April 10, 2013
32 of 65
I’m Glad I Asked
One Request: In my senior year of high school, the English department changed the curriculum so that students would not simply take “Senior English”; but, to be “more like college,” we could choose a specific subject to study each quarter. The Creative Writing class taught by Mrs. Crawford was different in that students were required to enroll for the whole semester.
I wanted to take Creative Writing, but during the first quarter there was a conflict with another subject I needed, so I signed up for a class on drama that met at a different time. My schedule changed the next quarter, and I asked Mrs. Crawford if I could join her group. She said she would approve it if I could also get permission from the teacher of the mythology class I had chosen.
I was unable to meet with that teacher until the first day of the class. He began by describing the books we would use, the papers that would be required, the grading criteria and similar matters. When he asked if there were any questions, I raised my hand to let him know that I would like to transfer to Creative Writing. He instructed the rest of the students to begin reading the first assignment and asked me to come to his desk.
“This program was set up so that you and all the students would have freedom to choose what you study. A lot of work has gone into the planning. The classes are designed to give you a college-like experience. The Language Arts faculty has determined that transfers from a section you chose will only be permitted under extraordinary circumstances. I’m afraid that we can’t let you change sections. Do you have any other questions?”
“I was wondering,” I asked, “if this class will be any better than what you have described?”
“Maybe we can get you out of here,” he said.
He then explained that a mythology course asks students to consider some big questions like: Do we have free will? Is there some force or being greater than man? Is there meaning to life?
I told him I appreciated the importance of the subject, however I really wanted to write and not read. He reluctantly approved my transfer. Happily, Creative Writing was the most enjoyable English class I ever took. I learned so much – and I was required to read so much before I could write.
Another Request. During my senior year at the University of Colorado, I took a course on 20th Century American Literature. The midterm exam was very difficult and contained more questions than almost anyone could answer in an hour. When the test was returned, my grade was a D. Over the next few days, I spoke with other students in the class and all had received much lower grades than they expected. Some told me they had protested to the professor and he had raised their grades. I was willing to try that, so I made an appointment with him.
The professor told me that his grad student assistant had graded the midterms rather severely. As he looked over my answers, he made comments like, “I see what you are saying” and “This seems good,” giving me another point here or another three points there.
The last question on the test had asked for an analysis of e. e. cummings’ poem, “what if a much of a which of a wind/gives the truth to summer’s lie.” Even though I considered cummings my favorite poet, I had run out of time before I could answer.
That may not have been so bad. Although I had read the poem dozens of times, I was never sure exactly what it meant. The meaning, like that wind, seemed to blow in and out of the words and the lines and the stanzas. One minute the meaning would be present, the next season it would be gone or have changed. It was a poem written at the height of World War II by a poet who had been a conscientious objector ambulance corpsman in the First World War. The book in which it was published contained other poems such as “sweet spring is your/time is my time is our time,” “rain or hail,” “pity this busy monster manunkind” and “plato told him: he couldn’t believe it.” I think it would be necessary to look at all of those other works in order to (perhaps) guess how this particular wind could give ”the truth to summer’s lie.” I wasn’t even sure I knew what that lie was.
As the professor was kindly increasing scores for my other answers, I looked again at the last question. He glanced up at me and said, “I see you didn’t answer that one.”
“I ran out of time,” I said. Then I noticed something. “I was wondering,” I began, “is there a reason that you left one of the verses out when you prepared the test?”
“I don’t think I did leave anything out.”
I was pretty sure I was right and indicated where the missing stanza should have gone. He rose from his desk, went to a bookcase and took down a volume of poetry. He looked in the book, then looked at the test and saw that there indeed were missing lines.
“I didn’t mean to that,” he said. “It is clear that you would have answered this one correctly if there had been time. I will give you full credit for it.”
The meeting concluded and my grade had been raised to an A-.
A Third Request. The afternoon of July 15, 2012 was very hot and storm clouds were gathering over the mountains. It was much like the weather pattern earlier in the week when late afternoon had brought thunderstorms, hail and even funnel clouds in some areas.
Cathy and I watched the sky with concern and trepidation. Our daughter Suzanne was to be married in an outdoor ceremony that evening. The planning had gone on for months. The caterers were preparing the food; the flowers had arrived; relatives had come from hundreds of miles away; there were dresses and tuxedoes, a ring bearer. My brother Lonny, who was fighting a severe bone marrow disorder and a blood cancer had come all the way from Texas to be with us.
There was an alternate plan to hold the ceremony inside, if necessary. Suzanne said she would be fine with that, but we knew her heart was set on being outdoors.
I closed my eyes and asked the Universe, “Please, if it has to rain, can it wait until the ceremony is finished?
We continued with the preparations. The guests arrived. A few drops of rain fell, but only a few, passing quickly and cooling the air. As I walked Suzanne down the aisle, I saw that the clouds were much lighter. The dark clouds had moved far to the East.
“Thank you, God,” I thought. “Thank you, Universe.”
It was a lovely ceremony.
One More Request: What can I do today to make this a better world? Please show me.
Sometimes you only need to ask.
I’m still here… binge reading your memoirs. Yes, I am glad you asked about that creative writing course. You just never know which choices lead where. How would our lives be different if this ONE thing had not occurred?
What if your friend had never brought Cathy to learn cross-country skiing?
I still say that you should write a book.
A book? I don’t know who to ask about that.
I enjoyed time traveling with you. Cheryl
It is great to have you on the trip.
Obviously the time spent with Carol Crawford was time well spent. She would be proud of you. I don’t remember who taught Mythology, but Carol was unforgettable. I personally owe her more than I can express. She was a friend as well as mentor, and committed to teaching the art of writing well.
In those days Arvada West was the brand new flagship of the Jefferson County school system, the staff selected from the cream of the county teaching pool. Carol Crawford was a creative writing major who had won the national Scholastic Magazine writing competition when she was in high school – a phenomenal achievement, considering that the best and brightest of that generation competed at a national level for that prize – and a gifted writing teacher. Her husband Ralph, by the way, was a member of the 10th Mountain Division in WWII, the covert Ski Troops. He was a mild, humble person and it was with considerable awe I learned that while serving in northern Italy he had won the Purple Heart, Silver Star, Combat Infantry Badge and EAME Medal with two Bronze Stars. They were both extraordinary people.
I spent many hours with Mrs. Crawford after class and at her home working on my own writing. She challenged me constantly.
I remember one time, after she recommended the poetry of Dylan Thomas as a good way to learn about connotative expression, I returned wailing in indignation, insisting that it didn’t make any damn sense at all. She looked at me for a moment and then told me to read it again, right there. I got about three or four lines into a poem and started in again, protesting the incoherence of it all. She told me to read those lines again, out loud. I did. She asked me what I saw. I had to read it again before I could answer. Then before I could give her my answer she asked me how the words felt. Not what they meant, but how they “felt.” Then she asked me to read the whole poem again, and tell her what had become “known” for me, and not what the words meant. Worlds opened up to me in that moment, and the lesson remains to this day.
“Asking” works in many ways. At times we question, and ask for answers. At other times we are asked questions, and asked for our own answers. And sometimes, as you have noted, we ask simply for deliverance from God, not because we understand the meaning of God, but because we see and feel and know the poetry of creation.