The Man On The Train

When invited to my first Poetry Convention, I was intimidated at the thought of meeting with Real Poets. I never thought of my self as a poet, I had no talent, I was just having fun with words. Surely those who had sent the invitation had made a mistake, they didn't mean me! My husband tried to persuade me to go, my friends also tried to convince me

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Eventually they wore me down, and I agreed to go, all alone, on a train. Surprisingly, I had a wonderful time. When it came time for me to introduce myself and read what I had written, I could not do as the others, saying "I am John Smith, and I am a poet." Instead I said, simply, "My name is Ella Dillon.' They asked, "Are you a poet?" I hesitantly responded, "No"

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When I registered for the convention, they attached a plastic bracelet to my wrist, similar to those provided when you enter a hospital. The purpose being to identify me as part of the convention and get me into all of the activities. After several days at the convention it began to irritate my wrist and I had no way of removing it. On the train going home (four days),I kept fiddling with it, finally, turning to the lady sitting next to me, I asked if she had a fingernail clipper I might borrow to clip it off. She gave me one and asked "Have you been in the hospital?", I replied that I had been at a poetry convention in New York.

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"Are you a poet?" she asked.

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"Not really, I just play with words."

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"I'd like to hear something you have written." So, I began reciting a couple of my favorites from memory.

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The man seated in front of us turned and said, "Excuse me for eavesdropping. If I may I'd like to read some of your work. Would you mind?"

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Standing, I retrieved my briefcase from the overhead compartment and handed it to him, saying. "Here, be my guest." He opened the briefcase and began reading. My seatmate and I continued our conversation.

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After several hours, the gentleman again turned and said, "This is pretty good. You should seek out a publisher. I know what I'm talking about, I am a syndicated journalist."

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"Thank you very much for the compliment, but I don't think anyone would take what I write seriously. I just do it for fun. I'm not even a very good writer, let alone a poet."

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"No, I'm serious. I guarantee you, if you do as I say, your whole life will change. Retype a few of these, especially those you have written about people you care deeply about, put them in a binder and send them to a publisher with a cover letter. Then write to me when you have done so. I don't care if you ever get published, I just want to know that you've made the effort. Promise me you'll think about it."

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Embarrassed, I said I'd think about it. Some time later, we arrived in Haver, Montana, and were told that we would be there a while if we'd like to get off and stretch our legs. I got off the train and was admiring an old steam engine that was on display, when I heard a voice behind me say, "I wanted to prove that I was who I said I was." and he handed me a newspaper clipping with his picture and name on an article he had written. "I put my current address in Vancouver, B.C. and the address to which I will be moving, September 15, in Washington, C.C., Please do as I say, and let me know when you have done it."

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I have since been to 17 more poetry conventions, and to the Maui Writers Conference. I have won trophies and awards, $19,00.00 in cash award and grants. I own my own small press, publishing company where I published three magazines, Portals, A Quarterly Showcase for Poets, Penny~A~Liner, fiction and other articles and Vignettes, for true experiences. I have written three books, and co-written one and published 10 books for other people.

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I have been feted twice by the Borough of Audubon, New Jersey, received a proclamation from the mayor of that town, for encouraging young poets. I have been acknowledged for my encouragement in five books by other writers, written a foreword in one book and a preamble in another, I will have a piece included in a book by Dean Koontz, this fall. Has my life changed? You bet it has.

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Who was the man on the train? I have no idea. I have his name and photograph and by-line on an article he has written. I wrote him when my first book was published and sent him as copy of the book with a dedication to "The Man On The Train". He never responded. When I attended my second convention in Washington, D.C, I wrote explaining who I was and when and where I'd be in the Capitol, and invited him to meet me for lunch as my guest. He never responded. Was he real ? . . .I have proof . . . Who was he ?. . .Was he an Angel ? . . .Sent by God ? . . . Did I imagine him ? . . . Did he change my life? Your answer is as good as mine.