{"id":2737,"date":"2015-01-09T09:12:35","date_gmt":"2015-01-09T16:12:35","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/?p=2737"},"modified":"2015-01-09T16:33:15","modified_gmt":"2015-01-09T23:33:15","slug":"song-innocent-time","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/2015\/01\/song-innocent-time\/","title":{"rendered":"Song From An Innocent Time"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"Marisa<\/a>

Marisa Ross<\/a> via Compfight<\/a><\/p><\/div>\n

A white piece of paper fluttered onto my lit book as James Knox, moved past my desk.<\/p>\n

Song for Emil<\/em> had been typed across the top of what must be song lyrics.<\/p>\n

My forehead wrinkled and questions bumper-carred around my head.<\/p>\n

I watched James, the most vocal member of Mrs. Reader\u2019s creative writing class, gather his belongings. We\u2019d never spoken, unless you counted class discussions.<\/p>\n

I grabbed my books and hurried into the G Building hall after James, my heart dancing between shyness and curiosity.<\/p>\n

I caught up to him in front of the lockers. \u201cWhy did you give me this?\u201d I poked the sheet between us.<\/p>\n

He shrugged one shoulder. \u201cRead it. Tell me what you think.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou wrote it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah.\u201d He disappeared into the stream of students flowing through the hall.<\/p>\n

Warm fizz buzzed around my brain. I glanced at the paper, mystified. He\u2019d never read anything I\u2019d written. Did I have book nerd<\/em> scrawled in Sharpie across my forehead?<\/p>\n

\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by FidlerJan<\/p><\/div>\n

Only Mrs. Reader had seen my work when grading assignments. I went through enough emotional contortions laying my writing\u2014myself\u2014bare to a teacher who graded with a gentle hand. I couldn\u2019t imagine exposing my words to a random classmate.<\/p>\n

The guy had guts, I\u2019d give him that.<\/p>\n

I lifted my chin a notch, feeling smarter than when I walked into class.<\/p>\n

Across the hall Eric Bensen scribbled a huge W with dots across Glenn Gracom\u2019s notebook before Glenn could stop him. Eric\u2019s long legs that earned him star hurdler status on the track team took off toward the double glass doors at the end of the building.<\/p>\n

Glenn shook his head, disgusted.<\/p>\n

I snickered. I\u2019d learned in the few months I\u2019d attended New Smyrna Beach High School that The Great Bonanza War\u2014drawing breasts on each other\u2019s school supplies\u2014had surged through the male population the year before. Glenn, James, Kyle Avery, and John Scrivano, along with a healthy chunk of the junior class had since matured to pencil snapping, crotch punching (or so I heard), and earlobe flicking.<\/p>\n

The next day I dropped Song For Emil<\/em> on James\u2019 desk, with my comments in blue cursive.<\/p>\n

He slid the page under his books as though it contained intel on The Bonanza War.<\/p>\n

Ten minutes later, I made an unnecessary trip to the pencil sharpener to walk past his desk.<\/p>\n

James\u2019 shoulders hunched over something framed between his forearms.<\/p>\n

My handwriting.<\/p>\n

Maybe for the first time, my words mattered to a male. One I’d come to respect.<\/p>\n

\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by kakisky<\/p><\/div>\n

No one expected her kid brother to care what she thought, but every girl wanted her dad\u2019s ear. Rather than listen, Dad tried to filibuster me into his beliefs\u2014the militia stealing through the South, disarming the populace; time travel as reality; the tenets of some Maharishi. His list waxed long and tedious compared to my thoughts on Queen, the new 55 mile an hour speed limit, The Great Gatsby<\/em>, or Watergate.<\/p>\n

On my way back to my seat, James looked up at me. \u201cWhat does \u2018nuanced\u2019 mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

I tapped his literature text. \u201cIn the glossary.\u201d<\/p>\n

A couple minutes later, James pivoted in his seat and shot me a huge grin.<\/p>\n

I lifted my brows. But inside I grinned just as big.<\/p>\n

The song was good. I\u2019d penned only praise.<\/p>\n

After school I walked down Quay Assisi and hooked south toward the Washington Street Bridge and home in a scraggly stream of students. Sweat trickled down my sternum. I twisted my hair off my neck and stuck a pencil through it.<\/p>\n

\"\u00a9<\/a>

\u00a9 David Coleman | Dreamstime Stock Photos<\/p><\/div>\n

Behind me clicked the gears on a ten-speed as someone coasted up beside me.<\/p>\n

James.<\/p>\n

He put a foot down on the pavement. \u201cThanks for taking a look at my song.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re welcome.\u201d I squinted at him, glanced over his shoulder, looking for the underclass girls who orbited him like sparklers. But the closest student was a kid kicking a rock a hundred feet back.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve got an album completed. Would you critique it?\u201d<\/p>\n

The compliment I\u2019d felt when he dropped Song for Emil<\/em> on my desk surged back, stronger than before. \u201cSure. No problem.\u201d My opinion mattered. I mattered.<\/p>\n

\u201cGreat.\u201d He said he\u2019d bring the album tomorrow, stood on one pedal, and took off.<\/p>\n

Song For Emil<\/em> was the first in a stream of albums James fed me over the next six years\u2014regardless of the level of high school or college drama ebbing and flowing between us.<\/p>\n

I commented, \u201cClich\u00e9, great symbolism, Top 40, awkward,\u201d and returned the songs to James like extra credit homework.<\/p>\n

James wrote tunes about the girls he crushed on, social commentary, things that angered him, or lint he scraped from the corners of his fertile imagination.<\/p>\n

Through his lyrics I met the guy inside\u2014at a time in life when most of us folded our inner persons against our<\/p>\n

\"squishy1817<\/a>

squishy1817<\/a> via Compfight<\/a> cc<\/a><\/p><\/div>\n

spleens. A gift. One of so many gifts I gained in New Smyrna Beach.<\/p>\n

Like girlfriends who spoke sarcasm like I did. We talked so fast our words climbed over each other\u2019s, fighting for air space. We laughed loud and often.<\/p>\n

The years themselves were a gift. John Scrivano\u2014longtime language arts teacher at New Smyrna Beach High School\u2014labels our high school tenure a time of innocence. And he\u2019s right.<\/p>\n

For me and my friends it was a time before sex\u2014as far as I know. Before careers, minivans, and thirty-year mortgages. Before we lost each other to geography, ideologies, or hurtful words. Before alcoholism, unemployment, unhappy marriages, and divorce stole our innocence. Before we birthed a daughter alone, raised a handicapped son, lost a child to death or visited one in jail.<\/p>\n

Before our hearts were broken.<\/p>\n

Before we overcame. Found healing, God, peace, forgiveness, and\u2014in some instances\u2014found each other again.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Photo by SDRandCo<\/p><\/div>\n

During our days of innocence James carved popularity from the student body with the sharp sword of intelligent humor. He owned any room he walked into. If I had book<\/em> nerd<\/em> Sharpied on my face, he had born leader<\/em> on his. His charisma won him the presidency of the Student Government Association, a berth on the Homecoming Court, and lead guitarist in an “air” band that lip-synced with invisible instruments (the inspiration for my novel, Avra’s God<\/a>).<\/p>\n

As an adult, James, pastor of Deland\u2019s Bible Baptist Church, regrets his high school shenanigans\u2014carrying a golf club to class, the six months he donned an expansive collection of sunglasses, and a multitude of other grabs for attention. He labels his high school larger-than-life personality, insecurity. But whatever \u201cit\u201d was, the fun spilled over all of us, daily delivering us from boredom.<\/p>\n

\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by jppi<\/p><\/div>\n

A few weeks ago James\u2019 memoir, Tire Tracks<\/a>,<\/em> arrived in my mailbox in Arizona with a plea for my opinion. Who knew James and Kyle Avery had lived and nearly died a dozen times as prepubescent boys exploring the wilds and waterways of New Smyrna Beach? I\u2019m on page 231 out of 300, and I give it a thumbs-up. As I always suspected, boys are funny, brave, and a little gross.<\/p>\n

James gave high school texture\u2014angst, laughter, and depth.<\/p>\n

Dad listened too little, but my words counted with James. I counted. I can\u2019t help thinking that James helped elbow me and my words out into the world.<\/p>\n

\"James<\/a>

James Knox, 11th grade<\/p><\/div>\n

\"Eric<\/a>

Eric Bensen, 11th grade<\/p><\/div>\n

\"Glenn<\/a>

Glenn Gracom, 11th grade<\/p><\/div>\n

\"Kyle<\/a>

Kyle Avery, 11th grade<\/p><\/div>\n

\"John<\/a>

John Scrivano, 11th grade<\/p><\/div>\n


\n<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

If you\u2019d like to leave a comment below, share a significant gift someone gave you in high school.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Just type your e-mail address in the empty box on the right & \u201cSubscribe\u201d to receive my blogs every Friday!<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by pedrojperez<\/p><\/div>\n

Related posts about New Smyrna Beach:<\/strong><\/p>\n

Friendless on the First Day of School<\/a><\/p>\n

Beached, Brokendown, and Blessed in New Smyrna<\/a><\/p>\n

Spoons, Nudes, and Tuna Casserole<\/a><\/p>\n

Too Much and Not Enough Testosterone for the Christmas Parade<\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0A Couple of Kids Cobble Together Christmas<\/a><\/p>\n

Dodging the Day After Christmas Blues<\/a><\/p>\n

Swimming Into Forever<\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

\n

Check out my New Smyrna Beach novels by clicking on the covers.<\/p>\n

\"Avra's<\/a>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \"Tattered<\/a>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \"Kicking<\/a> \u00a0\u00a0 \"The<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A white piece of paper fluttered onto my lit book as James Knox, moved past my desk. Song for Emil had been typed across the top of what must be song lyrics. My forehead wrinkled and questions bumper-carred around my head. 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