I wake in a lyrical mood, having slept deep. I read an essay by Robert Louis Stevenson called “Pastoral,” which succeeds – simply, surprisingly – in exposing its maker’s tender heart. Why can’t I make one of those, I think. Haven’t I a past into which memory might dip like a well-bucket? Isn’t nostalgia, if only for glimpses, any maker’s claim?

I feel for remembrances so sweet they hurt, which I’d hesitate to mar with an inept word. Memories, like crime scenes, must not be scuffed by stupid boots, blurring evidence. We may use our past too greedily till it’s used up, leaving little to show. A few scenes – Christmas Eve, a conversation with Grandmother recalled in the summer dusk (a grown-up conversation!), humping the clipped lawn of the formal garden (my dog observing curiously), and (perhaps) the transportation of a neglected headstone across a bumpy field to dam a brook (though this episode may be imagined) – seem the paltry remains of a happy youth (for until my dad died, I was a happy child). Can these be all? I finger the scraps incredulously, like a disappointed archaeologist, finding the old palace looted: so little to wax lyrical about – from sixteen years? How can that be?

We fail to unearth artifacts for one of two reasons: either they are not there or we’ve not dug deep enough. The scantiness of my collection, I suspect, owes something to each.

I grew up in a so-called privileged household, where everything was perfected, scheduled, arranged, and little (therefore) was real. We did what we ought, said what we ought, dressed and addressed as we ought, comme il faut to a fault. Servants starched our shirts; governesses (who never stayed long) presided over meals prepared by cooks and served by “the downstairs maid.” Colloquies were as predictable as ritual (and thus tedious). No talk of money, messiness, emotions. Any variance from script was remanded offstage, to one’s bedroom, where any fantasy was permitted as long as the door was kept shut. My description may convey my boyhood as a gilded cage (or padded cell), which it was, but pleasant, as a saccharine creche is pleasant, if that’s all you know. I played my role with aplomb and self-approval, mistaking onlookers’ fawning as both perceptive and sincere. All couldn’t have been nicer – but dull – for what excites is what startles, alerts, educates, annoys us with all we aren’t and may never know. The memories cited above involve the unexpected – suspense, violation – in delicious contrast to the orchestrated all-too-well-known.

Not until my dad dropped dead when I was sixteen – a script violation, if ever there was one – was my comme-il-faut cubicle cracked, my jail door left ajar, releasing me (like Eve and Adam from Eden) into the scary toil of being. No longer the instant hotshot, lovable by right, I had to make my way through messy actuality, bruising my limbs on limitations, abashing my pride with my inadequacies, learning (as a consequence) to feel, respect, love. I became a discoverer, at first reluctantly, when clobbered by the real. Yesterday became prelude to my lyrical moment, which is now.

Stevenson’s essay recalls John Todd, a crusty old sheepherder of his Scottish boyhood. “He touched on nothing at least, but he adorned it; when he narrated, the scene was before you; when he spoke (as he did mostly) of his own antique business, the thing took on a color of romance and curiosity that was surprising.”

Bach, Shakespeare, and the Book of Common Prayer became the thrilling accents of my yet-dozing heart. From them I learned how much I had to learn.