By William R. Jones
My general botany prof, let’s call him pseudonymously Ernie Willow, was something else. He lectured without a textbook. He had it all in his head. We took notes of his words as quickly as possible for it was impossible to read his blackboard handwriting and copy his notes. Kindergarteners tortured chalkboards less. It was atrocious. A first-grade elementary school pupil did much better. A little later, when I mentioned to him that he was in need of a penmanship course, my remark immediately placed myself on his blacklist. You would think that professors would not take such an attitude of spite. Alas, I learned early on that they were mere humans, and in spite of their initiated specialized knowledge, they, too, did not easily welcome criticism.
Though I could not classify him, he could classify nearly every photosynthetic organism on earth. He could give the binomial or trinomial nomenclature for each. On one excursion along the banks of the local river to identify and classify and photograph the flora of the region, he left me astonished as he knew the genus and species of every plant we came upon. I thought his exceptional memory was that of a genius.
For a semester-long, controlled-temperature greenhouse experiment, Professor Willow divided the class up into groups of five. We were to begin with potted seeds and as soon as a seedling appeared we were to record alternate days of growth. We had differentiated nutrient growth solutions for each plant which we liberally provided every other day. Our group worked in turns by appointed calendar dates. Two or three members did not do their tasked part. Thus, our growth results were skewed. We each received an “F” for the project and “C” for the course. When I protested, the prof stated with a wry smile that I should have taken responsibility for the whole project if the others were slacking.
You see, there was an in-house policy at the time for registrars to post nothing below “C” on records. This would be full proof, but not foolproof that there were no dunces or idlers attending, much less graduating from our school. This in-house rule saved me from Professor Willow’s vengeful pen.
Willow was a sullied person, soiled by his multitude of planting pots. He was not soigne (well-groomed). Occasionally, student complaints would prompt the dean to ring up the department chairman to pass it on that he was to clean up. Suspecting our class, he would then go into a tirade that if we spend more time in our studies and less on making ourselves pretty, perhaps, just perhaps, we would pass his course with above-average marks. He called us typical spoiled “legacy admits,” who would go no further than flipping hamburgers should our benefactors become insolvent and bankrupt. Actually, Professor Willow’s performances were diverting and comical, but we dared not laugh, for we knew well the power of the pen.
After one year sitting before the prof, I was sure I didn’t want to take the plant morphology or plant physiology courses under him, or any other courses for that matter. However, curriculum demanded them. Rumors had it that he was soon to retire, so I sought to shuffle courses a bit to avoid him until that time that human resources should bring in his replacement. He finally departed and I for one was glad to see him go, or else I would find it impossible to pass well the other required botany courses. However, I acknowledge that he "knew his stuff."
The author ([email protected]) published the novella “Beyond Harvard” and teaches English as a second language.
English (United States) ·