Dave's Whiteboard

I’m experimenting with changes to this blog.  Mostly they have to do with the theme.  If you’re not a blogger, that’s the collection of WordPress files that controls the appearance of the blog–not just the arrangement of colors and typefaces, but also the display and position of features like those you see in the sidebar (“latest posts,” “latest comments,” and so on).

I really liked my longtime theme, Simpla.  The white space went well with the blog’s name.  But it hasn’t been updated in a long time, and it’s not widget-aware.

For the three people still reading, a widget is a little drag-and-drop control.  For example, with the old theme, to have drop-down list for displaying archives by month, I had to edit the PHP code for the sidebar and add this:

<<id="archives"><h2><?php _e('The last few months'); ?></h2>
 <ul>
 <?php wp_get_archives('type=monthly&limit=6'); ?>
 <!-- END ARCHIVES -->
 <!-- Archive dropdown -->
 <h4>Or any month at all:</h4>
 <select name="archive-dropdown"
     onChange='document.location.href=this.options[this.selectedIndex].value;'>
 <option value=""><?php echo attribute_escape(__('Select Month')); ?></option>
 <?php wp_get_archives('type=monthly&format=option&show_post_count=1'); ?> </select>
 </ul>

Nothing to it.

(click to enlarge)

Using more up-to-date themes (like Suffusion, which I’m experimenting with), you can add or delete widgets without having to worry about forgetting an angle bracket or a semicolon.

The example on the right is taken from this blog as I write.  Suffusion allows for multiple sidebars–the spaces outside of the main post area.  I dragged five different widgets into Sidebar 1; the order in which I place them is the order in which they appear.

That example includes the Archives widget, which I left open to show how easy it is to customize the title and to say whether you want the archive as a full list, or as a dropdown.  Since I’ve been scribbling on this Whiteboard for more than 5 years, I didn’t think the full list was the best option.

The Series TOC widget (second from last in the example) is another benefit I get from a more up-to-date theme.  I’ve written several post series, and the widget automatically displays titles for the first post in each one.  When I begin another series, I don’t have to do anything to update that table-of-contents; as long as I’ve named the series (through another WordPress gizmo called  a plugin), the widget will include the new title.

As I tinker with changes, cosmetic or (I hope) substantive, I’ll probably make mistakes, which is why I say things will be up in the err for a while.  And I do have some grunt work to do–that random quote, which I’m fond of, can’t retrieve the 300-odd quotes stored in the database.  It looks like I may have to re-enter them one at a time.

My grade school was St. Brigid’s, in northwest Detroit. The parish has been closed for 22 years, and I suppose the school closed before that. I remember getting half a day off school for Father Brennan’s feast day. I remember teachers like Sister Patrick Elizabeth and Sister Mary Eamon (Eamon, as in de Valera–the school had lots of green on St. Patrick’s Day).

More than anything, I remember my sixth-grade English teacher, Mr. Strunk.  He was only the second teacher I’d had at St. Brigid’s who wasn’t a nun, and the only one who was male.

In hindsight, I suppose I didn’t have a mental model for what a male teacher would be like.  I was disconcerted at first by how different he seemed.  I need to say that I had some very good teachers:  I don’t recall any of that whacking-with-rulers stuff that people seem to assume was mandatory in pre-Vatican II Catholic schools.

But Mr. Strunk was really different.  He said things that were funny, wry, unexpected.  He read to us from Mad Magazine–and may have been planting a crop of critical thinking with the seed-starter of parody.  He went far beyond the stuffy borders of our textbook.

Early in the school year, when he’d said something funny, I responded with with a sarcastic laugh.  (I suppose it was my ten-year-old’s critique: teachers weren’t supposed to be cracking wise.)  He said, not harshly, “If you don’t think it’s funny, don’t laugh.”

That was a door he opened just for me, but he spent a lot of time opening doors like it: “Think for yourself.  You can do it.”

He’d open them by assigning sixth graders a 1,500 word composition.  Topic: The Dime.  That was it; a two-word topic and a length.  What can you do with that?

Another assignment: a 48-line poem.  This time, he assigned the title: “The Last Voyage of The Albatross.”

I don’t recall anything I wrote–but I have a vivid sense of enjoying the writing.  I have an even more vivid sense of what he wrote on my paper, because it leapt into my memory and has never left:

Your poetry improves, my friend,
with each brand new endeavor.
I wish that I had words to lend
to serve you as a level.

But while such things as kings and men
on your mind’s sea do toss,
don’t let this be the last voyage
of your young Albatross.

School was never the same, and a few teachers after him suffered by comparison.  I lost contact with him after going out of state for most of high school.  In pre-Facebook days, it was hard to track down someone out of state; in post-Facebook days, it can still hard to connect with someone who was over 25 when John Kennedy was assassinated.

Through a friend of my younger brother’s, I learned last year that Mr. Strunk was still in the Detroit area; he spent 40 years teaching and coaching.  The friend sent me an address, but warned me that his health was poor.  I wrote a letter that week; I’d sealed it and stamped it, then realized he might not be up to a written reply.  I reprinted the letter and included a phone number, on the outside chance that he might remember me and might be up to calling.

No such luck, but that was all right.  The important thing for me was to say to him directly, more personally, the kinds of things I’ve talked about here.

I have not seen Mr. Strunk since, I suppose, 1963.  Many of my classmates will remember one of his weekend gigs at the parish’s activities building: hosting a hootenanny (and that’s a word well on its way to joining “floppy disk” and “antimacassar” ) .  One of his standards was The MTA Song – about a hapless Boston commuter who lacked the “exit fare” and so couldn’t pay to get off the train.

And did he ever return?
No, he never returned
And his fate is still unlearned.
He may ride forever
‘Neath the streets of Boston:
He’s the man who never returned.

For me, Mr. Strunk was the man who always returned.  I decided to become a teacher in part because of his example. Even after leaving the education field, I would recall his intelligent encouragement, his genuine interest in his students, his respect for their intelligence that included challenging them.

I learned only today that Mr. Strunk died last month.  One woman wrote in the funeral home’s online guestbook, “My all time favorite teacher and I will never forget how honored I felt when he told me to call him Frank.”

It’d be hard to top that. I am grateful to be able to say “Mr. Strunk” and still feel his presence.  I’ve read comments from people who were students in his final years of teaching, and from classmates of mine–we who were the first class he taught, more than 50 years ago.  There are teachers I will always cherish–Brother Leo and Brother André, Father McKendrick and Dr. MacDonald, Professor Bauder — but there was only one Frank Strunk.

My wife and I were married on the last day of February, three years ago.  I had asked my daughter, who’s a poet, if she would read something at the ceremony.  She did that doubly: first,  a poem by Robert Burns.  Next, an unexpected gift–a poem she wrote for us.

So, two poems, which goes well with how we mark our anniversary. As I said, we were married on the last day of February, which in 2008 was the 29th. I’m glad for the two poems, since during non-leap-years I tell people our anniversary is the day after February 28 and the day before March 1.

Love for Love

Ithers seek they ken na what,
Features, carriage, and a’ that;
Gie me love in her I court,
Love to love maks a’ the sport.

Let love sparkle in her e’e;
Let her lo’e nae man but me;
That’s the tocher-gude I prize,
There the luver’s treasure lies.

– Robert Burns

tocher-gude: dowry, marriage portion

A Roof Against the Rain

We did not always marry for love.
Marriage began as business, a mode of commerce,
a means of conquest. The right wife provides
heirs, status, income. So a rich man chooses
his bride without ever consulting his heart.

And the poor man, too, for he cannot afford
to dwell on a girl’s pretty face or sweet nature.
Both men must instead consider the count:
the number of cattle, or gold coins, or allies
that he needs. The number he desires.

So wives take lovers. Or their husbands do.
Every consort pays the price. Some are happy.
Some not. But kings die, and countries fall.
Livestock is eaten. Money is spent.
A loveless life lasts as long as any other.

And is our modern world so very different?
We come home to darkened rooms, sleep
between cold sheets, wake to a blinding silence.
We buy, and sell, and collect all the trappings
of civilization. Sex is a biological function,

like eating, or breathing. Love is a myth,
perpetuated by popular culture. And yet
we seek companionship. We long for
the quickened heartbeat, the flushed cheek.
We savor the first kiss, the next meeting.

We will the phone to ring, linger over coffee
with strangers, wanting to become friends,
wanting to hold hands in the dark, wanting
the happier life, where marriage is a choice,
and love a refuge, a roof against the rain.

– Gillian Devereux