Well, the ol' Bloviator has just turned in his final grades for the semester, thereby wreaking havoc and destruction and wantonly spreading misery among those who really thought that the perfect score on the final needed to raise their "D-" to an "A" was truly within their grasp. As has become a tradition, by the time I had finished posting grades for those at the end of the alphabet, I was already getting complaints and inquiries from those at the beginning. Oh, would that we could only bottle the intense concern about grades that overwhelms students a couple of days before final exams begin and dose 'em up real good with it a little bit earlier in the term!
Be that as it may, these days, the end of the semester always puts me into a contemplative mood as I consider how many grades I've calculated and posted in my time and the thousands of students that those grades represent. I was gratified a few weeks ago by the extremely generous comments of one of my former charges from way back when I was just a babe in these here academic woods. Now, it seems, I have also harangued two of his offspring with the gospel according to James. This is heartwarming in many respects, but it also raises the question of whether anybody who is now well into teaching his students' children has what my Mama used to find lacking in long-winded preachers, i.e., "quittin' sense." Even though he can't quite concede that it's time to hang up the old mortarboard, neither does the ol' Bloviator desire to become the pointy-headed, ivory-towered equivalent of Brett Favre, who seems to find some fulfillment in his inability to make the call that takes him out of the lineup, even though that is where he clearly belonged three fractures and a concussion or two ago.
There is the question of course, of what exactly the OB would
do if he wasn't doing what he's doing now, and the inability to really answer
that question is the primary reason why he's likely to keep on keeping on for a
while yet. If the OB were not situated
at such a distance from one Barrett Callaway Cobb, his recently arrived grandson,
there's no doubt that he'd be out of harness in a Minnesota minute, for there
is just so much to teach that precious little guy and so little time when you're
only around him for an exceedingly brief stint (in our eyes, at least, though
quite likely not in those of his parents) every few months.
Barrett's first snapshot on Santa's lap has been captivating me for days, consistently reminding me of the fact that Christmas should convey the pure innocence and wonder that only an infant can manifest. This, of course, leads into my annual posting of Joyce Kilmer's "Kings," which was composed during the living hell of World War I, before that gruesome and ultimately senseless conflict took its composer's life:
The Kings of the earth are
men of might,
And cities are burned for their delight,
And the skies rain death in the silent night,
And the hills belch death all day!
But the King of Heaven, Who made them all,
Is fair and gentle, and very small;
He lies in the straw, by the oxen's stall
When I read every day about our courageous young men who are being killed or horribly maimed every day in Afghanistan, I can't help but question the reasons behind such sacrificial slaughter and remember that many of these young heroes are not even two decades removed from the warm, cuddly, infinitely curious and wide-eyed little boy I can't wait to hold as close as I can for as long as I can.
I'm sure this has gotten about as weepy as most of you can stand and it certainly isn't right to end any reflection on Christmas on such a downer. Hence, let me convey my good cheer but perhaps my infinitely bad taste, as I present for your viewing pleasure the third annual Cobblovian festival of holiday lights, delivered once again this year through the indulgence of my noble 1994 GMC pickup, which is once again bathed in light, even though it's been many a moon since it's been bathed with anything else.
This is my way of conveying my warm holiday wishes to any and all who happen to stop by this humble little patch of cyberspace. Once again, in a true display of the Christmas Spirit, I also salute my Georgia Tech friends with a hearty "Felice, Bobby Dodd!"
