
                         Roanoke Times
                 Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.

DATE: MONDAY, October 11, 1993                   TAG: 9401150007
SECTION: EDITORIAL                    PAGE: A9   EDITION: METRO 
SOURCE: Monty S. Leitch
DATELINE:                                 LENGTH: Medium

THANKS, CARL

ABOUT FIVE years ago, at a nationally known writers' conference, I took a beating when one of my essays was critiqued in workshop. ``This doesn't make any sense,'' was the group's consensus, a point that could have been made once or twice and then dropped. But instead, that judgment was offered over and over, in hundreds of deliberately obtuse, minute and demeaning ways, for most of an hour.

Only one man (and he wasn't the instructor) tried to approach my work as if it had been written by someone with a brain. I'd not met Carl, but I'd noticed him, for throughout the conference he'd often played this role in our workshop: reminding us that, as fellow writers, we had a responsibility to help, to give each other the benefit of the doubt, to focus on what was right rather than to magnify what was wrong. I was profoundly grateful to have him speaking reasonably again, this time on my behalf.

Finally, the ordeal ended. The instructor identified me as the author and asked me to make sense of my work for the group. I refused. ``If it's not in the words on the page, there's no point talking about it,'' I said, determined not to blither on as they had. Oh, so gallant! Oh, so brave!

Then I went back to my room and wept for the rest of the day.

However, a year later, when I recovered my wits, I realized that much of the advice I'd been given in that miserable workshop had, indeed, been accurate; the essay didn't make much sense.

So I've continued tinkering with it, clarifying, revising, with Carl's helpful voice always in the back of my mind.

Now I think I've finally got this essay right. But if Carl hadn't tried to understand, I don't think I'd have felt the revision worthwhile. So a few weeks ago I pulled out my old address list to look him up, thinking maybe he'd like to see the finished piece, thinking that at least I'd like to let him know how much he'd helped me that day.

Since the list was old, I first called directory assistance. They had Carl's surname at the old address, but only a woman's first name. Supposing he'd divorced, but hoping someone would give me a new address, I called anyway.

I identified myself to the woman who answered and explained my mission.

``Well, this is the right address,'' she said. ``But Carl was killed in a plane crash two years ago.''

Stunned, embarrassed, shocked into stupidity, I blurted, ``Oh, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,'' until finally I gained enough composure to hang up the phone.

And then I cried.

Three weeks later, I'm still a little numb. Carl is dead. How can this be?

My grief has been daunting and inexplicable, for I know only this about Carl: He was kind to me once. He was writing a wonderful book. He is dead.

But brief encounters remain forever unentangled in the complexities of genuine friendship. A simple act of kindness is preserved in memory as if in amber and carried, cherished even, for years.

I've kept Carl's kindness like that, like a jewel. Likely, this would have surprised him. Likely, he'd have wracked his brain trying to remember me. ``Who in the world ... ?''

Just someone you met once, for less than a day.

Less than a day in a life too short. But a day that made a difference.

\ Monty S. Leitch if a Roanoke Times & World-News columnist.

by CNB