Melting Snow

Snow is forecasted, expected, hoped for. Days before it comes, people whisper to one another that "It's supposed to snow on Tuesday." The longing builds, all the eager schoolchildren - and even the adults who dislike their jobs - hope for snow, to bring them a moment of relief from deadlines and expectations of others. Their hope draws out as they sit by the window and wait for it to fall.

When the snow finally comes, it drifts slowly down to earth. It does not gush like a faucet, it sprinkles like a watering bucket. It blankets the earth in white, and for a few moments the world stops turning. Work and school are canceled, traffic is minimal, electricity is on the blink, and the inconveniences are endured and the joys taken advantage of.

But then, in a few short hours, the sun comes up, the temperature rises. The white ground gives way to gray streets and brown grass. Within a day, the snow is gone, and the earth is normal.

How similar are our worries? We fret and fear over things that are weeks away. We long for them to get here, or we dread for them to come. O, how gently do they fall, how quick do they pass away. Our worry is in vain, for as quickly as trouble can attach itself to our lives, so can it begin to melt away and slide as water into the gutters, down the drain, and be far away from his within a day.

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The Best Books

My favorite books. Simple enough, right? Note: These books are in no particular order.

1.) Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury - The message of this book is so compelling. It is a must-read for any literature lover.

2.) And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie - Agatha Christie will always be the master of mystery.

3.) The Complete Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - Sir Conan Doyle runs a close second as the master of mystery.

4.) The Elements of Style by Strunk & White - Advice for anyone who uses the English language.

5.) Animal Farm by George Orwell - Orwell is excellent.

I'm currently reading Bleak House by Charles Dickens, and I expect that it shall make this list when I'm finished.

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Teens are Literature Illiterate

A survey commissioned by political activist group Common Core has found that many teens lack the knowledge to answer basic questions in Literature and History. While the group doesn't state that this is because of No Child Left Behind, they certainly don't cite the 2001 Act as helping stop this ignorance. The article, from the New York Times, states that 63% of school districts have "added an average of three hours of math or reading instruction a week at the expense of time for social studies, art and other subjects" as a result of the No Child Left Behind Act. As a recent high school graduate, I can attest to that study's findings. During my sophomore, junior, and senior years, my high school added a program that required reading "strategies" to be re-taught in every classroom, including Music, History, Science, Business, and Family and Consumer Sciences classes. The so called "reading strategies" were re-packaged third grade reading assignments that had the effect of wasting class time with little results.

I believe No Child Left Behind should be repealed, or massively overhauled. It is ineffective at improving education and it only forces schools to spend time on preparing for tests instead of actually learning the material. I am undecided about who I support for president, but as a future high school teacher, I intend to support someone who will not perpetuate No Child Left Behind without massive improvements.

"Survey Finds Teenagers Ignorant on Basic History and Literature Questions" by Sam Dillon, New York Times, 27 February 2008
(I'm not sure if this date is a misprint, or if this article is supposed to appear in tomorrow's paper. I'll get back to you on that.)

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The Diner

           Gregory is having lunch in Marge's Diner.
           The curvature of the wooden seat doesn't match the contours of his bony back. The sun is bursting in between the letters on the window in front of him, and making him squint. He lifts up his arm, but he can't stop the light. He slides out of the booth, and slips in on the opposite side, with his back to the window.
           Now, to his disappointment, the distractions of the diner are in his view. He sees Marge, the owner. She's standing behind the wood and granite counter, telling the too-skinny waitress, Dawn, to stop dawdling and serve the customers.
           After Marge's speech, Greg hears Dawn say, “are you doing okay?”
           After another minutes, Dawn repeats her question. Greg is listening intently, but he is staring at the opposite side of his booth. He looks up for a moment, and then realizes Dawn is at his table. He tells her he's fine, and she takes out an old rag and starts wiping the booth next to him.
           Greg looks down at his food, which he has been neglecting. He picks up his fork and starts eating the meatloaf and mashed potatoes. He chews slowly. After twisting his hand around to look at his watch, he twists his body around to peer into the blaring sunshine. Why isn't Ned there yet?
           Greg and Ned met a couple of years ago. Ned was playing ball in the park when he noticed Greg sitting on a park bench. It had been a beautiful spring day, but Gregory was wearing the same gray suit and a dress hat pulled down on his forehead. Ned asked Greg what he was reading, and they discovered that they both enjoyed Dickens. They saw each other again in the park, then started having lunch together almost every day.
           They meet in Marge's Diner, discussing books they've read or things they've heard around town. Ned talks about the pretty girls in town, and Gregory just listens when the conversation goes that direction.
           But Ned is late today. Ned isn't often late.
           Gregory finishes his food, and keeps repeating his ritual of glancing at his watch and glancing out the window. Twenty minutes, thirty minutes, forty minutes late. Ned is never this late.
           Gregory pays his tab. On the way out, he tells Dawn that if Ned comes looking for him, he'll be at Dawson's Bookstore.
           Gregory pushes himself out the glass door, hears the bell sound above the door. He strolls down the sidewalk, keeping his attention on the ground. In front of the newspaper office, he bumps his shoulder into that of Mr. Botsford. The elderly gentlemen stops and stares, then gives a “harrumph!” and doesn't wait for an apology. Mr. Botsford hobbles away toward the diner, and Gregory strolls toward the bookstore. His eyes are looking forward now, but his mind is still occupied.

To be continued

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Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis

In Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis outlines the Christian faith with a new and fresh perspective. He doesn't so much give astounding revelations as he brings out what has always been at the back of the reader's mind.

His illustrations are genius. A few can be either hard to follow or lack relevance to our modern culture, but most of his illustrations are timeless. For example, he compares the search for truth to the search for an answer to a math problem. He says that only one religion can find the truth, as there can only be one answer to a math problem. However, some religions are closer to the truth than others, just as 5 is closer to the answer of 2 + 2 than 20 is.

Throughout the book, Lewis progressively hones in his topic. He starts with a broad overview of morality and religion, and he ends with a moving description of the individual's relationship with God. This book is for any Christian who is struggling with their beliefs and needs reassurance, or any new Christian that wants to discover more of what Christianity is all about. Even the non-Christian will gain something from this book; C.S. Lewis was once an atheist, and throughout the book he confronts many common misconceptions about the essence of the Christian faith.

Mere Christianity is a classic for the Christian faith, and will surely continue to encourage hope and faith for many generations to come.

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A Short Conversation

           Gregory rises from his armchair, and starts to meander through the old shop.
           The pungent smell of old books brings him comfort. He can remember being a child, learning to read from the volumes on these shelves. Other kids played football, or other outdoor things that kids do. He didn't.
           He browses through the books, sometimes leaning one out on its spine so he can see the title. He can recognize many of them by their size and the color of their dust jackets. Pope's translations of Homer, Johnson's Dictionary, the Complete Shakespeare, Chaucer, Milton, everything is there.
           He pauses in a secluded corner. He backs into a mahogany bookcase and allows his back to slip down and his knees to fold up to his chin. He closes his eyes. His lips grip tightly together. He wants something, but he doesn't know what.
           He crouches there for a few minutes.
           He hears a dripping sound, and the smell of coffee squeezes in through the musty odors. He gets up slowly, his back barely bending. He makes his way through the maze of shelves, following the sound. He comes to an open door, and inside he sees Mr. Dawson making coffee.
           He stands in the door frame, and slips his hands into his pockets with the sides of his jacket bunched up on either side. He stares at his feet, clinks his heels together, and clears his throat.
           Mr. Dawson glances over at him, and his eyes show some surprise.
           “Oh, Gregory, I didn't hear you come in.”
           Gregory doesn't say anything.
           “Have a seat,” says Mr. Dawson, after a few minutes.
           The room is a small kitchen, with a scarred wooden table and four chairs. Gregory goes to a chair, and cringes at the scraping sound as he pulls it out. He sits down slowly, propping his lanky limbs into a rigid pose that, to anyone else, would look uncomfortable.
           “Coffee?”
           “No, thanks,” Gregory replied.
           “You seem to be the only one not interested my little mystery. Everyone else has already gone off in search of my hidden clues.”
           “Oh, I'm interested.” Gregory almost stumbles over the words. “My mind is just, on other things. I guess I should get started.” He puts his elbows on the table, and lays his chin in his hands.
           “No, don't get in a hurry.”
           Mr. Dawson brings his coffee over to the table, and sits down across from Gregory. He starts to speak, then stops, then starts again.
           “I probably shouldn't give anyone any special advice, but I'll make an exception in your case. Don't get caught up in searching, because if you're doing the right things to begin with, you'll run across the clues a lot quicker than if you're looking for them.”
           “Okay.”
           They are both quiet. Mr. Dawson sips coffee, and Gregory stares at the table.
           “I shouldn't tell you anymore. I have high hopes for you Gregory, and I'm not just talking about the contest. You have a way about you, of understanding things and knowing people and being able to connect the dots. You will make something out of yourself, young man.”
           Gregory gives a short nod, then lets a sigh of equal length escape from his lungs.
           “Ah, but you don't want to make something out of yourself, so much as you want something else? Like to find meaning, to find relationships, to understand whats going on? Ah, these too shall come Greg. Good things come to those who wait.”
           As Mr. Dawson says this, Gregory folds his arms onto the table and lifts his head with a feeling of astonishment that shows through his face.
           “Well, I've got to be tending to the store,” says Mr. Dawson. He rises from his chair, and, wiping his beard with a napkin, exits the room.

Continued in The Diner

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O, Rejoice my Soul!

Or: Lines Composed After Finishing the Long Dreaded Paper

O, the sweet, sweet smell of freshly printed paper.
The last sentence typed,
I rejoice in my completion. What victory,
what joyful triumph. That lowly student
could conquer words, could read like the wind,
could stab the books of academia through the heart
with a silver spike. One foot I rest
on the defeated in a victorious pose.

Later, at the feasting, I rejoice some more.
Paper and pens thrown thru the air
trickle down like a refreshing spring shower.
Then I sit, in thoughtful meditation,
wondering why I am happy, for I shall have
to do it all again tomorrow.
I ignore the nagging of my consciousness:
for now I will forget all and be happy,
if for a moment only.

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