Farewell
One of my 101 in 1001 tasks is to send a note to the teachers who've had a big impact on me to say thank you and to let them know they've made a difference.
A few weeks ago, Minnams lent me a copy of a the November 2005 Harper's because it included a review of The Year of Magical Thinking, which she knew I'd just read. As I was paging through the magazine, I saw that one of my English professors, Fred Busch, had written a piece in the same issue, about his son who was serving in Iraq. I thought it was a beautiful piece, and it inspired me to write to my professor to tell him how much I enjoyed his writing, and how much I'd enjoyed his classes at Colgate, including the Living Writers class that introduced me to so many writers I now love. He wrote me a lovely note back the next day, saying how much he appreciated the note, and how he'd written the Harper's piece to get his son home from Iraq (successfully), and how much he'd liked the Hemingway seminar I took with him.
This morning, I was startled to see his obituary.
I'm still in a little bit of shock, I think. I just heard from him a couple of weeks ago; he had his son Ben home; he was teaching at Michigan; he was writing and publishing; he was baking cookies with his beloved Judy. He wasn't dying; he was absolutely full of life.
I didn't like Fred Busch at first; the year I started Colgate, all of the first-years were assigned to read his collection of fairy tales, Children in the Woods, over the summer, and it didn't do it for me. And when I first heard him speak, I thought he was kind of arrogant. And, after graduation, when I bought his book about writing -- this was about the same time I read Stephen King's On Writing, which was a better book -- I was struck again by his arrogance. And really, he probably was a little arrogant, but what author who publishes fairly consistently and is nominated for fairly prestigious writing awards shouldn't be, just a little bit?
I hung back a little in the Living Writers class, which was huge, especially by Colgate standards. Busch always liked my writing and my questions, but he didn't really know me. Then I signed up for his senior seminar on Hemingway, and I didn't speak the entire first class; of the dozen students, probably five of us didn't talk that first meeting.
And then, the second week of class, Busch handed back our first papers (we had to write one every week), and he got to mine and he said, "Who is this Tangent Woman?" I meekly raised my hand, and he said, "You need to speak up. You have a lot to say; you're very smart, and you're a great writer, and I want you contributing in every single class."
And I blushed, and I wanted to crawl under the table, and my classmates were giving me looks of sympathy mixed with envy, which made my face even redder and hotter, but I spoke up in every single class, and I was so grateful to Busch for pushing me. He continued to be supportive and generous throughout the semester, and on my final paper, he wrote at the top, "You must always keep writing."
I'll never keep writing like Fred Busch kept writing; I don't think I have the stories or the patience or the confidence to be a fiction writer. But in my note to him earlier this month, I told him I was doing mostly mundane writing in my job, but that I was blogging and enjoying good books, and that he'd made me a better reader and a better writer. And in the closing of his note back to me, he wrote:
Your generous words make me proud of my time at Colgate--as well as proud of you--and I thank
you for them.
All my highest hopes,
Fred Busch
Busch had probably thousands of students over the course of his teaching career, and although I know he remembered me and respected me, he wouldn't have felt any void in his life had he not had me as a student, or if I'd not sent him that note a few weeks ago. But his high hopes for and high expectations of me really did make a difference to me, and I feel fortunate to have had my path cross his. He and Judy were everything to each other, and I can't imagine how awful this must be for her; I think her experience must be similar to what Didion described in her book about losing her husband. I feel like -- and I got the sense Busch himself felt like -- he'd only just begun, and now, suddenly, he's gone.
They're scheduling a memorial service in NYC in the spring, and I'm sure I'll go there to pay my respects, but I just felt like I needed to say something now, to say goodbye, to say thank you once more.
A few weeks ago, Minnams lent me a copy of a the November 2005 Harper's because it included a review of The Year of Magical Thinking, which she knew I'd just read. As I was paging through the magazine, I saw that one of my English professors, Fred Busch, had written a piece in the same issue, about his son who was serving in Iraq. I thought it was a beautiful piece, and it inspired me to write to my professor to tell him how much I enjoyed his writing, and how much I'd enjoyed his classes at Colgate, including the Living Writers class that introduced me to so many writers I now love. He wrote me a lovely note back the next day, saying how much he appreciated the note, and how he'd written the Harper's piece to get his son home from Iraq (successfully), and how much he'd liked the Hemingway seminar I took with him.
This morning, I was startled to see his obituary.
I'm still in a little bit of shock, I think. I just heard from him a couple of weeks ago; he had his son Ben home; he was teaching at Michigan; he was writing and publishing; he was baking cookies with his beloved Judy. He wasn't dying; he was absolutely full of life.
I didn't like Fred Busch at first; the year I started Colgate, all of the first-years were assigned to read his collection of fairy tales, Children in the Woods, over the summer, and it didn't do it for me. And when I first heard him speak, I thought he was kind of arrogant. And, after graduation, when I bought his book about writing -- this was about the same time I read Stephen King's On Writing, which was a better book -- I was struck again by his arrogance. And really, he probably was a little arrogant, but what author who publishes fairly consistently and is nominated for fairly prestigious writing awards shouldn't be, just a little bit?
I hung back a little in the Living Writers class, which was huge, especially by Colgate standards. Busch always liked my writing and my questions, but he didn't really know me. Then I signed up for his senior seminar on Hemingway, and I didn't speak the entire first class; of the dozen students, probably five of us didn't talk that first meeting.
And then, the second week of class, Busch handed back our first papers (we had to write one every week), and he got to mine and he said, "Who is this Tangent Woman?" I meekly raised my hand, and he said, "You need to speak up. You have a lot to say; you're very smart, and you're a great writer, and I want you contributing in every single class."
And I blushed, and I wanted to crawl under the table, and my classmates were giving me looks of sympathy mixed with envy, which made my face even redder and hotter, but I spoke up in every single class, and I was so grateful to Busch for pushing me. He continued to be supportive and generous throughout the semester, and on my final paper, he wrote at the top, "You must always keep writing."
I'll never keep writing like Fred Busch kept writing; I don't think I have the stories or the patience or the confidence to be a fiction writer. But in my note to him earlier this month, I told him I was doing mostly mundane writing in my job, but that I was blogging and enjoying good books, and that he'd made me a better reader and a better writer. And in the closing of his note back to me, he wrote:
Your generous words make me proud of my time at Colgate--as well as proud of you--and I thank
you for them.
All my highest hopes,
Fred Busch
Busch had probably thousands of students over the course of his teaching career, and although I know he remembered me and respected me, he wouldn't have felt any void in his life had he not had me as a student, or if I'd not sent him that note a few weeks ago. But his high hopes for and high expectations of me really did make a difference to me, and I feel fortunate to have had my path cross his. He and Judy were everything to each other, and I can't imagine how awful this must be for her; I think her experience must be similar to what Didion described in her book about losing her husband. I feel like -- and I got the sense Busch himself felt like -- he'd only just begun, and now, suddenly, he's gone.
They're scheduling a memorial service in NYC in the spring, and I'm sure I'll go there to pay my respects, but I just felt like I needed to say something now, to say goodbye, to say thank you once more.
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