This post will not appear to be written by the same person who was in for those HAT posts below.
I’m multifaceted, and my husband would vouch for that, I believe.
I have to say that last week was heavy, and I think the heaviness crept up on me and perched atop my head like a vulture.
Understanding that nobody wants to hear about the colorful side of my family of origin, I’ll just say that I am thankful my husband took me away from it all.
But, last week, as someone in Appalachia, who I’ve known for nearly all my life, was finding it impossible to make wise choices, and at the same time I was reading just piles of high school biology (probably in an attempt to escape all the news coming in over the phone). I found that I was sort of going down for the third time in a sea of recessive alleles and monohybrid crosses. Then, I began to dream in Punnett squares and to drift away from conversations thinking of everything in terms of gametes and genotypes.
I made a sudden return to consciousness this morning when the kids knocked on my forehead saying “Mom, did you really just tell Daniel he could finish that whole pie?”
And having snapped out of it, I thought that I would drop in here with something a bit light that David read to me this afternoon. It’s from an old letter E.B. White wrote to his editor, J. G. Case after the publication of The Elements of Style:
The next grammar book I bring out, I want to tell how to end a sentence with five prepositions. A father of a little boy goes upstairs after supper to read to his son, but he brings the wrong book. The boy says “Why did you bring that book that I don’t want to be read to out of up for?”
And how are YOU?
I really love E.B. White. At some point in the late ’80s, I spent part of one spring or summer driving past his house in Maine trying to muster courage to go up to the door and say “Hi”, until I was told by my friend Scott (of home-made Christmas gift fame) that White had actually been dead since 1985. That news brought a dark down-swing of mood, I can tell you.
Now, E.B. White’s letters are my magic elixir for kids who can’t seen to get a rhythm going when writing a paper. If they are stuck or if they hand in a draft that sounds wooden or uneven, I ask them to sit down and read the letters or essays of E.B. White for as long as it takes to haul them out of the ditch they are in. And it always works like a charm.
I wonder if anybody knows of another fun, concise writer who would help get the youngsters on track…..
~~I would also like to say that I get such a tremendous charge out of seeing my sixteen year old son loving E.B. White’s essays as much as I did. I just Love It when he’s reading me little funny bits and I can hardly make out what he’s reading because he’s too tickled and can’t stop laughing.