Friday, September 26, 2008
In elementary school music classes, the material taught her students by Mrs. Marsha Usher fell broadly into two categories: the art of reading, listening to, interpreting, and performing music; and the art of listening to and interpreting stories and anecdotes Mrs. Usher related when stimulated by something or other, or when she felt she needed to fill twenty minutes with something other than a twenty-seven-person chorus making twenty-seven distinctly off-key renditions of "Let It Snow".
Specifically called to mind this evening, as I sat at home reading excerpts written by a play critic: Mrs. Usher once related the tale of her hamburger traumatization. She grew up on a farm, or at least in a house with some extended property, and could on that account raise a calf. 'Twould seem she went away one summer for a week or two- or perhaps a month or two- and returned home to be told her pet calf had run away. The evening of her return, Mrs. Usher's father (who presumably at that time never addressed his daughter as "Mrs. Usher") barbecued burgers, an event in itself not likely considered extraordinary to little Marsha not-yet-Usher. But this evening dinner held a curiosity: her brother, perhaps called "Bobby" or "Greg", kept giggling at her as he scarfed down his meal. When realization dawned on the victim of this cruel prank, she burst into tears, and has not eaten a burger since.
I love cheeseburgers.
Labels: anecdote, brother, burgers, calf, elementary school, farm, father, hamburger, Let It Snow, music, pet, prank, teacher, trauma
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 3:50 PM]
And This Is The Way Of The World
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
I wore a University of Missouri sweatshirt to work this evening, in direct violation of the "Thou shalt not wear anything demonstrating love for or affiliation with another university" rule; but the thermostat at the office registers sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit at the moment. My other sweatshirts lie buried beneath rancid, sweat-soaked gym clothes in the laundry baskets in my closet. Damned either way.
Before graduation in August, I need only complete one course: contemporary mathematics. On the first day of class, we drew truth tables. Days two and three were devoted to scientific notation. This week has been spent on unit conversions. The instructor, a young Turkish lady here for graduate study, looks back at us from the chalkboard every two minutes to say, "Everybody learned this in, I don't know, third grade, right? It is clear?" It obviously pains her as much to teach this nonsense as it does us to relearn it. She stretches the time as best she can, but releases us consistently at least twenty minutes early.
If I ever get suckered into having kids, I will drown them before I let them attend public school in America.
Labels: laundry, mathematics, office, sweater, teacher, teaching, The University of Missouri, time, truth tables, working
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 6:20 PM]