After watching Dead Poets Society again (thanks to my English teacher), I realized I really loved Charlie, and I like to imagine he ended up with a good life. Plus, our seminar gave me way too much time to think about the movie.
Disclaimer: Despite all my wishing, I do not own Dead Poets Society.
Between the woods and the lake, there is a blue house surrounded by the Vermont mountains. A long drive, with a low row of hedges on either side, leads up to the house and a rocky-outcropped pond is the first thing to greet someone upon arrival, and there is a little red barn to the side. The house is anything but small; it's two levels, with a wraparound porch and a three-car garage, and five bedrooms, three baths, and a library. Mist rises from the ground in the early mornings, off the grass and from the green tops of the trees, and it's incredibly paintable if one sits on the master balcony.
There is a river that runs nearby. It flows gently into the lake, but the farther up the river, the harder it runs. It roars and pounds the rocks, the banks along the side, frothy white from its ever-churning waters, and piercing cold, not that it was frequented by bare skin. This part of the river begs to break from its hold, clamorous, and hounding its confines to let go.
Eventually, the river narrows, and it calms into a mellow pace. The water here is clear, and in the heat of the summers it is inviting to weary feet. The rocks beneath the surface are smooth and flat, and fit perfectly in the palm of a hand. This is the part of the river that flows into the lake which rests at the edge of the blue house's property.
There grows a garden, vibrant and meticulous, behind the house. Nestled amidst the brilliant growth is a white wooden trellis with benches on either side, tucked away, secluded, leading out of the garden into the yard, and further to the lake. Bright flowers of every kind bloom, and the shrubbery has been clipped just so. The painstaking devotion that has been put into growing such a garden is blatant and almost overwhelming upon first sight. But then its charm, its sweet smell, takes over, and it forces a willing smile onto lips, and one cannot help but to admire the love that has been put into its upbringing and how it has flourished.
In the winter when it snows greatly, the whole landscape is covered, as if hiding its beauty and unspoiled serenity. But that is not true. It is still just as beautiful, and it is now somewhat hopeful.
Between the woods and the lake, there is a blue house surrounded by the Vermont mountains, and the house is owned by a man who works at a bank. Every day, he wakes at the same times and goes about his morning routine, which leads him to his afternoon routine, and then into his evening one. He does the same thing every day, and he makes a great deal of money, just like his father, and his father before him.
But unlike his predecessors, whose marriage had more or less been arranged, and whose job was already chosen, this man sighs when he opens, hand heavy, his tie drawer every morning. He scans the contents with dull eyes before finally selecting one.
The man who owns the blue house hates his job, and he hates what he was and what he has to be.
The man who owns the blue house frequently finds himself laying in bed at night and staring at the ceiling. He frequently finds that he has to force himself out of bed in the mornings after sleepless nights, and that his job is a chore, and that he is a spurious man. He finds himself feeling like a lemming.
In the winter when it snows greatly, he sometimes stands just outside the door on the back porch and gazes across the blinding expanse of land and thinks back to a time that seems so incredibly distant that sometimes he doesn't believe it really occurred. On bad days, he thinks back to waiting outside a theater while the first snow of the season fell and watching his best friend leave for the last time. He thinks back to watching as, after the news had hit and they'd tried to escaped, to how his roommate had writhed in the stuff, unable to cope. He thinks back to being completely numbed of everything but sullenness, wanting to cry out but being unable to do so as they said goodbye forever and someone with no connection said meaningless words in the background.
But there is a driving force behind the mundanity. Like everything in the world, there is something behind him that propels him forward, causing him to get up everyday with a sense of purpose.
Between the woods and the lake, there is a blue house surrounded by the Vermont mountains, and in it lives a woman. Every morning, he wakes at the same time to the smell of coffee, which she doesn't like but he does, and so she makes it. He props himself up against the kitchen counter to drink it while she puts the final touches on breakfast. Sometimes they talk, and sometimes they're silent, preferring company to conversation, but they always eat together.
There are mornings when he sighs as he scans the contents of his drawer and, hand heavy, finally selects one that moments later he feels something light and small on his shoulder. He turns to find a beautiful face with an enamoring smile gazing up at him. She takes the tie and fixes it with deft fingers, and after she's done, he kisses her, and this time it is a different sigh heaved.
The man who owns the blue house loves his wife more than anything, and he will do anything to give her the best things in life. Even if that means enduring a hellish job, he will because he loves her terribly.
In the evenings and when the weather is nice, he often comes home to find her laboring in the garden amongst the plants she so cares for. The sun radiates off her wonderful russet curls and sets them blazing beneath her floppy hat, and her gloves, though dainty and girlish, are covered in dirt. He could lean against the side of the house all day, one hand shoved into his pocket and the other holding his discarded jacket over his shoulder, and be content to just watch her, pouring her heart, like every other action, into the care of the plants. But she always notices him, sometimes quickly, other times after a while, and when she does she readily sheds her dirty gloves, pushes back her sunhat, and greets him like he's been gone forever, and he kisses her because he has longed for her all that time.
When the weather is nice, they take dinner in the garden, and they'll talk while the evening grows old and the stars glisten above them. They gaze at the trellis with its bench seats and wisteria climbing all over it. It takes him back to when they'd been young, and they'd sat underneath one very similar at school, on a balmy evening after he'd missed her birthday and was trying to make it up, and they had laughed, and she's forgiven him. Frequently they invite friends over for dinner in the garden; their friends who know their ways, and have lived out their own days in the same manner.
And in the winter, when the weather is harsh and it snows greatly, they'll stand inside with the fire crackling, sometimes with wine, always entangled, watching as the snow coats their lovely land. It brings him back to a bleak, heart-wrenching time when he'd held her as she broke, sobbing into his chest in the freezing cold, and later clutching her to him when they'd lowered the casket into the ground. But it also reminds him of how they spent that winter together, drowning their sorrow in each other's company, and how they'd somehow been happy. And he'd proposed in the winter, the middle of November years later after they'd been able to piece together their lives and had gotten so used to being together that they didn't know what to do without each other. He thinks of twirling with her down the sidewalk in their school days, how they had danced because it made her smile, and that made him smile, and they were in love without ever having to say it.
They decorate in the winter. While it snows outside, they fill the house with garland and a grand evergreen in the living room. Candles float in every window sill, or at least the sills of rooms they frequent, and on tables and shelves. And it is beautiful.
The man who owns the blue house frequently finds himself laying in bed at night and staring the ceiling, her head on his chest. She keeps one arm over him while the other hand is interlocked with his, or his fingers play with hers; or sometimes, they lay together and he runs his hands through her curls. They can do this for hours, simply laying together, trapped beneath the covers, before sleep overtakes one of them. He frequently finds he has to force himself out of bed in the mornings after a sleepless night, when her body is contoured perfectly into his own and her skin is pressed against his. His job is a chore in comparison to spending time at home, but he does it because if he didn't, then she would not have everything he is able to give her.
Once upon a time, he had wanted to be a fireman. It had been his boyish dream to drive—even ride—one of the trucks; he had dreamed of being able to save people, of being their hero, and that want had never really gone away. But as he'd grown older, and he'd been sent off to school, he realized that he would never be a firefighter, and that he couldn't even save himself.
He'd been wild and reckless as a boy, wild, reckless, and rebellious. He'd hated the stiff structure of the school, and on multiple attempts had tried to get thrown out. It had only worked after the world had crashed at his feet, but even then it had not truly worked, not when his father could pay enough for them to take him back. Just a tiny part of him had been chipped then, a tiny part of him had realized he was doomed forever to this life. He would graduate to a prestigious college and go to be a banker, and lead a life of quiet meanness and desperation
She knew all of this, and she understood it. She knew of his need for escape, and so she'd happily moved away from the city into their quiet mountain Walden. She knew how monotonous his daily life was, and she'd try to surprise him. On one occasion, they'd been lying in bed, curled against one another, when she had rolled over and asked to go to Europe. The next day, they booked their tickets and rooms, packed up, and went to Spain for a week.
In the same way that she kept him spirited, she also calmed him. After hell was unleashed, she'd begged him not to do anything stupid, and he'd complied. She talked him out of his irrational thoughts, and she kept him on track.
In a few years, they'll have a child, and the man will be just as devoted to him as he is his wife. He will give his son the very best that money can buy, but unlike his predecessors, he will give him choices. The choice to go to his alma mater will be his son's, and he will make sure that, if he ends up working as a banker, that it it because he wants to. He will see himself in his son, energetic and unable to find a way to express it, and he knows that if he isn't careful, then his son will end up just as desperate and reckless as his father. And a year or so after that, there will come a daughter, just a beautiful as her mother yet his spitting image, and she will live the life that her mother didn't; she will not live walking on eggshells, trying to balance her father and brother, being the mediator to everyone's problems and dragged into their drama because she cannot say no.
Between the woods and the lake, there is a blue house surrounded by the Vermont mountains, and the house is owned by a man who hates his job and the exterior life he lives but loves his family more than anything. And though it takes a while, the lessons he'd learned in the one brief, joyful time of his youth finally sink in. Here in the Vermont mountains live his passions; his noble pursuit of banking is necessary. Necessary not for his needs, but for him to give them anything they could want.
Between the woods and the lake, there is a blue house surrounded by the Vermont mountains, and the house is owned by a man who is surrounded by a wonderful family. And somehow, despite his terrible job, he is happy.