Gosh, I love this. I plant geraniums every year, and bring at least one pot in to winter and bloom. They remind me of my dad ... who hated them -- weird I know, but this poem really drove that home. I could picture my dad, the engineer (his career, our dad, so he could give us the life he felt we deserved), but as a little boy in a school room, gazing out the window past those "stinking geraniums."
You have a better memory than I. But I do remember the desks. The ink well that we did not have to use. The carving and the ancient gum hardened like rock.
And our second grade teacher, Miss Colburn. They only grade school teacher I remember, because she gave me a D in math. We called her, Miss Cold Burn when she wasn't listening.
Later I got even. Scored in the 98th percentile on the graduate record exam on the quantitative part. Not so good on the verbal. Only the 45th percentile. Why I'm still learning how to write.
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In his many novels, poetry, histories, editorials, plays, and letters, W. E. B. Du Bois poured so much of his blindingly incandescent soul into his writings that no single volume could ever contain all of his words or works. In fact, had not the his
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And our second grade teacher, Miss Colburn. They only grade school teacher I remember, because she gave me a D in math. We called her, Miss Cold Burn when she wasn't listening.
Later I got even. Scored in the 98th percentile on the graduate record exam on the quantitative part. Not so good on the verbal. Only the 45th percentile. Why I'm still learning how to write.
Ron