Alfred the Alchemist | Allyson Vinson (11)

We all have that one person from our past that's transformed our view of life. Whether it’s a best friend from grade school, a teacher, or a close family member, everyone has that one

special influential figure. For me, it was this little old man named Old Al. Or at least that’s what

we called him. “We”, of course, meaning all the elementary school kids in the small town of

Arthur, Illinois.

Every Friday after school, me and a handful of beaming, boisterous eight-year-olds

would skip over to the library to see our favorite person: Old Al. He never failed to greet us with

his thick gray mustache crooked into a radiating smile. “Gather round young’uns, I have something cool to show you,” he’d always say before performing his magic. He called himself

an Alchemist.

At the time, I barely knew what that meant, let alone how to spell it. But in my little

eight-year-old brain, if it meant Old Al, it meant happiness. He would marvel us with his tricks.

He’d make cards change their suits, pebbles turn to dice, and pennies change to gold! It was pure magic! He gave me a golden coin once–which I still have to this day. We would sit and watch for hours, dazzled by his craft. Reflecting on them now, they were quite simple tricks, but boy did we love them.

Tricks weren’t the only thing up his sleeve, he also cracked a lot of jokes. He would

often joke that he was so old, that Issac Newton himself taught him the art of Alchemy. Despite

not really knowing who that was, it still made me smile.

We went through this routine with him every Friday until sixth grade. I’m not exactly

sure what happened, but I guess my passion for his magic simmered down. Then just like that,

Old Al disappeared from my young mind like a magician on a stage.

Until my sophomore year. I was in chemistry in Arthur High school and we were doing a

lab where we mixed a penny in a solution to turn it into ‘gold’. “Alchemy”, I remember thinking,

“Old Al”. I wondered what he was doing, if he was still practicing his art and making people

laugh, if he was even still alive.

Ironically, that next Friday I was shopping with my mom when I spotted that same

elderly stature that defined my childhood: Old Al. However, the old man seemed strangely

unfamiliar. He did not have his typical bright crooked smile, instead, his thick gray mustache was twisted downwards. He did not have the playful joyous appearance I remembered, he seemed but an aged ghost of a man. Most notably, he did not have any coins on him. He did not have anything to transform into little golden joys.

Rather, he sulked through the garden aisle, scanning the floral selection with eyes

clouded with despair. His unsettling appearance was enough to turn me away. As if he was a

stranger, I kept my distance. I don’t believe he noticed me, if so, I would never know.

The next day, as I was biking home, I caught a glimpse of his familiar gray mustache

through the window of our local diner. Instinctively, I stopped to observe. To my despair, his

mournful expression remained; however, this time his despondent gray eyes were fixed on a cold cup of coffee sitting across from him. Though this time he had one of his coins with him. It laid adjacent to the cold cup, as if it was keeping it company. Old Al himself had no company. It was just him, his own coffee, the cold cup, and the coin. I must have stood there for a good five

minutes watching...wondering. Never once did the old man raise his gaze from the cup. I never

knew why. That’s when it occurred to me that I really didn’t know much about Old Al.

Arthur, Illinois is a small town. Everyone knows each other, and everyone knows each

other’s business. If you didn’t know, you would find out the next day in the paper. But as for Old

Al, he seemed to lurk under the radar of attention. As a child, I only ever saw him at the library,

nowhere else. It’s strange to think about now. The man I thought I knew and loved, I actually

knew nothing about. I didn’t even know his full name.

That all changed the following Friday. It was a chilly autumn afternoon. I was bundled up

in my scarf and mittens taking a calm little nature walk through the park. Then, I saw him. He

was anchored on a park bench, looking hazily out upon the field of lilies. Though, his gaze was

locked on a small wooden headboard about a half a mile away. He held tightly onto a bouquet of

freshly-picked flowers, along with a single golden coin.

Initially, I was hesitant to speak; but as I got closer, I knew this conversation was

inevitable. I inched up to the sedate figure with apprehension in each step. Finally, about one foot away, I scraped up the courage to ask, “Old Al, is that you? I’m sorry to interrupt but I was

wondering if you remember me from your time at the library. It’s been such a long time”.

Startled, Old Al carefully turned to me. But the sight of my face seemed to induce a slight smile

on his otherwise placid expression. “Ah yes, I never forget my young’uns,” he said, "Come, sit

with me for a while.” So I did. “I apologize” he said, “I’m afraid I don’t have any tricks today.”

I chuckled. “It’s alright. Anyways, how are you doing these days?” A dash of sorrow

passed over his face when he said, “It’s been alright. I gave up my act of Alchemy not too long

ago, now I’m just waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” I replied curiously. “For an act of Alchemy to reach my life.” He

replied, looking back out to the wooden headboard. “Oh, what do you mean?” I said. “Well

young’un,” He replied, “my life has not been easy. It’s been a repeated cycle of failed alchemy.

In fact, I was not always an Alchemist. I was a farmer,” briefly, his eyes lowered from the

headboard, “with a wife, and a son.” I looked at him in shock, “Wow, I would have never

known!” He turned back to me and said, “Well young’un, you don’t know a lot about me. No one

does.”

“I’d like to know,” I replied, “ if you’d like to tell.” He started with a sigh, then said, “

Well, here you go. I am a Swedish Immigrant. I arrived in America shortly before the great

depression. Me and my wife Clara came in search of farmland to start a family. The American

dream, as they say. And, for a brief moment, that dream came true. We stumbled upon this place in Arthur, Illinois. It had a ton of land, but it was worth almost nothing. In fact it cost me a mere penny. But Clara and I were determined to turn that penny into gold – to turn the land into a home.” He paused to look out on the field again. Impatient and eager to hear more, I asked,

“Then what happened?” He lowered his eyes and said, “We almost did it. We bought seeds,

started planting, and had a beautiful baby boy. That was the closest we ever came to transforming our lives – turning the penny to gold. Unfortunately, life transformed us.”

A moment of silence passed, then he started again, “Today is my son’s birthday. These

flowers are for him, as for this penny.” Old Al fidgeted with the faded copper penny, “I have to

admit I knew some Alchemy back then. I used it to humor him. In fact, this was the first penny I

changed for him. He loved it. I can almost hear his giggles now,” He took a pause to gaze up at

the ginger sky. I took this opportunity to ask, “What was his name?”

“Lucas,” he revealed, “A name short lived.”

“Oh.” I said, but he continued, “It was the wake of the depression. Lucas was just

three-years-old and he fell ill. I tried to conjure up a remedy from every last dying crop we had,

but failed. Lucas died in the first winter of the depression.” “But then the cycle continued. My

beautiful wife, at the young age of 30, died of pneumonia in the last winter of the depression. I

never manage to create a successful elixir. Nothing could bring them back. Nothing could create

that same happiness in me again.”

I didn’t know what to say, but I surely felt his pain, “Old Al, I am so sorry.” He sat there,

gaze still fixed on the backboard, and said, “I know young’un, I know. But I have learned from

it. Just promise me you’ll remember my words, you hear?” I shook my head yes. He then left me

with these words, “I found a way to change a coin, but I never found out the secret to changing

reality. Remember that young’un. No matter how hard you try, you can never truly make the

universal elixir, so you have to work with what you got.”

Finally, Old Al pulled himself up and made his way over to the wooden backboard to

place his coin and flowers. That time, though, I followed. I had one last dire question. “Is

everything ok young’un?” he asked. “Yeah it’s ok,” I said, “I just have to ask, what is your full

name?” He looked down at me with the slightest of smiles and answered, “Alfred Lars Nilsson.”

And with that, he turned to the horizon and walked into the distance. Disappearing once again.

I wouldn’t hear of him until two months later, in the paper. It was his first and last time

on the news. The headlines read: 70 YEAR OLD MAN HIT OUTSIDE OF HOME WHILE

GARDENING. Turns out a distracted driver didn’t see little Old Al bent over his flower garden.

That one blow killed him almost instantly. I was devastated by the news, and I still feel the pain

to this day. Apart from that, I like to think that he’s in a better place now.

Sadly, his funeral was much better than his death. It was a brief event with only a handful

of people attending. The only townspeople that showed were the coffee shop managers and the

Library staff. No family. Lucky, I was able to contact my peers from my elementary school to

show up and send their condolences. Yet, out of all those people, I was the only speaker.

I vividly remember that day. I wore my best black dress, complete with a little black hand

purse: which contained a tissue, my written speech, and the golden coin Old Al gave to me years ago. I was filled with emotions that day, and I poured them all into my speech. There, on that tiny rotwood podium with my gold coin in hand, I remarked,

“Greetings. We are all gathered here today to mourn the passing of a wonderful person

this town knows by Old Al. Most of us know him by the light he brought to the community. He

had a sort of magic that allowed him to make anyone smile with just a flick of a coin. His talent

is most notably remembered by the kids in the library, me included. Though his life seemed to be defined by joy, he’s always held an explainable sorrow hidden behind his smiley gray mustache. Old Al was hurting, but no one saw it. No one knew his flip side. I, too, was one of those people. I didn’t even know his full name until two months ago. Who here knew his full name?” Silence.

“Alfred Lars Nilsson,” I continued, “ is the man we are morning today. But who was he

really? Alfred Nilsson was a Swedish immigrant, moving to the United States just before the

Great Depression. Alfred Nilsson was a farmer in search of American farmland to start a family

with his wife, Clara Nilsson. Alfred Nilsson was a father to three-year-old Lucas Nilsson. Alfred

Nilsson was a happy man, until he fell victim to the Great Depression. Until his baby boy died in

his hands. Until his loving wife passed away from sickness.”

“Alfred Nilsson was not an Alchemist until he failed the art of Alchemy when he really

needed it, twice. Even so, Alchemy was still just a metaphor to him. He searched far and wide,

trial after trial, to find a universal elixir but he fell short every time. He repeatedly failed to make

something valuable out of his worthless situation. Until he found us. We became his children. We transformed his sorrow into happiness. All this time we believed that he was performing the

magic for us, but truly, we were the magic for him. We were the true Alchemists. Now, I know if

Old Alfred Nilsson was with us today, he’d want me to tell you what he told me two months ago:

‘I found a way to change a coin, but I never found out the secret to changing reality. Remember

that young’un. No matter how hard you try, you can never truly make the universal elixir, so you

have to work with what you got.’ And so, he worked with it. Hence, we should too. We all have

that one person from our past, that Alchemist, that opened our eyes to the magic of this world.

Yet behind all the magic, comes reality. For me, it was he who gave me both sides: Old Al,

Alfred Nilsson, Alfred the immigrant, Alfred the farmer, Alfred the Alchemist. And I believe what I learned from him is more precious than gold.”