In The Professor’s Bayonet, I attempted to cut through what I perceived to be a lot of nonsense in order to offer something thoughtful to chew on.  The episodes were not long on purpose. Having arrived at episode 100, however, I am met with the cold reality that, despite my best efforts, I have been unsuccessful at growing my audience.  I have a very dedicated bunch, and to them, I am very, very grateful, yet the stark fact remains that the party is not getting any bigger.  I can only assume the interest is not there.  I humbly accept this end.  Perhaps the indifference is just that pervasive. For this reason, The Professor’s Bayonet is going to launch into a series on fatherhood.  The episodes may or may not be tethered to a work of literature, but they will certainly hone in on some aspect of being a father that I hope the audience will find edifying.  In one sense, the aim will be the same.  I continue to want to cut through all of the craziness to get to what really matters.  Much of what ails society is caused by a lack of fathers, so if I can offer some thoughts to help correct course, then I will give it a go and hope for the best.  At some point, we might return to what we did for ninety-nine episodes, or we might just hang it up and call it a day.  I am still on the fence.  It all depends on the numbers and my ability to gently blow on a tiny spark to get a flame – a flame that grows more hungry with each puff.  For now, in celebration of hitting the one-hundredth episode mark, I would like to leave you with a poem entitled “Underduck.”  It is one I wrote.  It is mine.  But it is also a poem that speaks to what we as mothers and fathers, educators and caregivers do every day.  We encourage.  We lift up.  We inspire.  We know that our best selves linger long after we are gone, for that is the nature of loving others into being.  My grandparents and parents, teachers and mentors did it for me.  And so, too, are we charged with doing it for others. 

I use the metaphor of a swing.  I hope you enjoy it. 

Underduck 

The bucket swing was suspended by 

two long ropes from the ancient 

tree standing sentinel in front of the 

small, white, red-trimmed house able 

to hold generations, and we all took our turn –  

sisters, brothers, cousins, first and second, 

and up we would soar after each push, 

each give to our take, into the crisp blue sky 

criss-crossed by gentle branches and wisps of clouds, 

and when the mood would strike them, 

our elders, the providers, 

would give us underducks, determinedly  

guiding us through the dipping arc before 

heaving us above their heads whereupon 

our little feet would float into 

the great expanse, our unscarred bodies 

lift ever so slightly out of the 

black, rubber womb fashioned out of an old tire. 

To and fro we went as the acorns fell 

and the squirrels gathered for the coming cold 

until we, too, were launched into 

worlds without sassafras, lives  

where dogs don’t smile as much – rocketed beyond 

that simple plot of land by those who are now 

grayed or gone, those who gave us one last great shove, 

hopeful that we would be birthed into 

noble, more beautiful tomorrows with young ones 

of our own all pleading as we once did for 

underducks to will them still higher: joy beyond measure, 

summits only imagined. 

So it goes as it went – we hold our children to our hearts 

then thrust them forward until we can reach them no more, 

left to run tiredly past the upward effort, and if 

we are lucky, turn to admire the heights.