By Anthony Casson
An English lit. course evokes a deep feeling of creativity, a desire to pour out one’s feelings. But do not think this because of beautiful conversation, the cool focus of 20 students, or dissipation of shadows heeding to what could possibly become an intensely pleasant afternoon in the Willamette Valley in Oregon. No, definitely not.
Instead, my cause for writing comes at a time where the heat grows uncomfortable; the 20 students’ focus lies not on the professor–leading conversations about a “wandering Jew”–but on the glossy screens of their iPhones. I do not wish to pay attention to discussing The Monk. I wish to look back at what readers care about, my father.
As of last Saturday, my dad is doing well. It was the second time in two weeks I spoke with him on the phone.
His spirits are high, and he with some buddies have gathered to develop ideas for both a board game and a restaurant. The plans have drawn minutes of laughter during our brief conversations, and his cheery voice makes me equally cheery.
The board game: Release Date–the ONLY place where prison is a game
The restaurant: Felony Burger–burgers so good they should be illegal!
The group–I need to name it, or they need to give me the name of their little clique–is making strides in turning ideas into reality. For the game, the board is being designed by the daughter of one of the guys. For the restaurant, investors exist. More details exist, but I’ll wait to divulge them at a later time.
This sort of entertainment is something I encouraged my dad to seek. He is the type of guy who makes connections: People enjoy his company; his head is full of ideas; his jokes can lift any person’s spirits. Not everyone at Oakdale possesses such qualities.
And while perhaps none of this will help his sentence decrease–still four and a half years to go–it will certainly reduce the pain experienced by all parties.