Grumpy Melissa

The only reason I'm using this blog at the moment is because I don't know how to delete it. I imagine that no one looks here anymore so I can put up pictures of Melissa without her getting mad at me.
Melissa doesn't like when I take photos of her, so most of the photos on my iPod look like this:

The Layout of Most Books by Retired Teachers

Once upon a time I was a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant Republican from a large farm in the suburbs. After graduating at the top of my class at the extremely reputable college of (obscure college that no one has ever heard of) I moved into the city to fulfill my lifelong desire of teaching underprivileged children. My first day of class the students were extremely rude but I saw through their rudeness to the wonderful children within and decided to become hip and cool so they would like me and begin to love reading more than video games and swearing. For the rest of the year I was in punching fights with unjust parents, principals, and gang members to protect my precious children who would laugh at every joke that I told them and respond to my nicknames that I had lovingly given them and cry when I talked about sensitive issues like coming from broken homes. Somewhere along the way I fell in love with a beautiful female White Anglo-Saxon Protestant Republican who also taught in the inner city school and we had a lot of fun picnics together while we saved the education and lives of many children under our care. Many years later I retired and every single student that I had taught for thirty years came and cried and applauded for me for many hours. There was a funny and emotional powerpoint and when I gave my speech everyone cried and the scene slowly faded into darkness like the end of all inspirational movies. The End.

Things I Accomplished Freshman Year

1.) Wrote many, many poems, including a 16 stanza Spenserian sonnet sequence (that sounds like a poem itself) for Nicole and a poem for each one of my professors.

2.) Read many, many good books. Some of the wonderful books that I read were assigned by good professors, but most were ones that I had been wanting to read for a long time anyway.

3.) Bought a classic car. (1993 Toyota Camry)

4.) Ate Garlock food for the entire year without throwing up once.

5.) Became an uncle for the third time to little Liam, who bears the honor of being the second L Smith.

6.) Attended the RPO with the Reverend Scott Caton Ph.D.

7.) Bought clothes all by myself.

8.) Filed my taxes for the first time and managed to get money back from both the State and Federal Government.

9.) Landed a sweet gig as a student telecounselor, raking in the big bucks despite the constant terrorizing of a short and tyrannical boss.

10.) Avoided failing, debt, substance abuse, STDs, murder, and Astronomy.

Recently Reading

War in Heaven &
The Place of the Lion by Charles Williams
What I Saw in America by G.K. Chesterton
Population: 485 by Michael Perry
The Essays of Montaigne
Quentin Durward by Sir Walter Scott

Great Meetings

Some people have been blessed with enormous personalities. Whether their personalities are overbearing, goofy, bombastic, ridiculous, or wonderful, these people remain in one's mind long after a conversation like the taste of garlic remains in one's mouth long after a lunch of mashed potatoes. The silly expression or the outrageous claim keeps popping up again and again in one's mind to cause either a smile or a grimace of remembrance. Occasionally I have the pleasure of seeing great personalities meet one another and observing how well or terribly they get along. This study gives me so much enjoyment that I often find myself thinking up all sorts of hypothetical combinations and imagining how their conversations might ensue. For instance, I've always thought that Lucas Allamon and Father Ox would be a real delight to watch together. Or perhaps Hayden and Buttons from Anamaniacs.
I have just finished reading War in Heaven and The Place of the Lion by Charles Williams. Both books were certainly the products of a man with a marvelous imagination and personality. Both novels were filled with Romance and incredible descriptions of both beauty and terror, and characters that were just as memorable as the man who had thought them up. As I was finishing up the second book, I kept thinking about the letters that C.S. Lewis had sent to Charles Williams in the second volume of The Collected Letters. I reread the correspondance between the two afterwards, and witnessed the great meeting of two men who each had such remarkable personalities. Isn't it wonderful to have read what someone else has read, and thought what someone else has thought? Reading C.S. Lewis praise the author that I have praised is like introducing two separate friends for the first time, and explaining to each how wonderful each one is.   

Bill (For Professor Hayes)

Bill sits writing in his office

For days, and even weeks.

You'd notice, if you sat with Bill,

He writes louder than he speaks.

To write one book is wonderful,

To write two books is splendid.

Bill begins to write his next

Before his last has ended.

But Bills across all history

Have always been prolific:

Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Thackeray

Were copious and terrific.

So Bill keeps writing everyday

And I suppose he always will

Until the world runs out of ink

Or the world runs out of Bill.

Dr. Ziegler (A Lucasorical Parkathos)

Ziegler Parkathos.

The commendation of Dr. Ziegler must be said

Lucasorically.

Professor Ziegler

Emerged from the energy of elementary

school to educate

Exhausted eggheads.

Tired teenagers tipping towards their tables in a trance

Of total torpor.

First Year Seminar

Summons sweet sleep swifter than a strong sedative or

Some soft satin sheets.

He must play Pan's pipes

To we freshmen shepherds while we count our sheep and drink

Warm milk with Hypnos.

But Dr. Ziegler

Remains bright and chipper despite his lugubrious

And sleepy students.

For what he teaches

Is the most mundane of classes ever to have been

Conceived by a school.

When Rip Van Winkle

Stumbled into a cave, most likely he walked in on

First Year Seminar.

But Paul Ziegler,

Like the Apostle in Acts 20, always heals those

Who are bored to death.

Poor, poor Eutychus

Was undoubtedly in Paul's First Year Seminar class

When he hit the hay.

But the fault is not

With Paul or with Paul Ziegler or even with Freshmen,

But with this crash course.

I suppose that this

Class was made to give students a chance to hit the books

With their poor foreheads.

Sir Timothy

The sky above Roberts Wesleyan

Was bleak and stony grey

Students wrapped in coats and scarves

Walked fast to class that day.

Teachers peered through their windows

They felt all was not quite well,

Some stopped teaching altogether

Tho' their students couldn't tell.

Suddenly, from high above

Came an awful growl

And a roar most frightening

From a beast so foul.

It was a wicked dragon

Procrastination was his name.

He swept in from some evil country

And set Garlock all aflame.

Students came out screaming

And ran to Mohnkern and Debarr,

But the Freshmen softly slept

In First Year Seminar.

The dragon gave another bellow

And let loose a conflagration

Garlock Commons was destroyed

By the evil Procrastination.

But in the church called Pearce

There stood a goodly knight.

Sir Timothy Dwyer was his name,

All bedecked in green samite.

And lo! Before Sir Timothy

Two spirits did he see!

The Lord and Lady Roberts

Ellen and B.T.!

"Sir Knight, our college needs thee

For a worm so deplorable,

Is now destroying all the campus

With fire horrible.

His roar is thunderous

And mighty is his power

Please save what we hold so dear

The beautiful new clock tower!"

"In Christ's name I shall!"

Cried the brave Sir Timothy,

Lord Roberts offered him his sword

Called Punctuality.

"For God and President Martin!"

The stout-hearted Dwyer said,

"I shall find this evil monster

And return with just his head!"

Meanwhile Procrastination

Was being sore assailed

By ten senior trumpet players

Where the oboeists had failed.

With a burst of flame they were gone

And all moaned, man to man:

"If trumpet players cannot kill it

Then nothing or no one can!"

But a sound of steel caught their ear

And through the smoke and fire

Strode the champion of Bible classes

The mighty Dr. Dwyer.

With a single leap he found the fiend

And with a flourish he

Stabbed Punctuality in its neck,

That brave Sir Timothy.

The students gave a wild cheer

And were filled with joy and laughter

And all concerned with the tale

Lived happily ever after.

And Sir Timothy returned to teach,

Still living in his prime,

To guard the campus against all those

Who don't turn in work on time.

Dr. Koehl

Dear Dr. Koehl, I am suspicious

Or at least, I'm superstitious

Please don't think me vile or vicious

Though this question seems malicious.

But I must ask, where are you from?

From where or whence have you come?

Ambiguous answers, you've given some,

But of clear ones, you've remained dumb.

So here is my hypothesis vile,

That you have travelled many a mile

From outer space, you've come to beguile

We humans, and live on earth for a while.

For I've noticed, I confess,

For a professor you always dress

Far too well. So I guess,

You're too stylish too profess.

You seem so very out of place,

You must be from outer space.

Behind that unnaturally friendly face

Smiles one of an alien race.

No wonder you are so eloquent!

And your statements need no supplement!

For other humans' time is spent

Not knowing what the other meant.

And, well it seems to  me,

You're too clear about philosophy.

For teachers are supposed to be

More vague when they earn a Ph.D.

You're an alien, I can tell,

You acted just a bit too well.

"Your wether's bell rings doleful knell,"

No more in secret shall you dwell!

Tho' your guise was of no avail,

I commend your efforts, Koehl.

Indeed, you did too much travail

That your excellence made you fail.

Here's some advice, if you want to fool

The next set of freshmen who'll

Take your class in this school:

Be more boring and less cool.

Father Ox

Father Ox is my professor,
Friend to student and confessor,
For this unusual beast
Is both a teacher and a priest.

An Orthod-ox first is he,
His power is in history,
And his faith; Dr. Caton
Fights the world, flesh, and Satan.

An ox-ymoron is he too,
A gentle giant, a lion who
Combs his mane and drinks his tea
And sits with lambs for company.

A parad-ox, last not least,
He is a husband and a priest.
Christ called some to watch his flocks
But just one to be Father Ox.

Caton seems to be a contradiction
Venerating fact and fiction.
But as Christ was both man and God,
So truth is more than story, odd.

Father Ox is my professor
Friend to student and confessor.
Fact or fiction, he knows not a thing,
Only truth, that God is King.

Dr. Hurley

Upon his chair sits the professor,

The venerable Dr. Hurley.

Looking around at his class,

Turning, slow but surely.

In one hand he holds a book

From which he reads aloud,

And the coffee in his other

On his glasses forms a cloud.

Both the book and the coffee

He brings up to his lips,

And the rich texture of them both

He drinks with easy sips.

How I wish that I could drink

The text as Hurley does,

And enjoy my coffee in his way

With easy sips because

I suppose that all things

Are better, taken slow but surely.

And so no one has it better

Than the venerable Dr. Hurley.

Scripture Reading

I have been asked to read a passage of scripture for the Baccalaureate service for the class of 2012 at Albion. Does anyone have any suggestions for the passage?

Readings in April

Read:
The James Herriot Books
The Hunger Games Suzanne Collins
The Lord of the Flies William Golding
Bed Riddance Ogden Nash
Beloved Toni Morrison

Reading:
Silas Marner George Eliot

For A Good Teacher

"What thanks sufficient, or what recompence
Equal, have I to render thee, divine
Historian, who thus largely hast allayed
The thirst I had of knowledge, and vouchsafed
This friendly condescension to relate
Things, else by me unsearchable; now heard
With wonder, but delight, and, as is due,
With glory attributed to the high
Creator!"

-John Milton, Paradise Lost

Tea Time

For those of you who have not stopped in the charming little bookstore in Batavia lately, I would highly recommend that you do so. While the selection is limited to what a supplier sends to our cousin, the old-fashioned building is wonderfully complemented with candles, quilts, tea, and wood floors that you would not be able to find at Barnes and Noble. On Saturday Martha and I went to Present Tense while in Batavia and bought:
Evangeline and other Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
The Journal of Helene Berr
(As always, I had to go to the bathroom as soon as I began my search and couldn't find a restroom anywhere.)
I also saw three Redwall titles that I did not recognize. The old bard Brian Jacques passed away sometime last year, so we should honor him by reading the last of his excellent stories.
Another quiant little shoppe that everyone should visit is Another Time, Another Place in Millville. Although there are no books to peruse in the old church, they do serve lunch and tea and they have typewriters for sale upstairs, an immediate bonus to any store. I haven't been to Another Time, Another Place since last summer with Nicole, but we have been waiting eargerly to return ever since. If anyone would want to bike from the house with us, we'd enjoy the company.
  

The Parting Glass

"Of all the money e'er I had,
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm I've ever done,
Alas! it was to none but me.
And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all.

Oh, all the comrades e'er I had,
They're sorry for my going away,
And all the sweethearts e'er I had,
They'd wish me one more day to stay,
But since it falls unto my lot,
That I should rise and you should not,
I gently rise and softly call,
Good night and joy be with you all.

If I had money enough to spend,
And leisure time to sit awhile,
There is a fair maid in this town,
That sorely has my heart beguiled.
Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips,
I own she has my heart in thrall,
Then fill to me the parting glass,
Good night and joy be with you all."

The Parrott Family

The Parrott Family

Some Lucasorical Parkathos

Lunchtime Parkathos.

 I have waited all day to rip open this brown bag,

Tear its paper flesh.

And then reach my hand

Into its body and remove tasty intestines.

Sandwich and apple.

Twelve twenty-two is,

A feeding frenzy for famished fools who finally

Finish their fasting.

All day long we wait.

Clutching our pitiful, shrunken, persistent stomachs.

Drooling on the desk.

And then, oh we eat!

We shove whole burritos into our starving mouths and

Swallow our sirloins.

After such feasting,

We sit clutching our bloated, abused, packed-up stomachs.

Drooling on the desk.

We endure the pain,

Until we arrive home again, hungry once more for

Future leftovers.

To pack into bags,

To long for all day and eat in a way that we

All drool on our desks.

-L. Smith

Chickens

“Birds of a feather flock together,”

But chickens are a different brood.

The garrulous chicks form their own cliques

And gossip over their food.

Squawking away in a cacophonous way

Complaining their pitiful ballads

They shout and snicker, bite and bicker

And cluck moodily over their salads.

My own flock are well-led by a cockerel,

Chanticleer, and Sonya the drake.

And thirteen hens who pretend to be friends

For mine and the bachelors’ sake.

But behind those smirks, animosity lurks

For they each want the men for their own.

When I’m out walking I hear them squawking

To get Chanticleer and Sonya alone.

All chickens, I know, always argue so,

But they aren’t the only quarrelsome being.

You’d find a demure, docile bird

Before you find two people agreeing.

-L. Smith

A Poem for Spring

May

Tiny snowdrop clusters who

In early March together grew

Are now tulips, planted two-by-two!

“May is here,” Mother said,

“For in the corner flower bed

White’s exchanged for merry red.”

‘Tis the work of someone sweet,

In the dirt, sets of footprints meet,

The tiny tracks of faerie feet!

-L. Smith