by Taylor Black
She was writing in a spiral composition book and the poem was her normal style which was sort of Will Rogers’ version of a sonnet: “I never met a couplet I didn’t like.” Rhyme, rhyme, if she kept this up she would probably wind up writing cards for Hallmark.
I admit to 1) not liking poetry and 2) not understanding most of it, but for the most part I got the drift of Taylor’s poems. But this one was a bit precocious for a sixth grader. I remember wondering, Had she channeled Emily Dickinson? She loved Dickinson, always had; a volume of the Belle of Amherst’s verse was on a bookshelf in her old bedroom.
Tales of the Sea by Taylor Black (at age 11)
I was laying on the warm white sand,
And all of the sudden I reached for a hand.
It led me into the water so blue.
And I couldn’t help but ask, “who are you?”
He never spoke he just kept on walking,
Then told me a tale which was very shocking.
He said to me “as the waves roll upon the mighty shore
We will go knocking on Time’s great door.”
And then there I was in a time not my own,
With only a ghost and my own flesh and bone.
“I am here to tell you my tale of the sea,
For there’s no one left to tell it but me,
I’ve been needing to tell this tale for so long,
A human’s not cargo I know that today,
But I can’t help get over my own soul’s dismay,
How could I be so keen with a whip,
Oh the lashes I gave on this cross ocean trip.”
Taylor seemed to sense that I was a bit startled by her precocity or perhaps her subject matter and she employed a tactic, which her grandmother had taught her very well: change the subject. I remember her switching gears and asking, “The ocean is amazing, Dad, nature is so amazing, dontcha think?”
“Yes, Tale,” I admitted. It was always “dontcha think”—not “don’t you,” but “dontcha.”
As if on cue from the Big Director, the curtain went down on that day and a canopy of stars began to glimmer above us.
“How many stars do you think there are, Dad?” she asked, pointing to the sky.
“Billions and billions,” I replied.
“I really don’t understand the concept of billions,” she said.
No, she never did, I remember. Math! She had to spend one summer in summer school for geometry in high school with Mrs. Hubbard, the best calculus teacher in the state. Interesting how good that teacher was, but then calculus teachers are proficient in all areas of math, and I remember Taylor literally running into the house and, in a “Eureka!” moment, proclaiming, “I understand math!” It was amazing what a great teacher could do, and from that point on, after that summer school sojourn with Mrs. Hubbard, Taylor never had a math problem again, that was, until she ran into something called a debit card, the bane of her bank balance. But that evening on the beach the problems with geometry lay in the future and I was left trying to explain to my middle school daughter what billions were all about.
“Imagine every grain on this beach as a star and then you get the idea, Tale.”
“Wow!” She could really make me feel as if I had just said something profound.
“The stars we see tonight may not even be there, what we are seeing may really only be light. We are looking backward in time when we look at the sky.” I admit to having felt uncommonly wise at that moment. “And those stars we see twinkling may not even be there anymore,” I added.
I received another. “Wow!”
Yes, an eleven-year-old child can make a father feel like a genius. How many times have I explained the concept of light from the stars to my high school students and yet Taylor treated me as a new Einstein. She could make fatherhood sublime with a “wow.”
* * *
A week later Taylor came home from school and tossed her book bag on the couch. She was upset.
“My teacher says I took my poem from a book, Dad,” she fumed.
I asked her what book.
“Well, she didn’t know what book. She said my poem was too good for a student to write. She accused me of stealing the poem.”
I sat down and wrote a diplomatic letter to Taylor’s English teacher. Handing the note to Taylor, I said. “Take this to your teacher tomorrow.” Then I gave her a hug.
There were tears in Taylor’s eyes, but the tears were not from sadness, but from anger. Taylor didn’t cheat. Hell, she had the report cards to prove it. She loved the whole alphabet not just the letter A and she had received all four of the first letters of the alphabet in middle school. Later, in a biology class at Indian River Community College, the professor had students “grade themselves” and everyone in the class but Taylor gave themselves an A; Taylor gave herself a C, and those were the grades that were posted in that class. Twenty-one A’s I guess and one lone C, Taylor’s, and I was never more proud of her for that act of integrity, but I remember telling her not to think about a career in the U.S. Congress.
In sixth grade, Taylor would get through the year in English class but she would never respect her English teacher again, and neither would I.
A few years ago I watched a DVD of the film Amazing Grace about William Wilberforce’s fight to abolish slavery in Britain and learned the author of one the greatest hymns I had ever sung was a repentant slave ship captain, John Newton, who would go on to become a minister as well as a prolific hymn composer. I wish Taylor could have seen that movie and I sometimes wonder if the spirit of that British slave ship captain visited her that night on the beach.
On December 23, 2009, two days before Taylor’s favorite day of the year, I was cleaning up her old bedroom so Courtney could paint over the Tiger tracks Taylor had splashed on her walls when I came across some keepsakes of my late mother’s. There was Taylor’s poem “Tales of the Sea” among Nana’s little treasures, neatly typed by the author. I had lost my copy of the poem some years ago. In the mail that same day my stepdaughter Jenni sent me a note and Taylor’s handwritten copy of the same poem. In my program we sometimes say that “coincidences are God’s way of working anonymously.” Either God or a little angel. At least that’s what I believe.
Taylor’s Diary
December 11, 2000
I had chemo this weekend. I don’t really write in here (the hospital) through chemo because I think of it like this: the time before and after the hospital is training for a match & then in the hospital is being in the ring, so you’ve just got to go for the K.O. Anyway, I got back last night but I was feeling rather poorly. Today I pretty much slept/rested (didn’t stay asleep much) and then Jeff came over. Well, I have a mountain of work to do tomorrow so I’m gonna sleep.
While she was taking chemotherapy Taylor was trying to finish her classes at Indian River Community College. She was enrolled in dual enrollment and was taking college classes at the junior college while still in high school. The plan was to let her finish the fall classes at the college and then transfer her to “homebound” for her last semester of high school. Her sister Beth, an art teacher, and I would give Taylor instruction in two classes as we traveled to Duke University and other hospitals which would allow Taylor to graduate with her high school class on time. Still, even though it was difficult to juggle chemotherapy with college economics, Taylor always seemed to find time to socialize. But in this diary entry, she waxes philosophical.
Taylor’s Diary
December 18, 2000
Well, I was in the middle of cleaning my horribly messy room but I stopped and picked you up (her diary). Why does it take forever to clean my room and why do I keep everything? Anyway, this weekend was very interesting. On Sat. night I went out w/ Jeff and Mike (and Ted) but anyway it was all very strange, having both Mike and Jeff there. It was sort of bringing together my past and my present. Somehow it put me @peace. I was listening to oldies today when “Ohhh Child” came on. I was knocked down by joy and began to cry.
As tears were streaming down my face I felt contentment and the greatness of my life. It is only through my obstacles and triumphs that I can feel the penetrating core of life. Today I thought I haven’t been writing poetry. I know I still have some feelings that I need to work through, but I don’t want to have a breakdown ‘til after the holidays. It won’t really be too drastic, but I’ll have to work out a few minor details. Until later.
Chapter Seven: Lions and Tigers and Bears Oh My!
Maybe Taylor’s creativity began years before that during story hour at bedtime.
Taylor was six and Courtney was eight and they shared a bedroom at my house, a complex which I referred to as the “duplexes of the divorced dads with visitation rights.” At Pam’s house, the girls also shared a bedroom, but their bedroom on Seashell Lane was larger than at my duplex. And at the duplex they shared a trundle bed and every night they were with me, we had story time. The opening story was, invariably, The Tortoise and the Hare in which I played the parts of the tortoise, the hare and the hare’s girlfriend played by Taylor. It was a nightly ritual. I always said, “And the hare was far, far ahead so he decided to stop and a pretty girl rabbit came by and said…Taylor?”
Taylor stood up on the lower portion of the trundle bed and like some little girl at a beauty pageant said in a vain attempt at a husky voice, “How ya doing big boy?”
“Very good, Taylor” I whispered and she smiled.
“And they started to kiss,” Taylor added with a big giggle and began to mimic a number of kissing gestures.
I would always continue with, “The rabbit said, ‘oh, my gosh, oh my gosh. I’m in a race. I’m in a race!’ And he went zoom, zoom,” I said, tickling Taylor’s tummy, and she giggled even louder in delight. Courtney laughed as well when I tickled her. “And the turtle just kept crawling and just at the last second as he neared the finish line he stuck his head out of his shell and won the race.”
“Yeah!” Taylor clapped would always clap, but one night she asked, “Can we make up a story, Daddy?”
I remember thinking, Why not? There wasn’t a “bedtime stories rulebook” that I knew of, but I decided to stay with animals just to be on the safe side. I mean it was good enough for Aesop right? I began, “Okay, there once was a kangaroo and an elephant. Courtney?”
“And they lived in the jungle,” Courtney added.
Well, so now our story became intercontinental, mixing Australian marsupials with African pachyderms. I decided to let it slide.
“Taylor?” I said.
“And they could fly.” Taylor said, raising her hands and flapping them for effect.
“That’s dumb. They can’t fly,” Courtney said.
“Dumbo can,” Taylor said, holding her ground. “And my elephant can too. Can’t he, Daddy?”
“Kangaroos can’t fly, stupid.” Courtney persisted.
“They might, right, Daddy?” Taylor said to me.
I was caught between sisters in the DMZ, or the “Daddy, Me! Zone,” not a good place for a father to be. Courtney was my logical child with a good imagination and Taylor was my illogical child with a good imagination. She was the youngest and I had been the youngest and there was a soft spot in my heart for her because of her birth order. Only an adult who was the youngest child can really appreciate his youngest child, I always thought. There was some special bond there, but at that moment it didn’t help. Both of the girls looked at me to act as a referee on the flying abilities of elephants and kangaroos.
Solomon had it easy with that baby. Just split the difference. Hey, Solomon, try settling a dispute among your five hundred daughters; they would have driven your right out of the Old Testament.
And I might have thought, What would Jesus do, but in my mind my mother’s visage lit up my thought: Wisdom from Nana.
“How about tomorrow night we go to McDonald’s for dinner?” I said, ducking the issue like a seasoned politician.
Taylor looked at me like a pint-sized prosecutor. “You changed the subject, Daddy. That’s what Nana does.” Taylor, of course, would use Nana’s dictum on me when in middle school.
“I love Nana,” Taylor said, and she was obviously not thinking about flying animals but rather about summer at her grandmother’s. She reached over and hugged Courtney and gave her a goodnight kiss. “I love you, Courtney,” she said.
And at the moment in my mind a kangaroo and elephant were dancing across the sky.
Taylor’s Diary
December 20, 2000
Praise the Lord! I am finished with exams. I feel as if a 500 lb. block was lifted from my shoulders. Well, it is only 5 days ’till Christmas. It’s funny, but this year I’m really into the spirit, which I love. It’s almost like you need to have a drastic measure to truly appreciate the simple magical things. Although I did a horribly stupid thing today by trying to brave the holiday crowds. It was a last minute part of Jeff’s present. Of course, I didn’t find anything and it wiped me out. I slept for 3 hours. All that for a guy that hasn’t even called me back yet. Oh well, I suppose I will talk w/him tomorrow. Katie came over yesterday when I was just lying down and I was extremely curt with her. But I decided I’m not gonna feel bad because she has been really shitty during this whole thing and I’m extremely hurt by it. Well, what do I have to complain about? Life is beautiful! It really is. Everyone needs to remember that at least once every day because it is so short and so precious and to take it for granted is the biggest sin any soul can commit.
Taylor’s Diary
December 21, 2000
Mother, I know at times you try,
But sometimes not enough,
And even when I cry
I only get rebuffed.
Taylor’s Diary
December 23, 2000
Well, the countdown continues to Christmas. Jeff got me the most beautiful diamond heart necklace. I love it. I was just lying down w/him last night. Just lying there, nothing else, and it felt so incredibly amazing like I belonged with him. It was like going home. Does that mean that I’m in love w/him or he’s the one? But the thing is that I don’t get tired of him, I could have him around for a long time. Although some things don’t fit perfectly, that’s natural but he’s really something else. Anyway, enough about that. Can you believe tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. Oh, I just absolutely love it. It is perhaps the best time of year.
P.S. I think the writing ability has left me or perhaps I never had it. All my poems are garbage!
I always thought Taylor could be too hard on herself at times. I have written professionally for years, but I doubt if my prose would be up to snuff it cancer was eating at my brain. Still, she might have moments of self-doubt, but she couldn’t give up her couplet rhymes, although her Christmas entry said otherwise.
Taylor’s Diary
December 25, 2000
Sometimes I feel like I am a totally unoriginal average person w/nothing to offer the world, I know, very enlightening realization on this holiday. I need to start being an active person, you know, & truly metamorphose. Right not it’s just all clutter and lard and I really need to work on that. Another thing: why can’t I write anymore?
Chapter Eight: Right Field Is Where the Dandelions Grow
After Taylor’s brain surgery at Martin Memorial Hospital in Stuart, she resumed her night classes at Indian River Community College. I enjoyed driving her to class as it gave us some time to be alone together. Those evenings became very special to both of us. We talked and Taylor often repeated how she appreciated every minute of every day, especially the sunsets.
“I really feel alive, Dad,” Taylor said one evening. She added with a smile. “I was just remembering when you hit me with a softball.”
“Nuts,” I said. “I thought maybe they cut that painful memory out in the brain surgery.”
She laughed, but at the time I beaned her, the incident didn’t seem so funny. It was downright embarrassing.
Taylor was eight and the smallest softball player on the Langford
Park Red Sox of a beginner’s league on which her father was the assistant coach. Mike Jordan was the head coach and he was a Red Sox fan so the team was named for the Beantown Boys. I would have taken the Phillies as our team name, but assistants didn’t get to choose. So Mike’s girls, great athletes, and my daughters, a bit deficient in athletic acumen, played on the team with Courtney relegated to left field and Taylor to right. Balls were seldom hit to the outfield at this age and a grounder to third was nearly always a single as none of the girls could throw across the diamond. Normally, the first girl up made it to first base and from then on most of the outs were recorded with force outs at second. And the fathers pitched because the young girls lacked the control to get a ball consistently over the plate. In the case of Taylor, that really didn’t matter, for she had managed to hit the ball only a few times all season and those were foul balls. In fact she had struck out nearly every time, save for a walk once or twice I believe. Taylor really didn’t care about softball; she was our team’s Lucy Van Pelt. When on defense, she sat in right field and picked dandelions. Sometimes she danced after a butterfly like some pint-sized Isadora Duncan frolicking on a crab grass stage. Right field was her own little world and it was amusing for an adult to watch Taylor show such indifference to a game in progress. Something, however, was at progress in Taylor’s mind. But why not ignore the game? I thought. There was only one left-handed batter who might possibly have hit the ball to right field and she was on our team. Taylor may have been unconcerned about the game but she wanted to be part of the team because Katie and Karly, her best friends, were on the squad. Karly was a so-so softballer but Katie was a star, a regular distaff version of Pete Rose, although Katie would never get caught betting on the games in our league.