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November 29, 2005
Zen and the Art of Vanishing
I had an interesting experience today. I was waiting in my car and sketching in my journal to pass the time. I was drawing a bicycle that was leaning against the wall opposite my open car window.
An Asian man, who was passing, by suddenly stopped and came up to the window.
“You artees?” he said.
“I try,” I replied.
He looked into the window at my sketchbook.
“Ya. You atees. I see that,” He said, pointing at the sketch.
I nodded back.
“You draw me?” he asked.
“You?” I replied.
“Ya. Ya. You draw me.”
Before I could reply he went and stood against the wall.
He did not move a muscle. He just smiled warmly at me.
About eight minutes later, I lifted my finger to indicate that I was done.
He raised his hand and said, “Tank you,” and walked away.
He did not even come over the see what I had drawn. I was amazed. He simply disappeared.
It reminded of some Buddhist monks I read about recently who spent five days creating an elaborate art masterpiece on a sidewalk by meticulously positioning millions of grains of sand in a colorful pattern. The piece was truly magnificent.
After they were done the monks said a small prayer and walked away from the work, leaving the wind and rain to wash the art away. Apparently the process serves as a way for the Buddhists to meditate, spread blessings and show the temporary nature of things in this world, even the beautiful ones.
Posted by trevor at 06:59 AM | Comments (4)
November 28, 2005
Boot Camp
Two years ago I gave a talk at a boot camp near San Benito in South Texas. It’s a camp for teenagers who have committed serious crimes from assault to armed robbery and drug dealing.
I was rather apprehensive when I walked into the camp because it was a true boot camp. Ex marines were yelling orders to teenagers who looked like bewildered army recruits. The teenage inmates all wore fatigues and had marine haircuts, including the girls.
I thought my visit was going to be a disaster because the inmates glared at me when I walked into the room. At first they tried to intimidate me by appearing not to be interested in what I was talking about. After sharing some of my harrowing army experiences and those involving dying children, everything changed.
I told them about my involvement with sick children and how some of the cancer kids I know would give anything to have the lives that the kids in detention were throwing away. I shared with them the words of my friend TJ who knew I was going to visit the boot camp. He said, “I wish I could have the lives those kids are wasting so I can live longer.”
The talk was one of the most emotional I have ever delivered. It was just one of those days. After opening my soul to those kids, everything clicked.
Some of the kids are in the detention facility for horrible crimes, but most of them are in trouble because they live a tough life influenced by their surroundings. Many of them have parents who are gang members, drug addicts, prostitutes and thieves. A large majority of those kids are simply influenced by bad role models. It’s so sad to see some potentially good kids sucked into an awful downward spiral as they continue the cycle of crime and violence created by their parents.
I ended my talk by telling the kids that being kind and making a difference in other people’s lives was one of the hardest things to do. I told them being kind was harder than being cruel. That taking drugs and robbing people was a lot easier to do than being compassionate and caring because to care for someone else you have to learn to care for yourself first and that’s not easy.
I dared the kids in that room to have the guts to make a difference in someone else’s life, as well as their own.
I heard murmurings of, “I can do that,” and “I’ve got #@% $ guts.” I saw many nodding heads accepting my challenge.
As I was leaving the facility one of the inmates, who was about fifteen years old, ran up and asked the counselor, who was walking with me, if he could have permission to speak.
The counselor nodded.
“I already make a difference,” he said, eagerly. “I stop the guys in here beating up the new kids on their first day. I stand up for them.”
“That is awesome,” I said. “You do make a difference. I’m proud of you, mate. I know it can’t be easy. Keep it up.” I patted him on the shoulder and smiled.
He smiled broadly. Then saluted me and ran off to join a group of inmates who were doing push ups.
“Get your ass over here,” said the instructor. “Do you think this is a holiday camp?”
“Sir, yes sir,” the boy answered, dropping to the ground to complete his push-ups.
The counselor told me that the boy’s mother was a prostitute who shoots up drugs in front of her children and the boy’s father was killed in a gang related drug deal gone wrong. She told me the boy was exceptionally gifted and very smart but was easily influenced by his environment and specially by his peers. He was in jail for countless burglaries, which were apparently perpetrated to feed his mother’s habit and the family.
The boy had a lovely smile that stayed with me for days.
I have some friends who are teachers in the area and know of the boy. Over the months I’ve kept up with him through them. He was released from the camp a few months ago after serving a year and a half.
Much to my horror I was informed this weekend that the boy was shot and killed in a gang shooting last month
I am truly saddened.
Posted by trevor at 06:54 AM | Comments (3)
November 27, 2005
Random Acts of Watercolor
I was painting a watercolor picture today. It wasn’t turning out how I had planned though. It seemed…too forced or something. Uncomfortable. Contrived.
I loaded up my brush with some fresh paint and tested the color on a blank piece of paper that was sitting alongside my painting.
I liked the rich burgundy color I had mixed.
I smiled to myself. Hmmm. My test blob looked somewhat like a pear. I did another sample blob alongside the first. It too looked strangely like a pear. Out of curiosity and because I like to test the universe, I did a third blob. There it was again! A third pear to add to the first pair.
I dabbed my brush into some yellow paint and touched each wet pear gently on the top left to create some texture. The paint bled down the side of each pear. My first instinct was to close my eyes and cringe because bleeding is something I often try to avoid when watercolor painting.
I opened my eyes and was overjoyed to see what the painting had done to itself. While my eyes were closed the bleeding yellow had turned into a warm orange glow on the side of each pear. It did it all by itself. Without my help!
The orange looked like the reflection of a warm fire in the hearth.
Finally I dragged a little white paint over the belly of each pear as a highlight.
The ‘Three Pear’ accident turned out way better than the original painting I had planned, sketched, labored over and contemplated for over a week.
It’s amazing how paintings turn out if you trust their instincts and let them do some of the work themselves.
Posted by trevor at 03:58 PM | Comments (3)
Annual Rant
I simply cannot understand it. People are dying in Africa by the thousand every minute. People are suffering terribly in China, India, Sri Lanka and Pakistan from natural disasters. Soldiers are dying in pathetic wars across the world and all the press and magazines are reporting is celebrity hype. Magazines are bidding millions of dollars against each other to have exclusive rights to pictures of Brittany Spears’ baby. Who cares? I’m sure the baby is very sweet. Most babies are. But, honestly Brittany’s baby? That girl gets more coverage than people who cure cancer and invent life saving machines.
The money spent on paparazzi pictures of pretty boring celebrities could be used to build orphanages in AIDS ravaged Africa and feed hungry people here in America. Apparently one magazine paid almost four hundred thousand dollars for a picture of Brad Pitt walking on the beach with Angelina Jolie. Four hundred thousand dollars!
How about Nick and Jessica’s imminent split or Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston’s divorce? Who cares about what type of toilet paper the Desperate Housewives use. Or what Paris Hilton has to say about anything? Who cares? Apparently the world does because that’s all we ever hear about.
How about some support from the media for those who go beyond the call of duty? Like the volunteers who left their jobs to help victims of hurricane Katrina, doctors who took a sabbatical to fly to Pakistan to help earthquake victims and families who donated their life savings to other families in need. (These people are only highlighted when the news is looking for a Hallmark moment they can jazz up with soppy music and slow motion footage. Especially if a greeting card company is paying for the time.)
I don’t often rant, but I think of my late 14 year-old friend Tylor’s family who have been financially devastated by his cancer and subsequently broken by his death. The cost of ONE blurry half-naked celebrity picture in a national magazine could afford them the dream home Tylor wished for them. It could mean all five remaining family members could move out of their mobile home this winter into a warm, comfortable home where they would be able to grieve their loss with dignity.
The cost of one film crew in a helicopter hovering over Pamela Anderson’s breasts could build an entire daycare center in Pakistan for the countless orphans who are homeless after the earthquake.
Unfortunately kids today are not exposed to and influenced by good role models in the media. They are inspired by hype and greed. Our priorities are all wrong!
Whew. That feels better. There’s nothing worse than emotional constipation.
Posted by trevor at 08:36 AM | Comments (6)
November 25, 2005
Silent Voice
I knew the little girl was crying even though she had her back to me. Nobody was paying particular attention to her. The nurses were at their station working and two elderly people were talking to each other on the chairs near the door. The girl was sitting on the floor playing with a coloring book.
“Hi,” I said, crouching down beside her. “You seem to be sad.”
“Uh huh,” she replied.
“May I ask why?” I said, gently.
“Uh huh,” she said softly.
She was quiet for a few minutes. I did not push her for a reply. I remained where I was, waiting for her answer.
Without looking up she said, “My brother’s going to die.”
“Why?” I said.
“Because he has cancer.”
“Cancer, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Having cancer doesn’t mean he’s going to die,” I said.
“Really.” The girl turned toward me.
“Yup. A lot of kids survive cancer. To tell you the truth, more kids survive cancer than die from it.”
“They do?”
Her face suddenly lit up.
“Sure. But the he treatment is a bit yucky though.”
“I know my brother threw up in my lap the other day,” she said, screwing up her face.
“A kid once threw up on my head,” I said. “Right here in this room. I was giving him a ride on my shoulders and he barfed all over the back of my head.”
The little girl threw back her head and laughed.
“Eeuuww.”
Just then the girls mother and her brother came into the waiting room from the X-ray area.
The little girl ran over and hugged her sick brother. The mother affectionately patted the girl on the head and they made their way back to the boy’s room.
I followed behind them because I was heading in the same direction.
The mother and the boy walked into their room.
The little girl hesitated at the door and turned toward me.
She smiled.
I returned the smile and stretched out my open palm toward her as I passed.
She leaned over and gave me five. Then she pointed at me.
I pointed back at her.
We said nothing to each other.
We didn’t have to.
Posted by trevor at 09:34 PM | Comments (3)
November 24, 2005
The letter
My friend Danny Gregory who is a wonderful artist and illustrator is having a competition over on his web site. (www.dannygregory.com) Danny is challenging people to resurrect the lost art of illustrated letters.
As a kid I illustrated letters all the time. I’ll never forget the letter I wrote and illustrated to my first love Geraldine Van Buuren, who didn’t care much for me, but loved my brother.
I tried to woo Ms. Van Buuren with my etchings. I spent hours drawing an elaborate letter with a poem and a cartoon strip. (It didn’t work as you can tell by the illustrated re-enactment above.)
Ouch. Love can really hurt sometimes.
Posted by trevor at 01:58 PM | Comments (2)
November 22, 2005
The Thanks I Sometimes Forget To Remember
It is thanksgiving week here in the United States and because it is a time to give thanks I thought I’d mention some of the things I often forget to be thankful for:
I am thankful…
That my dad and mom happened to be at the same bus stop, on the same day, at the same time where they met and were inseparable until the day he died 45 years later.
That the gun jammed when I surprised the thief who was stealing the radio out of my car in Johannesburg. The gun was pointed at my chest and I saw him pulling the trigger countless times…to no avail. I would not have been here today had the gun not jammed.
That my dad passed his ‘happy’ genes on to me.
That my father did not suffer when he died. He was an athlete and would have hated being an invalid.
That my brother and sister shared my childhood with me.
That Nelson Mandela took my home country from apartheid to freedom without a bloody uprising or civil war.
That I was able to cuddle Naomi, hold Renee’s hand, be there for Victor and embrace Alex as they died after suffering from childhood cancer.
That CS Lewis wrote the Chronicles Of Narnia which inspired me to write.
That Mr. Clingman said, “Trevor, you can change the world, even though you are in Special Ed.”
That I can draw.
That I found a sense of humor lurking beneath the pain and humiliation of being the resident class idiot because of my dyslexia.
That I was too short to be decapitated by the wire across the path down which we were riding our soapbox cart late one night.
That Dr. Ozrin managed to remove the marble that I stuck up my own nose at Jabula nursery School.
That Staff Sergeant Reyneke managed to get rid of the grenade before it blew our heads off. (It was dropped by a petrified soldier right in front of us during basic training at the grenade practice range at Fourth Field Regiment.)
That I still get to sleep in my childhood room when I go home to visit.
That you are reading this blog.
That my grandmother was able to escape when her village was burned to the ground and many of her family members were slaughtered during the pogroms in Europe.
That my mum introduced me to the power of kindness.
That hot tea was invented.
That I managed to make it through the mine field of my youth which saw my best friend Howard die in the army, my other best friend John Hitchens die in a car accident, yet another friend Mark Campbell die of a drug overdose and my brother Steve survive a motorcycle accident which almost took his life.
And finally, thanks to the Founder…
That I have a mission in life. To use my talents to make the world a better place for children!
Posted by trevor at 10:44 PM | Comments (8)
November 21, 2005
Thinking
I spoke to my friend Tatum last night. She is almost sixteen and has cancer.
We discussed life and death and a whole lot in between.
Tatum is having a tough time discussing her imminent death with her family, so I offered to lend an ear.
The minute Tatum trusted that it was okay to share her feelings, the floodgates opened. She did not hold back.
Our conversation was tragically beautiful. I was so moved and inspired by her candor. I don’t want her observations and feelings to disappear so I urged her to write down some of the things we talked about.
I sat here in my studio with tears streaming down my cheeks as we talked.
An hour later I got an e-mail with the following words:
Some of the things I’m going to miss when I’m gone:
My family.
My dog’s kisses.
The swing on the tree in the garden.
The smell of my mom’s peach pie.
The first fire my dad makes every winter.
The feel of my grandpa’s sweaters. They are always so soft.
Dominoes Pizza.
The Dominoes Pizza delivery guy. (Who is also my best friend Wes.)
Hot chocolate on a cold night.
Opening presents on Christmas morning.
The smell of bacon.
Laughing so hard my cheeks hurt.
Lying in the field behind our house and listening to the beat of my heart.
What would you miss?
Posted by trevor at 03:14 PM | Comments (5)
November 17, 2005
Your Tap Water, Suh!
Unfortunately I will NOT be enjoying drinks with umbrellas in them at the Denver Film Festival this weekend because… it’s bloody freezing up there! Also I won’t be able to post comments while I am gone, so please look for them upon my return on Sunday.
Posted by trevor at 08:37 AM | Comments (0)
Gracias, Danke, Thanks, Dankie
Again, for those who voted for us, thank you all so very much. We won the award for Best Independent Video Series Aged 5 – 8. We are still in the running for the big award, which will be announced at the event. The Kids First Awards is a big deal for us because it's like the Oscars for kids. We are so grateful, not only to those who voted for us, but to everyone who worked so hard on producing the series. Production on the next three episodes starts in December. Watch this space for more information.
(I happy to share some more good news! We were also awarded the Parent's Choice Gold Award for our video "What On Earth Do You Do When Someone Dies?" and the silver for "Bullies Are A Pain In The Brain.")
Posted by trevor at 08:29 AM | Comments (4)
She's Baaaack!
My muse, bless her 'Magic-Marker' heart, went away for a well-deserved break. I missed her so much though that she came back early. Apparently she went to Pigtopia and Rodentia. (As evidenced by the journal entry above.)
Posted by trevor at 08:08 AM | Comments (0)
November 16, 2005
Writers Blog
Miss Muse, Miss Muse...where are you?
Posted by trevor at 06:20 PM | Comments (4)
November 15, 2005
Shooting Star
I saw a shooting star last night.
I could not believe how bright it was considering that I was in the city.
My grandmother always told me that a shooting star was actually a suffering soul that was finally free from the earth and was covered in light so that God could clearly identify the soul and comfort it for eternity.
I saw a shooting star last night.
It reminded me of my little friend Audrey who passed away several years ago from cancer at the age of six. I still have images of Audrey and her twin sister lying on the hospital bed. In my mind I can still see these two little kids comforting one another and stroking each other’s hair.
Audrey passed away the following morning.
It broke my heart to see a beautiful, charming, sweet little girl like Audrey suffer like she did. And because Audrey went through so much, I know that when she left this earth, her soul was carried aloft by a bright light given to her by her twin sister and her family.
I like to think the bright light that surrounded Audrey when she died carried her to the source of eternal comfort.
I saw a shooting star last night.
I’d like to think it was Audrey.
Posted by trevor at 10:02 AM | Comments (1)
November 13, 2005
Mother and Son
While cooling down after my morning run on Saturday I passed a mother and her young son fishing off the small dock where I sometimes stop to stretch and contemplate the world.
It warmed my heart to see the mother giving her son such undivided attention.
As I was stretching, I overheard the two speaking:
“Daddy is going to be so proud to hear that you caught a fish,” said the mother, gently rubbing her son's back.
“Will he come fishing with me when he gets back?”
“Yes.”
“When is he coming home?”
“I’m not sure, honey.”
“Will he be here for Christmas?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“Well, he has to protect the people in Iraq.”
“Oh.”
“Have you thought about what you want from Santa?”
“Yeah.”
“If you could have any gift in the world this Christmas, what would it be?”
“Daddy,” said the boy quietly, as he tightened the line on his fishing pole.
Even from where I was stretching I could see the tears welling up in the mother's eyes. I can't shake the image of absolute anguish reflected on her face as she closed her eyes and hugged her son.
How I wish I could have run up and held them both in my arms.
How I wish I could have taken the awful pain away from the boys mother.
That was their special time though and I did not want to impose.
As I walked away, the mother looked up and we made eye contact for a second. In that moment I hugged her with my soul.
She smiled. Her eyes seemed to say thank you for respecting us and not intruding. And thank you for your concern.
My heart aches for the little boy. I hope that by some miracle his dad is able to come home this Christmas.
How I wish I could put his dad in a big box, wrap it up in bright paper and deliver the ultimate gift to the boy's home on December the 25th. I can just imagine how happy the boy would be to see his father jumping out of the box to surprise him.
Posted by trevor at 10:48 AM | Comments (2)
November 10, 2005
Paying Forward
Thank you to the wonderful woman who came up to me at my local art supply store yesterday, put her hand on my shoulder and told me that the very expensive paints I was about to buy were half the price at Jerry’s Artarama.
Her kindness saved me almost sixty dollars.
In this crazy day and age I found her thoughtfulness so nice and refreshing that I decided to pay it forward. I will donate sixty dollars to the Candlelighters Childhood Cancer Foundation today.
Posted by trevor at 09:06 AM | Comments (1)
November 08, 2005
Lexi And The Spirit Of The Leaf
Today I saw a maroon and gold leaf dancing in the wind.
It moved with such ease and grace. It appeared to be waltzing with the wind.
The wind was gentle and tender with the leaf as they danced cheek to cheek.
Then, in a fit of passion, the wind took the leaf and twirled it violently, first one way and then the other.
Then the wind took a break, laying the leaf gently on the ground as it rested, breathless.
But not for long. A few seconds later the leaf was back in the arms of the wind, this time doing the tango.
I could tell the wind was in love because it simply couldn’t keep its hands off the leaf.
Watching the leaf dance with such abandon reminded of my new little friend Lexi whose body is wheelchair bound, but whose soaring spirit dances across the sky with no bounds like a maroon and gold leaf in the wind.
Posted by trevor at 04:30 PM | Comments (2)
November 07, 2005
The Conversation
Today I had a long conversation with Storm the studio cat. He didn’t say very much.
Posted by trevor at 11:40 PM | Comments (1)
The Rejection
After spending three years writing her book, a friend of mine received her first rejection from a publisher today. She feels really bad and is so upset she wants to give up her dream of being a writer. I feel her pain. I have been the recipient of that “awful feeling” more times than I care to admit. No matter how prepared you are, that “rejection letter” has a way of taking the wind out of any sail.
For example: “Mr. Romain, after careful consideration we feel that there is not a big enough market for your proposed self-help book series including "How To Do Homework Without Throwing Up", "Bullies Are a Pain In the Brain" and" Cliques, Phonies and Other Baloney". We also don’t believe that your books take the subjects you have tackled seriously enough and feel that your humorous approach might turn some readers off. We wish you the best of luck in placing your books with another publishing house.”
The above letter arrived almost two months after my book "How To Do Homework Without Throwing Up" was published. (The publishing house who rejected me took almost fourteen months to respond to my manuscript submission.) I look back and smile to myself considering that the book How To Do Homework Without Throwing Up has become an international best seller and has been translated into a number of different languages.
In response to her rejection I told my friend to send out another proposal for the same book right away. This is why:
“You can’t play the piano, and God knows you can’t sing. You’d better learn how to weave chairs so you can support yourself.” – A comment by Ray Charles’s teacher.
“You have a voice, but it’s nothing special.” - said by a teacher who rejected Diana Ross after she auditioned for a part in a high school musical.
“Liquidate the business right now and recoup whatever cash you can. If you don’t, you’ll end up penniless.” – The attorney of Mary Kay a few weeks before she opened her first store.
Mary Kay’s mascot for her cosmetics company is a bumblebee. “Because of its tiny wings and heavy body, aerodynamically the bumblebee shouldn’t be able to fly. But the bumblebee doesn’t know that, so it flies anyway.”
Every time one of my books or creative projects is rejected I remember the words of my wonderful grandfather Ted, who said “Believe in yourself and there will come a day when others will have no choice but to believe in you.”
Posted by trevor at 10:36 AM | Comments (3)
November 03, 2005
The Jar
I walked into the room. Vicki was crying softly.
I was so tempted to say, “Are you okay?” but obviously she wasn’t. She was crying for goodness sake.
I wanted to say, “What was wrong?” but how can you ask a twelve year-old who is dying from cancer, “What’s wrong?”
So I just took her hand.
“I miss my house,” she said. “I miss the ranch. I miss the hay bales.”
Vicki was in treatment in Austin, but she was from a farming community near the town of Fredericksburg in the Texas Hill Country, about eighty miles from Austin.
Vicky was a true cowgirl. I might be wrong, but I seem to recall that she raised pigs and I believe she even won some medals.
I did not know how to comfort Vicki that day. My mouth wanted to rid me of my discomfort by saying things like, “It’s alright. You’ll be okay.” But I swallowed those words because they were just words. They meant nothing. They would not have soothed Vicki at all. They would have just let her know that I was trying to sooth myself.
Vicki dozed off soon after I came into the room and I sat in the chair alongside the bed and though hard about what I could do to make her feel better.
I remembered my mentor Ivor Abelheim once saying, “To be exceptionally creative you need to learn how to think laterally. For example: Granny is sitting knitting and three year-old Susan is upsetting Granny by playing with the wool. One parent suggests putting Susan into the playpen. The other parent suggests it might be a better idea to put Granny in the playpen to protect her from Susan. That’s lateral thinking!
All the way home I thought about what I could do to make Vicki feel better. Then I took Ivor’s advice and thought laterally by imagining what I myself would need to help me feel better if I were Vicki.
It worked!
I came back to the hospital later that day with a huge grin on my face. In fact, if I did not have ears to stop my smile, it would have gone right around my whole head and the top would have fallen off.
I had a glass jar with me.
“I think this might help,” I said, handing her the jar.
“What is it?” she said, still looking totally forlorn.
“Just open it and smell,” I said.
Vicki opened the jar and took a deep breath.
Suddenly her face lit up.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, yes, yes.”
She took another deep breath and sighed, flopping back on the pillow.
“You made my day,” she said, smiling. “How did you know?”
“Well, “ I said. “I hate the smell of this hospital and I know you do too. So, I thought, “What would I want to smell if I were trapped in this disinfectant reeking place.” And I knew immediately. Rain. I’d like to smell the rain.”
“I love the smell of rain,” said Vicki.
“Everyone who lives on a ranch loves the smell of rain,” I said. “It’s your life blood.”
“How did you do it?” she asked.
“I took a cloth bag with a draw string. Then I drove to this little community garden near my house. They grow vegetables and stuff. I scooped sand into the bag and pulled it closed. Back at home I sprinkled a little water in the bag of sand and put it in the jar. That’s it.
Vicki opened the jar again and took another deep breath.
“Ah,” she said. “This is heaven.”
(I mentioned in an earlier blog that Vicki’s last dream before she died was to be a model and my friend Randal and I made that dream come true by turning the hospital room into a studio and photographing her. (The picture above in one of the photographs we took.) You can read more about this inspiring and incredible young person by going to the archive on the right and clicking on May. Then scroll down to “The Light, May 10th 2005” or just type The Light into the 'search this site' box.)
Posted by trevor at 07:33 PM | Comments (5)
November 02, 2005
My Light
My dad died on this day eight years ago. I remember him with such warmth and love.
My dad was physically and emotionally abused by his father, a poor man who was bitter, angry and displaced by the Second World War.
During one fit of temper my grandfather Mike backhanded my father (who was only two-years old) off his high chair and almost broke his jaw.
To save my father’s life, my grandmother sent little Jackie Romain off to boarding school at the age of six. He was put on a train and sent on a sixteen-hour journey by himself to a school in King Williams Town in South Africa. (My dad was sent by himself! I don’t know how my grandparents could have done that to a scared little six year- old. I can just imagine this bewildered curly-headed small boy, with his little suitcase and his favorite tartan blanket, sitting alone for all that time on his first train journey. Just thinking about it makes want to cry.)
Dale College, the boarding school, became my father’s home and family. It also became his passion. He played on every sports team. He loved the school so much that he continued to reminisce about it with fondness until the day he died.
My father spent the last two years of his life writing a book about his life at the school.
On the morning of his death he came downstairs and said to my mum, “I’ve finished writing the book. All I have to do is type in the last page and I’m done.” (My dad wrote the book in longhand and then typed in the pages.)
He never got to type the last page because he died a few hours later of an aneurism. He was only sixty-seven.
He was in the parking lot of my aunt’s apartment after visiting her. He had started the car and was ready to fetch my mum from the old folks home where she was visiting my grandmother.
A man found my dad in the car slumped over the steering wheel. The car was still running. The man said he thought my dad was sleeping.
I got a call at six in the morning and was on a flight from the United States back to South Africa by noon. It was the longest 18 hours of my life.
The next day, in a daze, I walked into my dad’s studio and found his computer still on. The cursor was blinking on the screen, patiently waiting for the final words of his book which were hand-written on a yellow pad lying next to the computer.
I typed in the last page for my dad.
In honor of Jack Romain, I would like to share that page:
“The big wooden doors of the only home I know clang shut forever behind me. I look straight ahead for fear of turning around and forcing my way back through the closed doors.
But the urge is too strong.
I turn and look longingly over my shoulder at Dale College, the boarding school that has been my home for the past eight years.
A home that saved me from my father whose temper almost took my life on a number of occasions.
A home filled with school friends and teachers that became my family.
A home that sheltered me from a distant memory filled with anger, bitterness, poverty and emptiness.
A home that nurtured me, comforted me and gave me strength to face the unknown journey upon which I am about to embark.
I sigh, turn away from my childhood and begin to walk toward my destiny…”
- From Blainey Junction by Jack Romain (As yet unpublished.)
(It's so hard to believe that my dad died just two hours after writing these words.)
Dad, thank you for creating the spark, which continues to ignite the passion within my soul.
Thank you for being the candle that continues to light my way.
You’re not here…but you’re always there.
Posted by trevor at 11:36 AM | Comments (11)
November 01, 2005
Lexie
I saw her the minute I walked into the elementary school cafeteria last Friday. She was in a motorized wheelchair waiting for me to begin my talk to her second grade class and four hundred other kids.
He face was so full of light and life that I was pulled to walk over and say hello.
I went up to her and crouched down alongside the wheel chair.
“I wanted to introduce my self,” I said. “My name is Trevor Romain. I’m the speaker today.”
“I’m Lexie,” she said, extending her hand.
I took her hand and noticed that it was little malformed.
"Sometimes people don’t like to hold my hand,” she said. "See, my hands are different."
She lifted her hands and showed them to me.
"You’ve got beautiful hands," I said, clasping them both in mine. "And they’re so nice and warm, just like your heart."
She flashed me a beautiful, soul-warming smile.
“Thanks,” she said, enthusiastically. “Wanna see how I spell my name in sign language?”
“Sure,” I said.
My heart reached for her as she struggled to sign her name with hands that did not work as well as she wanted them to. She focused intensely as she battled with each letter, but she did not give up. As she completed her name she looked up and smiled with so much joy it brought a lump to my throat.
“That is fantastic,” I said. “I wish I could sign like you.”
“I could teach you,” she said, earnestly.
Just then the school counselor nodded for me to come forward to begin my talk.
“Wish me luck,” I said. “I hope I do a good job today. I’d hate to be boring in front of four hundred kids.”
Suddenly Lexie reached over, put her arm around my neck and pulled me toward her.
With her face two inches from mine, she looked me in the eye and said. “Don’t be nervous, just be yourself.”
Then she patted me on the head affectionately.
This week is the anniversary of my father’s death and my heart has been so heavy. I was thinking about my dad and feeling sad when I walked into to the school on Friday, but it all changed thanks to the kindness of one incredible little girl in a wheelchair as she embraced me and comforted me, just like my dad used to do.
Posted by trevor at 09:58 AM | Comments (6)