It was his eyes I noticed first, the clear, stunning blueness and openness of them. He was youngish, twenties or thirties, and quite alone. His complexion told me he lived a life outdoors, in nature. A traveller, perhaps. Our town has a sizeable traveller community.
Next was his smile. It creased his face in a thousand places. This, I recognised, was a man who smiled a lot and shared himself willingly with the world. There was a genuine warmth and friendliness that drew me to want to know him better.
“I don’t read books,” he told me.
It was hardly a promising start, given that I was, at the time, standing beside a banner, proclaiming me as ‘Jes Kerzen, author’ at a stall selling copies of A Mind Beyond Words at a local fair.
“Well, I did read one, once,” he continued. “It took me months. It was when I first came here. It was a spiritual book and I wanted so badly to know what it said, that I didn’t give up. I finished the whole book! It was worth the effort.”
I smiled and told him I understood how special that must have felt. I meant it, too.
I was remembering how I had felt at four years old, pouring over the black text in my story books, desperate to read it by myself, but not having the key that unlocked that skill.
I was remembering my dyslexic son who still couldn’t read when he was nine but loved words and stories so passionately, and the joy he felt when I introduced him to Charles M Schultz’ Peanuts cartoon books, and helped him to develop his reading stamina enough to master their wise and gentle humour by himself.
I was remembering the many neurodivergent children I’d taught, searching with them for ways to make the written word accessible.
“Will you tell me about your book, please?,” asked the blue-eyed man.
And so I did. I told him of my time teaching children who couldn’t use spoken language. I told him of my wonder and delight at discovering that they had a quite different way of communicating. I explained how one small child in one of those classes had head-hunted me to work with him and help him to share his silent thoughts with others. I talked a little of how remarkable those thoughts proved to be.
He listened intently, smiling, nodding, understanding.
“I need to buy this book,” he said, with a small sigh. “I need to read it.”
I was stunned. I truly hadn’t expected that. I thanked him for doing me such an honour, knowing the effort that reading would cost him.
He happily bought his copy and thrust it into his backpack, waving as he walked away.
Ours is a small town, so I shouldn’t have been surprised that, a week later, our paths crossed again. Nevertheless, the meeting felt choreographed — as if our connection was not yet complete. There was more to be said.
He recognised me at once and rushed over to speak. The same clothes, the same backpack, the same smile.
“I’m reading it!,” he told me, excitedly. “Look, let me show you!”
He rummaged in his backpack and triumphantly pulled out his copy of my book. It was barely recognisable. I could hardly believe it had become so battered and well thumbed in just seven days.
“I’ve read this much,” he said, indicating the position of the folded flier that served as his bookmark. “A couple of chapters. I read a little bit at a time, then I have to stop. I need to read that part over two or three more times before I know I’ve got it, then I move on. I love it though! Already I’m finding it amazing. It’s got such a great energy.”
I told him how happy that made me; how I admired him for the effort he was making. How proud I felt that he’d chosen to read my book and how glad I was that he was enjoying it.
We wished each other well and parted. I think I must have been smiling to myself for at least an hour afterwards. I suspect he was equally happy to have been able to share his achievement with me.
I was transported back to the joy I felt when I’d first read one of my childhood story books, to my delight when my son had read his first Snoopy cartoon and I’d seen him laugh out loud at the punchline, to my sense of achievement when a child I taught had made progress with mastering this skill so many take for granted, but which was so difficult for them.
I feel so happy to have crossed paths with the blue-eyed man and to have played a small part in his story, while sharing mine with him.