Mom: Bucket List

His wife died while he was in class giving a lecture.

“The ramifications of the Lord Admiral’s decision to go forward with the plan for the Gallipoli campaign were to create a crisis of confidence in the leadership of the Lord Admiral and his cronies who directed all naval campaigns. The public-darling’s political career was stalled until the 1940s when memory and world peace was lost in a holocaust of horror, disillusionment, and death.”

He used big words, spoke in complex sentences, and implied a huge disaster. But he droned, making it hard to take notes and harder still to maintain one’s attention. I’m sure there was excitement at one time in the information he was sharing, but it wasn’t there that day and hadn’t been there all semester.

The arrival of the departmental chair was a welcomed relief to the vocal monotony. I had already begun watching the clock on the wall where time seemed to have stood still. Another professor followed the departmental chair into the room. I recognized both – one taught the African history classes, the other the Latin American classes.

The chair stood in the doorway. My teacher looked up from his notes, noted the direction of the class’s attention and looked over at the doorway. The chair apologized to the class for the interruption, then asked my teacher if he might have a word with him and pointed into the hallway. I watched the little conference. The noise in the classroom was typical of student attention – rustling papers, closing books, whispers. The little conference took a turn as my teacher slumped against the wall and put a hand to his forehead. The second professor – the one that taught Latin American history - entered the classroom and dismissed us.

We gathered up our things and dropped our weekly assignment on the table next to the podium. The Latin American teacher was writing on the board that class was cancelled and to watch for an e-mail regarding the next class and assignment. We filed out of the room, past my professor who now appeared frail. I was one of the last one to exit the room; and as I exited the three professors entered the room. I walked up the stairs and out of the building, around the front, passing the windows that looked down into my classroom. My professor stood there alone, a piece of paper in his hands. He looked at it, tore it up and threw it on the floor. He went to the podium and collected his notes, walked through the pieces of paper and exited the room. Moments later he passed by, not seeing me.

I went back into the classroom and picked up the eight pieces of paper and put them back together. It was a little slip of a paper that had been folded and folded. It had been torn from one of those tiny top wired notepads and showed age. It was dated 10 years earlier and it certainly looked 10 years weathered. It was a list; a list of things to do and see. There was written ‘clean out garage,’ ‘visit Magnolia Gardens,’ ‘find her sister,’ ‘make will,’ ‘visit Washington DC’….and so forth. Twenty items, all but one had been crossed off.

My class was cancelled the next week, but my professor was back in the podium the following. No life in him, but lecturing again.

“A bipolar world is a world of exact opposites in which no sides agree except to prevent the other from expanding. And while they never directly touch each other in violence, they do touch each other through other countries like Korea and Vietnam. It is…” He droned on and I found myself watching the clock – thirty minutes more - big words, complex sentences and another huge disaster.

Students tell teachers when the end of class is approaching and today was no different. My teacher heard the rustling, looked up, and concluded with a rapid line about trade sanctions and our next assignment. I waited to be last to leave. I cleared my throat and my teacher looked up.

“Yes?” he said.

“Professor.” I stood near my desk. I pulled the now-taped piece of paper from my bag and handed it to him. His face turned an angry red and his brow knitted in question. I said, “I saw…” and pointed to the paper. “This list?” I handed it to him.

He looked at it and said, “Well, what about it?”

“I noticed it’s unfinished.” I said.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Harper, Carolyn Harper. I sit front seat, there.” I pointed to my book bag still on my desk.

“Well, Miss Harper. I can’t see what business this is of yours?” And he flicked a finger at the paper in his hand.

“Professor. Your list… it has one more thing on it to do.” I cleared my throat and started again. “John, I’m her sister.”