"Under the Kerosene Lamp", was not first written by Sergio Williams. In fact, it was not written by Dominic West - the poet Williams had "acquired" it from. It was actually written in 1936 by Quinton J. Arnsberg. Arnsberg was a relatively well-regarded author of children's fiction. He had written the poem while on what was discreetly referred to as a "spa holiday".
Nineteen hundred and thirty six was the year that Quinton J. Arnsberg retired from writing children's fiction - he made this decision after spending two months in the Bon Secours Catholic Hospital Rest and Rehabilitation Home. He voluntarly entered the rest home after he was discovered by his wife and son digging in his backyard for what he described as "his buried soul". In total he dug seventeen holes of varying depths. Not only he he state that he was searching for his lost soul, he also said he was going to dig a hole to Korea, where he said he," just wanted to stop in and say hello".
In 1936, no one really used to words mental health clinic, or psychiatric hospital, or even looney bin - but that's where he was.
It was while sitting in one of the pristine gardens of the home, that he began composing the poem in question. He had just finished one his, "Peaceful Meditations with Watercolors", classes and as he watched two squirrels race up and down a mammoth maple tree, the poem began to impregnate his mind.
Dominic West began his unorthodox journey into the world of poetry in 1920 by pure accident.
His father, Clinton West a simple farmer had given the seventeen year ago Dominic a mandate. "Put up that damn tire swing before I get back from the grocery !" It was the end of April, the time of year when sometimes even the smallest of Indiana farms could be filled with a simple basic optimism - it may be a great year, good yield, might get enough to make it through the winter."This could finally be my big year...", was a quote that seemed to linger over nearly every market, feed store, dinner, gas station, bingo hall, church parking lot, liquor store parking lot and bar in Indiana.
Normally, this lasted until no later than the fifth of May. Then, the optimism would blow away, like a balloon let go at a county fair - maybe, someone else would find it...?
In the end, most people returned to their cynical, down -on everything selves.
With the West family this flirtation with optimism and joy ended much sooner and much more abruptly than for most.
Dominic was always quick to follow his father's orders. He was a good student, a starter on the varsity high school basketball team, a member of the student government, a member of the Future Farmers of Americas, and a dedicated Catholic.
As he dragged out the eight foot step ladder, a long portion of rope, and an old truck tire, Dominic too felt the springtime surge of hope. He had recently had a favorable meeting with a college recruiter from Perdue University and the girl he fancied the most in school, Margret Lloyd, had agreed to go with him to the "Sons and Daughters of the Prairie", spring social.The world was smiling.
Dominic set up the ladder beneath the sturdy branch of a walnut tree twenty yards away from the recently whitewashed barn. After securing the rope to the tire, he tossed one end over the branch and climbed up the ladder. Once he got to the top, he started to tie a strong knot around the branch.
At exactly 12:48 pm on Tuesday 11th, 1920, Dominic began his unusual journey into the world of poetry. It was at this particular moment in time that Clinton West returned from his weekly trip to the grocers. " Son ! What are you doing ? Help ! Someone, Help !", Clinton desperately screamed at the top of his lungs. As Clinton threw his grocery bags on the ground and rushed to his first-born son dangling from the walnut tree, millions of thoughts flooded his brain - " What did I do wrong ? - Why God ?- Was he depressed ?- Is he alive? No, please Lord, don't let him be gone..." Clinton grabbed the boys legs and managed to place them on his shoulders, relieving the pressure on his neck. His face and lips had a blue-ish tint. "Boy, are you okay, can you hear me ?", Clinton now gently spoke. He heard a muffled cough and what he imagined to be a whimpered "Da", coming from his son above him. "It's gonna be okay son. I gotcha." Clinton managed to manouver the ladder closer so that he could place Dominic's legs on one of the rungs. He then climbed up, removed the rope from around his neck, slung the seventeen year-old promising student's nearly lifeless body over his shoulder, and proceded to carry him down the ladder.
Dominic West had only spent 3.5 minutes hanging from that rope. Not only was it the longest scariest three and a half minutes of his life, it was also the most important three and a half minutes of his life. Many years later, he would look back gratefuly to the events of that fateful day.
How exactly it happened Dominic never quite explained. He stated that he "just lost his balance"and somehow - maybe divine intervention, maybe something else, he was caught in mid-air with a rope twisted around his neck and the ladder out of reach.
Nineteen hundred and thirty six was the year that Quinton J. Arnsberg retired from writing children's fiction - he made this decision after spending two months in the Bon Secours Catholic Hospital Rest and Rehabilitation Home. He voluntarly entered the rest home after he was discovered by his wife and son digging in his backyard for what he described as "his buried soul". In total he dug seventeen holes of varying depths. Not only he he state that he was searching for his lost soul, he also said he was going to dig a hole to Korea, where he said he," just wanted to stop in and say hello".
In 1936, no one really used to words mental health clinic, or psychiatric hospital, or even looney bin - but that's where he was.
It was while sitting in one of the pristine gardens of the home, that he began composing the poem in question. He had just finished one his, "Peaceful Meditations with Watercolors", classes and as he watched two squirrels race up and down a mammoth maple tree, the poem began to impregnate his mind.
Dominic West began his unorthodox journey into the world of poetry in 1920 by pure accident.
His father, Clinton West a simple farmer had given the seventeen year ago Dominic a mandate. "Put up that damn tire swing before I get back from the grocery !" It was the end of April, the time of year when sometimes even the smallest of Indiana farms could be filled with a simple basic optimism - it may be a great year, good yield, might get enough to make it through the winter."This could finally be my big year...", was a quote that seemed to linger over nearly every market, feed store, dinner, gas station, bingo hall, church parking lot, liquor store parking lot and bar in Indiana.
Normally, this lasted until no later than the fifth of May. Then, the optimism would blow away, like a balloon let go at a county fair - maybe, someone else would find it...?
In the end, most people returned to their cynical, down -on everything selves.
With the West family this flirtation with optimism and joy ended much sooner and much more abruptly than for most.
Dominic was always quick to follow his father's orders. He was a good student, a starter on the varsity high school basketball team, a member of the student government, a member of the Future Farmers of Americas, and a dedicated Catholic.
As he dragged out the eight foot step ladder, a long portion of rope, and an old truck tire, Dominic too felt the springtime surge of hope. He had recently had a favorable meeting with a college recruiter from Perdue University and the girl he fancied the most in school, Margret Lloyd, had agreed to go with him to the "Sons and Daughters of the Prairie", spring social.The world was smiling.
Dominic set up the ladder beneath the sturdy branch of a walnut tree twenty yards away from the recently whitewashed barn. After securing the rope to the tire, he tossed one end over the branch and climbed up the ladder. Once he got to the top, he started to tie a strong knot around the branch.
At exactly 12:48 pm on Tuesday 11th, 1920, Dominic began his unusual journey into the world of poetry. It was at this particular moment in time that Clinton West returned from his weekly trip to the grocers. " Son ! What are you doing ? Help ! Someone, Help !", Clinton desperately screamed at the top of his lungs. As Clinton threw his grocery bags on the ground and rushed to his first-born son dangling from the walnut tree, millions of thoughts flooded his brain - " What did I do wrong ? - Why God ?- Was he depressed ?- Is he alive? No, please Lord, don't let him be gone..." Clinton grabbed the boys legs and managed to place them on his shoulders, relieving the pressure on his neck. His face and lips had a blue-ish tint. "Boy, are you okay, can you hear me ?", Clinton now gently spoke. He heard a muffled cough and what he imagined to be a whimpered "Da", coming from his son above him. "It's gonna be okay son. I gotcha." Clinton managed to manouver the ladder closer so that he could place Dominic's legs on one of the rungs. He then climbed up, removed the rope from around his neck, slung the seventeen year-old promising student's nearly lifeless body over his shoulder, and proceded to carry him down the ladder.
Dominic West had only spent 3.5 minutes hanging from that rope. Not only was it the longest scariest three and a half minutes of his life, it was also the most important three and a half minutes of his life. Many years later, he would look back gratefuly to the events of that fateful day.
How exactly it happened Dominic never quite explained. He stated that he "just lost his balance"and somehow - maybe divine intervention, maybe something else, he was caught in mid-air with a rope twisted around his neck and the ladder out of reach.
