We Never Know Our Impact

47 Ways Forward - Strategies for Navigating the Next Four Years

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In 7th Grade I was cast as the lead role of “Rusty” in HOLD THE HOTLINE. Mrs. Blink was my director. She had Bambi eyes and beautiful black hair. But back to the play -- Rusty was a Hamlet-sized role. He never left the stage, had 227 lines, not that I was counting. This was the big time.

I'd fallen in love with the theater the year before when my sister Mary appeared in Moliere’s THE PHYSICIAN IN SPITE OF HIMSELF at Valley High School. It was directed by the great Mr. Jim Lamson. Mary was luminous in the play. Suddenly the idea of being in plays became much more interesting to me than playing basketball or learning magic tricks.

That summer, Mary recruited my little brother Philip and me to play small roles in William Saroyan’s one-act, COMING THROUGH THE RYE, at VHS’s Summer Theater. But other than playing Moses in Vacation Bible School and doing a duet mime with Steve Sweem (“The Bank Robber” set to the music of Scott Joplin) at the 7th Grade mime show, HOLD THE HOTLINE was my first real role in a real play.

For my performance, I even patented my signature Rusty look. This consisted of tightening and pulling my lips to the right side of my mouth – giving me an ironic smirk. This was my go-to expression that embodied the youthful irony and hidden depths of my character. For years after HOLD THE HOTLINE closed, my dad, Mary and my brothers would out-of-the-blue ask me to do my “Rusty look.” I was always happy to oblige. (Who was I to deny them the joy of getting to re-experience my star-making turn?)

But I digress.

The day before the play was to open, I lost my voice. It was completely shot. It was so bad that for the final dress rehearsal I could barely whisper my lines. Mrs. Blink was going out of her mind. A kid in a smaller role could easily be replaced, but not the actor playing Rusty – Rusty who never left the stage – Rusty who said nearly every other line!

My dad picked me up at rehearsal and promised the apoplectic Mrs. Blink that he’d do his best to have me ready for Opening Night. After all, he was a man of faith, who on Sundays often preached about miracles. Well, we were in need of one.

At home, he made me chicken noodle soup and put me to bed early.

But I couldn’t sleep. I was panicked, terrified. What if I couldn’t do the play? And there was another problem that needed to be solved. How was I going to do my paper route? I delivered the Des Moines Register to 61 homes from the east side of 22nd Street to 19^th Street, six mornings a week from 3:15 AM to 5:30 AM.

To make matters worse, it was the middle of March, sub-zero temperatures, and the snow was falling hard.

At 3 AM that morning, my dad woke me and left me to get dressed. On those coldest of days, I wore multiple layers of clothes.

As I was stuffing my feet into my snow boots at the base of the stairs, I heard the garage door open. My dad backed out the family Dodge and left it running, warming it up. I was putting on my winter coat when, to my surprise, my brother Joel came downstairs started to put on his winter clothes. My sister Mary and my little brother Philip followed. What was going on? Why were my brothers and sister getting dressed? No one said much because they were sleepy. But I couldn’t believe it! My dad had woken them all up. He came back in the house, he wrapped me in a blanket and he carried me out to the car. The interior overhead car light was on and he had the heat up high. Mary, Joel, and Philip piled in back and off we went.

As my dad slowly drove the route, I pointed out the houses that were to get papers, and my sister and brothers trudged from door to door and did my route for me. I can still hear the crunch of their boots on the hard snow and feel the blast of cold when we’d roll down the window to hand them more papers.

We finished the route in record time.

Back home, they all went quietly off to bed. My dad carried me upstairs and tucked me under my covers. That day I didn’t go to school. My dad let me sleep in. And when I came downstairs, he was waiting to make my favorite breakfast, French toast.

By that night, a miracle, my voice had returned and the show went on. And what remains? Simply this: My happiest childhood memory. Me, wrapped in a blanket, my dad, behind the wheel of our Dodge, driving slowly in the fast-falling snow, as my sister and brothers in their winter best delivered my paper route. For that glorious hour I was surrounded by my family, my amazing family who rallied on that bitterly cold morning to save my lost voice and in so doing, saved me.

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We never know our impact. But sometimes we know who impacted us. Without that familial support at that most fragile of times, I may not have found my way to a life in the arts, and, more importantly, to Mr. Jim Lamson and his wife Cindy, who led the Drama Department at Valley High School.

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Last Saturday night, my favorite-all-time-teacher, my second father, my proof-that-a-happy-marriage-is-possible, my reminder-that-what-matters-most-is-family, my model of decency and goodness and kindness, and the man who with the love of his life made a safe space at the southernmost part of Valley High School for us theater-loving misfits, Mr. James Lamson, released his body and went to wherever the best people go. I can only hope and wish that every one of you has or had a teacher as impactful as Mr. Lamson was for me.

Here are some pictures.

This first picture is of Mr. Lamson, early 40’s, and me, 15. We were photographed as a part of a promotional brochure for a local insurance company. We are "Father and Son" in this picture. And I didn’t have to act, because Mr. Lamson always felt like a father to me.

The second picture is from the set of What's Eating Gilbert Grape. While writing the novel, I realized the character of Gilbert was so angry and hurt that he needed someone to unconditionally love. So his fictional boss - named Mr. Lamson - was endowed with all the qualities of the actual Mr. Lamson.

For the last 35 years, everything I've written or have made has had either the Lamson name of the names “Jim” and “Cindy” present.

And the last photo is of the beautiful night three years ago when Mr. and Mrs. Lamson were inducted into the Valley High School Hall of Honor. In one of the great privileges of my life, I was able to speak on their behalf. For those of you lucky enough to have been in the Lamson orbit, there will be a Memorial Celebration in West Des Moines on Sunday, June 29th. It will be an in-person opportunity for us to celebrate this singular, remarkable man and comfort his beloved wife Cindy, dazzling daughters Laura and Louise, and his greatest pride, his four grandchildren, Guthrie, Daisy, Jasper, and Wesley.

And for all of you reading this post, if you have or had a teacher that irrevocably altered you, rearranged your sense of what was possible, who believed in you more than you ever could believe in yourself -- find them, if they're still among us -- and thank or re-thank them while you still can. And if they’re no longer here in the physical realm, then join me in finding someone or many ones and do for them what was once done for us. That feels like a way forward.

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Peter Hedges is a proud new member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative.