Burto

 

Dr. William Burto often asked my freshman literature class if we knew (fill in the blank) some writer, musician, historian, even a scientist. We didn't: and it sent me scuttling off to the library to identify the person.

He could only be described as lanky with an interest in everything, a love he tried to pass onto his students. He succeeded with me.

Although I came from a family of book readers, they were discussed more for plot. 

In Burto's class, the first short story, was about a tree. He introduced the ideas of symbols, conflict, character development, the use of color. 

Burto was one of those people who opened the world for me.

I'd always dreamed about being a writer and journalist, but felt my real life was trapped in a small town New England. I would marry, have children and be a housewife. Those were pre-Betty Friedman days. 

Instead I've lived my life by accidental discoveries.

Art

When an art professor showed the class Dali's melting watches, I never thought I'd visit his Spanish home and museum. Nor did I expect to pass his statue in Perpignan, France regularly.

I also learned to examine composition, color, and history of the great painters and appreciate the work of talented local artists.

History 

It is one thing to read about it, but I never thought I'd be able to stand by the tombs of Eleanor of Aquitaine, Richard the Lionhearted, William the Conqueror among other lions of history. 

To be in the ancient city of Ebla, Syria where 17,000 cuneiform letters were discovered from 3000 B.C. or thereabouts. My luck was a local guide not only allowed me to go where tourists weren't, but he put me in touch with the letter's translator. I went to Rome where he lived. He  agreed to spend an afternoon with me in his charming book-filled apartment. 

I never wrote the book I wanted, because of Syrian wars, but the experience and knowledge will be apart of me.  

Reporting

My dreams of being a journalist were also filled by accident. Because of a connection with credit unions and a boss who was imprisoned, I ended up as an international correspondent for a financial paper. Later I started my own newsletter. In turn, thanks to conferences I was able to interview a number of world leaders and Nobel Peace Prize winner John Hume twice. Most will not remember me, I'm sure, but I remember them.

Two have stayed with me.  

Being in Hume's presence and former Irish president Mary Robinson, former Irish President, UN High Commissioner for Human Rights and member of the Council of Elders, I felt I was with great humans. 

I was told Robinson could give me ten minutes. She gave me a half hour and our conversation between two women was only interrupted by her need to give her speech.

During the conversation about the horrors she had seen as the High Commissioner, I asked her how she handled them. She put her hand on my arm and said, "My dear, my glass is always a quarter full." When things are bad, I think of the quarter-filled glass and my coping mechanism goes up.

Writers houses

I've been in many. Dostoevsky in Russia, Joyce in Dublin. Louisa May Alcott in Massachusetts. Whenever a writer's home has been turned into a museum, I try and go to see what his or her environment that provided the background for them to produce their creative work was like. (I even had a rock that touched Collette's grave at Père Lachaise Cemeteryin Paris.)

Would I have had these experiences if it weren't for Dr. Burto opening that door. 

Probably not. 

Although he taught me to read beyond the written lines, he taught me to open my eyes to many things I would have missed that has taken me places I would never have gone.

Spoiler: I still can't get thru Ulysses, but have read Joyce's other work.