Paw Paw Goes To College
It’s official and it feels weird. So weird, that I dug up my old fraternity jacket to see if it fits. Not even close. I’m sure you are asking why I would do such a thing? Because after almost a half century, I’m headed back to college - and I do not mean via the computer, aka, “distance learning.” I am actually going back to the campus of the University of Alabama from whence I graduated. Technically, I’m not enrolling as a student. I’m going to audit a class. That’s a fancy way of saying you get to pay the full price of tuition to sit in the back and listen to someone lecture. I’ll do the work, but I won’t get a grade, which is ok by me. Might’ve been nice to have done it that way the first time I was down there.
The hook for me is the instructor. It’s not just anyone. The person that’s teaching the course, Advanced Magazine Writing, is none other than Rick Bragg, my writing hero. I consider him the greatest living southern writer. The man has won a Pulitizer Prize, for goodness sake. And he’s had more than one book on the New York Times bestseller list. To put it another way- if a guitarist could take a class taught by Eric Clapton, would he do it? Perhaps now you understand. That’s the way I feel about Rick. One of the highest compliments I have ever received about my writing is when I sent him a few samples of my work and he responded by saying, “I like the way you write about our people.” It was about a week before my feet touched the ground. That was kinda like Paula Deen saying she liked your squash casserole.
Registering for a class for the first time in 50 years convinced me that technology has passed me by. In order to take this graduate class, I had to apply to get in graduate school like any other student. That meant filling out long forms on line, getting my grade transcripts, coming up with three letters of recommendation, and a writing a statement of purpose. Not to mention receiving a new student number, and setting up a student e mail that had to be double encrypted for security. And I ain’t a technology guy. For example, my application was initially rejected because I clicked on a wrong box and apparently applied for geology grad school. Got that fixed quickly - I want to write better stories, not study rocks.
There were more speed bumps. When I called about paying my tuition, I was informed that I was not a resident of Alabama. That’s understandable, I suppose. After all, I’ve only lived here for 50 years. In order to make the correction, I had to e mail a request to the registrar who did an inquiry. After several days I was informed that I did live here after all. That’s good to know.
And of course, when I tell most of my friends about my new college adventure, their first response is, “Hey, are you gonna get any football tickets?” This is Alabama after all. The answer is no - they aren’t available to me. Sadly, there will be no fraternity beer busts or pledge swaps, either. Even if that were possible, my wife would nix that. And that’s a good thing because at my age I’d probably be more interested in the housemothers.
Of course, there’s the age thing. My wife told me when she went back to school get a masters degree at the ripe old age of thirty eight, she felt old. And I’m a whole lot riper than that. I think there’s a good chance that I will be the oldest student attending a class next semester. I just checked and was discovered I’m gonna be older than my teacher! It will truly be Paw Paw goes to college. Hopefully, none of my “classmates” will ask me any smart alec questions me like when I first saw a horseless carriage, or what it felt like to be in school when the Union troops burned it down during the Civil War. If they do, I may hit them with my cane.
And if they ask me my age, I’ll just say, “I’m not as old as Nick Saban.” Maybe that will shut them up.
Young whipper snappers.
To be continued…
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