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Tuesday, March 09, 2010
A night at the Oscars has taken me aback.
I can’t remember precisely the last time I talked to John Hughes. It was before he left for California to make a name for himself amongst the glamour and glitter of Hollowwood. Was “Hollywood or bust” his last quip? For sure, I don’t know. I do know that I’m still unsettled by life and death. Here one day. Not here another. In the office, one of my writer bosses (not John) dropped to the floor directly in front of me. When my face fell on his, I fought to bring his pulseless body back to life. I can still feel the death lip lock. Pumped his chest just as I was taught. I remember thinking the first responders would do a better job than I. And was wrong. Guilt and grief fueled tears for years. That was a long time ago.
Sunday night, I saw the Oscars and watched the tribute to John. Here’s something few knew. When John set out to make his first Hollywood movie, unknown to the producers, he had three completed scripts in his pocket. John received a couple of hundred thousand for the first one. And after the movie’s success, they asked him to write a couple more, and for a lot more money. Writing them was as easy as spending thirty minutes at the Xerox machine. Today, I spent an hour and a few dollars having my taxes done. In between deductions, I thought about headlines for Eternity Road, reducing to writing two that I thought had promise. Which in a sense would put me two headlines ahead of the game. This evening, instead of watching American Idol, I would have started the body copy. But something stopped me. Not so much the fact that I’m kind of disgusted with the Rahm/Massa feud, (I feel dirty just thinking about it) and politics in general. Not so much because of that. More so, the culprit was my reaction to our Curmudgeon’s mania; the inexcusable grammar in everyday use that passes for English; the pointedly pathetic piggish English spoken by everyone from downscale to upscale America. It’s more than a pet peeve. I virtually despise it. It’s one of the few hates embedded in my DNA.
My father was a writer; my mother an unmitigated grammarian. Being St. Louis Catholic liberals was probably their only major flaws. I can vouch for the fact with zero possibility of error than my mom would have voted for Obama. Even with all of Obama’s overwhelming concupiscence to run this country into a ditch, she would have voted for him, again and again. Ugh. How I miss her. If the DNA starts the pattern, the people you meet along the way are a girl’s finishing school.
His name was Mr. Matthews, which isn’t a name changed, as they say, to protect the innocent. A very, very tough Marine officer was he before we met. But defending our shores wasn’t to be this wonderful man’s life’s work. Teaching was. He was your consummate high school Latin teacher. A dear classmate of mine will take us the rest of the way as we share with you a bittersweet all expenses paid trip back in time. Then I’ll get back to politics.
“Ready on the right; ready on the left; ready on the firing line. Ain, Anderson, Bell, Bellmar,…the call rolled on.” Thus did our Latin classes with Mr. Matthews begin, year after year. We weren’t Marines and we weren’t fighting in the Pacific, but in Mr. Matthews’ class you knew there was discipline and purpose: learning, knowledge and growth. He did not lecture, threaten or cajole: by his very presence and command he inspired a desire for knowledge and achievement. He set the bar and expected we would meet it. We tried very hard. But we learned far more in his classroom than a dead language. We learned English syntax and grammar; more precisely because we were translating from Latin to our own language which required him to teach us real fluency in English. We learned history, both ancient and recent. He led us to realize important values that history teaches. And we learned respect for this scholar and guide. Most of all, we learned to love learning.” (George Reid, 2004)
If my friend, the dear Curmudgeon, had ever met him, he and Mr. Matthews would have had much to discuss. For they would have had much, much more in common than the Island.
Ave, Magister Optimus, nos qui dedicimus, te salutamus.
Comments
That is quite a glowing description of your teacher. Who could ask for more?
Posted by .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address) on 03/10/2010 at 02:24 AMI think one of the greatest gifts we can ever receive in this life is to be raised by people who have a center, a core of decency and discipline. I remember my own parents’ lessons with great affection and marvel at their ability to speak and write flawless English, with essentially high school educations or, possibly, less in my father’s case. I do not know how far he went in school.
I’m grateful, too, for my exposure to Latin as a boy. What a great foundation for all of my future education.
“Ready on the left,” etc. brought back fond memories of my times on various Army firing ranges.
Thanks for your kind comment on one of my earlier posts, Rachel. You Know Who disables comments after a certain period and I waited too long to respond directly.
Posted by Col. B. Bunny on 03/10/2010 at 02:37 AMBeing St. Louis Catholic liberals was probably their only major flaws.
Verbs HAS to agree with their referents, Rachel dear!
Posted by Francis W. Porretto on 03/10/2010 at 06:33 AMThe verb is right but “flaws” should be “flaw.” Not so?
Posted by Col. B. Bunny on 03/10/2010 at 04:46 PMYou guys are right. Thank goodness you pointed it out. Not knowing is not bliss. It should be “flaw.” Mistakes of that nature are so palpably annoying. Are they not? Yet, perhaps the source is not a flaw in the writing, but something I ate. Yes, undoubtedly that is the likely culprit; an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato. Charles, what do you think?
Posted by .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address) on 03/11/2010 at 12:17 AM
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