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The last time I posted in this irregular series was in January, marking the passing of my grad school Middle English professor, George Kane. Before that, I wrote about my boarding-school teachers. In between, I completely skipped high school and college, but not because I didn’t have important and memorable teachers.

Actually, all my high school teachers were quite impressive, given that many of them were conscientious objectors who had chosen to teach at an American school in central Africa as an alternative to serving in the military in the late 1960s. High standards, concern for the community and the world, and a sense of adventure and possibility—they demonstrated all these values along with the subjects they taught.

My senior year, Mrs. Wiebe also supervised the school newspaper and yearbook, and I worked on both. These enterprises took on great importance in our small pond. The only professional work on either was the printing. The photography, layout, writing, art, and editing was all done by students. Compared to today’s glossy computer-generated productions, they look quite amateurish—but amateur in the original sense of work done for love. Along with a bit of competition and desire to snap the administration’s suspenders. I also wrote reams of bad poetry which seems to have been admired by some at the time.

A friend from those days reminded me recently that she and I wrote a play together. She sent it to me, but I’m afraid to re-read it. Maybe later.

Wrapping this post up, I think I’ve figured out why I  haven’t done more of this recently. I started the draft at about 2:30; was interrupted three or four times; it’s now almost 4:30. If I’m going to keep this up, must either write shorter posts, or find uninterrupted time.