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