Mark and Me

“Now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates.”—Mark Twain

By the time I arrived in Hannibal, it was late—too late to go sightseeing anyway. So the adventure started the next day. My hotel was across the street from Mark Twain’s childhood home, and so after breakfast, I walked toward the cobblestone path that would lead me into the past of a much-admired American author.

I bought my ticket for the self-guided tour, which started in a small museum that had pictures of the author attached to biographical information and quotes. It was fascinating to learn about the parts of his life that shaped him into the writer that he became—in particular, the loss of his father that turned a young boy into a grown man with grown up responsibilities practically overnight. The rebel in Tom Sawyer—his need to break free and “be a pirate”—became clear as I learned about Mark Twain’s own childhood.

After reading all of the facts posted on the wall beside the many photographs, I walked out to his house.

In the front was a portion of the white picket fence that shows up in Tom Sawyer, the one that Tom tricks his friends into washing. A bucket and brush sat beside it so that tourists could pretend they were painting the fence as they snapped pictures. People had scribbled their names across it—some with big hearts and happy faces drawn beside the letters. Once I had taken some photos for myself (and then subsequently took some for couples and families who wanted to pose together), I followed the marked path to the back of the home where we could enter. The rooms were blocked off with glass, scenes depicted in the different spaces throughout the house--the kitchen, the bedrooms, the library.

Props were set up to make it feel as though the house had been left untouched since Mark Twain’s last visit—marbles and spinning tops scattered on the bed, a shawl draped across the kitchen chair, spectacles resting on a pile of papers in the library. Mark Twain’s bedroom had a view of the Becky Thatcher house, and I wondered if their homes had really been across the street from one another and if a young Mark Twain would glance through his window to see his sweetheart, the one who became Becky in Tom Sawyer.

In the back, a pebbled walkway led to the childhood home of the boy who inspired Huck Finn (whose real name was Tom Blackenship).

He was a poor boy with seven siblings and a father who was known as the town drunk. And from all accounts, he and Mark Twain were inseparable. The house itself was small and shack-like, with an outhouse in front of it—it was a modern reproduction of the original home. It had only two rooms—a fireplace in each and wood floors throughout. I had to wonder how difficult it would have been to care for and raise so many children in such little space. It stood in stark contrast to the house I had just walked through, Mark Twain’s. On the walls were pictures and quotes from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. In one poster, there is a summary of the story: a boy who chooses to help a slave escape to freedom. This is a defining moment of the novel. Huck makes the decision to help Jim despite his fear of both society’s and God’s condemnation, saying, “all right then, I’ll go to hell.”

Across the street was the Becky Thatcher house, which was, sadly, closed for remodeling at the time of my visit. I could only see its exterior, although I wish I could have snuck in somehow to see Becky's world

Beside the Becky Thatcher house was the law offices where Mark Twain's father worked. It is presumably the courthouse that is described in Tom Sawyer. Inside were a desk, a judge’s gown, and benches. A sign outside of the office explained that Mark Twain once saw a dead body on the floor of this building, and rather than being scared, he felt annoyed because he had to climb out the window. Strange? Not really. Not if you consider the story of Tom Sawyer. Not if Mark Twain’s real world truly paralleled the stories he wrote. Then dead bodies found by young curious boys weren’t all together uncommon.

Down the street from the buildings flowed the Mississippi, and across it I could see the islands that likely represented Jackson Island where Tom Sawyer hid and formed a pirate gang with his friends. There were no ferries to take me there, but I sat in front of the river and contemplated everything I had seen as I stared off in its direction.

As I walked through each of these buildings, reading the descriptions and explanations, I thought about the author, and how his feet had tread through that space and his imagination had flourished. The streets were different—so much had changed from his time to ours—and yet these small spaces had been saved. There is a sense of fulfillment, as a writer, to see the world that inspires another writer, almost a calling or a feeling of home. Somehow as writers, I think we’re kindred spirits to one another. We can understand each other in ways that perhaps others can’t. We get how a dead body on the floor can inspire rather than terrify a young boy with a vivid imagination.

And maybe I hoped that as kindred spirits, Mark Twain’s could stir mine to persevere and pursue my dream of writing. To keep trying until the dream was realized. Maybe he’d be willing to help. Just maybe.

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