When I was thirteen my grandparents took my family to the Carl Sandburg property in Flat Rock. Traffic was heavy when we left—so were the clouds. The pressure change from the impending downpour gave me a splitting headache.
When we finally arrived at the grounds, the rain fell in darts. The roads there are largely dirt, and my shoes were quickly caked with mud. I hated every step of the mucky walk toward Sandburg’s house, perched atop of a hill at the back of the property. The last place I wanted to be was at some dead guy’s house in the middle of nowhere during a thunderstorm. Our company emerged from a thick wall of oak and into a clearing, and there was Sandburg’s old, creaky white house, mocking us from up high.
The house itself could’ve been beautiful. Maybe it was, and the rain just made it seem miserable. But the paint could’ve used a good whitewashing. I pushed past my family and scrambled up the large, cement stairs. I was pleased to be out of the rain and inside, even if the ceiling leaked a little.
Our company was crowded into a home theater built inside the living room. It was a very cramped space, and any movement, however small, elicited a loud creak from the floor. We shared the room with crying children and angry parents. My head pounded from the commotion.
All I remember from the black-and-white video in the theater was a montage of photos of Carl Sandburg: posing on his horse, feeding his goats, leading his granddaughter on a pony ride around his yard. But one photo fascinated me: the poet, sitting in an old, splintering wicker chair on a large, jutting outcrop just behind his house. The image stuck into my brain like a pin. After the video our group traipsed from room to room, our guide explaining the empty spaces on Sandburg’s bookshelves, the television programs Sandburg enjoyed during supper, the sprawl of books and papers littering the kitchen. We stopped at the back door.
The guide let those of us who wanted to see the rock outcrop go outside. I went; I couldn’t stand the stuffiness anymore. I bounded out the door, the rickety screen slamming behind me. I found myself standing on solid rock that stretched far and wide in a flat, textured surface. I was surrounded by a bower of maples with striking yellow foliage. At once I realized the sun was shining, unobstructed by clouds, and it was filling the little oasis with light. And at that moment, I looked across the stony outcrop and noticed it. The wicker chair. Mr. Sandburg’s seat. It was there, sitting all alone at the edge of the rock, facing the house and the outstretched property below.
I realized Carl Sandburg himself had sat in that very seat, penning poem after poem that would carve his name into the world of American literature forever. And all that was left of those lonely afternoons was this worn, breaking chair, still positioned exactly as he’d positioned it years ago. A gasp escaped me. I wondered at all the chair must have heard and seen. What drafts and failed poems were authored in this chair? Which masterpieces were composed here? My knees shook. I sank down beside the chair, taking a last look at the yellow maples and the flat rock around me. Then I closed my eyes. When I opened them, I was crying.
I left the outcrop soon afterward and went back into the old, shuddering house to finish the tour. When I left the house with my grandparents, it was raining again. We drove all the way home in the same rain. The first thing I did when I got home was sit at my old, creaky white desk and write a poem. I haven’t stopped writing poems since. And as long as Sandburg’s wicker chair is burned into my memory, I don’t plan on stopping.