Don’t forget to submit your entry for the Crapsey Cinquain Contest in the comments of that post. There are only three names in the hat so far, and John’s counts for two, because he went for a crown.
I’m not judging quality—I don’t throw stones at that particular glass house—I just want you to give it a try. It’s only five lines, people. They don’t even have to rhyme.
I’ll be accepting entries until midnight CST Tuesday. The prize will be something poetic, which is my way of saying I haven’t figured that out yet. But what have you got to lose?
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I called Mom tonight to tell her that she was right, I did meet other weird, funny-looking kids have a great time at the conference. I started to tell her about it, but realized about ten minutes in that she might as well read my posts.
She was pleased to agree, as she had her own stories to share. While I was in St. Louis, she and Dad were in Ashville, North Carolina. They were invited to stay at the Biltmore by the president of Miami University* to discuss the problems facing higher education today and so on and so forth.**
But they also managed, as they usually do, to explore the area. One afternoon, they visited the studio of Jonas Gerard, an abstract artist for whom painting is shared performance art:
For those of you who know my parents, Mr. Gerard is clearly of their tribe. And it should come as no real surprise that my mother bought canvas and acrylics the moment she came home and is now trying her hand at painting. She says that they aren’t any good, but she loves doing it.
I’ve heard this before.
Trust me—commission something from her now. She’ll have her own one-woman shows and be winning awards within a year.
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*No, the one in Ohio. The one that was a university before Florida was a state. Sorry, it’s a family loyalty thing: my mother earned her BS at MU and later met my father in grad school; I met my husband in the Miami Fencing Club, of all things, long story; and my father-in-law was a mathematics professor there for many years. He’s buried in the faculty cemetery, as my MIL will be.
**At this point, my parents could tell me they were personally invited to Camp David and my only reaction would be to ask Dad to swipe something embossed with the presidential seal for me.
Earful of Cider 