Status: Finished.
Something Worth Remembering
Part Seven: Final Reflections
I believed my last words with Professor Henry from the moment I was signed on as a teacher that following term at the University of New York. When I eventually retired in 1975, I still believed that.
Even now, as I sit here in an old-age home, writing down the story that I randomly remembered after years of forgetting things, I still believe that.
The twentieth century has only five years left in it, and I won't live to see the twenty-first. I'm ninety-four now, so every day I draw breath is a blessing. The world has changed so much since 1928, and most of it has been for the better. Granted, we now have bombs that can level entire countries and a whole slew of independent nations left after the fall of the Soviet Union, and there's a military policy in this country that's anything but fair, but people are taking notice and crying foul.
The Civil Rights Movement changed everything, but didn't provide equality for everyone. If you look closely nowadays, you can tell that a new movement might be shaping soon. The days of treating each other differently over skin color may be over, but now the differences themselves are inside instead of outside.
There might not be equality in my lifetime, but at least my children and grandchildren might get to see it happen. It's a shame that Michael Cauldon didn't, though. From what I heard from a very old David Allton recently, the body of Michael Cauldon was eventually fished out of a concentration camp in Nazi Germany. He died because others were unwilling to accept differences.
Like I said, it's a shame he couldn't see what was happening today.
Professor Henry died in his sleep in 1940, and Emma passed the following year. I know this because their obituaries were printed in the University newsletter. Daphne, his dear mother, lived another fifteen years and died in 1943, at the ripe age of ninety-nine. Whoever said drinking was bad for you had clearly never met her.
Martin Montain was one of many who killed themselves after the Depression hit in 1929. Melissa ran off with his business partner and is currently serving jail time for committing his murder. I always knew she was a little off.
Stephanie and Albert Jacobs were married in Central Park in the spring of 1929, or so I've heard. After that, they moved out towards the Midwestern United States. When the Dust Bowl hit, I have no idea what happened to them. I hope they did okay.
David Allton, coincidentally enough, wound up in this same nursing home and recognized me, even though it had been almost seventy years since we last saw each other. I managed to recognize him, despite my degrading memory. He was the one who told me all of what I've just said on these pages and sparked the memory of that spring night in 1928.
I never wanted to be one of those old people who spend their last days frantically writing about their lives, because mine wasn't one worth writing about. I went with the changes in the flow of history and didn't make much of a splash, just like I preferred it. However, if there was one thing that needed to be remembered, it was what Henry Cauldon did for me.
It took him twenty-five years to find a student he could make an impact on, something I resolved to do every year I taught at the University. Just find one student every year and make them realize that they're worth something.
I taught for forty-seven years, and managed to influence thousands of students, far more than I ever expected.
That's something worth remembering, wouldn't you agree?
Even now, as I sit here in an old-age home, writing down the story that I randomly remembered after years of forgetting things, I still believe that.
The twentieth century has only five years left in it, and I won't live to see the twenty-first. I'm ninety-four now, so every day I draw breath is a blessing. The world has changed so much since 1928, and most of it has been for the better. Granted, we now have bombs that can level entire countries and a whole slew of independent nations left after the fall of the Soviet Union, and there's a military policy in this country that's anything but fair, but people are taking notice and crying foul.
The Civil Rights Movement changed everything, but didn't provide equality for everyone. If you look closely nowadays, you can tell that a new movement might be shaping soon. The days of treating each other differently over skin color may be over, but now the differences themselves are inside instead of outside.
There might not be equality in my lifetime, but at least my children and grandchildren might get to see it happen. It's a shame that Michael Cauldon didn't, though. From what I heard from a very old David Allton recently, the body of Michael Cauldon was eventually fished out of a concentration camp in Nazi Germany. He died because others were unwilling to accept differences.
Like I said, it's a shame he couldn't see what was happening today.
Professor Henry died in his sleep in 1940, and Emma passed the following year. I know this because their obituaries were printed in the University newsletter. Daphne, his dear mother, lived another fifteen years and died in 1943, at the ripe age of ninety-nine. Whoever said drinking was bad for you had clearly never met her.
Martin Montain was one of many who killed themselves after the Depression hit in 1929. Melissa ran off with his business partner and is currently serving jail time for committing his murder. I always knew she was a little off.
Stephanie and Albert Jacobs were married in Central Park in the spring of 1929, or so I've heard. After that, they moved out towards the Midwestern United States. When the Dust Bowl hit, I have no idea what happened to them. I hope they did okay.
David Allton, coincidentally enough, wound up in this same nursing home and recognized me, even though it had been almost seventy years since we last saw each other. I managed to recognize him, despite my degrading memory. He was the one who told me all of what I've just said on these pages and sparked the memory of that spring night in 1928.
I never wanted to be one of those old people who spend their last days frantically writing about their lives, because mine wasn't one worth writing about. I went with the changes in the flow of history and didn't make much of a splash, just like I preferred it. However, if there was one thing that needed to be remembered, it was what Henry Cauldon did for me.
It took him twenty-five years to find a student he could make an impact on, something I resolved to do every year I taught at the University. Just find one student every year and make them realize that they're worth something.
I taught for forty-seven years, and managed to influence thousands of students, far more than I ever expected.
That's something worth remembering, wouldn't you agree?