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Face Time

Face Time

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Only one other time did I attend class on Zoom. Every other Tuesday evening I’ve been driving down to Georgetown, parking in the visitors’ garage, walking along Prospect to the Car Barn Building, feeling a part of the campus, if only fleetingly. But last night, the professor called it. The last class on November 30 would be held only on Zoom.

It was a strange way to end the semester, though in truth it doesn’t completely end until I turn in the final paper in a couple weeks. But it was the last time the class would be together, this particular assemblage of individuals, only one of whom I got to know at all, since she also traveled to campus every Tuesday evening. 

But the class itself was far more lively when it was held on Zoom only. The fact that we were all little squares, rather than some of us being squares and some of us actually being there, put us on a similar digital footing. And this prompted more chatter. 

Still, I liked the in-person version of class. It’s more of a hassle, true. It takes more time. But I like to see people in three dimensions if possible. I prefer the real and original face time.

(A scene from my walk to class.)

Dancing in the Streets

Dancing in the Streets

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I read this morning of the return of 26 pieces of history from France to Benin. The return was celebrated with dancing and singing and general merriment. There were thrones, statues and other artifacts, all taken by France from what was then its colony of Dahomey, all of them finally home after more than a century of exile.

Since some of my family hail from Benin, this is big news. And since I’ve been to that wonderful country, I have a small sense of what it must have been like to see the big truck pull up, the decorated horses and riders escorting it to the presidential palace, the jubilation of the people.

There are plenty more looted treasures to be returned, and it sounds as if Benin is fighting for those, too. But for now, for one small country tucked between the Sahel and the sea, there is dancing in the streets. 

(At the Voodoo Festival in Benin, January 2015)

All Souls

All Souls

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With Halloween and All Saints Day behind us, we come one again to a more humble celebration in the liturgical calendar: All Souls, the day set aside each year to honor the dead. Not just the famous or the pious but everyone. 

That’s a lot of souls. According to the Population Reference Bureau, about 109 billion.  And every one of them once a life, a presence, a story. 

I don’t know about you, but this day feels more sacred to me than all the others. 

The People Behind the Pill

The People Behind the Pill

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I’ve always been an earnest, note-taking reader, especially now that I’m in class again. But increasingly more I enjoy the sidetracks and detours of reading, the rabbit holes, the inefficient digressions. 

For the next paper, we’re analyzing the public reception of a specific scientific discovery, and I’ve chosen oral contraception. It’s a rich topic, so rich that I’m reading more than necessary. 

For instance, in The Birth of the Pill, author Jonathan Eig tells the stories of the four people who are most responsible for the development of the pill:

There is Gregory Pincus, a brilliant scientist with a flair for publicity searching for compounds in his ramshackle laboratory in Massachusetts; Margaret Sanger, the founder of Planned Parenthood, who coined the term “birth control” and crusaded for women’s freedom all her life; Katharine McCormick, heir to the Cyrus McCormick fortune, who funded the experiments; and Dr. John Rock, a gynecologist and devout Catholic who took on his church to help the women in his care.

Though a drug company was involved — G.D. Searle — the pill would not have been created without the  “courage and conviction of the characters involved,” Eig writes. The book is a vivid reminder of how human personalities forge the technologies we inherit. It’s good to be reminded of that from time to time.

(Photo of Margaret Sanger courtesy Wikipedia) 

Lessons for a Lifetime

Lessons for a Lifetime

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He stood behind the lectern on one leg, resting the other, knee crooked, on his desk. I’m still not sure how he achieved this position without falling over, but somehow he did. His sleeves were rolled up, and his voice was husky. 

Toiling in the vineyards of academia can be a lot of work. But Dr. James Ferguson did that work, and because he did, legions of Hanover College students fell in love with The Magic Mountain and The Brothers Karamazov, with Faulkner and Bellow and Eliot. 

Dr. Ferguson, who died May 12, was the kind of teacher you get once in a lifetime — if you’re lucky. Though I studied with professors who published more, whose names were more recognized in literary circles, Dr. Ferguson was the real thing: a man who loved the great books and thrived on helping others love them, too. 

The details of his life that I learned from his obituary — that he came from a family of Dust Bowl migrants who moved from Missouri to California and slept for a while in their car, that he served in Korea and got his Ph.D.  with the help of the GI Bill, that he took care of his wife, who had a chronic illness, and his mother, who lived to 102 — tell me that his didn’t just teach the great books, he lived the great life. 

But these facts don’t surprise me.  His respect for the written word seemed to flow from his whole being. What I took from him was to love literature not for where it could take me but for what I took from it—  lessons for a lifetime. 

(“The Point” at Hanover College, where Dr. Ferguson taught from 1963 to 1992.)

In Formation

In Formation

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In honor of Memorial Day, the movie channel has been running World War II-era films. I’ve caught parts of several — “The Great Escape,” “Destination Tokyo” — plus a War Department short about the U.S. Army Air Corp.

In the film, narrated by then-actor Ronald Reagan, a young cowboy from the boonies becomes a war hero. We watch him go through basic training, meet the people who knew him back when, follow his improbable journey from ranch life to flying B-17s over Japan. 

What struck me about the flying scenes is the tightness of the formations. The crew members (including my Dad) were not only united within their Flying Fortresses, but were nestled together outside of them, too. They did not fly into battle alone. 

As I embark on another trip around the sun, I’m grateful for the ones who travel with me. 

By Armchair to Cambodia

By Armchair to Cambodia

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We’re closing in on the end of the longest month. Outside, the pandemic rages and borders are closing. Time for some armchair travel.

Two years ago I was preparing for a trip to Cambodia. I had yet to see moonlight on the Mekong or sip coconut milk from a straw. I had yet to visit Angkor Wat or Ta Prohm or Bayon. I had yet to meet Bunthan and Dilen and Johnny, the people I traveled with in country. 

But soon I would ride the roads with them. I would learn that Johnny was about to leave his job as driver and go into real estate (in fact, ours was his last trip). I would learn to count on Bunthan’s excellent translation and Dilen’s knack for noticing what others missed. 

I would also meet the people my organization serves: brave women and men who had known far more of life’s difficulties than triumphs. But still, they were building better lives, and we were there to celebrate them.

Armchair travel is comfortable, yes, but ah, I miss the real thing!

The Lives of Others

The Lives of Others

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I am, as you might expect, mostly a solo walker. I savor the quiet time I have when pounding the pavement in my neighborhood or on nearby trails. I mostly walk alone. 

But oh, the joy of walking with friends! Last week I planned two socially distant strolling excursions, one to see a buddy who spends most of her time away from home and I have trouble catching in town, and the other a walking meeting with a colleague who’s also a friend. 

Taking these walks reminds me how much I enjoy the other kind of walking, the kind that drives me not further into my own mind but pushes me out, into the lives of others. 

Noting the Passing

Noting the Passing

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The pianist Leon Fleisher died August 2 at the age of 92. I’ve written about him before, both as a pianist and writer. I even vowed to learn a piece of music because of watching him play it, a promise I have not kept, by the way. So the least I can do is honor the man here.

Fleisher was a master of reinvention: winning competitions as a prodigy, losing the use of his right hand, despairing for a while, then eventually remaking himself as a conductor, teacher and performer. The difficulty he faced almost sunk him — he considered suicide — but he emerged stronger as a result. 

“Time and again, I would look at my life and marvel that so many wonderful things had happened that never would have happened if my hand had not been struck down,” Fleisher wrote in his memoir Nine Lives. “I couldn’t imagine my life without conducting. I couldn’t imagine life without teaching so intensely.” 

Curiously enough, Fleisher’s obituary shared the page with that of another artist and master of reinvention. The film director Alan Parker directed several movies I’ve loved, such as “Fame” and “The Commitments,” movies that, until reading his obituary, I wasn’t even aware were his. Like Fleisher, Parker took risks, made changes, didn’t find a safe path and follow it but continued to learn and grow.

Two men, two creative careers, but one lesson (at least for me): Whatever you do, they say, don’t get stuck. 

Visiting

Visiting

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A late post today, in part because I’ve been mowing and weeding and spending as much time outside as possible. But also because I’ve been visiting.

When I was young, that’s what Sundays were for. We would go to my grandparents’ house after church for a big afternoon meal and then hang out with family, which seemed tedious to me at the time but I’m sure was a boon for my parents.

Conversation was the name of the game. There wasn’t much else going on, and we kids would slip outside as soon as we could and play in the backyard. (I can especially remember trying to clamber up the antenna, a tall, triangular, aluminum ladder-like thing that practically begged to be climbed.)

But I digress. Today’s visits and visitor were especially welcome because of how little social contact I’ve had these last few months. The interactions weren’t that long, but they were long enough to remind me how invigorating it is to chat, trade stories — and while away an hour or two in pleasant company.