Photos from this years new staff orientation

- Emily

Asbestos in the Attic..or Basement

I hold my breath as I walk through the sauna of a stairwell. The asbestos abatement is in full swing in Peterson and somehow holding my breath will prevent the microfilaments from entering my lungs. Reaching the landing I gasp, inhaling all those particles I worked so hard to avoid.

The air conditioning has been shut off, while I imagine a giant vacuum hose outside is sucking the undoubtedly asbestos laden insulation from the interior of the cinder-block walls. Probably this is not how it works. And theoretically speaking, I think we aren’t supposed to be in the building, but nothing stops Dr. Bob from getting down to work in his 329 Peterson office. Not even hazardous silicate minerals.

Upon further investigation of the history and usage of asbestos I have discovered the following primarly on Wikipedia. Coming from the Greek word meaning unquenchable, asbestos in one of six silicate minerals. Used for its tensile strength, fire retardant ability and sound absorption the U.S. asbestos industry began in 1858. Until recently this tricky substance was used in automobiles, to wrap ship pipes, bulletproof vests, cigarette filters, plaster and artificial snow. Even now, it has not been made illegal in the United States, though it is listed amongst hazardous air pollutants.

Unfortunately for Peterson hall, when it was built in the 1960s, asbestos use was in full swing. By the time school begins, Peterson will be in ship shape—but a friendly piece of advice: don’t lick the walls.

- Emily

The heat sets in.

It’s my first summer in Iowa, and I imagined a brisk summer like those spent in Seattle as a child-- pulling plums from a tree in the backyard and regretting the decision to wear shorts. Instead, we subsist in what has been dubbed ‘corn growing weather.’ The Iowa City Bank sign illuminates red digits. One, zero, seven. I didn’t think it possible outside the southwest. The humidity knocks you back, down, and rolls you around on the ground.

I run into Liz and Sydney in the writing center. I think we all escape to Peterson to find a little quiet in the nearly-empty basement. With the exception of a few glass research students, our little niche is cool and silent. The coffee supply has dwindled to only decaf, but it doesn’t seem to matter. We complain to one another about the systems migration. F-drives and I-drives don’t work. Or maybe they do. Everyone laments lost progress and class assignments. My honors composition portfolio is gone, but then again, maybe my prose isn’t as good as I recall. The summer is rattling its last few breaths; classes start in a week and a month - Emily

Watching the books pile up and hankering for a cup of writing center coffee

Dr. Bob’s books for his latest nature-writing course cascade from his mailbox-- the one across from cherry auditorium. Unwrapping book after book, almost exclusively the Best American Science and Nature Writing 2005, I found myself hankering for a pot o’ Joe. Not just any, but the writing center’s own special brew, black. It’s the middle of summer and nothing will cut it. No coffee roasters around or mysterious burlap bags filled with green coffee beans arriving. I can’t help but miss walking into Peterson and being accosted by what smells like hot pencil shavings, knowing that there would be a fresh cup waiting for me downstairs.

- Emily

Grant Wood Slept Here...

Any self-respecting Cedar Rapidian must possess at least a cursory knowledge of Grant Wood either because of the Marvin Cone connections or the fact that American Gothic is perhaps one of the most recognizable American paintings. So here it is, all you ever needed or even really cared to know about Grant Wood.

The Grant Wood studio is now owned by the Cedar Rapids Museum of Art and is just a short walk from Coe. (Check it out, it's free on Saturday and Sunday). Number 5 Turner Ally, he called it. Wood moved into the former hay-loft of a mortuary carriage house in 1925, because before that had hearses, they had horses! After the advent of cars, the Turner's no longer needed a hay-loft and donated the space. It was in this space that he painted American Gothic and most everything else.

So, go to the studio if you're ever in the neighborhood.

P.S. American Gothic is of Grant Wood's dentist and sister.

Is it still a writing center if no one is here to conference?

My vote: Yes
So far the writing center and my summer hideaway has been abustle with activity. Between working on the summer newsletter, next years calendar, and cleaning out old faithful (the refrigerator), there is rarely a dull moment. In fact last weeks adventures in the depths of the refrigerator yielded a treasure of miscellaneous foodstuffs. The top five things found the WC fridge:

5. An unopened Rockstar
4. A half-gallon tupperware of canned pears, labeled Tuna.
3. Baked beans and lots of 'em.
2. A pitcher of slightly green iced tea.
1. One full pound of creamed cheese set to expire next month. Not quite sure what I'll do with this fortune just yet...

Happy summer to all you folks and be sure to check out Beth's Baseball [May Term] Blog.
- Emily C.

Second Semester Blog Recap

Well, finals have passed and a new blog team will be taking over for the summer. We hope you've enjoyed the past few months and the weekly posts we've made. The blog is alive once again and we wish it the best of luck in the upcoming months!

- The Blogsters

Photo of the Week: Publications Are Out!

Good news! The publications are coming out and we are excited to see and read them. Look around Coe for copies of The Pearl, The Coe Review, and Colere.

Reminiscing the Past: Part XII

1929

by Kaylyn Evans

1929, the father is the last to pass on. And rest he shall among the family. The grounds are shaded by cedar and they face a land of opportunity and openness. A new foreign land is where the Malўs called home and most likely prospered. The size of the headstone and its detail must have cost much of what they had saved, but it is worth this cost to keep their name out there for a lonely and infrequent passerby to see.

Josef and Frantska now lie with their children by their sides. The Malўs are protected by the cedar trees and the dew soaked grass. The calm, warm winds clean them on this beautiful September morning. Their bodies are blanketed by the moist, deep Earth. They are minded by their God they chose to believe in and are guarded by the noble Saints Peter and Paul. Where they lie is separated only by a gravel road from the house of their God.

They rest in the pristine cemetery with a solid, lightly decorated and polished gray monument that stands above their heads where Josef, Frantska and their three children's names are now carved into time. Their native language of Czech adorns the lovely headstones. Frantska, a beloved daughter and mother, is memorialized with a sentence that only a few may translate and understand. I wonder what is said of her. I wonder who decided to leave words just for her. A massive agave has grown next to her headstone, making her blessed by the earth Herself.

However, happiness has not always befallen the Malўs. Two were lost far too young. Only days old and they were to be buried within the family plot. They now are among the parents and brother, Lancelot, they never knew. Miloslav and Josef Jr., twins, will always be remembered and loved, even after such a short life. Josef and Frantska had to watch Miloslav be taken after three days of life, and then they had to endure the pain again as Josef Jr. was also taken only a few days after his second half. A passerby, like myself, could not imagine what pain and heartache that would cause; how could two parents survive that? Yet again Josef had to watch as his young son, Lancelot, be taken away too, not long after Frantska, but quite some time after his brothers. Poor, poor Josef! My heart aches for the Malўs; how traumatic their life had to have been with so many young graces lost. And poor Josef had to live multiple years with only the headstones that must have cost much of his hard-earned money; these seemingly being the only tangible pieces of them left for him. How did he make it through? Did he throw himself into whatever work that made him most likely prosper in the eyes of business men? But he did not prosper in his life because his Lord took his family away far too soon.

Yet now death does not walk along these rows of heroes, patrons, fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters. New forms of life spring from the earth and prevail in the place of the loved ones who were lost, in the place of the tragedies that many, most likely, felt. Families watch over the quiet and lovely graves. Their family tombstones enlighten us all of those who once lived before us. Sadness does not fall here, but happiness for the lives of those who once brought joy shines through.

Photo of the Week: So Many Books

It seems appropriate that we put a picture of books up on the blog since we are writing this post while in the Writing Center library. There are so many books scattered throughout the WC. In the library there is one shelf that is color coordinated to create a rainbow shelf. Whatever you're looking for, you might be able to find a book about it at the WC.

Reminiscing the Past: Part XI

A String
by Ariana Uding

Carved A dot P dot
Son of Anton and Anna
Surname, no first name

Spots of mud and moss
In the tree’s shade you’ve rested
And will for all days

Close enough to smell
Bright enough to call the sun
Too far for a touch

Lonesome in your rest
Next to you lays mystery
Bones lay next to bones

Surname Pavelka
Aging over tombstone but
Letters left untouched

Photo of the Week

Photo taken by Haley Welby.

Reminiscing the Past: Part X

Graveyard Writing

by Caroline Burris

How do people choose what goes on their tombstones? Do they sit down with a pen and paper one day and say, “I want an etching of something significant and a list of the relationships I’ve had and the family I’m no longer going to see.” How do people make that choice?

Julia A. Schaeffer. Julia has a rather lively display marking her resting place. Well, as lively as tombstones can get. A short, stout cross bearing her name standing on a pedestal, rosary beads etched into the stone. On the opposite side there are no beads, there is only a train. The surviving relatives: brothers, sisters, parents, one can only assume, have placed some of their own memorials around the grave. Roses, an angel with a faded painting of a garden adorning its robe: all objects with personal significance which mere visitors will never fully understand.

1964-2004. Julia was only 40 when she died. Did she have warning of it? Could she sit down and plan the designs, quotes, and etchings out? Or was it sudden? Was her family left to struggle with the phrases and pictures that would be seen by any and all visitors? Was her family charged with the task of deciding how she would be remembered?

How do people choose what goes on their tombstones? No matter how we choose, the etchings will become weathered and fade away. All we can tell is that someone is here. Name, age, likes, dislikes, none of that will register. We probably won’t even register that there were likes and dislikes or care about the name. All we’ll know is that the symbols someone chose to adorn their resting place with are gone. The choice of what they would be, ultimately, did not matter.

Photo of the Week

This quote can be found on the right hand side of the wall as you walk out of the WC. Just a little flair to the place.

Reminiscing the Past: Part IX

47 Years
by John Thornburg

Only the good die young,
John Woods. You were okay

Saints keep the resting place
a green topography of slopes
and crosses leaned, the cold of graves
lie in rows like trees.

Maybe you were glad
when Emma rejoined you
47 years is a drive, John
I know she told you all about 1969
and Neil Armstrong, World War II
If it was 1900 and I was 20 years old
maybe I wouldn't have this feeling
like there are plastic flowers
on my grave.

Lively Weekend on Campus

This weekend, a variety of performers will light up Coe's campus. In addition to Sean Kingston (7:00 PM, Friday, Eby Gymnasium), Coe's department of theatre arts presents Twilight: Los Angeles, 1992 (8:00 PM Friday and Saturday, Dows Theatre and 2:00 PM Sunday), The Coe Marquis series presents Sharon Isbin (8:00 PM Saturday, Sinclair Auditorium). On a different note, visiting students can view a guest presentation titled “Reading T.S. Eliot: An Introduction to Religion and Literature," featuring Edward Upton of Valparaiso University. (3:00 PM Friday, Hickok Hall Room 205). These are just some of the awesome events available to students and visitors this weekend.

How fitting, considering that it is Admitted Student Weekend, as well as the weekend of the Writing Center Fellowship competition. It can be hoped that all visiting students are served well by these events.

- Ben B '13

Photo of the Week: Seashells

Spring is here...sort of. The weather is warming up and we can only hope for the summer. Maybe some seashells will bring us some summer luck.

Reminiscing the Past: Part VIII

Mother Is All It Said
by Amber Caylor

I pull my sweater tight around me to prevent the cool morning from sneaking inside. The chill nips at my cheeks and nose, but it’s still early. The sun promises to warm the air around me. At the entrance to the cemetery, the tombstones are large and beautifully crafted, but I pass by them, trekking down the hill to the older part of the cemetery.

The older sections of cemeteries are always my favorite. They are full of lost stories of the people resting in the earth, joined by all those who knew and loved them. Sometimes even the engravings on the stones have been worn away, leaving those resting there nameless to this world.

I try my best to avoid walking on the graves. Many people don’t bother, but I was always taught that it was disrespectful to stand above where someone has permanently been laid to rest. The newer section is easy to get through, with tombstones in clear rows. Once I get to the older part of the cemetery, avoiding them becomes more difficult. They don’t line up to make paths, so I nearly trip weaving through them. Many of these older graves are from the early 1900s, with the names still easily read. I decide to plop down in a stretch of grass.

The cemetery is so peaceful and, strangely, alive. Golden flowers are in bloom, the grass vibrantly green, and I hear cows mooing in the distance. I usually picture cemeteries as dark, creepy, full of shadows and straight out of a horror film. This is not that place. This isn’t a place of death. It’s a place to celebrate life.

I look at the tombstones near me and see a small, flat one that simply says, “MOTHER.” The woman’s name, date of birth and date of death are a mystery. The weather hasn’t worn away the engravings; her loved ones simply chose to memorialize her as Mother, leaving off everything else.

Initially, this lack of name saddens me. Names are so connected with our identities that without them, we don’t know ourselves. This woman lies nameless in the ground, lacking an identity. Perhaps her tombstone is simple because the family didn’t have enough money for something more detailed.

Yet, I probably understand this woman better than if her name had been emblazoned on the stone. I know she was a mother. Every day she loved and cared for her children. I can imagine her tucking them into bed under a warm, heavy quilt and making them pancakes and bacon in the morning. Her family thought of her as such a wonderful mother that they chose to remember her for eternity as mother and nothing else. For her, mother is her identity, not her name.

Today, I attempt to capture a piece of someone’s story. It’s only a minuscule piece of a mother I never knew, but I remembered her. I thought of her. She was not forgotten.

Writing Center Suddenly Abloom with Poetry

On Sunday, March 27th, I opened my email inbox to find an email from Dr. Bob. Much of the subject line was filled with procedural detail headings, but then came the last word, which was followed by an exclamation point. "Poetry!" Speeding through the first two paragraphs of the email, my eyes dived into the third point in Dr. Bob's prose. We were to spend parts of our shifts over the next four days, Monday-Thursday, March 28-31st, writing poetry. We have closed on the poetry collections; the submissions are in, and I hope to give a brief highlight to a pair that caught my eyes. The first is by Alison Polivka, speaking out to us from 9:00 on Monday morning; speaking the true spirit of the morning. It is called Settle.

The perfect cup of coffee eludes me.

There is no coffee at the pump,
nor is there any in the carafe,
and it is too early to even think of the word
decaf.

It takes me five minutes and twenty-three seconds
to make the coffee,
but I need to fill the sugar in the meantime.
There's no milk in the fridge,
so thick, syrupy cream must do.
Someone jacked my mug a week ago,
so one of the twenty-five cent
Goodwill mugs must service.

My sub-par cup of coffee,
cradled between anatomically incorrect sea turtles
and a whale with a lazy eye
will have to do.

Another fun Poem is just titled Poem, by Grant Stevens. It speaks to us from 9pm on Monday.

P is for the Pie I eat.
O is for the Orchid Forms
E is for the Energy I feel.
M is for the moment when
the orchid forms are done
and I eat pie
and am energized.

These and more can be found on the pillar just inside the Writing Center, and there are even more on Moodle that will probably find their way here in the future. This has been an interesting sort of project for consultants, and in my experience, we would enjoy similar projects in the future.

- Ben B. '13

Photo of the Week: Hands of Truth

Maybe they're not hands of truth but then we're not exactly sure what they are. One of the random things found in the Writing Center.

Reminiscing the Past: Part VII

Otillie's End

by Emily Moss

For Otillie,
for the others
I sat thinking.

The late August breeze
whisking by the engraved names
I felt the tingle of fall arriving
and the shivering contrast of silenced life

Maybe for Otillie,
death was a sickening fascination,
morbid thoughts interfering with
learning in school
playing with classmates
daily happiness.

Maturation into adulthood
withered the face into icy coloring
and eery bags hung beneath grey eyes.

The mind consumed with the Ultimatum.

Endlessly
thrashing in possessed sleep
searching for something;
when nothing could be found.

Only when the body lay
nearing its end
and the helpless eyes rolled into darkness
did the mind feel reluctant
to leave what had never really been seen.

So for Otillie,
for the others
I sat thinking.

Poem of the Week [3/21/11 - 3/25/11]

This week's poem is:

"Though methinks he was only
a dream
Perchance thine villain wilt ne'er strike
thee fair maiden."

Got a poem of your own? Put it up on the blue pipe above the front desk and it may appear as next week's Poem of the Week!

- Anna H., '13

Getting Those Publications Ready for Print

It's the end of March and Coe's literary publications are hard at work preparing their spring issues. Coe Review is heading into the final stretch of laying out their fiction issue and after a great review, they are hoping for another stellar issue. The Pearl selected their pieces and are putting the issue together. Coetry is still reading poems and will work on picking the best poems soon for their quarto. Finally Colere is also hard at work and after selecting a cover they also nearing the finish line.

Can't wait to see all the issues in print in the next month!

- The Blogsters

Photo of the Week: Board Games

Our first week back from Spring Break has been a long one, if only we had the time to play these board games. Instead they sit collecting dust as the semester continues full speed ahead.

Reminiscing the Past: Part VI

Rose

By Hailley Fargo

By the time I got to the cemetery the rain had stopped. The road, washed out, slick and

slippery, battled with my beat up car, seeing who could overtake the other. My car won. I was

here, finally.

The air was damp and the blades of grass stuck to my shoes as I made the trek to the

grave. The wind whistled and I heard was the squish, squish of my shoes. The grave was on the

far side, tucked away in a sloping corner; by the time I got there, the bottom third of my jeans

were wet.

“Rose,” I said, sitting down next to the grave. The cross and flowers I had put there a

few months ago were still standing and I played with the flowers absentmindedly while taking a

real look at the grave.

Dirt covered the site, there was no grass to be found. The ground was as dead as Rose

was. The tombstone was a small, only taking three of my hands to span its length. Made of a

red and gray granite, red and rough around the edges and a smooth, gray surface on top, tucked

away in the corner surrounded by a few other graves.

Sway, sway, rustle, rustle. Silence.

Closing my eyes I traced my fingers over the letters. My motions were slow, but

confident. A clear, vivid picture of Rose formed in front of my eyelids. Her bright, emerald

eyes, full of curiosity; her long nose and full, pink lips; her unruly blonde hair and her dimples. I

heard her laugh, I heard her talking to me. I envisioned Rose when I first met her, when she was

twenty; it was the first image that came to my mind. The ninety-three old Rose was someone I

remembered but couldn’t clearly see. Even though I couldn’t see that Rose, memories from the

seventy-three years I knew her invaded my mind and the twenty year old Rose floated in and out of these memories, laughing and smiling the entire time.

Once I got to the end of her surname, my fingers suddenly had no where to go, nothing

to trace and so Rose and the memories that had surfaced, faded slowly.

I looked up and saw the other tombstones, larger and grander than Rose’s. I saw other

members of her family, their tombstones standing proudly above Rose’s. A feeling of shame

rushed over me. She deserved so much more. The tombstone sitting in front of me wasn’t

worthy of Rose. Is was nothing like Rose; she was loud and wild and funny and beautiful. How

could this tombstone represent the ninety-three years Rose lived on this earth? And what would

she think of her tiny, insignificant tombstone, hidden among everyone else's? A tombstone

practically forgotten. I don’t know if she would be ashamed or if she would just laugh at the

irony.

A tear slid down my cheek and I brushed it away as I stood up. By now, my jeans were

soaked and there was a patch of matted grass where I had been sitting. Giving the tombstone one final look, I walked away. When I got to the wrought iron fence, I turned back. The larger and grander tombstones were blocking my view of Rose’s grave but that didn’t matter, I knew where she was.

“I’m sorry, Rose.”

Sunday Night Dinners

Upon returning from Winter Break, the Writing Center decided to spice things up and host a weekly Sunday night dinner in the WC. So far we've been treated to the delectable dishes such as spaghetti, chili, and Chinese. They're a bit hit with the consultants and other students who smelled the non-caf food and come running. This Sunday Dr. Bob and Harlo, a science professor and head of the Wilderness Field Station, are facing off in a chili showdown for the ages. Dr. Bob is sticking close to his roots and whipping up some Kansas Flint Hills Chili while Harlo is going down south for some Costa Rica Chili Picoso. Who will be winner? You'll have to wait until the next blog post to find out!

- Blogsters

Poem of the Week [3/14/11 - 3/18/11]

This week's poem is:

"A tale of

Love Monkeys

with idle grace and

mercy to deceive."

Got a poem of your own? Put it up on the blue pipe above the front desk and it may appear as next week's poem of the week!

- Anna H, '13

Photo of the Week: Coffee

We love our coffee, probably too much sometimes. You can always find a steaming pot of coffee ready for Coe students and staff. And of course, all consultants are whizzes at making a good old pot of joe.

Reminiscing the Past: Part V

Martha

by Heidi Heaton

August 17, 1907.

A life began that day.

Now three simple facts are left of her...her birth, her death, her name.

The sun’s fingers crawl over my skin, while the breeze tousles my hair,

I ponder at this sleek, cold stone and the significance it bares.

White flowers with tips dipped in pink sit delicately by this grave,

Fabric petals of permanence beside old bones of decay.

Does family often come to visit or are there any left?

What legacy did Martha leave to separate her from the rest?

A tombstone, average height, sits stoically in moist, shaven grass,

No distinctive qualities, just tangibly marking the past.

Visitors can only muse at the lives of those beneath the dirt.

But how, in truth, can a stone convey all of the human life’s worth?

The sun’s warmth has seeped into my skin; the soft breeze has left the air,

While peaceful quiet absorbs my thoughts of a life still unclear.

Country roads wind gracefully over hills rolling out towards the sun,

And though her body lies here, her journey has just only begun.

Photo of the Week: Baseball

Since Spring Break is here, we hope the snow will be gone soon so we can pull out our baseball mitts and play catch. This fun game can be found in the WC but I don't think anyone has played it in a while; it's more for show.

Reminiscing the Past: Part IV

Frank J. Lorence

by Kevin (Ben) Schiroo

Born in 1889,

Died in 1979.

That's quite a run.

Ninety years is something a man can't complain about.

Ninety years through disease, war, and social upheaval,

maybe the man has more to bemoan.

At the prime of life was the Spanish flu.

There is little doubt he knew a victim.

He was the age to fight during both world wars.

Perhaps the country's call to service was answered.

He must have made it through,

to be put to rest so many years later.

The impression he left must have been a strong one.

Thirty years dead and he still gets flowers.

Many others with more recent dates,

they have already been forgotten.

The grave stone is unimposing,

protruding from the ground just a couple inches.

It's overshadowed by most of the stones around it,

but flowers make it distinct,

make it leave an impression.

A dabble in Etymology

Once upon a time, I was sitting in the writing center on a calm Thursday night, nominally working, when my coworker for the hour, Katie, asked if I knew the etymology of a certain word. A few seconds of thinking and the at-handedness of a computer led me to jump to the internet, where I found the Online Etymology Dictionary, a resource that lets me search for word etymologies.

Knowing I should be keeping an eye out for interesting tidbits of information about writing generally and writing centers in particular, I decided to take a look at the etymology of write and center. (Etymologically, writing comes out of writings, specifically scriptures, which is less interesting than the etymological mash-up that write has.)

According to the OED (not to be confused with the other dictionary by that abbreviation)The word write comes into modern English from a variety of sources, the old English writan "to score, outline, draw the figure of," the old high German rizan "to write, scratch, tear," and the Sanskrit rikh featuring notably among them.

Center also has a bit of variety to its etymology. Similar old terms are the old French centre--still a common spelling for the term in Britain--the Latin centrum, and the Greek kentron. The latter actually refers to a bee stinger, producing an interesting chain of Etymologies that produce an important modern word.

The closest thing Etymologically to the phrase Writing Center, at least by this method, is the word eccentric. This is a beautiful irony.

- Ben B '13

Photo of the Week: Where is Dr. Bob?

That is the question because Dr. Bob can rarely be found. He does have three offices after all so take your pick.

Poem of the Week [2/28/11 - 3/4/11]

As the Writing Center's official magnet poet for the semester, I've decided to start recording a poem of the week. All our WC poems are from various magnet poet kits, be they Shakespearean, Haiku, JUMBO, or all GRE words. All the poems posted can be found on the blue pipe right above the front desk in the WC.

This week's poem is:

"I curse thy codpiece,

thou villain,

and envy it much."

- Anna H, '13

Reminiscing the Past : Part III

Graveyard

by Millie Osburn

The area surrounding the stone is familiar to me—relaxed farm land. The rolling hills, quiet cows, and the soft breeze remind me of home and where I want to be. A car passes and I hear the crunch of the gravel—I think of my brother returning home from school. Dust remains in the air long after the car has left. The flowers that line the fence remind me of our little garden. The grass is soft and I am tempted to lie down and read. The trees sway in the breeze and my breathing becomes slow—I am at peace.

Looking at the stone, I wonder. I wonder what memories the area has for him. Did the flowers remind him of his garden? Did the grass invite him to lie down and read? I feel at home in this place that isn’t my home, but is the home of the stone and the man the stone represents.

Coe Welcomes Visiting Musicians for Jazz Summit!

I don't know if you've noticed the extra bus loads of people buzzing around Marquis today, but 78 middle school and high school jazz bands are here on campus for workshops and festivities. All of this will culminate in the 2011 Jazz Summit Finale Concert on Saturday, Feb. 26. For more information, check out the news release off the main Coe website here.

- Ben B '13

Photo of the Week: Beethoven

Need some inspiration? Well look no further at the WC then at our bust of Beethoven. His attractive mustache will make you smile and hopefully get the creative writing juices flowing!

Reminiscing the Past : Part III

Elizabeth's Impact

By Ashley Collom '14

Elizabeth’s family misses her. That’s why her grave is decorated with pin wheels and colorful streamers. That is why her still living husband has the plot next to hers with a tombstone with his name and no Death date. That is why more than a decade after her passing she still has flowers decorating her grave. That is why when I sat on her grave, I felt the urge to apologize for invading her space, even though she was four feet below me. I would like to think that her kids and husband still think of her when they eat her favorite desert or hear her favorite song on the radio. And that when they come to this grassy patch, and hear the cows in the background, they can feel comfort knowing that it is these nuances that make us human, not our BMI and hair color. So even if she didn’t have a foundation named after her and she didn’t save someone from a burning building, she was significant. She made an impact on her family, who carry on her legacy. She is made immortal through those who loved her subtleties and shortcomings while she was here. Elizabeth shows us that you don’t have to be spectacular to be remembered. That whatever happens when we’re gone, we didn’t waste space while we were here.

Welcome Prospective Students!

Well February has rolled around and Scholarship Weekend has arrived. As many prospective students come to campus we hope some will take a stroll into the Writing Center. Our bakers have been preparing goodies and we hope we can talk to some of these students tonight starting at 7:30 PM. Campus has lots to offer the prospective students this weekend such Blindspot, bowling, and a magician. We hope they have a great time here and we wish them the best of luck in choosing their college (we hope they pick Coe!).

- The Blogsters

Photo of the Week

Coffee, a beverage you can ALWAYS find in the Writing Center.
Photo taken by Haley Welby

Transamerica Life Insurance Company requested the help of the Coe Writing Center last year to help with the revision and editing process of their book Finding Your Voice, produced by the company to promote awareness for the acceptance and encouragement of diversity among their employees. It contained a variety of personal accounts from employees describing a wide range of experiences dealing with diversity, both within the company and elsewhere. These accounts were then presented to the writing center through shared Google documents, and the staff was able to provide feedback by posting numerous comments on each piece.
The book was recently finished, and last month Transamerica sent a letter to Dr. Bob and the CWC, along with a copy of the newly published work. Included was a generous gift of $1,500 toward the endowed gift account which will help toward providing financial support for future staff trips. "Your time, commitment, and dedication to this project, went above and beyond our expectations," the letter states. "The book is so much better because of your efforts."
The combined work marked a unique collaboration between the Cedar Rapids community and the CWC, and will hopefully pave the way for similar endeavors in the future.
- Matt Barnd, '09

Reminiscing the Fall 2010 Retreat : Part II

This poem is written by Emily Hipps '11.

Runes

The tombstone inscription only discernible

to the limbs of daddy long legs

and illiterate moss.

Josof Bulicek, my best guess

what your name might have been.

I know you lived to seventy-eight.

Was your death slow, creeping,

like the hundred years that stole

the last four letters in your name?

Did those around you sense it coming,

tucking away the intangible parts of you

for safe keeping?

The skeletal facts—name, birthday,

date of death— don’t hold much of you.

You died on 26 January 1916,

but I wonder about the other date,

when the world lost the last person

carrying the fractions of you.

When did the world lose the record

of your favorite shirt, the slant

of your mouth when you were angry,

your opinions of snowy mornings?

Have those bits of you outlasted

the letters in your name?

Who can remember when even stone forgets.

An Encounter with a real live WC Baker

One of the spectacular things about working in the writing center this semester is the prevalence of baking activity under our slightly revamped organizational structure. Simply, there are people whose only responsibility for an hour is to bake something delicious for all of us (who get there in time) to enjoy. As I walked into the writing center one blustery winter afternoon, I heard the telltale sounds of the baker's craft from the back of the Writing Center. I proceeded to investigate, finding WC baker Krista Majcen making some special pumpkin cookies with butter cream frosting.

Krista told me about her weekly baking hour on Sundays, when she and fellow WC baker Caroline Burris recently arrived for their hour and produced delicious no-bake, no-edge cookies in an extemporaneous fashion. I have been told to expect variable, surprising culinary concoctions and the occasional confection. In addition to Krista's weekly staple of variable banana bread, we can expect some experimentation with candies and truffles from the pair. In as near the future as this upcoming Sunday, Krista expects to delve into a carnival theme, producing deep fried Oreos, deep fried Twinkies, and possibly even adventuring into the land of the funnel cake.

I know I will be showing up for some delicious food on Sunday. Will you?

- Ben B '13