Simple Things - A Tribute to Robert Spector
Empty office
Take it back in time
Ted Turner Classic Movie song favorites serenaded to an English Secretary
who was English and arrived with an American husband after the war.
He never stumps her; lyrics come easily to her. But she often gave him pause.
But she’s gone now. A passing of an era we will never fully appreciate.
An African-American young woman, Secretary in Philosophy, is his most recent
listener and she smiles and pretends she recognizes songs that only her
great grandmother could possibly know. There will be no more songs.
The English Secretary who is also African American laughs and greets him
formally. He was her teacher and now her boss. More importantly, he is her friend
who never forgets her birthday, her husband’s birthday, or their anniversary.
He holds a special place forever.
He checks his mailbox, which is almost always empty these days,
then makes his way up the hall. As he passes each office, his routine greeting
for each office occupant is each uniquely personal and substantial.
It echoes like a pulse today.
I hear him fumbling with his keys at his door.
“Hello, Boot” which has some literary roots back to an earlier century,
Lord Bootwell, I believe he said, but I was too embarrassed to ask more.
“You’d think after all these years I’d know which key to use.”
But I am wise to him. I know he has a poem to share and this is his usual opening,
several lines that just came to him on the subway this morning. He will not do
anything until he captures the rest of the lines and scribbles them down
for our English Secretary to type up. I have several hanging on my wall.
“How are you feeling today?” He will not leave until he is certain that he
has been given an honest answer. I will see him off an on throughout the time he is in: maybe he wants me to Google a name of a small press publisher who has disappeared. Inevitably she is a woman: either an elderly woman whose lifeblood now is publishing other elderly poets; or, a young couple who is having bad times and need his counseling. He knows their stories; he listens to them on his landline regularly. But if one disappears, he comes to my door to do a search on a computer he not only doesn’t understand, but refuses to keep in his office. When I find a new number, perhaps from a different state,
he looks concerned and immediately retreats to his landline. That’s really most of what he does in that office, use his phone; mostly to listen, with a few words here and there of encouragement. If he has extra time, he has a story to tell. His stories are wide-ranging in topics: his grandson’s latest sport reporting; his dearest Eleanor’s health; his early stories of boxing and in what gym he competed; his antics and adventures in the Navy; his schooling at LIU after the war; his take on LIU basketball prowess of those times; his wooing and capturing his life long love; his take on how our Dean was mediocre as his student and a real challenge to get him through the course; early Deans and Presidents of the college, and the march of buildings and classroom housing that finally led to where we are today; and his mortality and take on the importance of the simple things in life.
Sometimes a student dares to knock on his door. Sometimes they leave smiling and thanking him; others leave in tears and thanking him. They have heard him, despite the years and centuries of literature that separate them. Perhaps it is a faculty or staff member with a problem. No matter, they always leave the same way as the students. Sometimes a philosophy professor appears with an aromatic bag from MacDonald’s. On those days, I know when after their shared meal and he leaves, his guilty pleasure has reenergized song lyrics, or a final recitation of a favorite poem before he leaves. He comes to my door, smiling, and always saying, “Take care, and go home. You are going to go blind looking at that thing (the computer screen) all day. You work too hard. Go home.”
And he does.
There’s this empty office
a few steps away.
It is much too close now.
Take it back in time
Ted Turner Classic Movie song favorites serenaded to an English Secretary
who was English and arrived with an American husband after the war.
He never stumps her; lyrics come easily to her. But she often gave him pause.
But she’s gone now. A passing of an era we will never fully appreciate.
An African-American young woman, Secretary in Philosophy, is his most recent
listener and she smiles and pretends she recognizes songs that only her
great grandmother could possibly know. There will be no more songs.
The English Secretary who is also African American laughs and greets him
formally. He was her teacher and now her boss. More importantly, he is her friend
who never forgets her birthday, her husband’s birthday, or their anniversary.
He holds a special place forever.
He checks his mailbox, which is almost always empty these days,
then makes his way up the hall. As he passes each office, his routine greeting
for each office occupant is each uniquely personal and substantial.
It echoes like a pulse today.
I hear him fumbling with his keys at his door.
“Hello, Boot” which has some literary roots back to an earlier century,
Lord Bootwell, I believe he said, but I was too embarrassed to ask more.
“You’d think after all these years I’d know which key to use.”
But I am wise to him. I know he has a poem to share and this is his usual opening,
several lines that just came to him on the subway this morning. He will not do
anything until he captures the rest of the lines and scribbles them down
for our English Secretary to type up. I have several hanging on my wall.
“How are you feeling today?” He will not leave until he is certain that he
has been given an honest answer. I will see him off an on throughout the time he is in: maybe he wants me to Google a name of a small press publisher who has disappeared. Inevitably she is a woman: either an elderly woman whose lifeblood now is publishing other elderly poets; or, a young couple who is having bad times and need his counseling. He knows their stories; he listens to them on his landline regularly. But if one disappears, he comes to my door to do a search on a computer he not only doesn’t understand, but refuses to keep in his office. When I find a new number, perhaps from a different state,
he looks concerned and immediately retreats to his landline. That’s really most of what he does in that office, use his phone; mostly to listen, with a few words here and there of encouragement. If he has extra time, he has a story to tell. His stories are wide-ranging in topics: his grandson’s latest sport reporting; his dearest Eleanor’s health; his early stories of boxing and in what gym he competed; his antics and adventures in the Navy; his schooling at LIU after the war; his take on LIU basketball prowess of those times; his wooing and capturing his life long love; his take on how our Dean was mediocre as his student and a real challenge to get him through the course; early Deans and Presidents of the college, and the march of buildings and classroom housing that finally led to where we are today; and his mortality and take on the importance of the simple things in life.
Sometimes a student dares to knock on his door. Sometimes they leave smiling and thanking him; others leave in tears and thanking him. They have heard him, despite the years and centuries of literature that separate them. Perhaps it is a faculty or staff member with a problem. No matter, they always leave the same way as the students. Sometimes a philosophy professor appears with an aromatic bag from MacDonald’s. On those days, I know when after their shared meal and he leaves, his guilty pleasure has reenergized song lyrics, or a final recitation of a favorite poem before he leaves. He comes to my door, smiling, and always saying, “Take care, and go home. You are going to go blind looking at that thing (the computer screen) all day. You work too hard. Go home.”
And he does.
There’s this empty office
a few steps away.
It is much too close now.
posted by AYankee @ 1:56 PM
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