Full Silence
By Amy Baumhoefner
Tell me where, where does a fool go
when there's no-one left to listen
To a story without meaning that nobody wants to hear
Tell me where, where does a fool go
when he knows there's something missing
Tell me where, where will I go from here
Where will I go from here
Alone, in this house, lived a woman. Everyone knew her, but no one really knew who she was. Even the town’s oldest residents swore that she’d been old when they were kids. She had no family, no friends that any knew of, and no one had ever seen her leave the house.
Each day just after sunrise, not a moment before or a moment after, this lady would appear on her porch. The town had long since forgotten her name but simply called her Mrs. Presley. No one knew when she got this name or who first gave it to her, but it fit. The moment she sat on the aged rocking chair she would start listening to Elvis on her stereo.
When a family first moved into Mrs. Presley’s neighborhood they always complained about her music. The city council would just dismiss the case, stating simply “oh, it’s just Mrs. Presley.” After a while her music was forgotten by the new neighbors and became the background noise for their lives; like living by train tracks or an airport.
Neither weather nor holiday changed her habits. The only day she didn’t appear was on the first day of every month. No one knew why she didn’t come out, they didn’t see her leave; she just wasn’t on her porch. No one really cared. That was how it had always been, so they never asked.
The old men who gathered around the chess tables in the park told of a storm that hit Pipersville when they were young men. It was the wickedest storm in the town’s history. Two hundred trees fell and over half the homes were damaged beyond repair. One old man would tell about how he had seen Mrs. Presley as he fought the winds home from work.
“As I turned down my street,” he said, “I heard something that didn’t fit in with the storm. I couldn’t figure out what it was until I passed by Mrs. Presley’s. There she sat, midst the raging storm, listening to Elvis as loud as she could. It was as if she didn’ even realize it was stormin’.”
“I heard that when Jimmy drove by just before the tornado hit she was still there, and she wasn’t wet at all!” Another man chimed in.
Youngsters in the town were afraid of her because of all the scary stories told about her at Halloween. One Halloween, it was said, a few boys mustered up the courage to egg Mrs. Presley’s house.In the eyes of the boys the egging went very well; they even got one of her upstairs windows. As they fled the scene one looked back and saw red eyes staring at him from an upper window. He told his friends but none of them believed him. The next day the boys walked past Mrs. Presley’s house and to their surprise there was not one stain on the house. They scurried by, none daring to look back. A month later they were all dead. The doctor was unable to determine cause of death. No one remembered the names of the boys, or how long ago they died, but the story was still passes from kid to kid every October. While some people thought she was a witch, most of the town didn’t think of her at all.
“I heard that when Jimmy drove by just before the tornado hit she was still there, and she wasn’t wet at all!” Another man chimed in.
Youngsters in the town were afraid of her because of all the scary stories told about her at Halloween. One Halloween, it was said, a few boys mustered up the courage to egg Mrs. Presley’s house.In the eyes of the boys the egging went very well; they even got one of her upstairs windows. As they fled the scene one looked back and saw red eyes staring at him from an upper window. He told his friends but none of them believed him. The next day the boys walked past Mrs. Presley’s house and to their surprise there was not one stain on the house. They scurried by, none daring to look back. A month later they were all dead. The doctor was unable to determine cause of death. No one remembered the names of the boys, or how long ago they died, but the story was still passes from kid to kid every October. While some people thought she was a witch, most of the town didn’t think of her at all.
Walk a mile in my shoes
just walk a mile in my shoes
Before you abuse, criticize and accuse
Then walk a mile in my shoes
Now if we spend the day
Throwin' stones at one another
'Cause I will think, 'cause I will think
To wear my hat the same way you do
Well, I may be common people
But I'm your brother
And when you strike out
You're tryin' to hurt me
It's hurtin' you, Lord how mercy
Just before Jake Cannon turned eight his family moved into 4792 Poplar Road – right next door to Mrs. Presley. Because Jake was so young his mother sent him out to play and ordered him to stay out of the way. It wasn’t until after lunch that Jake noticed the little old lady sitting on her porch, listening to Elvis. She was small. She was so frail that it seemed a light wind might blow her away. The hair on her head was pure white and sat in short, wild curls on her head. While the rest of her spoke of her years, her face told another story.Though wrinkles etched deep ravines into her features, her skin seemed smooth; glowing with an unearthly light that seemed to originate from within. Her large golden brown eyes were set deep in her face. They reminded Jake of an owl, unblinking and solemn.
Then Jake did something that no one in the small town of Pipersville had ever thought to do: he asked her a question.
“Excuse me, why are you sitting there listening to Elvis?”
Mrs. Presley turned to look at the little boy gazing earnestly at her from across the white picket fence. He was small, with cropped blonde hair and eager blue eyes. His tiny hands clutched the boards of the fence, trying not to fall off the ledge that allowed him to just barely see over the white peaks.
The lady on the porch was taken aback. No one had ever asked her why, asked her any question at all.
“I listen because I like him.”
It might be expected that someone who never talked with anyone in her town would speak in a gravelly voice, scarred from disuse. But the lady on the porch had a voice that made Jake want to cry.Not sad tears but ones of extreme joy,as some would with beautiful music. When the lady on the porch opened her lips to speak the sound she made was more beautiful than any melody he had ever heard.
“I like Elvis too.”
A laugh tinkled out of the lady.
“That’s good.”
“May I come over sometime and listen with you?”
“Why of course. Come whenever you want.”
“What if you ain’t on your porch? How’ll I listen then?”
Her laugh tickled Jake’s ears again.
“I’m always here.”
“Oh.”
“Jacob!”
“My mommy’s calling.”
“You should go to her.”
Jake jumped down from the fence and started running back to his house. Just as he reached his own porch he stopped and rushed back to the fence.
“I’m Jake.”
“My name’s Clara Whitmore.”
“It’s nice talkin’ to you, Miss Whitmore.”
“You may call me Clara.”
“Jacob! Now!”
“Your mother, Jake.”
“It was nice meeting you, Miss Clara.”
The little boy scampered off to his mother, christened by the lyrical laugh of Clara Whitmore.
Almost at once the people of Pipersville noticed the little boy who sat at Mrs. Presley’s feet everyday after school. Most days the strange pair merely sat listening to The King. No words were exchanged but the silence was full of meaning.
Most days the peculiar pair simply sat listening to The King.
Each day, just before six, Jake would turn to Miss Clara and ask, “May I sit with you tomorrow?”
The answer was always the same, “Yes, Jake. You may come tomorrow.”
But one day the answer was different; one day she said no.
Jake was stunned. It had been three weeks since they had started sitting together and Jake had grown to love his silent music companion.
“Oh,” he had to hold back tears. “Goodbye, then, Miss Clara.”
Close to tears, the little boy stood and began his short journey home. Miss Clara’s gentle laugh tore at the boy’s tender heart;it seemed to mock his pain.
“Jake!”
A tear traveled down his cheek, hovering on the tip of his chin.
“Jake.” Miss Clara stood and walked to the top of the stairs. “Jake, you can’t come because I won’t be here. But you can come the day after tomorrow.”
Jake tore back along the path and up the stairs. Throwing his arms around Miss Clara’s waist,he sobbed uncontrollably.
“Now, now, child; It’s alright.” She awkwardly rubbed his back. “Now, run along home or you’ll be late for dinner.”
In seventh grade Jake was no longer the tiny little boy who sat leaning against Miss Clara’s legs as she rocked in time with Elvis. Instead he sprawled his gangly body over the steps;his head – blonde hair, shaggy and un-kept – resting in his large hands.
“Where do you go?”
Then Jake did something that no one in the small town of Pipersville had ever thought to do: he asked her a question.
“Excuse me, why are you sitting there listening to Elvis?”
Mrs. Presley turned to look at the little boy gazing earnestly at her from across the white picket fence. He was small, with cropped blonde hair and eager blue eyes. His tiny hands clutched the boards of the fence, trying not to fall off the ledge that allowed him to just barely see over the white peaks.
The lady on the porch was taken aback. No one had ever asked her why, asked her any question at all.
“I listen because I like him.”
It might be expected that someone who never talked with anyone in her town would speak in a gravelly voice, scarred from disuse. But the lady on the porch had a voice that made Jake want to cry.Not sad tears but ones of extreme joy,as some would with beautiful music. When the lady on the porch opened her lips to speak the sound she made was more beautiful than any melody he had ever heard.
“I like Elvis too.”
A laugh tinkled out of the lady.
“That’s good.”
“May I come over sometime and listen with you?”
“Why of course. Come whenever you want.”
“What if you ain’t on your porch? How’ll I listen then?”
Her laugh tickled Jake’s ears again.
“I’m always here.”
“Oh.”
“Jacob!”
“My mommy’s calling.”
“You should go to her.”
Jake jumped down from the fence and started running back to his house. Just as he reached his own porch he stopped and rushed back to the fence.
“I’m Jake.”
“My name’s Clara Whitmore.”
“It’s nice talkin’ to you, Miss Whitmore.”
“You may call me Clara.”
“Jacob! Now!”
“Your mother, Jake.”
“It was nice meeting you, Miss Clara.”
The little boy scampered off to his mother, christened by the lyrical laugh of Clara Whitmore.
Baby close your eyes and listen to the music
Drifting through a summer breeze
It's a groovy night and I can show you how to use it
Come along with me and put your mind at ease
Almost at once the people of Pipersville noticed the little boy who sat at Mrs. Presley’s feet everyday after school. Most days the strange pair merely sat listening to The King. No words were exchanged but the silence was full of meaning.
Most days the peculiar pair simply sat listening to The King.
Each day, just before six, Jake would turn to Miss Clara and ask, “May I sit with you tomorrow?”
The answer was always the same, “Yes, Jake. You may come tomorrow.”
But one day the answer was different; one day she said no.
Jake was stunned. It had been three weeks since they had started sitting together and Jake had grown to love his silent music companion.
“Oh,” he had to hold back tears. “Goodbye, then, Miss Clara.”
Close to tears, the little boy stood and began his short journey home. Miss Clara’s gentle laugh tore at the boy’s tender heart;it seemed to mock his pain.
“Jake!”
A tear traveled down his cheek, hovering on the tip of his chin.
“Jake.” Miss Clara stood and walked to the top of the stairs. “Jake, you can’t come because I won’t be here. But you can come the day after tomorrow.”
Jake tore back along the path and up the stairs. Throwing his arms around Miss Clara’s waist,he sobbed uncontrollably.
“Now, now, child; It’s alright.” She awkwardly rubbed his back. “Now, run along home or you’ll be late for dinner.”
Tell me more about yourself
Do you feel the way I feel?
Are you just a vision,
Or are you really real?
Where do you come from?
Angel won't you say?
Tell me all that there is to know
And tell me that you'll stay.
In seventh grade Jake was no longer the tiny little boy who sat leaning against Miss Clara’s legs as she rocked in time with Elvis. Instead he sprawled his gangly body over the steps;his head – blonde hair, shaggy and un-kept – resting in his large hands.
“Where do you go?”
“What, Jake?”
Jake sat up. “On the first of the month; where do you go?”
Miss Clara was silent for a moment, and then she leaned over and flipped off the stereo. The silence pounded in Jake’s ears.
“Why do you want to know? Isn’t it enough to know that I’m not here?”
“No. It’s not.”
“Do I ask you where you are the days you don’t come here?”
“No.”
“Then why do you ask me where I go on the days that I’m not here?”
“Because I want to know! I want to know about you, about your life; what you did before.”
“Before what?”
“Before this!Before you sat here listening to Elvis all day. There must’ve been something!”
“Does it really matter to you that much?”
Pausing for a moment, Jake considered.
“Yes. It does.”
“Will knowing make what we do here different?”
“No…”
“So why should it matter?”
“Because…because…” Jake thought she knew, thought she felt the same way about him. “Because I care about you.”
The deafening silence that followed his declaration was one of the most painful moments in Jake’s young life.
“You should go to home, Jake. It’s almost dinnertime and your mother will want you.”
Jake stood, shaking with the effort of controlling his emotions.
“Goodbye, Miss Clara.”
Jake went home.He didn’t go back for a week.
When he did go back he didn’t ask her anymore questions. He didn’t understand why she wouldn’t tell, but she was right – it didn’t matter.
Life was not easy for Jake during high school. His parents got divorced and his first girlfriend died in a car accident. School didn’t come easy for him; each time he felt like he was making progress he failed a test. Yet no matter what, Miss Clara’s porch was always there. It was a safe haven from the world that hit him with everything it had. No matter what happened beyond that porch, the moment he placed a foot on its bottom step it disappeared. Wiped clean and filled with Elvis’ wisdom. Jake never again spoke about where Miss Clara went on the first of the month and she never asked him questions. Once, freshman year, Jake arrived after school with a black eye and a busted lip. Miss Clara didn’t ask. She went inside, got her first aid ki,t and fixed him up. The silence was a balm to his battered soul.
“May I ask you something, Miss Clara?”
“Of course, but I may not answer.”
“Why do you sit here? Why Elvis? Don’t you get tired of it?”
“Why do you sit here, Jake? Don’t you ever get tired of Elvis – of me?”
Jake was taken aback by her response. “No, I don’t get tired of you…or Elvis. And I come here…I come here…”
At first words escaped Jake. Then it came to him in a flash.
“I come here because I have to.Because without this place, my life would be out of control and the world would eat me alive.”
“Yes.”
She said nothing else but Jake understood. He suddenly understood Miss Clara. Not who she was, but why she was.
Jake grew up like all little boys must and went away to get an education. Every summer he came home and sat with Miss Clara. They never talked, didn’t need to. They just were; no pretenses, no questions.
One day, while Jake was at school his mother called.
“Jakey, honey. You need to come home…”
The church was packed for her funeral. There were people from many ages, races, religions, and classes. Jake had never seen anything like it.
It was a brief service and after the final song the priest went forward for the final time.
“Dear friends,” He said. “Clara Whitmore was an amazing woman who impacted so many. Just before she died I had the honor of speaking with her. She knew her time to ascend to the golden gates was near and she didn’t want to leave this earth without sharing what she had learned from it. She was never a woman of many words so it is fitting that her final message to those she cared about was this – Cherish silence and fill it with love, not words. Love lasts longer.”
Jake declined a ride from his mother and instead walked the ten blocks back to Poplar Road. Instead of leading him to his mom’s house, his feet led him to the porch.
Pain and sorrow tore through his body as he gently caressed the worn back of rocker that Miss Clara had always occupied. Trembling fingers flipped on the CD player; a gift from him last Christmas. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. Jake sank to the ground next to the chair, clutching the smooth wood, and he finally allowed himself weep. Music flowed out of the little speakers, washing over his crumpled form like a benediction.
Jake sat up. “On the first of the month; where do you go?”
Miss Clara was silent for a moment, and then she leaned over and flipped off the stereo. The silence pounded in Jake’s ears.
“Why do you want to know? Isn’t it enough to know that I’m not here?”
“No. It’s not.”
“Do I ask you where you are the days you don’t come here?”
“No.”
“Then why do you ask me where I go on the days that I’m not here?”
“Because I want to know! I want to know about you, about your life; what you did before.”
“Before what?”
“Before this!Before you sat here listening to Elvis all day. There must’ve been something!”
“Does it really matter to you that much?”
Pausing for a moment, Jake considered.
“Yes. It does.”
“Will knowing make what we do here different?”
“No…”
“So why should it matter?”
“Because…because…” Jake thought she knew, thought she felt the same way about him. “Because I care about you.”
The deafening silence that followed his declaration was one of the most painful moments in Jake’s young life.
“You should go to home, Jake. It’s almost dinnertime and your mother will want you.”
Jake stood, shaking with the effort of controlling his emotions.
“Goodbye, Miss Clara.”
Jake went home.He didn’t go back for a week.
When he did go back he didn’t ask her anymore questions. He didn’t understand why she wouldn’t tell, but she was right – it didn’t matter.
My heart would break in two if
I should lose you
I'm no good without you anyhow
And have I told you lately that I love you
Well darling I'm telling you now
If I could be you, if you could be me
For just one hour,
if we could find a way
To get inside each other's mind
If you could see you through my eyes
Instead your own ego I believe you'd be
I believe you'd be surprised to see
That you've been blind
Life was not easy for Jake during high school. His parents got divorced and his first girlfriend died in a car accident. School didn’t come easy for him; each time he felt like he was making progress he failed a test. Yet no matter what, Miss Clara’s porch was always there. It was a safe haven from the world that hit him with everything it had. No matter what happened beyond that porch, the moment he placed a foot on its bottom step it disappeared. Wiped clean and filled with Elvis’ wisdom. Jake never again spoke about where Miss Clara went on the first of the month and she never asked him questions. Once, freshman year, Jake arrived after school with a black eye and a busted lip. Miss Clara didn’t ask. She went inside, got her first aid ki,t and fixed him up. The silence was a balm to his battered soul.
“May I ask you something, Miss Clara?”
“Of course, but I may not answer.”
“Why do you sit here? Why Elvis? Don’t you get tired of it?”
“Why do you sit here, Jake? Don’t you ever get tired of Elvis – of me?”
Jake was taken aback by her response. “No, I don’t get tired of you…or Elvis. And I come here…I come here…”
At first words escaped Jake. Then it came to him in a flash.
“I come here because I have to.Because without this place, my life would be out of control and the world would eat me alive.”
“Yes.”
She said nothing else but Jake understood. He suddenly understood Miss Clara. Not who she was, but why she was.
Jake grew up like all little boys must and went away to get an education. Every summer he came home and sat with Miss Clara. They never talked, didn’t need to. They just were; no pretenses, no questions.
One day, while Jake was at school his mother called.
“Jakey, honey. You need to come home…”
The church was packed for her funeral. There were people from many ages, races, religions, and classes. Jake had never seen anything like it.
It was a brief service and after the final song the priest went forward for the final time.
“Dear friends,” He said. “Clara Whitmore was an amazing woman who impacted so many. Just before she died I had the honor of speaking with her. She knew her time to ascend to the golden gates was near and she didn’t want to leave this earth without sharing what she had learned from it. She was never a woman of many words so it is fitting that her final message to those she cared about was this – Cherish silence and fill it with love, not words. Love lasts longer.”
Jake declined a ride from his mother and instead walked the ten blocks back to Poplar Road. Instead of leading him to his mom’s house, his feet led him to the porch.
Pain and sorrow tore through his body as he gently caressed the worn back of rocker that Miss Clara had always occupied. Trembling fingers flipped on the CD player; a gift from him last Christmas. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. Jake sank to the ground next to the chair, clutching the smooth wood, and he finally allowed himself weep. Music flowed out of the little speakers, washing over his crumpled form like a benediction.
I love you because you understand dear
Every single thing I try to do.
You're always there to lend a helping hand, dear.
I love you most of all because you're you.
No matter what the world may say about me,
I know your love will always see me through.
I love you for the way you never doubt me.
But most of all I love you 'cause you're you.
No matter what may be the style or season,
I know your heart will always be true.
I love you for a hundred thousand reasons,
But most of all I love you 'cause you're you.
Amy - what a insightful story. Thank you for sharing. Dad
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