October 30, 2015

The Professor and the Budgerigar

Now, I recall being asked to edit College Days--basically, a professor's memoirs.

Arthur Cridland sent me a sample chapter of his work, and I quickly agreed to edit his book. After all, his writing flowed and was filled with nostalgic images. I thought back fondly to Dr. Black at the University of Calgary who would stand in front of the classroom reciting entire passages he'd memorized--Jonathan Swift and Alexander Pope. I remembered being floored in Chris Wiseman's Poetry 354 class when he read John Berryman, Anne Sexton, and Randall Jarrell, beautiful words that have never left me.

So thus began the editing process, in part during a road trip with Lisa Wind down the Oregan Coast. (Ah, dear Lisa. I think of you often. I saw a child the other day that reminded me of your little orphan Capsuinita.)

I quickly discovered how much I liked this Arthur Cridland character. The man's prose covered more than pastoral images: he clearly had an appreciation for the female form and for a good prank. I recall, many years later, his story of a dead cow in an elevator.

Fortunately, my favourite people are quirky, and I knew I'd found a gem when I listened to Professor Cridland's answering machine message--a violent rant against telemarketers. [I tend to be gentler when receiving unwanted calls. The trick is to hand the phone over to the nearest child with the instruction to imitate the sounds of wind breaking. The child is entertained, and the telemarketer inevitably gives up.]

Now I soon got to the chapter about the professor's budgie bird. Budgies are a chatty, personable folk--I have two of my own. I have never connected with them  . . . well  . . . romantically. It never occurred to me that that could even be a possibility--not that it would have made a difference in my courtship behaviours. So imagine my shock to read of the professor on a hot summer evening going to bed without his nighttime attire and tearing the sheet off himself during a restless sleep. Imagine reading about an innocent little budgie flying to the nearest perch she could locate.

I shall stop at this point: this is a family blog, after all, and I am feeling most uncomfortable--somehow soiled like the bottom of a birdcage. But if you could stomach the contents of the previous paragraph, I would very much recommend this fun, rollicking memoir. All the best to you, Professor Cridland. And do please stay away from my birds.