From little acorns forests grow. Proof positive? When the Springfield’s National Museum of Funeral Customs had its sixth annual reading earlier this year, MacMurray College English prof Robert Seufert (a regular for years) encouraged his students Brett and Rachel (they’re an item) to attend. Afterwards, responding to B&R’s kind words for my efforts and poetry, and their equally- appreciated purchase of my booksof poetry, I recited a few more for them in the lobby and encouraged them to “lobby” Mr. Seufert to hire me to MacMurray College for a presentation of my poetry and Vachel Lindsay’s poetry.
They did. MacMurray’s library director Susan Eilering emailed me a few weeks later and we arranged for me to speak at the college’s gathering observing the publication of the 2008 Montage, a literary arts anthology. I was asked to share my poetry and Vachel’s. There would be refreshments and an honorarium. DONE DEAL!
Because my froggy Ford Escort is not highway capable — every trip east of 24th street or west of Chatham Road is an “adventure” — Susan graciously assented pick up and deliver me home.
I had attended Mac in 1968, fresh from Springfield Junior College through about 1971 when I was hired away from my job at Jacksonville’s Lums restaurant to travel Illinois and Missouri as a trouble shooter for Dennis Serio who owned several and was acquiring more. I know in the past I’ve whined about how stupid I was to stop writing for Springfield Business Journal, but that was a broken fingernail compared to the unrealized (at the time) paralysis of my professional future inflicted by leaving MacMurray College. It’s all sour grapes aged to vinegar at this stage, and I know I can never put that expended toothpaste back into the tube, so I’ll try to leave it at that, at least here in this blog. I hasten to add that I am equally happy to contribute to Illinois Times whenever I can. The whole IT crew is gold.
Susan is almost as old as I am, and that’s saying something. We’re both younger than numbers on calendars insinuate. At any rate, the conversation about Mac, our careers, her fine family were a brook of reviving conviality. To say it bluntly, I had endured a partucularly SUCKY day substituting at a southeast Springfield middle school earlier in the day. I had been on my feet except for teacher’s prep and lunch, and by the time I came home, I felt like I had been on a 50-mile hike. A few cups of coffee and 20 minutes prone, listening to Fresh Air (a nice interview with Ojibway language translators) took away the compression stress in my back and I was ready to roll when Susan arrived.
For the first time since I wrote it while attending Mac in 1968, I had memorized my poem Invitation for the occasion. On arrival at the library after a nice car tour of the campus, I headed out to see if the willow tree which was the site of a particularly terrific Saturday afternoon was still there. It was located between Kendall Hall where I lived on second floor wing and the rest of the campus north. It was not. A building stood over the place where Nancy Hunt of Chicago and I had communed. There was no hanky-panky; not even a hint of hanky, even. But there had been a hint of hope in that direction, and I still cherish the afternoon though not the outcome.
I walked out into part of the soccer field that now has a fenced baseball diamond where most of it was, as I headed for the willow tree, down the same path, asphalt in 1968; concrete in 2008 to the tree, past the building in its place and across the bridge toward Kendall. The brook was still there. What a beautiful pastoral jewel! Why hadn’t I spent more time there? Yes, I had written a short-lived column for the student newspaper Charybdis, but I had not savored the creek and bridge then as I savored it yesterday! Everything was green, smelled sweeter than darn near anything or anybody I’ve encountered in Springfield.
Ooops . . . . . my sour grapes are showing.
I almost walked to Kendall Hall to knock on my old dom room and meet whomever was there. I’d still like to do that, just for the heckovit. I resisted. I didn’t want to scare anyone. I did visit the student union (now the campus center) as I headed north, retracing my steps. I entered the open front door, stepped down to where I remembered the campus mailboxes and again, my heart about stopped. There was MY MAILBOX #1032, just as I left it in about 1968! I didn’t remember the combination. Then up the steps to the grill where I had sipped so many cups of coffee, Cokes and muched so many hamburgers and played the jukebox, chatting with friends, writing poems and songs and even studying. Man, I could almost smell Kent Stutzman. The same polished floor, hand rails, so much unchanged!
I had promises to keep. Back to the library and return to earth from lingering reverie. I found I was mistaken about my glory daze at Mac. They were terrific but they were a peanut butter sandwich compared with the feast I would enjoy during the rest of the evening. I will recall that feast here in tomorrow’s posting.
Live long . . . . . . and proper.
Job,
I’m glad you had such a great experience at MacMurray.
I meant to tell you that I ran by you during the Lincoln Memorial Half Marathon. I called your name but you didn’t hear me. Either that, or you pretended that you didn’t hear me, which people often do, my kids especially. Anyway, on behalf of the 900 or so runners, thanks for volunteering.
Dan
Dan -
Thanks for reading and posting. I totally enjoyed the Half Marathon. The weather was perfect and the people were great.
I probably heard “someone” call my name during the event, but the name Job is not the ideal “hear somebody calling you” name. I sometimes think I hear a branch cracking and falling from a nearby tree, a trunk lid closing, or neighborhood small arms fire when it’s really a good person calling my name. I really should be named Alexander, Horatio or Sok-e-tu-mi so that when someone calls me, I know they mean ME.
Next time, call me by my adoptive name Montigeu when you pass by, and I will call you Al.
I was going to yell “Honey and Quinine”, but was uncertain about the proper pronunciation of Quinine, and knew that if I got it wrong it would have been the subject of a blog. I’ll holler Montigue next time and hope for the best.