I sit at my desk with a sense of quiet anticipation, prepared to share with you a piece of writing that means a great deal to me—a piece written by my grandfather, Gordon Alfredson, born on June 26, 1930, in Meriden, Connecticut. His father was an immigrant from the rural area of Västergötland, Sweden, and though the man himself was a man of few words, the legacy he left behind can be felt in every sentence that follows. My grandfather was a man who carried himself with a quiet dignity, an engineer’s meticulous attention to detail, and a love of jazz music that colored his days with notes of improvisation and joy.

Though he never attended college, he was, in his own way, an educated man. He was the sort of man who believed in reading, in the value of civic discussions, and in fixing what needed fixing, both in the world and within himself. He belonged to a generation of working men—he spent his entire career at Ryerson, a steel company in his hometown—who took pride in their work and in the simple act of building something with their own hands.

It occurs to me that in these days, a time so different from his, some may regard men of his background as closed-minded, or even hostile to new ideas. Yet I believe his story shows another side of that world—a time when a man could be blue-collar and still carry a mind open to reflection, curiosity, and growth. My grandfather’s life reminds me that it was not always the case that lines were drawn so sharply between thinking and doing, between working with one’s hands and expanding one’s mind.

In his later years, when the habits of youth caught up with him—when he was forced to carry an oxygen tank with him everywhere—he made a point of stopping young people on the street to tell them not to follow his path into smoking. It was a gesture that spoke of a man who had learned, who carried the humility to admit his mistakes, and the strength to try to spare others from them.

And so today, with a sense of reverence and no small measure of gratitude, I share his words—a glimpse into a time of 1930s Fords, clouds of cigarette smoke rolling from windows, and a camaraderie that made the long days of school bearable. It is a window into a past that, for all its differences, still speaks to the best in us: that desire to reflect, to grow, and to remember what it was to be young.

May you find in this essay not only the voice of Gordon Alfredson, but also a reminder of what it means to live, to think, and to treasure the small joys that make up the story of a life.

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Between Classes

A Hicks Prize-Winning Essay by Gordon Alfredson

Everything is serene. All but one person is quiet. Everyone is in expectation of a precious moment when they may escape this exhausting tranquility.

I am waiting. Waiting and waiting.

Many thoughts are revolving in my subconscious at this time each day.

I am still waiting.

I begin to believe that the moment I am awaiting will never arrive.

All of the questions which my subconscious is asking me are almost completely answered when a faint, faraway noise rouses me. The moment of great expectation has arrived; instantly, instantly I react to the sound and gather up all of my equipment and make a heroic dash for the doorway, hoping to be the first to reach the outer recesses.

The bell is signaling that the time is twelve twenty-five and that school is dismissed.

Gad, what a relief.

After placing my brain matter under a laborious strain all morning it is a heavenly feeling to have twenty-five minutes of freedom in which to do whatever I please before returning for my seventh period class.

As soon as the dismissal bell rings I rush like a picnicker being chased like a bull. Leaving the room behind I head for my locker where I gather up my coat and lunch. After acquiring these two necessities I hurry outside to rid my lungs of the hot, stagnant air which fills the rooms and corridors of our high school.

After treating my lungs to the fresh, clean air for a few seconds and looking over the woman situation, I cross the street and clamber into a car—specifically a nineteen thirty-six Ford—belonging to a friend of mine.

The weather up on the “hill” is cold on these winter days so a warm car is a comfortable place in which to eat, talk, and smoke.

Once in a comfortable position I open up the bag containing my lunch and peer into its mysterious depths, discovering sandwiches and an apple. I quickly take a bite of one of the sandwiches. It tastes delicious. Then and only then do I realize how hungry I really am. In no time at all the tasty, hunger-satisfying food is devoured.

While I am eating, five more of my friends arrive and seat themselves in the car.

In a few minutes papers and bags are thrown out of the doors and windows, soon followed by particles of sandwiches, cake, cookies, and fruit.

When these cleaning up operations are carried out, cigarettes are lighted. The first drag is the only one I enjoy. In a few minutes the car is filled with smoke, and finally with much arguing I persuade them to open the windows a short distance. The smoke pours out of the car. A passerby would think that the car was on fire.

The after-dinner smoke is followed by conversation. It ranges from gossip to intellectual discussions. Most of the talk is about members of the opposite sex and the likes and dislikes about members of the faculty, complaints about the excess of homework, and criticisms about courses and the management of the high school.

From discussions with these friends of mine and other students who show a lack of school spirit, I have arrived at the conclusion that if we had younger, friendlier teachers and principals and weren’t held down as we now are, a remarkable improvement in the all-important school spirit would be noticed.

I take part in all of these events in the car until approximately twenty minutes of one, when I excuse myself and reenter the high school.

I place my coat in my locker and then circulate about the corridors, looking over the feminine part of the sophomore class while on my merry way to visit my favorite female sophomore.

We stand around the corridor and talk for a few minutes and then I escort her to her homeroom before the tardy bell rings.

Leaving my friend’s homeroom I go downstairs to the basement, where I stand around in front of room eight with the other students waiting for period seven to begin. Practical jokers are numerous at this scene of feverish activity. Some are eating and a few innocent souls make a useless attempt to study but are soon forced to give it up by other, more joyous students.

One minute before the bell signals the beginning of period seven I leave the crowd and hurry upstairs to await the signal.

The bell rings, and the sophomores surge out of their homerooms. Amid the noise and confusion I meet my friend, and we converse until seventh period begins. Then I say farewell and depart for my now famous seventh period class.

School, even though considered boring and dull, has its bright moments and someday when I am old and decrepit I will look back on my youthful days and treasure these moments which comprise the joys of my high school life.

Chapter I

Not every forest has a witch, but every witch has a forest. Sometimes they live there, but other times not; a city witch or warlock might be perfectly content to visit the forest only every month. After a long few weeks of breaking into the blood bank for some occasional rations, of charming rats to climb up to sip from people’s drinks and then spit them in her glass for a refreshing cocktail, and of climbing trees at night to reach the greatest possible height for some restorative moonbathing, there’s only so long witches and warlocks can wait before heading back to the forest to commune with Mother Nature from whom their powers emanate.

But if the forest is so much healthier for magic people, why don’t they live there all the time? Only for the same reasons that a human doesn’t live in the woods: it’s harder to get access to good-quality candy and chocolates, of course. While witches’ and warlocks’ powers extend over many domains, creating satisfying confections has proved a perennial difficulty for all but a few because most of their hearts are so rotten and withered that a spell cast for the sake of delight falls short in all but the most isolated cases. In fact, the reason most get so weary and grumpy past a certain age is that they spend all their energy trying and failing to make a perfectly normal chocolate bar, no better than the ones you can buy at the corner store for one or two dollars, or else some other treat, such as nougat or cotton candy.

Given this limitation, then why wouldn’t magic people try to make chocolates and candy the same way a human would, that is, by hand? Well, the answer is that they do, all the time, in fact! Legend has it that chocolate itself was invented by a warlock looking for a flavor powerful enough to sustain his sweet tooth over longer periods of time than with sugar alone. The idea for cotton candy arose from one witch who’d attempted for her follicles to grow sugar string out of her skin instead of hair. And in the modern world, magic people are responsible for producing eighty percent of the world’s confections.

“If we give so much to them, why do we have to hide who we are?” Ami Edsee asked her father Decdan one morning at breakfast before she walked to school. “We like blood, so what? Our condition could be medically classified and then we’d be eligible to pick up rations from the doctor like any normal patient needing a transfusion. We’re just like humans, just a little bit different.”

“Oh, a little different, eh? I guess in the same way that a murderer in prison is just a little different from your average office secretary- one of them just happens to be EVIL!!!...” Decdan exclaimed, conjuring a little thundercloud to send lightning bolts into the coffee cups on their kitchen table and inverting his face so his eyes appeared where his mouth had been and his mouth took shape on his forehead.

“Stop, please don’t burn my coffee, and don’t make that face! I’m not evil and neither are you. At least no more evil than anyone who buys a steak at the supermarket,” Ami said.

“It’s true, sweetmeats, you’re not evil and neither am I, but in the end, that doesn’t matter, at least in the eyes of the law. You already know why I hid, Ami, it’s for you. Because I just wanted a daughter with someone to look after her in a world that would steal her in the blink of an eye if they knew the truth.”

“But has everyone lived this way, Dad? What about the Candy Creek Conven-”

“I told you, Ami, we don’t talk about that at the table. I’m a tolerant guy, but I need to protect you from being radicalized. The moment we sugarize the natural world, the game ends for you, for me, your Aunt Topsee, every sucresang you’ve known and all the rest.”

To interrupt our story, make sure you don’t insult a witch or warlock if you happen to be lucky enough for them to share their true identity with you, because you might well guess they can’t stand being called the “W” words. Most prefer “sucresang,” a term coined in the 18th century by noted warlock philosopher Pierre Nougat, who sought to elegantly convey the combined lust for sugar and blood shared by most members of the global tribe.

Ami looked into her coffee, silenced but not deterred. She’d only read about the Candy Creek Convention, a utopian delegation who had tried to combine their powers to convert the South Nahanni River in the Northwest Territories of Canada into a permanent source of rich sugar syrup, first for the members of their community, but then eventually for all the sucresangs as they migrated into the remote land, largely devoid of human settlement. The first stage of their plan worked as intended, not only converting the waters to a sweetened form, but also all the creatures living inside it: the fish to gummies, the marshgrass to licorice sticks, and the rocks to… well, rock candy.

The problem was looking well near solved, until one day when a young boy found the waters, tried every treat he could find, and then invited his friends back the next day. Of course there was plenty for the kids and the sucresangs to share, but there was only one problem: the children never went back home.

You might be thinking the worst: “Oh, don’t say it! They got eaten!” but that’s not the case at all. Although sucresangs are mortal like humans, unlike us, they can’t have children: the only way they add to their clan is by stealing. If a child has eaten enough sugar, then he or she generates a smell strong enough for any potential sucresang mother to detect from at least one town away. Once she finds her sweetie, she feeds him or her a homemade candy charmed with her strongest spell, and then the child is “sucrosanct,” to use the legal term. His or her memories of life until that point vanish with a sneeze and are replaced with an imaginary childhood that the mother chooses for her child, and from that point the rest of his or her life continues where the mother’s fantasy left off, living with a new “s’mom” and “s’dad.” When the child is grown, then the cycle continues.

These kidnappings aren’t mean-spirited, and the children live as healthy and fun a life as their new s’mom and s’dad know how to provide, but as you can imagine, most parents aren’t very accepting of their children being stolen, especially by syrup sippers living in the woods. The Candy Creek Convention was well aware of this, and worked out a solution: once the sucresang parents had claimed a child, they would move to where he’d come from, explain their magical origins, and integrate into the community, including with the parents of the kids they’d taken, who were to be appointed godparents. But every time some parents mustered the bravery to go through with this plan, they got run out of town, and the child was returned to his or her original family. In this way, the Candy Creek Convention naturally faded from a lack of children, and the sucresangs sank back into their secretive obscurity.

Knowing this story, Ami knew that she too was stolen, but didn’t have any memory of her human parents, nor even of the sucresang mother who claimed her. Where had she lived? What had she wanted to be when she grew up? Was life happier with her old parents? And what happened to her s’mom, Decdan’s wife, the one who had thought her the sweetest? Likely Decdan knew the answers to at least half of these questions, but she could never ask him because any time she brought up the past, he’d explode with rage, literally. She was tired of going to the department store for replacement plates and mugs every time this happened, so eventually she learned to keep those thoughts to herself.

“All I’m saying, Dad, is that maybe if we explained ourselves to the humans without stealing their children first, maybe at least some people would l-”

“I can’t listen to this anymore. You know I’ve gotten better at controlling myself, so you’re not going to make me explode, but keep talking and nothing good is going to happen, so please don’t test me. You know I love you; I just want to keep you safe, sweetmeats.”

As she picked her bag up without another word, the tears welling in her eyes, Decdan called after her, his voice breaking, “At some point you decided our world isn’t good enough for you, is that it?”

And indeed, it was.

Chapter II

Stepping outside, head still spinning with anger and some regret from her confrontation with Decdan, Ami sneezed, same as usual on her first contact with the raw, diesel- and garbage-drenched air of the Montrakken city streets. The only natural beauty within eyeshot in any direction was a sickly tree with limp, jaundiced leaves and an anthill constructed in the sidewalk crack nearest the base of the public trash can by her front door. The ants could often be seen drinking the puddles left behind from discarded beverages around the bin, and sometimes the hill even featured colored streaks where the dyes from the sugary drinks had stuck to the sandy soil.

Ami had dreamt of a different life as soon as she’d realized that as a sucresang daughter, she’d have to fulfill three unwavering obligations to her kind: first, to steal a child of her own once she came of age; second, to marry from within the sucresang clan; and third, to get a job in a candy shop or factory so she’d be able to steal enough sweet foods to sustain the family as they lived on the margins of society. No sucresang man or woman could take a job that involved any sort of public recognition or accomplishment, because the chances were too high that one of them would be identified as a long-missing person and the authorities would step in and break up the family. As a result, sucresang children were discouraged from scholarly efforts, lest they’d find a haven in the world of thought, letters, and math, and thereby endanger themselves and their kin.

That didn’t stop Ami, though; she had learned to read by kindergarten, was writing her own short stories by the age of seven, and taking geometry classes from the middle school while still only in fourth grade, winning her praise and awards in school, and mixed reactions from Decdan, who loved to see Ami happy, but froze at the dangerous implications of her excellence.

After a few treacherous parent conferences with Decdan, who mistrusted anyone who even mentioned the word “school”, the teachers and administrators at her school realized Ami was more than capable of representing herself, so they reported directly to her. Eventually, they even conceded to her pleas for them to print a fake report card to take home with all D’s and F’s instead of her true grades— straight A’s—just for the relief of her father, who desperately longed for her to fail for her own safety.

Despite these accomplishments, Ami didn’t think much about the future, or have any grand plan for her life, and why should she? After all, she was only a kid, and her job was to enjoy life.

Thinking of her mundane breakfast of black coffee, oatmeal, a few bacon slices, and an orange, Ami felt a customary pang, and thought of the more complicated and gruesome aspect of her identity: within a few days, her urge for blood would reach an unbearable peak, and unlike the natural cravings for sugar that she felt along with her fellow witches, this one couldn’t be resolved in the city alone. The witch cocktails drunk from rats did the trick on the day to day, but in the long term, only one food source could satisfy: the hearts of wolves.

Ami met her weekend trips to the forest with as much shame as pleasant anticipation. If it had been possible for her to be a vegetarian, then she would eagerly have chosen that path, but her hard-wired drive was too strong; it would be like asking a lion to switch to salads for its daily meals. But after each gruesome hunting session, she always felt she was giving her father more reason to argue that, as a sucresang, she could never change and any desire to would go against nature.

To be continued…