Return to the Promised Land

PART III - Return to the Promised Land--Auburn, Alabama, 1966 

 All the Days of My Life  (Continued)

 Trying to adjust

Our return home to Belo Horizonte was, of course, delightful.  To see my relatives again – my mother, vovó Isamira, Lica, Lucia, Helcias and all the Pedersolis, was wonderful indeed.    We basked on the love and admiration of all.  John and Miriam so grown up, and little Andrew, so lovable, became the stars for some weeks.  I don’t exactly remember when we started calling Andrew by his first name – Marcello.  I suppose because Andrew was more difficult to pronounce, and Marcello was a common name in Portuguese.  But the baby had no problems switching, and Marcello he became to all of us.

A couple of days before Christmas I went to Rio to pick up Waldir at the airport.  Dr. Waldir Pedersoli, DVM, PhD was beaming with pride and pleasure to be back in his beloved Brazil.  He had done well, and his advisor had told him if he would like to return and apply for a position, he’d be welcomed.  But he really wanted to be back home, and try again, and contribute to the development of our native country.  We had one year’s reprieve before our green cards would expire.

We talked about his plans for the future as we rode the bus back to Belo Horizonte.  We acted like newlyweds, kissing and snuggling, in our seats, all the way there.

My grandmother, now living alone in a big house, offered the apartment in her backyard.  It was convenient, while we waited to decide what to do.  We did our best to overcome the readjustment to a place that seemed so different from what we remembered.  The kids seemed to have less difficulty than us, basking on the attention of the adults, and playing with their cousins.

The political and cultural situation was one of the problems to contend with.  In 1964, the government of President João Goulart had been overthrown in a military coup.  He had been my hero in the late 1950s and early 1960s, and one of the reasons I had doubts about leaving Brazil for the U.S. in 1962, as I mentioned before.  To us young students at the time, Jango stood for the people, against the ruling higher classes, for better public education, for taxing the rich corporations according to their profits, for voting reform, so that being illiterate, or of another race, would not prevent one from voting.  But we also knew that, because of his liberal left leanings, he fell into the traps of the American anti-communism hysteria.

Thus, when we returned in 1966, the conservative ARENA (National Renewal Alliance Party) was in full domination of the politics of the country.  In other words, the military ruled in a repressive government much like other dictatorships in Latin America.  We heard of disappearances, tortures, violent police clashes, and other evils.  I was appalled.

Nevertheless, we bought a nice house, enrolled John in the American School at the Consulate, Miriam went to Kindergarten, and we tried our best to reenter the familiar routines, and get over our cultural shock.

It was more difficult for Waldir.  Back to his old Teaching Assistant position, working with the same old head of department who, even after 4 years, had no intention of retiring or stepping down, he found out that there was little acceptance for the ideas of a young, bright, knowledgeable, U.S. trained scientist.  And the salaries, under this regime, hadn't been raised for years, and payment was consistently late.

To complicate things even more, I found out, surprised, that I was pregnant, and contrary to other times, I had already missed two periods, so I was eight weeks when I finally went to the doctor for confirmation.  The test was positive and I thought “Now, God, what are you doing?  Did I ask for this?” but, of course, I was thrilled.  I tried to stay calm, and off my feet as much as possible, but with an active nine month old crawling all over the floors and getting into everything, it was difficult.  Around the 12^th week I started spotting and cramping.  I called the doctor and he said to come to the hospital.  I went with my mother, and after examining me the doctor decided to admit me for observation.  I had never come to this point, so I was concerned.  They ran various tests, put me on progesterone, and waited for the results.  The pregnancy test came out negative, and the ultrasound indicated fetal death.  I was devastated.  I was sent home, to wait for a spontaneous miscarriage, and in deep depression I lay in bed, cramping and spotting, but no resolution.  I was getting really sick, feverish, when it was decided to admit me again for surgery.

Afterwards, I went back to my bed, silent and morose.  For ten days I lay there, while friends came and went, and Lica came to take care of me.  I could see the flowering lemon tree outside my window, and saw its blossoms turn into little lemons that grew into big green limes, and I still lay in bed.  I don’t remember what finally got me out of my funk, but perhaps was the day Waldir told me we needed to start thinking about going back to the U.S.  Things weren’t really working out to his satisfaction, the tense political climate, the repression and control of academia being regrettable.   He knew that there were some good Pharmacology positions open, and if I would help write the letters and get the Curriculum Vitae together, he’d appreciate it.

“I suppose you won’t mind going back, do you?” he asked with his ironic smile.  “What would you prefer? California, New York, Alabama?  Not Illinois.  Too cold!”

I hugged his neck, smiling, at last.  “Anywhere!  Let’s go!”

He brought the position announcements home and I proceeded to write the letters and do the mailings to UC Davis, Cornell, Auburn, and Tuskegee.  Strangely enough, Alabama seemed the only State with two Schools of Veterinary Medicine.  Interviews were done by phone and every one would like for him to go for an interview.  All except Auburn and Tuskegee that offered him their Assistant Professor positions sight-unseen.  He opted for Auburn, whose School ranked the 2^nd best in the country, the weather was hot and humid in the summer and pleasantly cool in the winter.  It was also in the South, closer to Brazil.

Our relatives weren't pleased, especially my mother-in-law.  She blamed me, for instigating the return.  It’d be so nice to have the family together, watch the children grow, and how about my grandmother?  She was in her 80s.  Wouldn't I feel guilty if she died, like vovô Arthur, and I'd never see her again?

By mid-August we had sold our house and everything in it.  I saved my books and records to be sent later.  And we flew to Miami where we rented a car for the trip to Auburn, Alabama.

We felt like Alice in Wonderland!  Back to nice roads, comfortable car, burger joints with playgrounds for the kids; our first breakfast of grits, sausage, bacon and eggs.  Florida sunshine and beaches…  Fried chicken and okra, big fat buttermilk biscuits and sweet tea… Peanut  butter!  The only foreign thing was the southern drawl our Midwestern ears weren’t accustomed to. 

Southern Alabama was lush with pine forests and the kudzu sculpted topiary gardens everywhere amazed me.  In the evening the choruses of cicadas, frogs and owls, as we sailed through the bayous in our Ford Galaxie, filled the warm air heavy with humidity and earthy odors.  We finally got to Opelika, after asking directions at a roadside restaurant where nobody knew how to get to Auburn.  Riding down the road toward the university, I wondered where all the houses were, since all I could see were trees.  I finally spotted them nestled among the pines and oaks.

In 1966 Auburn was a small college town, compared to the sprawling University of Illinois at Urbana.  Evening was closing down on us, and all we could do was go down College Street, see the quaint Sanford Hall, buy some milk and bananas for the kids, and go settle down at the Heart of Auburn Motel as we were directed to by the University.

We would spend over 20 years at our new home in Auburn, Alabama.  Albeit not perfectly happy in our relationship, those years were rich in spiritual and intellectual growth.  In the academic and Catholic communities we found colleagues and friends, teachers and pastors that helped us to grow, and learn, stretch our minds and our horizons, become good citizens of our adopted country.

In just a few weeks after our arrival we had bought a house on Ryan Street, furnished it with everything we needed, simply but comfortably, bought a VW Beetle, made friends with our neighbors, enrolled John and Miriam in public school and started living the American dream.

My Assistant Professor of Veterinary Pharmacology husband charmed everyone in his department and seemed to be engaged in being a good teacher and an excellent researcher.

Money was a little tight, after the expenses of settling down in our home, so I decided to look for  a job.  I knew that my knowledge of foreign languages was an asset, but suddenly I found out that I was pregnant yet again, and this time I was going into the 16^th week without miscarrying. My new gynecologist and obstetrician at the local hospital was hopeful, treating me with progesterone and other hormones, as I tried to restrict my activities, with renewed hope.  

One day, a black woman knocked at our door, and asked if I needed household help.  Her name was Louise, and she was a charmer.  We hired her to help care for the kids and help keep the house clean.  I went for a job interview, and was hired as an administrative assistant.

The week that I was to start working, the worst happened.  Cramps, bleeding, water breaking, and an emergency admission to the hospital.  This was the worst miscarriage I had ever had, and I was in great distress and in danger of bleeding to death.  The little baby I had already named Michael was dead, and I went into surgery to save my life.

After the pain and disappointment came the depression.  I was thankful I had Louise to look after the kids and help me to recover.  I had to call my would-be employer and explain that I had a health emergency and surgery, and had to recover my health before I could go to work.  Unfortunately I could not start then.

My physician, Dr, Russell, had a long talk with Waldir and I about my condition and the danger I’d be running having these miscarriages.  He advised one year of treatment with hormones, getting healthy again, and  then there was a procedure of tying up what was left of the cervix to try to go to term, or as close to term as we could go.  I agreed to that.

Growing in knowledge

 Waldir encouraged me to continue my education, supposedly to get my mind off getting pregnant again, and I enrolled at the University, as a languages major.  Since I had several years of French, I was placed on the advanced classes of my major and chose German as my minor.

The first quarter at Auburn University was rough; I had been away from any schooling in years. My only strength was that I had always been an avid reader of world literature.  I enjoyed the classes, was engaged in the discussions, but proved to be almost unable to take tests.  Multiple choice answers baffled me completely. I had some kind of disability, in this regard, but my teachers did their best to accommodate my needs. My writing ability saved me on the term papers and creative projects, though, and I completed my first year with reasonable success.  Actually I did so well on the English literature courses that I was invited to take a double major in English and French and added a second minor to my German – Secondary Education – which would help me to be certified as a languages teacher.

St. Michael’s Church was the only Catholic Church in town – being the Catholic student’s center it was a very active community.  Daily noon Mass became an oasis in the middle of my day.  The parish was involved in growing into the knowledge and the implementation of the Second Vatican Council’s mandates.  We had Bible studies, neighborhood church groups, and Family Life groups.  The Vincentian Fathers were good pastors, involving the parish in the ministries.

One day Fr. Gene approached me and said that he had heard that I played the guitar.  Surprised, I said that I played a little.

“We need to experiment with folk Masses,” he said, showing me the new People’s Song Book.  “We need to make our liturgies more appealing to the students and young people.”

“OK, I’ll bring my guitar, and we’ll try,” I said.

That was the beginning of my involvement with the music ministry in the church. 

“All I have is yours,” I said to my Lord.  “I’ll honor and praise you with my voice and with the sound of the strings!”  Soon, other, more skilled guitar players joined me, and we had a full-fledged folk Mass, to the students’ great delight.

I got a job at the Ralph Brown Library as a student assistant, based on my experience at the Classics Library in Illinois.  With a new sense of my own worth as a person endowed with gifts that I could use for the kingdom of God and the good of all his people, my self-esteem, squelched by so many years of disappointments and suffering, increased, and I dedicated myself to every service and ministry I could contribute to.  I was a very busy mom and student, but the kids thrived in school, Louise was a great helper, and I was on the go.

The Gift Ungiven – James Michael (April 17, 1970)

John and Miriam were excellent students, and Marcello was growing into a loving and lovable little kid, adored by his nanny Louise. 

Waldir was very busy teaching and doing research, and our relationship, although leaving much to be desired, was stable.  He was far from being involved in church things, and I knew he wasn't totally thrilled with my involvement.  This saddened me, but I was starting to come to a place of confidence in myself, in knowing what I could and wanted to do with my own dreams for my life. 

I forged ahead on my own, and educated our children on the faith I had received as gift from God.  They grew in grace and the knowledge of Jesus.  I never failed to invite my husband to Sunday Mass and to church events.  He wasn't interested, but he did attend John and Miriam’s First Communion Mass, Christmas, Holy Week and Easter liturgies.  Occasionally, he would give in, and agree to go on a family retreat, or a meeting in our friends’ homes.  But most of the time he was ill-at-ease in church meetings.

During my sophomore year I had my first break in my fledgling library worker career.  There was an opening as a full time library assistant position in the Social Sciences department.  I was hired.  Working full time meant that I had to take fewer classes, but we could use the extra income, and I enjoyed learning the different library management tasks.

I was surrounded by friends at work, at school, and at church.  Life was good.  Then tragedy struck at home in Brazil.  There had been a terrible accident.  My beloved cousin Norton and his fiancée Elsa had been killed in a head-on collision on a road trip.  My aunt Neusa was in critical condition and her husband, my uncle Jofre, was also badly hurt.  I was grief-stricken.  There was no way I could travel there to be with my aunt.  All I could do was pray.  I spent hours alone in the stacks, rearranging books and periodicals.  The automatic task of reading call numbers and rearranging the shelves was soothing to my depression.

Late 1969 I got pregnant once again.  I was by that time callous about expecting the worst.  But the weeks went by and I did not miscarry.  Dr. Russell, my gynecologist/obstetrician, was hopeful.  He advised that I should have the procedure of securing the incompetent cervix with a surgical procedure called a cervix cerclage.  When I made it to the 12^th week without miscarrying, my cervix was stitched up closed.  Everything went well, and my hope of finally having another child was revived.

Previously, when I was interviewed for the Social Sciences library position, the director, a real southern gentleman, commented, tongue-in-cheek:

“Mrs. Pedersoli, you are a young married woman.  How do I know you are not going to get pregnant right after I hire you?”

“Dr. Partridge,” I responded pleasantly, “I can tell you one thing.  If that happens, I will be tickled!  I couldn't hope for anything better!”

He laughed, and signed the papers.  I continued working, feeling well and hopeful, as the months went by and the cervix held.  The kids were looking forward to their new baby brother.  I named him James Michael and we started planning for the birth.  I was elated.  Taking violin lessons on my grandfather’s violin, I sang lullabies to the dream child that leaped in my womb playfully.

We made it to the 18^th week, and then I started leaking fluid.  Dr. Russell checked me out, and wasn’t too concerned.  I was sent home to be in bed rest as much as possible.  My neighbor Sheila and my other friends took turns caring for me.  I took solace in knowing that actress Sophia Lauren was going through the same trial, trying to have a baby.  Waldir was uncooperative.  To him the whole thing was a nuisance…

His attitude annoyed me, but I hung on, determined to give Jamie a better chance to life.  We made it to the 19^th week, but one morning, as I got up to go to the bathroom, the water gushed out and I saw blood.  Rushed to the hospital, I was treated with muscle relaxants and other measures to keep the baby in a few more days.  My friends joined in prayer.

 

At the beginning of the 24^th week, Dr. Russell told me he was concerned about an infection, that he thought the baby was already a good size, and that it probably would be best to carefully induce the delivery, ever so slowly.  We discussed the fact that St. Jude’s Hospital in Montgomery was doing miracles in premature baby survival.  If needed, Jamie could be taken there for newborn preemie care.

We agreed, and by the end of that week the cervix stitches were removed and I was put on an intravenous drip with the induction hormones.  The delivery was going to be a delicate procedure, to put as little stress on the baby as possible.  I was taken to the delivery room in a daze.  I pushed when told to push and held on when so directed.  

Finally the child was born, and my hellish nightmare started.  I heard his weak cry, like a little kitten meowing.   I was told nothing; instead, I was given a massive dose of what I believe must have been Demerol.  I could not move, or speak, I could hear the voices but could not understand what was being said.  I was wheeled back to my room, and when I arrived my roommate asked what had happened to me.  Through the fog in my head I heard the nurse say “she had a Siamese baby” when what she had said was actually “she had a premature baby.”  The enemies of my soul were at work.  I was in a tourbillion of darkness and sorrow.  I had selfishly insisted in having another child, when I already had three to care for.  I was being now punished for defying God’s will.  I had brought disgrace to my family and my children.  How would we ever cope with raising a Siamese child? Unable to fight off the demons in the dense fog of my brain, I surrendered to despair.

When I finally started to recover my senses, out of the grasp of the drugged stupor I found myself in, I was in my room, and I saw Waldir standing at the window, looking out, a sad look in his face.  I gathered strength to ask in a feeble voice:

‘’It is bad news, isn't it?”

He came over to the bed.

“No,” he said, excitedly.  “It’s good news!  The baby is alive and well, kicking his little legs in the ICU.  He is all pink and beautiful!”

An incredible joy flooded my whole being.

“Jamie?” I asked.

“Yes!” and he kissed me gently.

“Can I see him?”

“Not right now.  They want him isolated the first few hours, so he doesn't catch any germs.  Certainly by tomorrow morning we can go see him.  I’ll go home and tell the kids.  They are anxiously waiting.  You get some rest now, my darling.”

I could not sleep that night.  I sang praises to God in my heart and prayed for Jamie’s life, begging God to keep him safe, in the palm of His hands.

The TV in my room showed the Apollo 13 spacecraft, crippled by an explosion onboard, en route to splash down in the Pacific.  In my mind, I prayed for their safety, as a good sign that Jamie too would make his safe landing, and survive.  The full moon rose in front of my window when the cheers went up for the astronauts.

Early in the morning I got up, took a shower, got all dressed up, ready to go meet my son.  The first person to come into my room was my doctor’s partner.  He had seen me a couple of times, when Dr. Russell was on vacation, but I didn't particularly like him.  He was my roommate’s doctor and went over to check on her.  Afterwards he turned to me.

“You look well,” he said. 

“I feel great!” I said.  And then I asked:

“How’s my baby?”

He frowned.  “They haven't told you?”

“Tell me what?”

“The baby died…”

“No!” I denied.  “He made it.  He’s well, my husband saw him kicking in his ICU…”

Coldly, Dr. Jekyll picked up the phone by the bed and called the nursery.  He turned to me:

“The baby is dead. Sorry.”

As I exploded in tears of grief, Dr. Russell, Waldir, and one of our priests walked in the door.  They had been waiting for Father to get there so they could break the news to me, gently.

I went to pieces.  Dr. Russell had tears in his eyes as he hugged me, and then left, after his partner.

“I want to see my baby!” I screamed after him.  He gave the orders, and they brought him to me, wrapped in his baby blanket -- a perfectly beautiful child.  Soft dark downy hair.  Tiny hands with nails in his fingers.  Baby doll little pink toes.  I held him in the crook of my arm, made the sign of the cross on his forehead.  

“God bless you, James Michael, my little angel.  Mommy loves you.  Fly on, back to God…”

Coping with the post-partum depression was horrible.  I’d burst into tears every time I’d see a baby.  The kids were terribly disappointed.  They hugged me, and kissed me, brought me breakfast in bed and flowers from our rosebushes.  I thanked God I had them, but I wished I was dead too.  I stayed in my bed for days, gloomily mad at Jesus for denying me the desire of my heart.

One morning Fr. Bud came over to bring me communion and pray for me.  Waldir had been extremely insensitive to my pain, as he left for work that morning.  Grief exploded from my heart, as I sobbed and asked God to just take me too.  I wanted to die so badly.  I suppose it scared Fr. Bud.  He couldn't handle it, and just left.  Louise came in and took me in her arms, and comforted me.

“Now, now, Miz Ellie, you got to get ov’r this thing, honey.  Yo’ chillen needs you.  You jus pray to Jesus and he might of give you anothe babe, but even if he don’t, God loves you and wanna you to be a good mama to the uns you got already.”

She rocked me in her arms to the tune of  “Swing low, sweet chariot..”  I cried the rest of my tears in her embrace.

At my next appointment, Dr. Russell was very kind and apologetic.  He mentioned my request to have the baby sent to St. Jude’s hospital in Montgomery, but he really thought Jamie looked quite strong, and had every chance of surviving.  But he had just stopped breathing and unfortunately nobody noticed that.

I wanted to know if we could try again.

“Yes,” he said.  “We were so close this time.  But I recommend that you go to a fertility specialist in Columbus, Georgia.  Dr. Jarrell is very good.”

I had a few weeks of sick leave, so I lost no time.  Off I went to Columbus and an appointment with Dr. Jarrell, who then took over my gynecologic care.  He was a real southern gentleman, with a melodious southern accent, as gentle as his voice.

He examined me, and designed a plan for another trial at pregnancy.  As soon as I recovered, and was strong again, he would perform plastic surgery to remove scar tissue from the cervix, and when I got pregnant they would again encircle the cervix with a tightening device.  Meanwhile, he prescribed birth control pills, until I healed.

I was insanely reckless, though, and made love to Waldir furiously for the next three months.  I needed to feel pregnant.

Dr. Jarrell wasn't pleased, when I tested positive.  The next three months would be critical, as we waited to see if the uterus held on.  I quit my job at the Library as I finished the quarterly final exams, and stayed home resting, determined to see this one to term.  The cerclage surgery was scheduled as I reached the 14^th week, and Waldir drove me to St. Francis Hospital in Columbus, Georgia for the procedure.  He wasn't very supportive.

Everything went well, and I was supposed to stay in the hospital for one week, in total bed rest.  I was fully cooperative and determined this time; more determined than prayerful, really.  I felt safe in that Catholic hospital, with the nuns coming to visit and praying for me.  God had failed me with Jamie, and now I knew I could to do this on my own.

Four days later, though, I started cramping.  The doctors fought back with muscle relaxants and progesterone, among other things.  The cramps didn't stop.  Dr. Jarrell talked to me about some good results that had been obtained stopping a miscarriage by dripping alcohol intravenously, slowly.  I’d get slightly drunk, but it was something to try.  They put me on it in the morning, and by noon the cramps had all but stopped.  By evening, I was in a drunk stupor, and went to sleep, only to wake up in a sweat, and shivering.  I called the nurse.  By the time she got to me I was shaking uncontrollably.  

“I think I have the DTs,” I babbled.  “Please call my doctor.  Please stop the drip.”

“Oh no, honey, you don’t have no DTs,” she assured me.  “I think you have a temperature.  I’ll get you some Tylenol.”

“Yes, but please call Dr. Jarrell.  Tell him what’s going on…”

“It’s 3 in the morning, sweetie, and you are just anxious and nervous.  The doctor will be here in the morning.”  She left for the Tylenol.

Just then I felt a painful contraction and fluid gushed out.  I hung on the call button.  She returned with the Tylenol as I cried in frustration.

“My water just broke!” I shouted.

She peered between my legs.

“Don’t worry, honey.  It’s not fluid, you just voided in your stress!  Calm down!”

“If you don’t get a doctor immediately, I will yank this thing out of my arm right now!” 

I sat up, ready to get up, out of bed.  She rang the panic button and soon the doctor in charge came in, as I had another big contraction and the baby came out.  She gasped, as I looked, sorrowfully, on yet another lifeless, little baby boy.

Bleeding heavily I was wheeled to the surgery room where the anesthetic knocked me out of my misery, and another curettage was performed to save my life.

I was very sick for a few days, and when he took me home Waldir said, sternly:

“Leni, I don’t know if you’re intent in committing suicide, or what.  But I am no longer going to be part of this madness.  If you don’t think your three children need you, then you’re free to go find another partner for your craziness.  Not me.  I’m having a vasectomy.”

I felt chastised, this time, and humbly asked forgiveness for my reckless selfishness.  “Thy will be done, Lord.  Please forgive my pride.”

Dr. Jarrell was kind, but firm, when I went for my post-surgery appointment.

“Mrs. Pedersoli, it’s my judgment that you've given this as many tries as you could.  If you insist on going on this track you will die trying.  It’s obvious that your cervix will not hold a pregnancy any longer.  I recommend you have a hysterectomy.  Your uterus is badly scarred, and you might develop cervical cancer.”

We set the date, after I’d recovered from anemia, and the after effects of my alcohol binge, but just a couple of weeks before that, I came down with appendicitis.  Back in Columbus, I had a young Dr. Molnar (who I’d meet again in the future) do the appendectomy.  He promised to do a bikini incision that would never show up.  Two weeks later he said I was fit to go on a road trip to California with the family.  That was Waldir’s attempt to get my mind off having another child.  It worked.

Off we went to Mobile, New Orleans, Route 10 to San Diego, where we visited the famous Zoo, to Los Angeles where Waldir attended the Veterinary Medical Association meeting and I took the kids to Disneyland and Hollywood.  Then up the coast to San Francisco, Yosemite, and the Grand Canyon, and back home through Colorado and New Mexico.

Exhilarated, we got home just in time for me to rest for a few days and head back to the hospital where my dream of having another child came to an end.

It was during the days of my recovery that I had an epiphany.  I started reading Betty Friedan's The Feminine Mystique and page after page I excitedly found myself and my plight as a woman described in the book.  I stayed up all night to finish it, and in the morning I was ready to assert myself and take on the world.  
For the first time ever I started thinking of myself as a separate being, gifted and strong, independently of my husband.   I saw myself as a young teenager with a cause and a dream I believed in enough to fight for it and defend my right to choose.  And I saw myself as a young woman, abused and humiliated, even suicidal.

I liked the teenager best.  I decided to help that teenager to grow into a strong woman who, with God's help, would use all her gifts and talents first in His service, and in the service of my family, community, and country.  Healed and strengthened by my new self concept, I was ready to take on the mission.

At Waldir’s urging, I went back to school full time to finish the B.A.

 My senior year was a busy one, as I took a full load of courses, submerging myself in the French, English, Italian, Spanish and German literatures, as well as Astronomy, Biology, and Math requirements.

One course especially became my favorite – Advanced Composition, taught by Mr. Jerry Roden.

Jerry was a wonderful, gifted  teacher, who motivated his students to love the English language, demanding correct spelling, rhetoric, and perfect form. Recognizing the talented ones, he brought out the writing skills in his young (and in my case older) students.

We had to keep a daily journal, which, in my case, was an easy task, since I already did this almost faithfully.

I found a new joy walking to Haley Center in the mornings, through the shady streets lined with pecan trees.  Thankful for the gift of trees, I’d pick the nuts as I walked, and munched on them all the way-- food for my brain.

I wrote faithfully on my journal, glad to please Mr. Roden.  With his gentle mentoring he encouraged me to write, honing and sharpening my skills, even trying poetry.  Under his direction we started a poetry group where we shared our efforts and critiqued each other's poems and stories.  Members of the Poets Circle formed the editorial board of Auburn University's student magazine The Auburn Circle where we proudly published our creations.

Before the end of the term, Mr. Roden had arranged a niche for me as a columnist for the University's Alumni Association newspaper -- The Auburn Alumnews. God bless his soul!  I will see you in heaven, Jerry Roden!