Mystery of the Ratty Couch Transport

When my brother and I were little, I'd guess around six and eight years old, he had a bunk bed in his room. His room also had two large windows that looked out across our driveway with an excellent view of our next door neighbor's back yard. Every so often we'd convince mom to let me camp out in his room. Then we'd sneak in some papers and pencils, and each lay on our respective bunks next to the window and watch across the driveway to the yard. The yard consisted of gravel and a generic assortment of grasses and weeds and wasn't very interesting in and of itself. The neighbors, however, were interesting - at least to a couple little kids who can't imagine being outside past ten o'clock at night. There were always people stopping by just for a few minutes, then leaving quickly. Occasionally someone would go in, never to be seen again (or not to leave until after we'd fallen asleep on our pages).   The mysterious guests would always pull right up to the back step, and we'd write down their licence plate numbers and the time and other details, like "wearing plaid shirt" and so forth. Once, they even moved a ratty old sofa onto a decrepit trailer. Imagine our disappointment that there were no license plates to be seen - they backed the trailer in at an angle. The thing is, I don't remember what started all this, and what we did with the note pages. I'm just glad I didn't wake up with a pencil in my nose, falling asleep writing like that. Decades later, I still remember wondering WHAT was the point of moving the couch so late at night? For all our sleuthing, we never discovered the Mystery of the Ratty Couch Transport.

never never land?

I've climbed to the top of these stairs before. They are the same stairs, turning, cold stone stairs climbing a tower, ever climbing, clockwise, clockwise, upward, upward. Never reaching the top of the tower, the final step brings me to the top of a straight, regular staircase, alone, and a dark fogginess covering anything but the stairs ... I've seen this before, the same never getting anywhere feeling. Just when the hard part is done, it turns out that was the easy part. Finally, I know what I'm talking about - wait no, I know I don't. Read back to the childish journal entries of the past, five, ten, fifteen years... wait, it's the same voice, the same soul, the same newness and naivety. Am I trapped in an emotional never never land?

A moment of reminiscing allows for apprecition of previously unnoted goodness

Dear Professor,

I've been thinking of you, the classes and projects. Thank you for pointing out that a research paper is not the proper context for making up words. Also pointing out that that the average college student can't claim they "coined" a new word was a good thing. Thank goodness for the bloggosphere allowing the decimation of the English language and all the rules that we learned were only acceptable to break in certain ways back in the day. I will always remember that "a lot" is yes, shockingly, TWO WORDS.

I appreciate all the times when you put up with the opinions and vocalizations of people who hadn't lived long enough to experience the ramifications of their opinions with graciousness. You could have belittled, shot down or coldly dismissed. You were frank, you were blunt, you were thought provoking, but never cold hearted and superior.

You have my sympathy, that the campus is now "fresh air" only and you are presumably walking half a mile off campus for a little break from the insanity that is a place of learning. Remember the good old days when one could have an officemate puffing away at a big, fat, cheap cigar while you are trying to concentrate on your papers? Ahh the good old days. That is what started this little note of appreciation to you, it was an afternoon for reminiscing. Continue in all your eccentric goodness, live long, and prosper.

Sincerly,
Desilou Freebush