The One With The Professor Who Loved Faulkner.

Dear Lover,

Now, don't be jealous.

But you should know.

I met my match years ago.

As a sophomore in college.

He was 5 ft.  4 in. tall.

Dressed in corduroy and tweed.

Smoked a pipe.

Wore a fedora.

Had the roundest belly you ever did see.

And talked of nothing but William Faulkner.

I was taking Literature of the South.

And my professor was this bundle of joy.

He had this quirky little laugh.
Which caused people to stare.

And not know whether to laugh along with it.

Or at it.

I'd be walking out of the English Department building,

And would hear his voice yell across the crowd at me.

“Oh, fair Cassandra! Will it ever rain today?”

It would be stormy and heavy outside.

I'd call back that Yes, I believe it would.

Upon hearing my answer.

He'd raise his hand to his forehead with anguish and call me a liar.

One day in class.

He commented on the fact that he'd like it ever so much.

To be known as a Good Ol' Boy.

To me, somewhere between his turtle shell round glasses.

Elbow patches.
Jolly drawl.

And absolute love of literature.

He was the best kind of Good Ol' Boy.

And so.

On the title page of the following paper he assigned.

I wrote beneath my name and lecture title:

Professor Good Ol' Boy.

He gave me a hoot.

And an A+.

Love,

Me.