Tractor Accident 1985

It had been a spring loved by frogs and mosquitoes everywhere. All farmers were behind in their fieldwork. My brother-in-law was more behind than most so my dad loaned him our colossal four-wheel drive Allis-Chalmers tractor with dual wheels as tall as Wilt Chamberlain, and our 32-foot disk.

Marathon

My goal was to average 7-minutes per mile—a pace good enough for a man of my age to qualify for the Boston marathon. The first couple of miles passed quickly; we were filled with adrenaline and the excitement of starting a race. A marine-type fellow inspired shouts of excitement as he played reveille on his bugle. A one-legged man wore a roller skate as he propelled himself with crutches.

Peace Walk 1988

In late summer, 1988, I traveled to Ukraine, part of what was then the Soviet Union, to take part in a Peace Walk. We traveled from Odessa to Kiev, walking through tiny villages that would explode with people who came out to see the Americans in our tented campgrounds. The goal of the Walk was to promote peace through person-to-person contact, unfettered by politics. I was there for a month with 460 other American and Soviets marching through the countryside, carrying banners, discussing politics, giving out autographs and eating watermelons.

Dad's hands

“Pipe down, you guys!” he said with an irritated scowl. We should have known better than to talk while the news was on during supper. I sat right beside my dad at the dinner table since the day I graduated from the high chair. He was at the head, facing the TV, and I was to his left; I felt honored to occupy that seat. During my adolescent years (there was even the trace of doubt in high school) I realized that he didn’t actually see any insects in my ice cream when he said, “Hey, there’s bug. I better eat it for you.” 

You did what?

I am ashamed to write about this. It seems to be something that is particular about me—or at least no one else ever talks about doing such a thing. At first thought, it seems to be a symptom of an unsatisfied, unloved, maladjusted childhood. To describe my childhood, I thought, would be the portrayal of a fairy tale existence—huge family, lots of toys, parents who care—all hallmarks of a fine life.

Why are you a teacher?

In 1999, I was in my first year of graduate school. One of my courses asked me to write a short autobiography with a concentration on why I became a teacher. I thought I could easily do this and come up with a lot of nonsense about being filled with a yearning desire to help younger generations. As I began to write, however, something inside me made me want to play it straight—to write the truth. I would search my soul and find the genuine reason that I became a teacher. I decided that I didn’t want to fudge this one.