Of Chairs and Rolling Thunder

Picture the Inklings.

They are gathered in the rooms of CS Lewis at Oxford University - or perhaps in their favorite corner of the Eagle and Child pub, which they refer to as the Bird and Baby. What are they doing? Talking, of course - but about what? Perhaps Tolkien is reading his latest installment of the Lord of the Rings - or perhaps, if the scene is from a later year, his son Christopher is the one doing the reading. (Did you know once his son was old enough to join, they never let JRR read his own stuff? He spoke fast and unintelligibly. And he had horrible handwriting ... I feel in such good company!)

Or maybe it is Lewis doing the reading - from Narnia, or his space trilogy. Maybe it is Charles Williams.

Or perhaps they are just talking. There are many members who aren't writers, after all - in fact, I think it was Dyson that often refused to let excerpts be read, because they bored him. (This much to the annoyance of the other members.)

But the point is - can't you just see it? The close knit friendships, the laughter, the warmth; and imagine the amount of talent gathered in that one room! Genius burns.

Now, however, the scene changes. It isn't a pub or rooms at a college - it is a much lighter set of rooms, located just outside of a small town. The place is flooded with sunlight and classical music. Antiques and pretty things are strewn all about in an attractive manner - pleasing to the eye, if a strain on the wallet. In one room, tea and biscotti await; in the other, a small table with four chairs is to be found. Each of these chairs is occupied but one, which is piled with writerly paraphanelia. Notebooks, pens, and pencils are close to hand - though none of them are opened. Here, too, there is laughter, though of a much younger (and, I'm sure, sillier) sort. While in the former not a woman is to be seen, here the females outnumber the males. (Hence the silly laughter.)

It is quite a different scene than the one before it. They are separated by long years and a wide ocean. And yet they are also connected.

But the latter is interrupted by a strange and mysterious rumble. It goes by relatively unnoticed at first; but then it repeats itself, and continues to do so, until finally it draws comment and attention - at least from the female members. These two look at each other, and wonder aloud - now, what could that possibly be?

The first conclusion is obvious - thunder, of course. But thunder, on such a clear day? Outside not a cloud is to be seen anywhere. Perhaps, then, it is a large truck driving over a bump in the road. But over and over and over again? The small town outside can barely expect to see one, let alone half a dozen semis in its claustrophobic streets.

As the females discuss the issue with their usual whimsical seriousness, the tolerance of the male party finally crumbles. He rolls his eyes, and points out - ver patiently - that the noise is coming from some room directly above their heads.

The girls stare first at him, then at each other. Their eyes widen.

There's a storm in the attic?!

As the young man shakes his head in despair - yet not, perhaps, in surprise - they start gibbering excitedly about lightening and rain and floods upstairs. It is rather an exciting prospect - perhaps they should go investigate. Of course, it could be a truck after all ... but what would a semi be doing in the attic?! That idea they immediately dismiss as preposterous. And imagine what stories you could write around attic storms...!

Deciding he would be remiss if he allowed them to continue in this delusion, their male companion interrupts to deliver his own concise analysis of the situation. His proposal:

"It's probably just a rolling chair in an upstairs office."

The girls stare at him. Then they stare at each other. Then the ceiling rumbles.

It does sound remarkably like a rolling chair.

They sigh deeply. They dare not bruise the ego of their friend; but their eyes exchange a message. How easily our poor friend finds and accepts the obvious! Does he not realize how much more poetic thunder is than offices? Where would humanity be if we had chairstorms on rainy days? And what sort of writers would we be if no thunder rumbled in our attics?

So the scene fades. The Inklings and the Quillbearers - different in many senses, yet the same in so many others. Brewing storms of the mind ... Genius burns.

(Lyn ... you know we all love you. ;))