Douglas Hesse The University of Betty Crocker Principle Investigator
An opportunity survey of 73-75 respondents (the author lost count) revealed that most folks grew up calling the end of a loaf of bread “the heel,” although there were variations. This disappointing finding, no doubt indicating lax upbringings and/or the influences of Mayonnaise v. Miracle Whip, may derive from geographical or other factors. Or it may not. The author was too lazy to press the issue.
Are you kidding?
Conflicts of Interest
The author believes “crust” is the more honorable name; however, he swears he was impartial.
In 1976, the author, having grown up in DeWitt, Iowa, and then a student at the University of Iowa, moved into an apartment with Dennis P. Mott, William H. Davis, and Kaj A. Jensen. There he heard Mott (Paulina, Iowa) refer to the end of a loaf of bread as “the heel,” which shook his reality, as the author had understood it always as “crust.” Around 2 pm on 1/15/22, the author took a loaf of wheat bread out of the office and suddenly was struck by memory of that fateful day. Wondering just how anomalous his childhood was, the author set out to survey whomever was wasting time on Facebook on a Saturday afternoon.
Review of Literature
Yeah, right. Look up some stuff about the fight over “soda” v. “pop” and get back to me with what you found. Get a life.
The author posted a single question on Facebook, around 2:30 PM MT: “Research: What did you call the end piece of a bread loaf when you were growing up?” He chose the delightful aspen tree background. Then the author went hiking around Genessee Mountain. When he came back, he was astonished to find a total of 101 comments, with 73 responses and a little cajoling. He counted the number in each category and, had he not been lazy, he’d have figured percentages and other stuff. But he was and he didn’t.
What do you call the end piece?
The heel 48
The crust 8
Heel or crust 4
It Depends 3
The end 5
The butt 4
The Stump 1
The Toot 1
Some respondents were either shiftless or bilingual (as with Sandy H. (English and Minnesotan)), referring to the piece interchangeably as “heel” or “crust.” No wonder people storm the Capitol. Other respondents (see Dennis B.) had conditional names dependent on whether the bread came for a bakery or a home oven or it was store-bought, aka, Wonder Bread, aka, “you can smoosh a piece into the size of a raisin. “
The author and about 80 separate respondents have way too much time on their hands.
A month ago I bought several old books from the American Alpine Club, which has its offices and library in Golden, Colorado, in a fine building that used to be Golden High School. Pre-pandemic, I spent a fair amount of time there, ostensibly taking notes (used in a couple of pieces I published) but just as often looking at mountaineering books and magazines from decades past. The AAC has duplicates of some publications and occasionally sells them to make space or raise funds. My recent purchase, for example, included a 1922 mint condition issue of Trail and Timberline, the Colorado Mountain Club’s longstanding periodical; this particular issue was devoted to the death of famous climber Agnes Vaille on Longs Peak, during a winter ascent.
But what really caught my attention and credit card was an offhand volume, Challenge: An Anthology of the Literature of Mountaineering, edited by William Robert Irwin (Columbia UP, 1950). Written on the page facing the front cover were several inscriptions, including “Happy birthday, Papa, June 1949 ~ Klaus” and a note that the book had been on the shelves of the Timmerhaus Ski Lodge in Winter Park, CO. Curious, I looked up to find that the (now Americanized) Timber House Lodge still operates, with its most usual description being “unpretentious,” just a notch above the fear-inducing “rustic” or the more ambiguous “quaint.” Paul Timmerhaus owned this namesake lodge, and Klaus, his son, was a noted Professor of Chemical Engineering at the University of Colorado. In 1949, he’d have been working on his degrees at The University of Illinois. This was all interesting stuff, and as someone who rarely minds chasing textual threads (or procrastinating), I enjoyed sleuthing.
Then I noticed something more remarkable.
Inside the front cover was a small address label, the kind I get every other week from Defenders of Wildlife or the Audubon Society or St. Jude or Unicef as a teaser to donate. The names: “David & Gudrun Gaskill.” I recognized I was holding an even more interesting piece of Colorado History. Gudy Gaskill, whom the Denver Post memorialized as “a force of nature,” is revered as the driving energy in forming the 567-mile Colorado Trail. I’ve been at the bridge and Trailhead dedicated to her, on the Middle Fork of the South Platte River, between Foxton and Deckers. It turns out that Gudy was Klaus’s sister. I speculate she got the book from her father at some point, then donated it to the American Alpine Club at some other point. I was holding a book she’d owned. Very cool.
Then I noticed something even more remarkable–something to the theme (finally) of this essay. Flipping through the book, I found dried flowers pressed between pages 394-395. They were ghostly white, with faint tinges of green and blue, though maybe my imagination and desire have projected color where there was none. A far more skilled naturalist than I am could probably identify the flowers–along with other ones pressed between pages 24-25, 120-121, and 152-153, all the same species.
Who had placed them? I’d like to imagine Gudy Gaskill hiking a high Colorado meadow in the Lost Creek wilderness, picking striking flowers, moving them from her pack to the heavy pages of Challenger. Maybe, she’d had dozens of flowers, and over time the best had been replucked and repurposed for letters or shadowboxes. These were but remnants. Or perhaps Gaskill had idly thumbed the book over the years, each encounter with withered blooms reminding her of that high mountain day.
Of course, it’s just as likely a summer guest at Timmerhaus had picked the flowers along Cooper Creek in Winter Park and pressed them, with great intention, into the heaviest book he found in the lodge library. But in the hustle to make the train back to Denver, he’d forgotten. Perhaps knew, even at the picking and the pressing, that whatever floral essence might remain would mockingly fall short.
Or, just maybe, the thought all along was to leave wispy smiles to future readers: to the family from Omaha to Gudy Gaskill to me. Instead of millennia-dead people chasing around Keats’ Grecian urn, here were fragile traces of life–plant and picker/presser–long gone yet preserved.
About this time, I received a card from Ann Arbor, Michigan. I’d sent my longtime friend Patti Stock some postcards printed from my mountain photographs, and she was replying in creative kind. Actually, Patti had gone better, for her card, pictured in the first image atop this essay, was fronted by a pressed flower, still brown, still yellow, held against paper by some film and process I couldn’t figure, delicate and whimsically strong.
But it wasn’t just any flower, any card. Patti’s letter inside told how her mother had fashioned herself a flower press, now passed on to Patti. With the press were flowers her mother had saved, and with them these were still a few cards Mom had fashioned, years ago. Patti trusted one of those cards to me. I was delighted and honored, humbled and a little choked.
My father passed away three months ago, following my mother by a year, leaving my sisters (mostly) and I to go through countless boxes of ephemera: photographs, of course, but also diaries and documents and knick knacks and bric a brac from wooden duck decoys to a set of straight razors from a grandfather’s barbershop, Dad’s Dad killed on Christmas Eve when Dad was eight. There were letters and school programs and Mothers Day cards and birth announcements and old tickets and locks of first haircuts: a vast welter. Much of it was loose, occasionally clumped by rubber bands, occasionally thematically congregated. An impressive fraction was gathered into albums and scrapbooks, sometimes with captions, sometimes not. In my sister Joellyn’s living room, we paged through 90 years of two lives, a small portion put into order, on one hand colorful and vibrant, on the other fixed and faded. It was plucked and dried from Mom and Dad’s full lives, each photo or artifact a flower gleaned from vast meadows of experiences gone, gone, gone. Mom and Dad had preserved scattered flowers of decades. Now they’d come to the children.
One could call this foolishness. How vain to hope that this columbine or that cinquefoil, pressed into pages–into memory–could at all capture that bluebird day when white aspens stood against the quartz outcropping, when the Cooper’s hawk whimpled and the mountain drew your heart up a still-snowed couloir! How desperate to put pretty flowers in the flap of a backpack! To what end, really? Desperation? Common advice about pressing flowers is to choose ones with low moisture, even if they’re a little less colorful. In drying faster, they retain more of whatever color they have. Lusher flowers desiccate to brown. A sensible person, then, would go for the dull, knowing the futility of trying to keep the vibrant. A sensible person wouldn’t, in fact, put plants in books or presses.
The goal is never perfect rendering. Justice to life as lived is impossible, and that’s not the point. When I’m surprised by Gudy Gaskill’s flat alpine vestiges, when my breath catches at Patti Stock’s card with her mother’s embodied hand and heart, I’m moved not because they are perfect but because they exist at all, because a particular person at a particular moment decided this I’ll preserve, however hopelessly inadequate, imperfect, and ultimately dimmed. It is the care and the caring.
The evening my father died we were celebrating my youngest daughter’s wedding, a thousand miles away. We’d known from sisters back in town that he was down to final hours and I’d left a lengthy phone message that I’d like to imagine Dad heard when Joellyn played it. I learned near the end of the dance when he passed. Late that night I pressed my boutonniere between the pages of a notebook I’d brought with me, and three months later this morning I looked to see how they’d dried and what colors remained.
September 24, 2021 | Audubon Sanctuary | Chevy Chase, Maryland
My heartfelt greetings to all here gathered.
In a more perfect world, I wouldn’t be giving this toast. That profound delight would fall to Paige’s father, Tim, whose love for her was clear and boundless. Tim’s spirit is here today, and he rejoices.
When Paige came into my life through Becky—and into Monica and Andrew’s lives, too—she was was five or six, inquisitive and passionate. Her characteristic move was to come up forehead to forehead and look into my eyes. It was impish but also implied, “I’m committed. Are you?” I’ll demonstrate.
Paige was and always has been deeply empathetic and artistic. I remember endless living room costume dramas. They started in rehearsed scripts but morphed into improv. I’ll confess sometimes slipping out before curtain.
Paige is also fiercely independent and resilient. She moved alone, carless, to LA, taking the bus from Koreatown at three AM to one radio job, commuting to Pasadena and KPCC for another. There she met Ashly and, of course, Armand.
Our family’s first meeting with Armand is legendary. We were renting a house off Franklin Avenue over Thanksgiving. Armand peddled up on his bike with a 20-pound turkey in his backpack and pots in his panniers. It was a bold move.
Every Thanksgiving we’ve spent with him since then has featured Armand’s day-after gumbo, the divine mysteries and ministrations of the dark roux. I’ve come to appreciate his interest in Soviet history and art. Who else owns a Nikita Kruschev nested doll?
Together, Paige and Armand have the capacity to find deep interest and care in everything, large or small, including each other. They’re a perfect match.
And so a toast.
To guests here gathered, California to Connecticut Avenue.
Donald Glenn Hesse passed away quietly in the presence of family on September 24, 2021, at Maggie’s House in DeWitt. He was the loving, devoted husband of Coral Krukow Hesse, a caring father, a self-made businessman, an accomplished outdoorsman, and a wry storyteller.
Don was born in Donahue, Iowa, on September 5, 1930, to Gladys Gertrude (Holcomb) and John Willis Hesse. His father was killed in an accident on Christmas when Don was eight, leaving him a child of a single mother until many years later, when she married Bill Gribbon. During the Great Depression, he lived with families on farms across Clinton and Scott counties, doing chores and attending various schools, developing the kind of stoic resilience that became a hallmark of his life. He graduated from DeWitt High School.
Don served as a combat engineer on the front lines of the Korean War, running heavy equipment that helped establish beachheads, bridge rivers, and open mountain passes. Until his later years, he spoke of his military service with great reluctance. He had been the longest continuous living member of the DeWitt American Legion.
On September 14, 1955, a Wednesday night, he married Coral Ardis Krukow, the love of his life, at Grace Lutheran Church. They were married 65 years until Coral passed away in October 2020. Don and Coral enjoyed going out to dinner, taking long drives, having picnics, participating in church activities, serving the Central Community Historical Society, and following Iowa sports. They devoted vast energies to their children and grandchildren, faithfully attending any child’s event–large or small–within driving distance, phoning or writing if circumstances prevented.. They kept a trim Victorian house on 6th Avenue, where Don planted extensive flower beds of red Salvia. In later years they valued neighbors Jim and Sue Foote.
After maintaining roads for Scott County, Don established Hesse Oil Company in the late 1950s, delivering fuels to farms, homes, and businesses, sponsoring a bowling team by that name. In the 1960s, he opened a small bait shop in DeWitt and worked night shifts at Caterpillar. In the 1970s he and partner Fred Behr created B&H Sanitary Service, picking up trash in DeWitt, rain or cold, sickness or injury, until his retirement in 1995.
During many of those years, he was a member of the DeWitt Volunteer Fire Department, where he served as Chief.
To say that Don was an avid fisherman is to say the sun rises and sets. For many years, his garage featured a dedicated blender for mixing catfish bait and a refrigerator for storing it. Every week would find him on the Wapsi or Cedar Rivers in his custom flatbottom boat, joined by a succession of fishing partners and close friends, most notably Gabby Fletcher, Ray Cole, and John Camp. In earlier years, he trapped and hunted, including as a member of the Teal Club. His euchre skills were unsurpassed.
Don was a man of quiet, pragmatic, effective action rather than words, although his word was his bond, and personal integrity and self-sufficiency were his heartfelt values.
He is survived by six children: Doug (Becky) of Denver, Colorado; Joellyn (John) McDonnell, of DeWitt; Susan (Terry Frahm) Hesse, of DeWitt; Kathleen (Rick) Miller, of Leander, Texas; Barbara (Doug) Range of Lilburn, Georgia; and John of Cumming, Georgia. He is further survived by 17 grandchildren, Monica (Rob Cox) Hesse, Andrew (Molly) Hesse, Paige (Armand Emamdjomeh) Osburn, Shannon (Phil) Schroetter, Josh (Nicole) McDonnell, Jason (Sarah) McDonnell, Adam (Jill) McDonnell, Sean Hunter, Katie (Ryan) Rebers, Austin (Jessica Miller), Courtney (Dusty) Lozano, Nathan Hesse, Jade (James) Helm, Jacob Range, Jenna Range, Jared Hesse, Justin Hesse, and 14 great-grandchildren. His stories and values live through them.
Visitation will be from 2:00 p.m. until the service time of 3:00 p.m. Saturday, October 2, 2021, at Grace Lutheran Church, DeWitt, The Rev. Eric Obermann officiating. Burial will follow at Elmwood Cemetery, DeWitt.
Memorials may be sent to Kids Fishing Foundation, Honor Flight of the Quad Cities, or the DeWitt Fire Department.
More people ask me for copies of this essay, published in JAEPL a couple years ago, that they ask for anything else I’ve written. Mind you, “more people” is a relative term: it’s not like I’m swamped! Anyway, to make it more easily accessible, I’m linking to a copy here.
Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday, better than Christmas.
There was, of course, the element of being the first fall holiday; when I was a kid, way back before schools had fall breaks, Thanksgiving held uncluttered glory as a four-day vacation. There was the late fall feel, inevitably chilly and cloudy and leafless, sometimes flecked with snow: the kind of weather that beckoned people inside with others. There was, mostly though, the relative simplicity: family came over (on a Thursday!), and you had a big meal, and grownups talked or played cards.
Here are scattered memories of Thanksgivings at 1122 6th Avenue, DeWitt, Iowa.
Thanksgiving was always at our house, involving a vast turkey that seemed to go in the oven at the crack of dawn or earlier, resulting in white meat the consistency of Styrofoam. It was glorious! It was turkey! Besides, I was in dark meat’s camp. There was nothing better than poaching pieces, especially skin, from the pan as the bird sat resting. Mom would look the other way for a few swipes, but then you had to sneak.
We had an electric knife, a kind of meat chainsaw, and Thanksgiving was one of the few days a year it got deployed. Have you seen an electric knife in the past decade?
Dad would peel potatoes into a huge pot of cold water, accumulating a mass of peelings onto a newspaper on the floor, usually sitting at the kitchen table. Occasionally the need to peel potatoes created urgency sufficient for Dad to miss church, a strategy I admired and envied. Usually, though, we all went to Grace Lutheran, which was two blocks from our house. We drove.
Thanksgiving has little and lousy music. “Over the River and Through the Woods” was drafted in desperation as a Thanksgiving song, though the sleigh ride really promises Christmas. The top Lutheran hit was “Come, Ye Thankful People, Come.” (“First the blade and then the ear/Then the full corn shall appear.”)
The more people at our house, the grander the holiday. Grandpa and Grandma Gribbon were solid mainstays; Dad was an only child, after all. My Uncle Dutch and Aunt Uvonne were reliable, too; Grandma G’s brother and wife had no children. Grandma and Grandpa Krukow at Thanksgiving was a very rare treat, as they needed to ration themselves among four kids. The all-grandparents constellation was rare, forever lost in 1965 with Grandma Krukow’s death. I was nine. So, I’m reaching back to Thanksgivings when I was but three years older than my grandson Isaac is now.
My Uncle Walt and Aunt Myra (Grandma G’s sister) occasionally came, too, and then so did my dad’s cousin Ron, his wife Sherrie, and their daughters Kelly, Carrie, and Kimberly. They lived in Davenport. Out of town company! Kids! This scenario required at least one, sometimes two card tables in the living room.
Dinner was noon or close thereunto. The evening meal was supper. Always.
Almost never did anyone in the early days watch football. We did watch the Macy’s parade, and the Mummer’s, that strange display of feathered men.
Thanksgiving dinner always include a relish tray: carrots, celery, pickles, and olives. It was the rare time that we had black olives. We kids would stick them on ends of four fingers, waving our “rings” before eating them. We would dip celery into little crystal salt cellars at each plate—the only time these ever came out.
As I got older, I often volunteered to make the whipped cream for the (always) pumpkin pie. Of course, this was a pretext for being left in the kitchen with the cream, sugar, vanilla, and a beater, the process involving so much sampling that it’s a wonder I didn’t contract Sudden Onset Diabetes. Did Mom really have no clue?
Thanksgiving was the rare day when coffee got made in the afternoon, in a big stove-top percolator into which Mom would put an egg. I really should look up this odd practice.
A couple of times Dad and Uncle Ron would go pheasant hunting in the afternoon, and I’d get to join, with my .410. We’d drive up to farms around Lost Nation where dad had spent some of his childhood. We never shot anything that I can remember, so I think the point was mostly to get out of the house. At least once, I remember we went “road hunting,” which Dad usually scorned but somehow deemed appropriate this one time; that meant driving slowly and looking for pheasants in ditches, then an elaborate ploy of driving past, stopping the car to unload shotguns, then creeping back through the ditch to flush the pheasant. But as I said, this was all theoretical, since we never shot anything, and that wasn’t the point.
When I was in junior high, I’d started working with Dad on the trash truck. The Friday after was a double-route day, two trucks in full operation, two days’ trash in one. The exciting aspect was getting to have a friend working with me, often Kirk Anderson or Joe Ryan.
The pies sat on the dryer in the laundry room, where it was cooler.
If the Davenport contingent was at Thanksgiving, right before they went home, we drew names to exchange gifts at an annual Christmas party, which revolved among homes on my Dad’s side.
The 2020 National Council of Teachers of English convention was to have been in Denver this week, and I was local arrangements co-chair, along with Jill Adams, also of the Colorado Language Arts Society. Ah, well. Following is the Welcome to Denver I wrote in May 2020. It would have appeared in promotional materials. It has a touristy cast, but I tried to convey some deeper sense of the place, befitting the convention theme. NCTE Program Chair Alfredo Luján had chosen the theme ¡Confluencia! Songs of Ourselves, which was perfect for this city.
Welcome to Denver
Denver is a vibrant, progressive, historical, multicultural city with an energetic downtown surrounding its convention center. From that center and the convention hotels, you can easily and safely walk to dozens of performance venues and movie theaters, to world-class museums and cultural centers, and to countless restaurants and nightspots, from James Beard-winning venues to diners, brew pubs, cabarets, and jazz clubs. Many are along the 16th Street, a mile-long, tree-lined pedestrian promenade, along Larimer Square, the city’s oldest block, or in nearby walkable neighborhoods. People not only work and play downtown, they live here.
Cultural opportunities abound. Only two blocks from the convention center is the Denver Performing Arts Complex, the second largest in the country, with ten theaters for plays, symphony, opera, ballet, and Broadway shows. November visitors will have their choice of events. Dozens of other theatres, comic clubs, and performance spaces dot the city, from the innovative Buntport, Bug, and Curiosity theatre companies to famous music venues such as the Paramount, the Fillmore, the Ogden, the Bluebird, and The Mission Ballroom.
In the mid 19th century, even before Denver had a school or hospital, it had a performance of Macbeth in a local saloon. The primacy of a saloon, befitting a city begun in the 1850’s gold rush, presaged Denver’s current 150+ craft breweries, pubs, and tap rooms, second in the nation.
Many of Denver’s distinctive, thriving neighborhoods are just 5-10-minutes away. Should you have the inclination, the glorious Rocky Mountains and foothills are but thirty minutes from the convention. Some of Denver’s 200 parks are actually in the mountains, including Red Rocks Amphitheatre, which Rolling Stonenamed the best outdoor concert venue in the world, and Genesee Park, home of the city’s own buffalo herd, descendants of the last wild bison brought here from Yellowstone in 1914.
Even if you don’t get to the mountains, you’ll see them dominating the western horizon, with over 200 visible named peaks, thirty of them over 13,000’. While the mountains will likely be festively snow-capped for NCTE in November, Denver itself will probably be warm, clear, and dry. It’s sunny over 300 days a year here on the high rolling plains, and with only 14 inches of annual precipitation, the air will be bright and crisp. How nice is the weather? The city’s 90 golf courses are open year-round. There are 850 miles of off-street bike trails.
The Denver Art Museum, its stunning building designed by Daniel Libeskind, has an astonishing permanent collection and features top level exhibitions, recently including Van Gogh, Monet, and Dior. The Museum of Contemporary Art, the American Museum of Western Art, the Kirkland, the Clyfford Still, and dozens of galleries in the Santa Fe and Tennyson art districts round out the visual arts. The Cleo Parker, Wounderbound, and Colorado Ballet dance companies highlight the kinetic.
The $120 million History Colorado Center presents an expert and honest history of extraordinary artifacts and narratives. The museum highlights travesties as well as triumphs. including the centuries before Colorado’s the Gold Rush led to statehood, time when the Arapahoe, Cheyenne, Utes, Apaches, and Comanches and others lived on this land.
Denver is a proudly diverse city. Over 31 percent of the population is Hispanic or Latino descent and 10 percent African American. The city holds the nation’s largest Cinco de Mayo celebration and largest Martin Luther King Jr. march and rally. The Chicano Humanities & Arts Council has a gallery and cultural center and promotes Chicano/Latino visual arts, literature, music, and dance.
The Blair-Caldwell African American Research Library is located in the historic Five Points neighborhood, once known as the “Harlem of the West” and a frequent stop for jazz greats like Billie Holiday and Miles Davis. Jack Kerouac knew Five Points well from his time living in Denver; you can visit sites he wrote about in On the Road.
If you fly to Denver, you’ll arrive at America’s fifth-busiest airport, an architecturally distinctive terminal with convenient and inexpensive light-rail service directly downtown. The airport train arrives at Union Station, a completely renovated 19th century grand work of architecture whose main hall is surrounded by restaurants, bookstores, and boutiques.
Union Station sits at the heart of lower downtown (LoDo, to locals) a center of nightlife and day life, home to everything from Coors Field and the Colorado Rockies, to the world famous Tattered Covered Bookstore and the venerable Rockmount Ranch Wear, inventor of the western snap shirt. At Rockmount you could run into Kevin Costner or John Legend, Anne Hathaway, Jack Black, or Bonnie Raitt, all of whom have bought its iconic clothing. The adjoining River North (RiNo) Art District, with its galleries, food halls, pubs, distilleries, and markets, was named one of the “one of the top 10 neighborhoods to visit in the U.S.” by Lonely Planet.
What else? Denver has seven professional sports teams, highlighted by the Broncos, Rockies, Nuggets, and Avalanche. There’s an amusement park direclty downtown, near the Aquarium, along the South Platte River. A gold-domed State Capitol. Botanical Gardens. Museum of Science and Nature. The Lighthouse Writer’s Workshop. A civic plaza that drew 200,000 to the initial Women’s March and tens of thousands to the student-led Climate March on Denver. A respected LGBT community. An outdoors-oriented population regularly cited as one of the healthiest in America. A large, diverse school system and multi-branched public library. Colleges and Universities ranging from the University of Denver to the University of Colorado Medical School to Metro State and the Community College of Denver. Teachers dedicated to the arts of language, to an educated citizenry, and to their students.
Denver is a sanctuary city of people who are tolerant, civic-minded, multicultural, and energetic: committed to the environment, to children, to opportunities for all, to a sustainable and just future. You are all welcome here.
I was involved in planning the first National Day on Writing for the National Council of Teachers of English, which created a gallery of thousands of pages of every day writing from around the country and hosted hundreds of events. The image above is from an event we hosted in the University of Denver Writing Program. I was the curator for the Colorado gallery, which, alas, is lost to time along with the entire gallery.
Let’s imagine essayists and auditors, poets and nurses, tweeters and technicians, blogging beauticians, church bulletin scribes, advocates and analysts, authoring.
Let’s imagine memoirs and memos, rants and remembrances, oral histories, letters to the future, postcards from the past, profiles profane and sacred, instructions, directions, reflections, retorts, factual and fancied.
Let’s imagine a living American gallery of writing checked with salons, fitted by school or site, by genre or by identity, but most importantly by you, salons in which a homeless man’s story hangs next to the finance major’s wedding vows.
Let’s imagine school kids linked to college students, teachers to professors, and all to city halls, shelters, board rooms, all linked by writing.
Let’s gather writers who’d never thought themselves that: mothers, bus drivers, fathers, and veterans. Let’s have sharings, coffees, contests silly and celebratory, so that the national gallery of writing has myriad outposts, local and physical. Let’s open our writing centers to our communities.
Let’s imagine October 20 and all this embodied in a National Day on Writing, a day when we cut the digital rope on our Gallery, when the Norman Mailer Writers Colony gives creative nonfiction awards to high school and college writers in a gala ceremony sponsored by famed New York writers, students whose work has been supported and selected by NCTE members.
Actually, that day is planned. What’s needed to make it happen is you. Please help.
—Doug Hesse, National Council of Teachers of English member, former chair of the Conference on College Composition and Communication, and director of Denver University’s University Writing Program.
“If the world will end tomorrow, I’ll plant an apple tree today.” A couple decades ago, Susan Burt, my then-colleague at lllinois State University had a poster with this declaration hanging on her office door. It was in German, its ostensible author someone like Goethe. Apfelbaum. I always admired the stoic, peaceful, foolhardy sentiment of the saying, not least for its implication that the speaker’s life was in enough balance that he could simply do today what he did every day, and that would be sufficient.
It feels like we have come to this day in America, and the decision confronts me: plant or despair?
The next paragraph is blunt, so skip it if you’d like. Actually skip the one after that, too, as it contains the word “turd,” and I know I won’t be proud of that in a few days.
It’s outlandish for me to say that tomorrow comes the apocalypse when we have been living a social nightmare for so long under the malicious, ignorant, self-aggrandizing regime of Donald John Trump and his minions–the 35% of the American population that delights in mooning (and impoverishing and sickening and disenfranchising) the 65%. What makes tomorrow more eventful than, say, the first day The Republican lied to the American people about Covid, the day The Republican put toddlers in cages, the day The Republican quit climate agreements, the day The Republican paid a prostitute $130,000, ridiculed American soldiers, praised Nazis, and on and on and on and on?
Why is tomorrow worse? Because the death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg reveals our full national political depravity.* I leave eloquent reflections on RBG to Monica Hesse, focusing instead on one stark fact. In 2016, The Republicans declared 236 days before the election that they would not meet to discuss the appointment of Merrick Garland to the Supreme Court. In 2020, The Republicans, despicable hypocrites, declared 45 days before the election, that they plan to approve a Trump nominee. Mitch McConnell has gone beyond mooning American to proudly dropping a fat Kentucky public turd and asking us all to admire his integrity.
*yes, I know more is to come.
Like most people I know, I’ve reached pretty much Full Pessimism Capacity. Sure, I fret about a 6-3 Supreme Court with intellectual heavyweights like Thomas and Kavanaugh and, soon to come, Judge Judy or Kid Rock. But more than that, I despair that sheer partisan political f-you-ism has reach its apotheosis. The curtain in the Temple, the political curtain of trying/seeming to act on behalf of all Americans, had been little more than gauzy scrim fora long time. Today, that curtain has not only been torn but used as toilet paper.
I’ll vote, of course, and I’ll give money to candidates, and I’ll hope that enough Americans choose to flush The Republican and his idolators that we can start rebuilding actual American values in the coming year, values of truth, competence, equality, service, and honor for all people, all endowed with certain inalienable rights, even Blacks, Mexicans, Jews, Muslims–and even women.
Beyond those minimal motions, on a day like today, it’s mighty tempting to say, “It’s over,” and just put your affairs in order.
But this morning I found myself planting mums in the front yard. It’s a decades-long habit, this going to a garden center in September, buying some yellow, orange, or burnt red plants, setting them out for fall color. Fall is here, winter is coming, and things will die. It’s a vain, impractical practice to buy plants that will die in a couple of months just to make a fraction of the world prettier for a fatally short time. And yet there is a weird consolation of carrying on as if the world is not covidding into disarray.
I did something even more audacious this morning. I spent two hours meeting with Colorado Language Arts Society board members. Here were a dozen school teachers from across the front range and the eastern plains, teachers who have by now spent heroic weeks teaching, many of them at risk in face to face classes, all of them with countless daily hours at computers in virtual meetings, much of of these efforts at the behest of administrators and publics who have almost no clue what they’re asking these professionals to do. And yet these very same teachers were giving up Saturday morning to sit in front of screens, doing the hard work of helping English teachers across the state of Colorado improve learning for Colorado’s students.
It was utterly humbling to be among mostly women (all but three) of such resolve and good will. There were about a dozen of us: two of us 60+ geezers, a couple in their forties, three or four were 30-somethings, three or four 20-somethings. They are at the front lines of shaping the quality of things for teachers and students. Whatever good happens in schools will come from people like them.
The first twenty minutes were spent sharing stories of impossible situations around the state–and how these teachers had made things better. Then we moved into planning and budgets, building resources, amplifying teacher voices, creating help and hope. Did they not know the world was ending? Did they not see the folly of thinking beyond tomorrow on a day like today?
I watched them plant apple trees.
After I set in my mums, I walked to where I’d been watching a volunteer daisy creep up through a crack between sidewalk and rock fill. I actually hadn’t been sure what it was until it flowered this week. Curiosity kept me from pulling it. I have daisies elsewhere in our yard, two and three feet tall, large flowers atop leafy stems. This volunteer daisy is in many ways a pitiful approximation, a few inches tall, not even able to launch a stem. And yet against every odd, completely alone, planting itself, it desperately flowered, as if to declare, “I’m here! I matter!”
Some images and metaphors are too plain and too profound for explication.
In August 1974, my parents took me to Iowa City for my freshman year at the University of Iowa. It took but two trips from the Dodge station wagon parked on Clinton Street up to 2226 Burge Hall (aka The Zoo), a triple I shared with Dale, a big guy from Bondurant who wanted to be a doctor, and Kevin, a trumpet player from Pleasant Valley who wanted to be a band director. Kevin would accomplish that and even go on to direct ensembles 20+ years later at Iowa before a scandal brought him down. Dale left school after one year. I met both of them that day in 2226 Burge.
I remember profound loneliness walking back into the dorm after my parents pulled away. Only 25 years later did I come close to understanding what they felt, what it was like to leave your first child to academia, on a September afternoon walking from the Bryn Mawr Campus to the Bryn Mawr station, to catch trains back to the Philadelphia airport. Monica’s mom and I had moved her into a triple, and the College had prepared an afternoon of activities that culminated in a clear signal to parents: You Need to Leave Now. So we did, Dawn to her minivan, me to United Airlines. There was then Andrew’s first day at Illinois Wesleyan in 2003 and Paige’s first day at DePaul in 2006. For over a decade, I had a close perspective on college through the eyes of students, my kids, and then it was done. Ever since, I’ve become more distanced from how the world looks to freshmen, whom I’ve taught 40 years, beginning in 1980 at Findlay College, when I was six years older than my students. Freshmen are first-years now, of course.
I think of all this September 14, 2020, the first day of classes at the University of Denver. The parents have long left, having dropped kids strangely into dorms distanced by Covid, half capacity, only Mom or Dad (not both) allowed to visit rooms where they first meet masked classmates, carrying the heavy burden of not getting each other fatally sick.
Professors have struggled all summer to figure how to teach classes partly in person to students whose lips and chins they’ll ever see only on computer screens. We’ve fined and refined online components of courses, planning for the day we’re made to shut down every physical element and move it all to Zoom and Canvas. Students will not chat with us in our offices or over a coffee or in the library book stacks, the library now closed except to a few classes that meet in a big room. We will not linger with colleagues after talks, in receptions, passing one another on the college greens. We will not stop to watch a late afternoon soccer match, listen to a chorus rehearsal, wander through a gallery and be surprised by a student’s watercolor.
I cannot imagine what it would be like to be a first-year student in 2020, and my heart simply goes out to them. Today should be a nervous thrill: their first college classes after a weekend of hanging out with new roommates and classmates, in a new city, cleaved at last from home: homesick, perhaps, but future-forward. But now? It’s well-placed paranoia in a makeshift fragile world that a few weeks’ experiences at other colleges tells them–and their professors–cannot last until too many cases bring everything down.
As a professor, now senior in both senses of the word, I feel a great responsibility to these students and to my younger colleagues, all with years ahead of them. I think of Joan Didion’s poignant essay, “On Going Home,” where she writes in the 1960s of bringing her daughter back to her own childhood house in Sacramento for the baby’s birthday. Didion is flooded with memories incomprehensible to her husband, John Dunn, and certainly to her daughter, Quintana, both of whom will tragically die decades later. Didion writes in dust on window sills and desperately thinks of the birthday gift she would like to give but of course cannot: “I want to give her home.”
I wish I could give my students college.
My first day at college came a couple of weeks after Richard Nixon finally resigned, confronted by a congress that could still act responsibly. My first night at college, I found myself at a bar for the first time in my life, drinking my first beer, a Pabst Blue Ribbon. The legal drinking age in Iowa was 18 in those days, and while I’d been 18 a month, I was a shy “nice” kid. Ah, the puritanical folly. Bill Davis, who lived down the hall and would become one of three longtime roommates, took me downtown, around the corner from Joe’s place to a bar long gone and whose name I can’t recall. With wide worldly knowledge, Bill told the bartender, “A Blue,” and I of course copied. I clearly remember thinking, “So this is college. What in the hell are you doing?”