Tag: Hero

This Blog Is About Wren

Posted on by Sierra
Today I am going to reward myself for waking up earlier than I had to by writing a blog.
This blog is about Wren.
I don’t know Wren very well; in fact,we’ve only ever met once, but Wren is an inspiration, my latest hero, and if nothing else, Wren deserves a blog.
Wren is taking Arabic.
Wren used to be a doctor.
Wren wears a stunning green plaid polyester jacket with a tie to school every day.
And an old man cap.
Which is appropriate, because Wren is Eighty-Seven years old.
Allie introduced me:
“This is Wren,” she said. “He is 87 years old, and he is taking Arabic.”
…At which all of the wrinkles in his perfect face defied all sorts of gravity laws by dancing into a grin.
“Aren’t I stupid?” He asked, chuckling a slow chuckle.
“On the contrary,” I replied. “You are very smart, and still quite stylish.”
I don’t know why, but I just got the feeling that Wren was recently widowed. I pictured him each morning over a lonely bowl of cereal, straightening his tie and shining his shoes, because classy is the only appropriate attire for school—or at least that’s how it was back in his day. Allie later confirmed: “His wife died eight months ago. He is a retired doctor and is trying to stay busy. He is hoping to go over and be a doctor in the Middle East now.”
I call for a Hurrah for Wren! Hurrah for a man who takes on such a difficult class! Hurrah for a man that loved his wife so much that he needed such heavy distraction. Hurrah for a man of courage,  a man who truly understands “Go Forth to Serve.” And Hurrah for Green Plaid Polyester Jackets too.



Hurrah for you, Wren. Hurrah for you.

Selectric.

Posted on by Sierra
Say it with me now: Selectric. Se-lec-tric. Say it aloud! Isn’t it a beautiful word? If it wasn’t only the celebrities that named their children after inanimate objects like Apple and Blanket, I might consider naming my firstborn son Selectric.
To me, there has always been something mysteriously romantic about typewriters. After spending an afternoon rifling through my grandfather’s belongings, I emerged the proud inheritor of his 1970’s typewriter. If it didn’t weigh more than me, I would cuddle with it in bed at night. I love it that much.
Which is why I knew instantly that I was going to love Tuesday night British Literature History with Dr. Steven Walker. In order to add the class, Dr. Walker had to give me a special code that allowed me entrance into his class, even though it was technically at max capacity. He told me that I would find an envelope containing the code outside his office door with my name on it.
My name was typewritten on the front of the envelope.
For those of you who don’t understand the significance of this simple gesture, allow me to paint a character sketch of Dr. Walker for you.
He is an old man. I mean this earnestly. He walks in a slightly crooked, jovial sort of gait. Sometimes, when his eyebrows betray any sort of emotion—delight, surprise, dismay, you name it—the wrinkles caused by his eyebrows remain for several minutes long after his eyebrows have said their peace. Yet, Dr. Walker is still as quick as a fiddle. He memorized the entire class roster before ever having met his students. He can still tell you the exact dates that William Blake went to art school. He could probably recite from memory the novel, Great Expectations, from start to finish if you asked him.
Dr. Walker displays all of the wisdom of age with none of the arrogance. With all of his brilliance, he has probably been to the edge of the universe and back. He has written novels, and discourses, and lectures.
And yet, his wrinkly, experienced hands of wisdom humbly took an envelope, wove it through (I imagine) the classiest of IBM Selectrics, and punched out my name on the front of an envelope.