Hawthorn Hill Journal by Richard deRosa

Reflections at Year’s End

Sitting here looking out on our hillside with the incomparable Art Tatum fingering those magical black and white keys in the background, my thoughts turn to, well lots of things, some pleasant others not so much. But then that is the music that life always plays, day in and day out. Handling disappointment and sadness go hand in hand with moments of pure joy as well as those moments when one realizes the value and comfort of contentment.

I remember many years ago sending in my first essay and feeling quite deflated when I had heard nothing one way or the other from the editor. So I plucked up what little courage I had and called, ostensibly to ask if it had been received. I expected rejection. The editor, after hearing my lame query, asked me if I had checked out the latest Freeman’s Journal issue. No, I said, I had not. Well, you should, she said.

And there it was, my first published writing. The column in those days was titled “The Timely Writer” (1998) and eventually morphed into “Hawthorn Hill Journal,” which then became the title of my collected essays published in 2012. It has been quite a journey, but not one without periods of frustration and some anxiety which, I now know, are not foreign to those who choose to share their thoughts with others. For instance, before getting this far in this essay I rejected quite a few starts, stared at a blank screen for what seemed like an eternity, questioned by what right I should be doing this foolish thing anyway because, after all, it is a lot easier and safer to talk to myself. Then somehow the sensations of joy and contentment came to mind (I thank Marcus Aurelius for introducing me to the profound significance of contentment) and I cranked out the first few sentences that have led me this far even though I am not at all sure where I am headed.

But as I write, finally getting a bit of rhythm going, a sense of contentment has replaced the initial anxieties that I felt. Writing is that way. When it is going well the world seems such a good and kind place. When it is not it feels as if the fates are working overtime against one. Just imagine what it is like for writers sitting at desks for hours at a time every day pecking out novels or plays or poems. My despairs as an occasional writer pale in comparison. I have been described as a writer and do write almost every day, with exceptions for travel, procrastination, and sloth. But, unlike full-timers, I lead a comparably stress free writing life.

Why write in the first place? Good question. Well, my mother wanted me to be a writer. A poet, actually. I cannot speak for all mothers, only my own. She was not a Tiger Mom, but did display some of those characteristics. In my late teens I pounded out poems at a ridiculous rate, wound up being dubbed Dylan by classmates, edited the school literary magazine, and made the mistake of sharing my scribblings with my mother, who promptly contacted an editor friend at a prestigious publishing house that ended with our having lunch together when home on vacation. I feel the pre-lunch fear now as I write. As it turned out, he was a nice guy, had actually read my stuff and advised that I keep at it and get back to him at some point when I had honed the craft a bit. My recollection is that he invited me back when I had “more mature work” to offer. From that day forward I never wrote another poem. Leave that one for a shrink to suss out. The essay form is much more in synch with my talents and personality.

Over the years I’ve written on a very wide variety of topics, from the mesmerizing experience of locking eyes with a butterfly, to sharing thoughts on the state and condition of political discourse. With respect to the latter, there seems to be less discourse and more digging into ideological foxholes, which never ever leads to any good for the commonwealth. My hope in writing these essays has always been to focus on our common humanity, rather than those things about which there will always be differences. But that should never preclude a collective insistence on arriving at common sense solutions of benefit to all.

I am not much of a conversationalist. Listening has always been my preference. As has solitude. And writing. It is through writing that I discover how I actually feel about things. There are always surprises. Writing these essays has been a way for me to contribute to our ongoing discourse without, frankly, fearing that something I might say out loud would not come across as particularly insightful. Even though I have been writing for quite some time, every time I hit ‘send” on my laptop it is not without some hesitation, despite my wife Sandy’s assurance that no, you are not making a fool of yourself.

So, I will keep at it as long as I can, and as long as the FJ is willing to print what an agent I once contacted many years ago described as “thoughtful rural essays.” Not much of a market for that sort of stuff, she said. I’ve always cherished, and been tickled by, my son’s characterization of me as an “intellectual woodchuck.” I hope in 2026 I might be able to dissuade some for whom animosity and unkindness are the attitudes of choice that there are more productive alternatives. A character in a film we watched several days ago, a veteran, standing amidst a sea of graves at Normandy, said “what a waste.” Amen.

Dick deRosa’s Hawthorn Hill essays have appeared in “The Freeman’s Journal” since 1998. A collection, “Hawthorn Hill Journal: Selected Essays,” was published in 2012. He is a retired English teacher.