The Many Apologies of Orville Carmody
/I cannot promise you tomorrow
For that is up to you.
Dream of it
And it is yours,
Live it with all your heart,
Live all your tomorrows
Today,
In the Light of Hope,
Along the way.
Orville Carmody
There was a poem that came to Orville Carmody during one of his thinking times. He didn’t care much for it, this ‘red-headed stepchild’, because it irritated him and he didn’t know why.
His poems were his children. But there were too many and he knew in his heart he couldn’t keep them all. Some had to be sent away. He would send them to poetry magazines to see if someone would care for them. He never once received a reply.
He often thought about the children he’d sent away. Where were they now? What had happened to them? A heartfelt apology would always follow.
He lived at the Malpais Retirement Community of Rio Rancho and wrote his poetry in the afternoon sunlight. It was his source of inspiration.
His face belied its years and there was a profound peace in his barely noticeable ever-present smile. His face had a certain immortality about it. The cruel erosions of time never had a chance.
He was a frail-looking man, slightly stooped in posture, thinner than most, no taller than five feet one or two inches. His thin grey hair was left to wisps. But his eyes told a different story. They were young, crystal blue, electric!
The retired clerk who had worked at the local Social Security Office in Albuquerque, spent the majority of his golden years reviewing what was and what might have been. “The Little Hermit”, as he was called by his ex-colleagues, was fastidious in his daily habits and thorough in all his duties.
He lived modestly in his isolation. His worn clothes were kept clean and inoffensive. He was awakened daily at midnight by his internal clock for an important activity; his thinking time. His thinking was always done while he dusted his modest furniture with an old handkerchief he kept in his pants pocket. After he dusted, he would open his front door as quietly as possible and gently shake the dust free. It wasn’t necessary but he always offered a modest apology to any creature out there that he might have offended by his actions.
Orville wasn’t like the other residents. He had an even disposition and all he wanted was to be left alone so he could write his words. And except for the occasional meal in the Dining Room or the sound of his old T.V broadcasting the local news, he was hardly noticeable at all.
A struggling poetry journal called No Time Magazine had barely survived the previous twelve years. There had been too many years of thin advertising revenue and minor subscription fees. When its owner passed away and left the almost bankrupt magazine to anyone in the company capricious enough to take it on, only one hand was raised.
A staff editor by the name of Ted Gold decided that he was the one. He was balding, fortyish, overweight, and not averse to feeling sorry for himself whenever the opportunity presented itself, which for him was quite often. He’d posed as a literary snob for years and knew little of poetry except how to reject it out of hand. He was sick of taking orders from the other posers and, more importantly, sick of being broke.
This was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. He changed everything, including his personal appearance. He knew the business had to change. It needed a new reason for living.
Everything and everyone that could be discarded was discarded. No Time Magazine, or whatever it was now, was looking ahead to a new life. No Time had run out of time.
After going through and shredding thousands of submissions from the No Time archives, he came across a poem that stood out from all the others. He read it over and over again. He consumed it like a starving man.
One night, he woke up in a sweat. At first, he thought it was the June heat wave hitting Atlanta. Then he realized it wasn’t the heat at all. It was that he was now in possession of a goldmine and couldn’t figure out what to do with it. That concern ended as soon as he decided to name his goldmine after his poem. The Promise of Tomorrow wasn’t an original title for a poem, but it was for a goldmine!
A troubling trend was occurring at Malpais. There seemed to be an abundance of empty chairs. This confused the residents, but not so the owners. The steep drop in revenue was disturbing. Malpais needed help.
It was a tough time for Retirement Communities across the country. And that was exactly where Ted found his niche. He used social media hacks and slick messages of hope to obtain lucrative marketing contracts. He was hired by Malpais.
When the ad campaign came out and the catchy poem hit the public, specifically the back end of the Boomer population, requests to live at Malpais poured in.
Once again, the poem connected. It didn’t matter whether you were a lover of poetry or not; the words went down like warm honey.
The residents couldn’t figure out why all of a sudden so many people wanted to live there. After all, it was an ok place to live, but nothing special. And even though they didn’t recognize the new faces in the once empty chairs, at least the chairs were filled and that was good enough, that is, until that one particular Sunday Morning.
His focus on Malpais required his personal touch, which for Ted meant visiting and speaking to the residents. He walked around and shook hands, like a politician pressing flesh. These were frail hands not used to being touched.
Breakfast in the dining room was the perfect place for his presentation. Everyone smiled at everyone, including Orville Carmody who didn’t pay much attention to any of it until the presentation ended. After Ted explained his marketing campaign, the residents ate their scrambled eggs and oatmeal just like always.
It was time for the Morning Prayer and sermon. A local preacher, the Reverend Felix Foster, who regularly gave generic sermons to the residents on Sunday mornings, decided to end his sermon by reading the poem that had brought new life to the community.
After he made sure that he’d gotten everyone’s attention, he cited the words of hope as coming directly from God. Just behind the preacher, Ted nodded his head enthusiastically as the recitation commenced. The applause was generous, especially from the newer residents.
When the applause ended, something happened. Apparently, Orville lost his mind. He stood up and yelled “Thief!” It was all he could do to control his shaking as he looked up and pointed to God and once again yelled “Thief”.
Everyone’s eyes followed Orville as he made his way up to the preacher. A few of them shook their heads, as senior citizens often do when one of them makes a dumb but excusable comment. Some decided to leave instead of watching what was about to transpire.
“Why do you defame our Lord with such a sacrilege?” Asked the preacher.
“You said the words came from God.”
Laura McGinnis, the Administrator, walked up to the preacher in case she had to intervene when Orville approached. One of her responsibilities was to smooth over the sometimes-abrasive comments made by residents. She did it well and often. But this time, even she was at a loss.
“Mr. Carmody, sometimes, well, we think things are one way but we soon realize they aren’t,” said the Administrator. “It’s one of those things that happen to us as we age. It’s quite normal, really. I’m sure the poem rang a bell with you because it is so beautiful and you took the words into your heart. That’s all. I’m certain of that.”
“You may be certain of that, but there was no need to take them into my heart.” said Orville.
“I’m not sure I understand.” Responded the Administrator.
“It’s quite simple Laura. The words were already there.”
The preacher decided to give a muted confession.
“Mr. Carmody, I think I understand. You are questioning whether the words came from God, and to that I would say that all our words come from God. The bounty of hope given by these words, the feeling it gives us, is born of the Love that comes from God. The words live in his Glory. That’s all I was saying. I borrowed these beautiful words from the man who gave new life to this amazing community. He and his message of a better tomorrow, that ‘Promise of Tomorrow’, is what brought all these new residents here. It has given them hope, a new beginning you might say.”
Orville had heard enough to last him the rest of the day, possibly longer.
Why he wrote the letter to Ted Gold shortly after the dustup in the dining room is unknown. But in it, he asked why Ted had stolen his poem and why was he using it to make money. Ted never responded.
A month or so later, after many more thinking times, he wrote another letter to Ted in the form of a poem, a poem of apology. He asked Ted to forgive him for his rudeness in the previous letter. He told him that the words were for anyone who wanted them, no matter what they chose to do with them. Once again, there was no response from Ted.
Laura visited Orville on a sunny afternoon in September. She wanted to see how he was getting along. The sunlight coming through his window was brilliant and beautiful. It had warmth and clarity, more so than she’d ever noticed before. She had to stop for a moment to take it in. This was the afternoon light that meant everything to Orville and now she knew why.
She wanted to know why he gave up his battle to reclaim his poem. After all, it was his. He showed her a copy he’d kept of the original, like a parent showing a photograph of their child to friend. After he had initially claimed the poem as his, she never doubted his claim from that point on.
Her wry smile revealed that she knew what he’d say when she asked him the question. “Do you know you could have become wealthy if you proved your ownership of the poem?”
“Well, it’s like this Laura. If you put good words together, words that in their own way move someone, that’s good enough. If it has a special meaning, so much the better.” He paused for a few seconds. “You know Laura, hope is hard to come by these days.” He pointed with an open palm at the sunlight streaming through the window. “I get mine from my teacher.”
She told him he didn’t have to get up as she was about to leave. He tried as hard as he could, but he couldn’t. He apologized for his discourtesy, asked for her forgiveness, and graciously thanked her for her visit.
Orville Carmody had no living relatives, except of course for his ‘children’. To make sure his ‘red-headed step child’ stayed with him along the way, Laura had his love poem to the world carved prominently on his headstone.
And even though Ted Gold disputed Orville’s authorship of the poem with a weak legal action, Laura recommended strongly to him that he drop the suit and just let the words themselves carry their own message. He never once said that he’d stolen the poem, but then again, he didn’t pursue further legal action either. Perhaps the words meant more to him than he was willing to admit.
Orville would have understood. [END]
By Bennie Rosa
From: United States