"Hey," he had said, "I'm a professor; I have nothing to prove."
Later on, Ezra kidded me: "But, groundskeeper, how am I to look down on you when you speak like a professor?"
"Hey," I had said, "I'm a groundskeeper; I have something to prove."
After that, for larks, we spoke to one another according to our pigeon holes. This was an easy hole for me; revisiting the ditch of my youth, littering my speech with the trash I'd picked up along highway 61. And, oh, what a kick the professor got out of my white-trash speak. Such a kick, he suggested I work some of it into my writing.
"Oh, no," I had said, "a writer of my caliber doesn't resort to anything so sophomoric as butchering his mother tongue."
"Hey," Ezra had said, "if butchered English was good enough for the Missouri boy to paddle his way down the Mississippi, why shouldn't the Minnesota boy use it to pole his way up?"
Boy, that sure hit home. No, you want to influence a writer in America, just drop him on the same raft as Twain. So, driving home that day, I'd envisioned myself on a raft with Huck, poling our way up Old Man River. No, for old Huck and I, it was all, "Lake Itasca or bust."
Home, I'd opened my laptop, had so much fun unchaining the junkyard dogs, I had to kick myself in the ass for letting the joy of writing get away from me. Which begged the question: Where, exactly, had the joy of writing gotten away from me?
Writing sure was a joy in college. A joy till my writing prof cut the heart out of me with: "Please, Anton, share with the class why a writer would want to serve his better reader a plate of road kill."
Then, out of college, I cut my heart out even more when, trying to get published, I took to considering my better editor. Embarrassing, the close shave I gave my voice that it might raise the penciled brow of that English major who, fresh out of college, was called to New York to raise the bar of Literature, only to find herself at the bottom of a slush pile in search of the canned cat food that made fat cats fatter.
Well, rejections got me to thinking of doghouses, and doghouses got me to thinking of dog shows, and dog shows got me to thinking of the close shave you give a dog to get ready for a dog show. Oh, what a standard poodle literature in America had become. No, Ezra was right, time for Lassie, here, to bite Timmy in the ass, run off, join the pack.
OK, so I have yet to find me a following, but I sure get off seeing myself on a makeshift raft, the lone wolf of literature, poling my way up Old Man River--poling up without a care in the world. Well, I have one care; the power Old Man Time has over reach. No, like every writer in America, I'd like to dip my bucket in Itasca, not kick it in Anoka.
Back to larks.
Ezra had the harder pigeon hole; speaking high brow. Though Ezra wasn't exactly working-class--his dad taught math, neither was he ivy league. I suggested he find a fellow professor to fill his manure spreader. But, no, upon review, ACCW was an art college anchored in craft; all the profs spoke without pretense.
Ezra's speech coach showed up one day when he and I were talking perspective. I, seriously leaning on my broom, thought we were talking The Big Picture. But then Ezra, fiddling with his camera, said, "Take this view to the south. I can increase the depth of field if I narrow down on the aperture."
Before Ezra could put his eye to his camera, Hayward appeared. Having sized me up, Hayward said, "Phenomenal, yes, how our groundskeeper can position his chin on the end of his broom and call it motivation."
For a response I added head weight to my broom handle.
Hayward left in a huff, and checking my chin, I said, "Phenomenal, yes, how our president can position his tongue on his high brow and call it motivational speaking."
"Hey," Ezra said, "we all have our flaws: Hayward's got that callus on his tongue from licking his high brow, and you got that dent in your chin from leaning on your broom."
I pulled on my chin. "Good one, Ezra. And where, exactly, do you wear your callus?"
"On the end of every finger." Ezra pulled on his fingers. "See, Anton, teaching art's easy. What's hard is the rib spreading. Every student's got it in there, for sure, but it's like pulling teeth to get what's in there out."
I didn't want to pull teeth. "That Hayward, the way he speaks; makes me want to punch his teeth out. I hear he's from the East--old world money, no doubt."
"Wrong," Ezra said. "Hayward grew up poor in Poughkeepsie. But then he won a Rhodes scholarship, went off to Oxford." Ezra pulled on his chin. "Oxford; you're bound to come back with some tongue stuck to your brow when you go off to Oxford."
"Big deal, so Hayward's a frigging genius. All the more reason not to like him."
"We don't have to like him. But we do need Hayward to talk Oxford. If he talked Lake Wobegon like you and I, the rich wouldn't trust him--wouldn't let him stick his hand in their deep pockets."
I didn't say anything.
"Like it or not, Anton, it's largely Hayward's hands in the pants of the well-to-do that keeps this place afloat. So, you be nice to Hayward."
I didn't want to be nice to Hayward. But I did want Ezra to like me.
Changing my tune, I did my best to positively criticize Hayward. But I don't think Ezra was listening--caught up in shooting his view to the south.
Yes, Ezra's view to the south was something. And given the art professor, here, busting ass to capture it, I guess that something spelled art. Of course, I, the groundskeeper, couldn't see the art for all the work those turning leaves spelled for me.
The days passed, and I got a better feel for the ACCW community. And what a singular community it was. Where I had worked before, everyone saw the landscaping as something you walked through to get to a job. Here, the staff, faculty, and students saw the landscaping as something you sought out when it was time to get what was inside you out.
The Dean of the college touched on it one day when I was standing in a daze trying to get a handle on what to do next. "Why so serious?" she said.
"Oh," I said, lifting my chin off the end of my rake, "my new spread; just trying to put some two-and-two together on how to keep it all."
"Two plus two? That's four. Nothing serious there."
Pulling on my chin, I was tempted to take the Dean to school on the difference between two-and-two and two-plus-two. But I really needed the academician, here, to get off the subject of math. Though I could put two-and-two together with the best of them, two-plus-two was about as far as I'd gotten in math.
"You're right," I said, "it's not serious. I mean, look at the great grounds I've landed. No, really, I must be one blessed cuss, to get to keep all this."
"This art and craft college is something else. And we're counting on you to keep it something else."
"Me? Hell, I wouldn't know art if it hit me in the craft." I laughed.
The Dean didn't. "You have a hand, right?"
I displayed my left, surprised not to see a glove on it. Damn, where were my gloves? Oh, there they were, airing out on my wheelbarrow.
"Anton. Put your hand into this place."
"My hand?"
"Each hand is unique--like a signature. Everyone who is involved in this school is working hard to honor that singularity of expression."
I did understand this. We writers, too, worked hard at nailing down our singular voice. "Wow, this place is something else."
"That's because we have exceptional people with an exceptional program in an exceptional place. You are largely responsible for place. Instead of seeing yourself as the hired hand, see yourself as the hired paint brush." She waved her hand over the grounds. "The campus is your canvas. Now, inspire us."
The Dean left, and I framed in a section of my canvas.
Nevertheless, I dropped my rake, headed for the Front Desk. As a staff person, I got a free class as part of my benefits package, and I wanted to see if there was any space left in Painting 101.
My new calling as painter weighed on me the next few days. Adding to that weight was an old lady who came walking down the main walk. "Greetings," she said. "You must be Leif's replacement."
Turned out this lady was the landscape architect who had designed the campus some twenty years back--the real artist behind the painting. She was cordial, but she put more pressure on me than the Dean. "There are two types of pruners," she said. "Most are sculptors. A choice few are painters. Leif was a painter. He believed plants should look like plants. I believe if you machine the life out of these plants, you'll find a foot in your ass."
I looked at the old lady's foot.
"Not my foot, Einstein. The foot of the spirit of the place." She waved her hand over the place. "Believe me, if there's one foot you don't want in your ass, it's the foot of the spirit of this place."
After a year or so of mulling over my new role as Painter and, moreover, how to keep my ass free of spirit feet; I came up with a game plan: Not to prune at all. No, for five years now, I'd been letting things go. Oh, sure the bold brush strokes were consuming walkways, eating entire corners of patios, but, by god, things sure looked painterly.
And it all worked out for the best. Because I wasn't pruning, I had more down time. More and more, I found myself lying in the dirt under the old madrone tree. This tree, like a carved figurehead, grew out of the prow of the campus. There I'd lay, look up, learn stuff.
Take today. I learned so much I had to sit up, take notes like a schoolgirl: "The college's signature tree, the madrone, showed us how to grow. The tree willingly shed old leaves and bark to make way for new leaves and bark. The tree was old but that alone didn't make it wise. Our madrone was wise because no matter how big it grew, the tree remained ever green."
OK then; time to get back to class. I laid back, looked up.
photo here
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