To Sir With Love

Father Frank is what we called him. Not to his face, of course. In class we called him Mr. Militano, because that's what you called teachers, especially back then. But he was so much more to his students than any other teacher. He was that teacher whose classroom was always the meeting place for kids after school or before school, or whenever we could be there. And there are times, even today, more than 40 years after the junior year American Literature class at Jefferson Township High School, when I am still that high school girl with hair nearly to my waist and paisley dresses that just barely met the dress code, writing probably very bad poetry, deep inside. Sometimes I just don't feel any older and I remember those days so well. I always loved to read, but Frank Militano taught me to love literature. He taught us the standard curriculum of junior English: American Nobel laureates, Harper Lee, Thorton Wilder, Robert Frost -- not the cutesy Frost of "Stopping by Woods," the surprisingly deep and cutting Frost of "Home Burial" and "Fire and Ice." But in his hands, the standard curriculum was far from mundane. Our class discussion were intense. No one's contribution was unimportant. No student was unimportant. Macbeth is the Shakespeare play juniors all read in those days and he had us perform scenes for each other and really understand that Lady Macbeth was really just a teenager, too. So much of what I learned about putting words on paper, I learned in that classroom from that wonderful teacher. And so much more. We could talk to him about anything. Many of us returned on college vacations, to thank him and to tell him how he prepared us not just for college English classes, but also for the new life we were discovering. We always knew we could talk to him. The essence of a great teacher, the reason great teachers should be paid as much or more than great doctors or scientists, is the ability to connect with every student, every day. And those students never forget. Which is why, when my mother called me yesterday to tell me Frank Militano had died, I was once again that 16-year-old in that classroom and I felt such a deep pain in my heart. He was a religious man and I know he is still that great teacher, watching over all his former students. Goodbye, Father Frank. This is my way of writing a thank you across the sky.

Death Comes for the Curmudgeon

Martin O'Shea died this week. A self-proclaimed curmudgeon, Martin dedicated the last years of his life to keep government honest and open. He attended municipal meetings like some people attend hockey games, but refused to be called a "gadfly." His only agenda was to make sure local government obeyed its own laws. The Sunshine Law, known formally as the Open Public Meetings Act, and the Open Public Records Act, were so important to Martin that he spent hours and hours of his time and much of his own money to keep municipal governing bodies following them. Martin filed lawsuits when necessary. He wrote letters, spoke at meetings and occasionally chased council persons toward their back rooms demanding they continue to meet in public. Many people paid attention to what he did, but many others did not. Some of those who did not benefited greatly from his actions. Sometimes they realized that and sometimes they didn't. It didn't matter to Martin. He was working for the people whether they knew it or not and whether they liked it or not. Martin didn't play well with others, but those of us who called or emailed him frequently have lost a true friend.

The Age of Ignorance

Just how stupid are we these days? It's bad enough some idiots think the point is not to do something worthwhile and possibly become well-known as a side effect. They think the point of life is to be on TV regardless of what they do or how dumb they look while they're doing it. The worst thing is that people actually keep reading about it and watching the "news." Those two gate crashers at the White House were just the most well-dressed of the recent folks who haven't a clue what fame is all about. I thought the sari was a nice touch, didn't you? As for that American Idol loser who has no sense of decorum and could use make-up tips from Alice Cooper, the sooner his 15 minutes of fame are over the better. He's proof you can have talent and still ruin it by acting like a fool.

Confessions of a Geek

Ok, I admit it. I'm such a geek. It was brought home to me on a visit to the Liberty Science Center. I must have said "cool" about 80,000 times. First, we got to see part of a real-time kidney transplant -- sure it was a little icky, but it was amazing. Then, we went to the Imax theater to watch natural disasters. I said to my companion volcanoes are my favorite natural disasters. She said "I wan't aware you had one." Yeah, some people don't have a favorite natural disaster. I find that odd. The film was about the volcano on Monserrat -- major pyroclastic flows. Then an earthquake and tornado. We also toured the microbe lab where kids can extract DNA and little ones can learn about germs. And the "eat or be eaten" exhibit, including the world's most poisonous snake. The Science Center turns normally sophisticated adults into little kids. And geeks like me. . .well, we're already little kids.

Tweety birds

It's gone too far. I, reluctantly, joined Facebook as well as Care2, a community for Environmental Bolsheviks. But I have resisted LinkedIn and certainly Twitter. 140 characters. Good grief. Anyone who has had to edit a decent news story down to so few words it no longer says anything is repulsed by the idea of condensing life's little moments down to a few probably not so well-chosen words. I've said before I don't care what Wolf Blitzer does in the few seconds a day he's not on the air. But now, Twitter has reached it's lowest possible moment. A woman Tweeted her circle that she was having a miscarriage and she was glad because she would have had to go out of state for an abortion. Any normal woman who has ever had a miscarriage, even if she didn't particularly want the pregnancy, knows that it means she has lost a baby. Even if she doesn't believe that life begins at conception, she knows she lost a baby. To trivialize that to a tweet is somewhere beyond disgusting. And to treat abortion as a minor inconvenience is disgusting beyond words. We can only hope the Twitter universe has hit bottom and there is nothing worse -- if you can imagine it -- on the way.

Twinkle, twinkle

Saw Bright Star the other night. Not out here in the boonies, of course. Only movies based on comic books or featuring fountains of blood spraying across the screen. In New York City. Ok, the thing about an English major going to see a movie about John Keats is that you kinda know how sad it's going to end. And, I'm not saying this was a great build up to the whole dead in Florence thing. But the actress who played Fanny's little sister was incredible. Naturally, I didn't take notes on the credits -- I watched them all because I was with a film editor, so we had to read all the credits -- so I don't know her name, but she was the best little actress I've ever seen. I know, you're supposed to say "actor" for male and female now, but isn't that a little silly? I don't even have an objection to calling ships "she," but that's fodder for another blog. The cat was also wonderful. I didn't even know cats could act. I'm not saying the above is worth the price of admission, but, if you can get a cut rate price, go see it.

Good Night Suite Prints

The Lexicographic Irregulars are mourning today. The Language Mavin is no more. William Safire, political pundit, Republican raconteur, wizardly writer and all-time lover of the all things alliterative. Even those of us far to the left of Safire politically appreciate his brilliance, wisdom, workplay and that adorable crush he had on Susan Molinari. The beauty, the perfection of the English language and the hearts of all who love it are broken tonight. Good night Bill.