And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

 I'm plowing through my stack of second-hand books and landed today on Anne Rivers Siddons' Islands. I knew it was promising when I read Pat Conroy's words of praise on the inside cover: "Anne Rivers Siddons has always written as though someone close to God was whispering to her." Within minutes, I was in the zone, breathing in the salty breezes of the South Carolina low country. Dreaming of sea oats and sand, hearing the surf pound the beaches.

 

At some point I caught a whiff of freshly mowed grass through the open window. So powerful were the images in my mind that I had to lay the book down and just be moved. I found myself in Miss Rigg's eighth grade English class, sitting in near the back of the first row, right beside Tara, near Rajesh, behind Laurie. The janitor pushed an old mower in straight lines on the bank outside the windows. From her desk at the front of the room, Miss Rigg was reading aloud. She was the first teacher to read aloud to us since my early elementary days, and I never knew I had missed it till then. This week in early spring, she was reading from Edgar Allen Poe. 

We were a silent lot, hanging on her every word, begging for more every day. 

    The Pit and the Pendulum.

        The Tell Tale Heart. 

            The Raven.  

                The Black Cat. 

Lovely days, those were, being 13 and heavily influenced by the likes of Poe and the scent of fresh cut grass.

Tomorrow I want to go back to my thrift store and see if I can find some more Siddons. I need to walk through the sea oats a few more times this spring break week. And if I'm really lucky, I'll find a raven perched on a bust of some placid dead guy. If that happens, you can bet I'll buy the bust and raven as a set.