paid my uncle a sum of money to look after me and keep me quiet. I dear Edmund, had run away to look at the giant water lilies and so was unharmed (physically at least), but to this day I have not been able to walk in to a hothouse or any very glassed building. I know I should be stronger Edmund, and believe me I have tried. But I awake this morning knowing I cannot go there to the memories.
Please forgive me and I pray you make it out of the Wintergardens alive.......
PL
Post a Comment