Forty years ago today Mt. Saint Helens, in Washington state, USA, erupted with devastating effect.

My college friend Reid Blackburn, a professional photographer, was killed while photographing the mountain.

I wrote this at the time. Writing, as I did, pretending to know his experience, seems odd, if not wrong.

Witness to Mt. Saint Helens

for Reid 

He stood in disbelief 

As the mountain blew itself 

Forty thousand feet into the air. 

A split second later 

The concussion followed, 

Which stunned, then sent him reeling 

To his truck with all deliberate speed 

In the race of his life, which he lost 

As the heat wave caught him, 

Laid him flat, scorched his lungs, 

Seared his eyes as he dared look back, 

Leaving him to be buried 

By the gray ash that was 

Already floating back to earth.

~

Memories of my freshman year poetry seminar. Professor Eliot, Colin, Marcy and Antoinette and her son live on in my otp poems.

Seminar

Professor Eliot's seminars were Tuesday evenings. Or, perhaps they were Monday evenings. Perhaps Sunday, Wednesday, Saturday, Friday or Thursday, but I think Tuesday. 

His house was a few blocks off campus. It might be called a cottage or bungalow, small, one story, and just right. He and wife hosted us, his students, usually four or five of us. They needn't have, we could have met on campus. His wife, who was Japanese, served tea. We sat in the living room talking poetry. Professor Eliot had an impish look, a hint of Gary Snyder—lively eyes and laugh-lines. He never lectured, he asked questions, he listened. He wasn't cynical, he didn't mock our lousy poetry. He made suggestions as to what to read (Piers Plowman), and to write in the style of other poets. He said, "read, then read some more, then read some more." Other than Piers Plowman, he didn't have specific recommendations. 

He taught and he translated Japanese poetry. I remember those seminars with extraordinary fondness. There I met the people I loved most: Marcy, Antoinette and her son, and Colin. I take some pride in the seminar, as I requested it, came to Professor Eliot in hopes that he would teach it, which he did. I think he enjoyed it. It is always special when students and teachers can meet off campus, as near equals. I was a freshman, Antoinette was of indeterminate academic age, Colin was a junior and Marcy a senior. 

I remember few details, what poems we read, what we talked about specifically. What I do remember was the congeniality. It was a smallish college, and we often got to know our professors, at least a little. In particular: Professor Nelson in philosophy, Professor Teneau in art, and Professor Eliot in English. They helped determine the course of my life, which, as it turned out had very little to do with art, philosophy or English, except indirectly. In that indirect way, profoundly. 

Their lives were not easy, but each taught with grace and humor. They cared. Living on a professor's salary, dealing with a parade of students who generally took their classes for all the wrong reasons—easy credits, or dreams of becoming an artist, a writer, a philosopher—must have been disheartening at times.  I imagine looking at a room full of students from the teacher's point of view, all those sleepy eyes. Yikes.

But our seminar was lively and engaging, and his eyes did sparkle and his smile was impish. That's the way I remember it.