I imagine that I first met Art Perry some evening at a
junior high school basketball game, in the context of Art’s being the new
stepfather of one of my hoops teammate and childhood friend.
Art was a good guy, we all knew, if you can really know anything at all
in 7th or 8th or 9th grade. I look back on myself back then and I marvel
at what an idiot I was about many things – girls and relationships, the size
and complexity of the world, and which adults I should pay attention to and
which I should not. But Art was a guy I
always paid attention to.
Once I reached 10th grade, I started talking with
Art – Mr. Perry – who taught English at Mt Blue High School. Oddly, I never took an actual class with
him. I spent one day in his popular
creative writing class – I’m sure he pulled some strings to get me into that
section – but the older students really intimidated me. I cared so much about writing – my writing, My Precious – that the thought of exposing that passion to my schoolmates was unbearable. So I pulled out of the course. Idiot move, looking back. But I believe I explained my fears well enough to Art,
so he suggested we do an independent study together.
Over the weeks and months of that independent study, Art
would sit with me and we’d talk about whatever science fiction or fantasy or horror
story I’d written – following my heroes Isaac Asimov or J. R. R. Tolkien or
Stephen King – and he’d help me with my dialogue, with description, with
developing scenes. He corrected my
mistakes encouragingly, asked respectful questions about how I’d constructed my
characters and plots, and, when all was said and done, sent me on my way to
write another draft. It was, I later
learned, very much the way an editor sits with any writer and goes through a
work in progress line by line. I learned
much about how to use language effectively.
And now, as a teacher, I understand that this process – line editing –
is one of the best ways to improve your writing.
Through the years, Art worked hard to create opportunities for
student writers at Mt. Blue to learn the craft.
He arranged to have a couple of personal computers set up in a special
room – the Writing Lab – and convinced the principal to let some of us out of
study hall to go there and work on our stuff.
I would hang out with some of the older kids – one guy was writing a
play – and talk about stories and books and tell jokes. The Writing Lab – in actuality, probably just
a storage closet with a couple of Apple II machines – was our space. For a time, Art also convinced a group of us
to put out a student newspaper – really a stapled together stack of purple-on-white
dittos. Again, I see now the care with
which he put all this together.
Attention to craft. Creation of community. Occasion for publication.
I imagine now that the English teachers at Mt Blue looked
after their budding writers – shepherded us through – and I remain always
grateful for what lasting, substantive lessons taught by Kathy Lynch, Joanne
Zwyna, Art Perry – and especially Beverly Bisbee, the teacher Art put me in
contact with who helped me figure out what I really wanted to do with
words. I heard about Art’s battle with
cancer from Bev Bisbee, and heard of his passing from my old friend Dave, who
had him as a student. No doubt scores of
colleagues and former students will find their ways to express their gratitude for the lessons Art passed on and their grief at his passing. That
so many of them will express these sentiments so eloquently is certain proof of
his skill as an educator.
What else is there to write? Art Perry was a graduate of
Bowdoin and Middlebury, a lover of skiing and so many Maine things, a solid
citizen, a good family man. Back in the day, he was a guy we teens all liked, even though, at the
ages we were, we found most adults domineering and tedious. And Art Perry stayed in touch – even in my thirties, I was always sure to get a nicely typed reply from him whenever I sent a letter. I trust that he’s free of pain now, and
resting lightly in whatever realm beyond that he might have imagined for himself. I trust he’ll read what I’ve written -- one last letter to him -- and make
a few encouraging corrections in the margins.
I wish him lots of fine books to read, clean fresh paper in a
well-lighted space, and all the pens and pencils he could want. Thanks for everything, Teach.
