Switch

 Mr. Simpson, my high school math teacher,

was a dark, hairy man who was, I think, slow

witted and often smiled like a Cheshire cat

when Judy, Brenda or Stephanie had a question.

I think he might have gotten 5 to 10 for that

lascivious smile alone.

My grandmother died at the County Farm

Nursing home; one of my sons had his own

rock band for a while.  He was in South Carolina

then while I was baking in Saudi Arabia. 

I used to dream Nana gave me something.

I’d visit her every day and she’d teach me

to play Mark Knofler’s riff in the Sultans of

Swing.  At a moment’s notice she’d say,

“OK, Forry, SWITCH!” and I’d go from playing

the guitar right handed to  left handed.

You couldn’t SWITCH an accordion, which

was big when Nana was a girl, but like

Mr. Simpson, she was trying to teach

me something . . . sort of , maybe, I don’t

know.

Unfortunately, ambidextrous guitar playing

dudes, with or without bandanas, never

really caught on.  If they ever do, though,

I’m ready thanks to Nana.

SWITCH!

FG    6/21/2016

I think Mr. Simpson lived in a house trailer near the Historical Society.  Lately, I’ve seen articles questioning why we place so much emphasis on learning Algebra.  Why do liberal arts students need this to get into colleges?  Criticism of Common Core muddies the waters even more.  ESL courses that I am familiar with stress reading for information rather than inspiration.  Literature, including poetry, used to be where we could celebrate relevance, but now poetry no longer has a seat at the family table and literature is something happening in another room.  And Nana?    she was trying to teach

me something . . . sort of , maybe, I don’t

know.