Cornfield

I walked into a cornfield in late September.  The day was nearing dusk as clouds formed on the horizon, shafts of light bursting the white veil.  I parked at the side of the road and got out, not even bothering to shut the door.  It’s like I was heeding the call of autumn, or maybe I just succumbed to corn tassels whispering in the wind.  The smell of smoke from a distant barn wafted through the crisp air.  As I ventured through the threshold from the highway to quietude, my mind was still replete with the affairs of the day.  Traveling from town to town and balancing at least two careers and many roles can take its toll sometimes.  Life is complicated and full of moral ambiguities, I thought, like the cacophony created by a cluster of chromatic notes.   Dissonance resonates with me.  In that moment, though, I heard only the sound of discarded husks crunching under my feet.

 

I must have trudged about twenty yards into this amber forest when I found myself in a small clearing.  Strange.  Perhaps the rocky soil in this part of the field prevented growth.  Suddenly I felt like the scattered seed of a parable.  I thought to myself: If I could build a little shelter or pitch a tent, I could live here, provided that it remain September perpetually and Farmer Johnson never check on his crops.  Maybe I could drive my Ford Focus in here, cover up the tracks, and reside in my car in the middle of this cornfield.  I’d live off the corn, ants, and a flask of Gentleman Jack that somehow made it into my trunk. 

As I chuckled to myself, a silhouetted figure about twenty feet to my right caught my attention.  It was raised aloft with outstretched, handless arms, looking like one of the criminals on Golgotha.  Scarecrows fascinate me, especially since they always seem to come to life in the movies.  I desperately wanted it to move.  I wanted to see demons crawling out of its mouth or burst out of the black overcoat that Farmer Johnson hastily threw over it.  I wanted to see something.  I looked long and hard into its canvas-sack face.  It had no nose or mouth, just eyes made from cut-off corncobs.  Does he really scare the crows away?  I threw dirt clods at the dark thing hoping to piss it off and animate it.  Nothing.  No movement.  Without ghosts and goblins in the world, I ruminated, life is so meaningless and mundane.  Atheists tell me that you live only once.  That may be, but if I am to expire into nothingness at some future date, preferably later than sooner, my earthly existence in the meantime needs sorting out, disentangling.  I have no time to hide in this cornfield, much less to dream about a future Golden Cornfield in the sky.  I got back in my car and took the county road to the Interstate. 

Misgiving

I've been teaching part-time for a private university since July to supplement my income. I have some misgivings about this consumer-driven highly-accelerated degree program, even though I had taught history and humanities for many years as an adjunct instructor at comparable institutions, usually for a business or nursing school. Notwithstanding what the dean and other administrators at this institution’s College of Business and Management say about ethical values and academic rigor, it's all about making money; students pay for serves rendered, fastening a bunch of “A”s to their belt with relatively minimal effort in order to obtain that precious piece of paper and further their career ambitions, or at least retain their job position. And we're talking quick service too: five 4-hour sessions to cover, in my case, Western civilization or a survey of humanities: centuries of literature, history, philosophy, music, and visual art.

Some of these “adult learners” come to class tired and whiny after working all day; rare is the instructor who keeps them beyond three hours.  So, de facto, we’re talking about three-hour sessions.  Moreover, students get to miss one class session and not have it impact their grade; not a few of them use this option.  Years ago I taught a 12-week program, only to have it downsized to 7 weeks (i.e., 7 class sessions) a few years later.  This institution also offered a 2-Saturday course as well, enabling students to get their three credits of general ed. in about 13-14 hours.  Now, with my present part-time employer, I’m supposed to shove all of this information into 20 hours?

 

Yes, my friend, it’s about the Almighty Dollar.  It’s about being competitive with other accelerated programs that continually reduce the required credit hours so that the consumer, McDonald's-like, can get their degree ASAP. The administration pays lip service to the problem of grade inflation, yet there's a lot of pressure to give students “A”s and “B+”s.  In an unguarded moment I revealed to a colleague at my day job that I was moonlighting.  He did not mince words about the greed and consumerism of private universities.  He’s right.  If the students don't get what they want, and when they want it, they'll take their money elsewhere, and deans and college presidents know this. The administration is all about recruiting as many students as possible; academic rigor can get in the way of that goal. Obviously there's a limit. Students must feel that they're getting a somewhat decent education, let alone the university having a modicum of credibility.  Nonetheless, I have my misgivings about the educational value of this program.  We’ll see what happens.

Apple Orchard

Bryan was a serial rapist and sadist in his heart of heart.  He sought transcendence and seemed to find it in the degradation of other souls, especially the souls (and bodies) of women—many women, including daughters, mothers…and beloved sisters.  I can appreciate Bryan, well, not the rape part, but the transcendence.  After all, we’re all seeking some kind of higher level or broader purpose to govern our lives and give meaning to our earthly existence.  Still, Bryan took the wrong path in life.  He followed his sadistic heart and never sought the help he so desperately needed.  I often describe myself to friends and especially my Republican colleagues as a bleeding-heart liberal.  I vehemently oppose the death penalty, yet I try not to push my politics on everyone.  I’m also a firm advocate of social justice.  That’s why I didn’t kill Bryan; I wanted to stick to my principles.  Instead, he took his own life.  After I spent some time alone with him, he evidently saw the wisdom of leaving this world.  Perhaps his spirit has found bliss in some other life, but his bones lie buried in my aunt’s apple orchard.  Jennifer would have wanted it that way.

Working on Normal

Having lived alone in a dark cave for twenty-three years, I've picked up bad habits that don’t translate well in urban society—in any society for that matter.  Rousseau was absolutely wrong: civilization doesn’t corrupt and nature isn’t blissful.  I’m finding it hard to adapt as I exit one world and enter another.  You see, my friend, I landed this great teaching job a couple of years ago and I desperately want to fit in.  Problem is, I’m still not ready for public consumption.  We all have hang-ups; we all have peccadillos.  (I once ran over a peccadillo on a Kentucky highway, yet I still have my flaws.)  But I’ve been disturbing my colleagues at the office because I talk to myself, sigh loudly, grumble, and grunt.  One of the administrators, a pleasant young woman with ostensibly good intentions, had the audacity to come over to my cubicle and bring these outbursts to my attention.  Listen, when you’ve lived in a cave for over two decades, you learn to entertain yourself.  I tell people that I don’t talk to myself per se; rather, I’m working through issues or testing how something might sound in the classroom or on the stage.   Such explanations don’t matter, however.  I’m just the guy who talks to himself.

 

I was raised by a she-wolf out in the wild long before my cave years.  I yelp and scratch my crotch ferociously when things don’t go my way.  This ogre-like behavior has cost me friends.  Faculty steer clear of me and I worry that my job is on the line.  The tattooed guys at the local coffee shop look at me askance.  Who wants to serve an ogre coffee?  When I suckled my mom’s teat, along with her pups, little did I know that I was imbibing lifelong rustic habits.  During committee meetings I mimic the sounds of flatulence with my armpits.  I  still mark my territory when I’m at home.  Guests usually head for the door when they see my trousers starting to foam.  Yes, I’m rather uncouth, but please be patient: I’m working on normal.

Weekend in Maryland

I just returned from Parents Weekend at the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland to see my middle daughter.  Jessi had spent the last six weeks getting through the rigors of Plebe Summer.  My wife, younger daughter, and the dog arrived there Friday morning via car from Wisconsin, and I took a flight from Minnesota.  My sister Linda flew in from California and stayed at a hotel adjacent to ours.  After watching Jessi in a military parade on Saturday, we got a chance to check out the campus with her: the dining hall, the pool, the bookstore, Bancroft Hall, Tecumseh Court, and some of the historical sites such as John Paul Jone's tomb.  I arrived too late to see her dorm room.  Jessi had to be on her guard throughout our visit, as Detailers were out and about making sure the Plebes didn't violate the rules.  Seeing my daughter in a uniform and finding out that she's not just surviving Plebe Summer but enjoying it made me feel good.  I don't take pride in too many things, as my self-inflicted Calvinist background keeps me in check.  Nonetheless, I have tremendous pride in Jessi, Monika, and Erika.  They're much more ahead in life than I was at their ages. I had an opportunity on Sunday to see Washington D.C.  There were zillions of people walking around.  Lack of time and parking spaces reduced our visit  to a quick driveby.  I saw the White House, Capitol building, and the famous monuments from afar.  We did pay a visit to the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, though, as I've taught courses on genocide for years now and have wanted to see it.   Linda and I could have spent more time there, but we arrived near closing time and Jessi was getting tired.

Upon our return from the capital yesterday afternoon, Jessi, Linda and I watched a horror movie matinee at the local mall: The Conjuring.  We went to a lot of restaurants during these three days because Jessi didn't have this kind of freedom in the last six weeks.   We had fun eating ice cream at the marina.  Teri took lots of pictures.  Jessi got some good rest in the hotel room.  We said our goodbyes in the late afternoon, as Jessi had to report back by 6pm.   Linda and I goofed around at a historic preservation site near the airport before I dropped her off for her flight.  It was a good weekend.  I got to touch base with family, check out the naval academy, and see interesting historic sites.  Jessi will be there for four years, so I guess it won't be the last time I visit.  That's a good thing.

Venimus, Vidimus, Vicimus

The gods of recreation smiled on Sunday.  A light shower in the early morning kept the temperature relatively cool as “The Raptors” stepped into the muck and mire under an opal sky.  I formed a team with work colleagues to participate in Minnesota’s annual Tough Mudder, an eleven-mile military-like obstacle course carved out of hilly farmland just over the border in Wisconsin.  The event raises millions of dollars for the Wounded Warrior Project, a charity that supports injured members of the U.S. military.  This was my second go at it, as I had been part of a Tough Mudder team last September with soldiers from my Army unit.

Build it and they will come.  Oh, they came, in the hundreds, adventurous individuals wanting to test their stamina, mettle, athletic prowess, and whatever else they got.  Our team, the aforementioned Raptors, met the week prior to the event to train as a group.  Getting through the course would hinge on a collaborative effort.  We climbed over walls, waded through a vat of ice water, received mild electric shocks, crawled through tunnels, leaped mounds of mud, jumped bales of hay, carried logs, plummeted 15+ feet into blood-red water, sprinted up a greasy half-pipe known as “Everest,” and the list goes on.  Mud had saturated our very essence.  Yes, we became one with the sludge.  We could taste it.  We could feel it.  In fact, by the end, we could no longer tell where we began and the mud ended.  I can pleasantly report that this latest team of academics were in much better shape than the Army team from last year.  We did more than survive the gauntlet of 20-odd obstacles.  As we crossed the finish line, we felt like Julius Caesar, who upon victory in battle is alleged to have uttered (and I paraphrase): Venimus, Vidimus, Vicimus.  We came, we saw, we conquered. 

Summer Running

I ran a 13-miler this morning in New Lisbon, Wisconsin.  It’s my fifth “half marathon” within the last three years.  I got my worst time ever, but that’s okay; I didn’t get a chance to run sufficiently this week and decided to register only a couple days prior.  The running event bears the name of the town’s annual July festival, Wa Du Shuda, which, I’m told, means “Watchya doin’, Shuda?” in Portuguese, Shuda being the patron saint of seafaring vessels.  (By the way, that is a lie.)  Anyway, I wanted to do something in preparation for the Minnesota Tough Mudder next week.  Five colleagues from my university job agreed to form a team with me for the challenging 12-mile obstacle course.   We’ve called ourselves the “Raptors,” after the school mascot, and we’ve all been training for it in our own way since the latter half of May.  I’ll probably write about the experience next week.  A small event, the half marathon in New Lisbon consisted of only thirty people.  I shamefacedly crossed the finish line in the twenty-fifth place.  Usually a competitive spirit gets the better of me in spite of what my body might be saying, but I told myself to take it easy and simply complete the run, nothing more.  The weather was pretty good, given the middle of July, and the runners were nice.  I didn’t stay around too long after the finish, though.  As they were reading off the race results on the loud speaker, I was already on the interstate heading north and thinking about the next challenge.