With boundless energy, I or we would walk to the books that were our family library. Oh, think not visions of grandeur. After my Mom's divorce from the "sperm donor," Michael, we were extremely poor. Daddy was a student in Post-Graduate school at that time. He supported us with the paltry funds secured from a fellowship. Mommy was not employed in a manner that brought in income. As is titled today, my Mom was a "Domestic Engineer."
I would search and search, share the words and wisdom I found. Then, Daddy might wonder aloud again and thus, I or we were off again. Just as frequently, Logan would smile. Our discussion might take us to another topic, or he would tell me about the tales he read. Once we were ready, we exchanged pages and perused quietly again and again.
There are so many stories to tell, and there always have been. Over the years, Daddy was still my Dad to me. We chatted consistently. Even when we lived States away, we were in touch. He is, at present, as well. Even in what most call "death" Daddy lives large in my mortal fiber. Hours ago, my mentor taught me another lesson.
Alexander asked. Engaged in a conversation in regards to the roles of men and women, the conventions and the truth, which bears no resemblance to traditional views. Alex spoke of the woman in his life. Maria is techno-savvy. At 93, she cannot get enough computer-time. Facebook is her friend. She is abundantly connected, as am I. Maria, my cousin's companion of six plus decades, can fix most any object. She is skilled manually. I too can and do much that women are not thought to do. The men in our lives . . . well some can and many cannot.
Thus, my cousin who knew my natural father far better than he does Daddy asked. "Did I learn to be as I am from Logan?" I have long known this was true. However, only this morning did I realize the variance in pedagogy. Michael, the little he taught, offered exercises in memorization. Daddy adopted a more eclectic style. Critical thought, creativity, curiosity were the "subjects" my Dad thought vital. The curriculum Daddy embraced was not rote; nor was it rigid.
All lessons were unrestricted, undefined; mostly instruction and instructions were not limited by parental parameters. Logan never told me what to think, say, do, feel, or be. With him, I was free. My Dad freed me to learn and develop a love of learning. Imagine that!?
My primary Teacher, was not one I often thought of as a favorite. My third-grade Teacher, Mrs Kleefield was great! I trust she is even still. Yet, Mrs Kleefield and all she taught me cannot begin to compare with the scads Logan H. Angert bestowed upon my brain and being. Doctors Murdock, Hartung, Lathrop, and . . . while also exceedingly profound in my life, these Professors are not the Teacher Daddy was for me.
Oh, there are sooo many superior sages who have touched me. Some with similar styles to that of my Dad. Still . . . as cousin Alexander articulates, "More is caught than taught."
Logan Angert, Daddy, you cast pearls of wisdom to the wind. Your manner said to me you expected nothing from me in return. Free to chose as I might, I cheerfully gathered the clusters as they fell. Your energy empowered me to be curious, to think critically, and to form my own foundations and future. I thank you.
(Note: You can view every article as one long page if you sign up as an Advocate Member, or higher).
2
1
1
