Love Like This by Bailey Elora

Follow Author Russ Ray @eat.travel.type.colorado

Follow Your Heart

by Author Russ Ray

We all have something deep down inside that we want to do. It has called to us when we were children. It calls to us now as adults. It started as an idea, it became a dream, and sadly, for many, it turned into a “what might have happened only if I would have . . . .” Many of us put our dreams on a shelf and go to work for a living.’

My youngest son, Diego, picked up a guitar three or so years ago. He wanted to learn to play. In the beginning I watched him struggle. He clumsily and tentatively picked at the strings. My first impression was he would give it a try and soon lose interest. After all, there is so much competition for his attention. PlayStation and Xbox spend millions of dollars a year developing hardware and software that keeps teenagers locked in mortal combat in brutal fire fights taking place in the past, the present or the future; or, they are racing high tech cyber vehicles in epic duels involving high speed crashes that push the adrenaline off the charts. How can a simple, wooden instrument win his favor? It did. Over the years, I would hear him playing in the background. Quietly, gracefully, he managed to persuade a beautiful song from his acoustic friend. As I walked by his room, I would stop and listen. His mom enrolled him in music lessons. When it was my week to have him, I would wake him up early on Saturdays, load him and his guitar into my car, and drive off to the music studio. He never complained. He wanted to go. It was his idea, not mine. He didn’t want to miss his lesson.

Last night, the high school jazz band had its second concert. Diego plays bass in the band. He has other interests, too. That is one of the many things I love about him. He plays cornerback for the football team. It is the offseason now. He is weight lifting and studying the playbook to improve. He takes football seriously. His grades are great. He wanted to take advanced placement classes. I have to thank his elementary school for that. His grade school teachers prepared him well. His two main reasons for taking advance placement classes were to learn more, rather than repeat the lessons he had in the eighth grade. The other reason caught me by surprise. Some of the kids in the other classes would come to school smelling like smoke. And they were less disciplined. He wanted more structure and more opportunity. Again, his idea, not mine. But in the end, whether he has football practice or conditioning after class, or, if he has a ton of homework to do, he seems to always end the evening with his guitar, quietly playing.

After his concert, his mom and I took him out for dinner. During dinner, his mom (out of nowhere) asked him, “Have you decided what you want to do after high school?” He didn’t answer her question at first. He gave it some thought. He finished chewing his food, looked at his mom, and said, “I want to play music.” A moment like that can be devastating for most parents. When a child calmly announces he wants to be an actor, or a musician, or an artist of any kind, it strikes fear in a parent’s heart. “Son, have you considered being a doctor, a pharmacist, or an accountant?” “What about college, son?” I have to admit, those thoughts entered my head. But just for a moment.

I knew at the age of 12 I would join the Army. Don’t ask me why, I just knew. I hadn’t worked out all the details, but I knew when the time came for me to enlist, I envisioned myself doing whatever it took to join. When I finally turned 18, I calmly raised my right hand, and took the oath. The decision was easy because I had made it on the school’s playground many years earlier. I also made another decision: I wanted to write. Like almost every other kid, I hated grammar lessons in grade school. I also procrastinated on reading the assigned books, poems and stories. But when the teachers handed out the book order forms, I was intrigued. Remember those forms? It was a pamphlet with several pages of small pictures of books. With each picture, was a brief description of the listed book. Each description was a story in itself. Some of the descriptions painted pictures of worlds I had never imagined – and like most kids, I had a wild imagination. There was a little check box next to the description with a price listed next to it. We were allowed to pick four books. When I was 12, my circumstances had changed. Prior to that, my mother couldn’t afford to pay for those books. I would read the descriptions and pick out books I knew I could never order. I watched the other kids fill out the forms and bring checks to school the next day. When the books arrived, the teacher passed them out to all but a few kids. It was hard to watch. After my mom remarried, I had a stepfather who cared. Things were different. I brought the order form home and returned to school with a check. Weeks passed, and finally, the books arrived. The teacher called out a title, then the student’s name. Mine was called out four times. It was better than Christmas. I held each book in my little hands and was terribly excited. These weren’t worn, used library books; they were fresh and new. They had never been opened. They even smelled new. I couldn’t wait to get them home and read them. I still have most of them.

About that same time, in another class, a teacher assigned a writing project. We were told to write a two page short story. I was happy to do it. I wrote my story, turned it in and waited for it to be graded in a day or two. I didn’t give it another thought. Two days later, our teacher lined us up and marched us down the hall to the library. We sat in a semi-circle. Our teacher said she was going to read some of the stories we wrote. She picked up some of the stories and began reading out loud. After the first sentence, I knew she was reading mine. She read another sentence. Then she laughed. She read another sentence, and laughed again. Her laughter wasn’t because the writing was witty; she was laughing at how poorly it was written. She was laughing at me. I was horrified. Then she started making comments about how absurd the story was. It was like the New York Times Book Review from hell. I could barely breathe. I became dizzy. I swore I would never write again.

Lucky for me, passions are hard to extinguish. Although I stayed away from writing for years after that dreadful experience, I was always drawn back. Like all school kids, I was “forced” to read Hemmingway and Twain and Shakespeare. I was always taken by their different styles, their choice of words, and their breath-taking way of crafting a story. For me, reading good writing has always been like meditating with one of the world’s greatest minds. Even though they have been dead for decades, some for centuries, what they wrote was still relevant, still compelling. I wanted that in my life. To tell stories. Again, lucky for me, I met other teachers who tried to undo the damage done to me in elementary school. These educators saw something in my writing and encouraged me. The first was my high school English teacher. He told me there was no way he was giving me an A in his class because I missed FAR too many classes; however, he said my writing saved me from getting expelled and from getting an F. He always found kind words when he reviewed my work. He wondered what it was that kept me from coming to class. (I hated the tedium of class.

I took a play writing class. It was more of a workshop. Enrollment was unusual. Students had to write their way in. The English department collected plays from interested students. Martin Jenkins, a producer of radio plays from the BBC in England, chose forty of the plays. Mine was chosen. Martin and I spent hours discussing, and lat er arguing, about my work during the course of the semester. When all was said and done, he gave me the only A in the class. I was shocked. I was even more shocked to learn that when we argued about my work, he expected me to fight harder for my ideas rather than give in to him. He was teaching how to handle cruel editors and publishers that I might encounter later in life if I chose to make writing my vocation. But, I didn’t choose writing as my vocation. I chose the law instead. It seemed more practical.

I see so much of my son in me. His passion is music. I can tell. Music is to him what writing is to me. When asked what he wanted to do with his life, he must have wondered what kind of reaction he was going to get when he quietly announced to his parents he wanted to play music. In that moment, I thought before I spoke. I didn’t want to put out his fire. Yes, college and professional degrees and eight-to-five jobs seem to be the safer bet. But the safer bet can drown your soul. When I hear his music, I am inspired to read. I am inspired to write. I know he is serious about his choice. He doesn’t make a fuss about it. It is something personal for him. He has always gone quietly about his business. He is lucky to have people in his life who have encouraged him. The great Tom Gomez, his youth league football coach, taught him courage and confidence. Calvin Weatherall, his guitar tutor, is taking those lessons and building upon them. Diego is learning what in life brings him joy. It is my job to stay out of his way and encourage him.

I wanted to write on my time, not the school district’s.) Another teacher took an interest in me in college.