The Old Crown

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1439144371488On top of a cupboard in my father’s study sits an old crown. Sheet metal, cut and soldered together. Large, gaudy pieces of costume jewelry are glued near the points and at the base. A heavy thing—it gives one a headache after just a few minutes’ wear.

The crown was made in the 60s by my grandfather, a man for whom the theater was…well, it kept his sons out of trouble. And all three were such orators. Show some support, Rand, I imagine my grandmother saying. So Grandpa made it, and it saw the stage with my two uncles, and my father, who loved directing and performing in the works of Shakespeare. The performer in my father remained strong: he could speak in front of hundreds with ease, wit, and character. He brought a passion to the pulpit, to the sick room. He understood human nature, an essential skill for a reverend as well as an actor.

My father’s death froze the movement of many things—his study, for one. Phasers, sonic screwdrivers, Justice League Lego, starship ornaments and more remain a testament for the fantastic Dad so loved as much as his Calling. Notes about the elderly, conferences, hymns to be composed also remain, strewn about his desk as though he only stepped out for an appointment. As of writing this, my mother has not yet moved them. It is…ethereal.

Yet for some reason, I am not put off by his crown. Perhaps because I, like my father, enjoyed time on the stage. I, too, love writing as he once did. And there is a sense of our bloodline with it: the love of my grandfather brought this crown into existence. My father preserved it, a memento of golden days. When I see it, I can feel the happiness it witnessed decades ago. More than all the phasers and comic books, the crown emanates importance.

It Matters.

I have written before on how things may inspire our stories. Sometimes, though, it isn’t about the writing itself. Sometimes, it is about the WHY. The crown reminds me of the joy found in exploring character, the sharing of story with others. The passion to create. The need to create.

This need may grow heavy upon our countenance, and bow us towards the ground. Take it off. Yes, take it off, and look upon it. Remember why you walk the world, day after day, with it. Why you share it with others. Why you love it.

Never has something so plain transcended into something so beautiful.

14 thoughts on “The Old Crown”

  2. I don’t know if anyone has ever told you how rivetingly eloquent your writing is when you ‘speak’ of your dad. You write beautifully all the time, but there is a certain extra something in the posts that feature your father.

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    • You can’t see that I teared up a bit, which is fine. 🙂 Thank you for telling me this. It’s nice…well, it’s nice to know, both your enjoyment in the reading and, well, a strength in my writing.
      Thank you.

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    • Thank you kindly! It’s one of those moments where I WANT to write about this piece of legacy, but am afraid of taking the details too far. Glad to know I avoided the syrupy swamp of melodramatic nostalgia. 🙂

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  7. I really wish I could write about my dad, or in fact like all the people that have left me, in such a beautiful and deeply personal way. Just perfect. My regret is that with my dad I only have about 8 battered old photos and his army sergeant m baton. Nothing else. Oh for second chances.

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