5 minute read
Such a Life
my story
MY STORY is a place for you to share reminiscences and observations about everyday happenings. Submit your essay for consideration to: Donna Boen, Miamian editor, “My Story,” Glos Center, 820 S. Patterson Ave., Miami University, Oxford, Ohio 45056 or Miamian@ MiamiOH.edu. Please limit your essay to 900 words and include your name, class year, address, and phone number.
The Prof Who Never Gave Up on Me
By Eric Sandstrom ’73 MA ’80
Two of the best things that ever happened to me happened at Miami University. This was a half century ago when Three Dog Night was groovy, Vietnam was a nightmare, 3.2 beer wasn’t half bad, Dennison Hall was a zoo (but my zoo), and the key to happiness would be a girlfriend willing to put up with me. Had I, a directionless student, never bumped into two people on Miami’s campus, my life would not have turned out to be this wonderful adventure. If that sounds corny, so be it.
One of those special people was another Miami student named Monica Cochick. In fall 1972, we met as seniors through mutual friends. One thing led to another, as they say. She became my wife and an extraordinary mother of our two kids. That description fails to do her justice. She’s my soulmate. Period.
During 45 years of marriage, Monica has put up with me in bad times and good. A syrupy novel from the ’70s bestseller list comes to mind. Love Story, later a syrupy movie, features a character who famously says, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” Nonsense. Monica and I never were afraid to apologize to each other. On the contrary, “I’m sorry” has helped to keep us together.
The other special person who changed my life was a middle-aged English professor. He sported tweed jackets, bow ties, and a raspy voice. His mantra — You’ll never get rich but writing can free your soul — became my mantra.
Milton White was his name. We met in his Upham Hall classroom during spring semester 1970. He sat in front of his desk, not behind it, presumably to be closer to his creative writing students, smiling at us while adjusting his bow tie.
“If you think you’re the next John Steinbeck, you’re wasting your time in my class,” he said on that first day, a warning to be repeated ad nauseum in semesters to come.
It soon became clear the guy had street cred. He’d published a few “small” novels, graduated from Columbia, hung out with writers in New York City, summered in Venice, and famously indulged in a glass or three of Johnny Walker Red at campus writers’ conferences.
His cautionary advice stuck with me. Anybody with aspirations of writing the Great American Novel would be better o scaling Mount Everest, selling life insurance, anything.
His reverse psychology worked. My o -ramp to better days would be paved with stories yet to be written.
So I became the lone reporter for a weekly newspaper in Nebraska. It proved to be the humbling experience upon which a young writer could build a career. My first story reported in mind-numbing detail the the annual sugar beet harvest in Nebraska, and it made the front page. It was followed by news of barn fires, city hall shenanigans, winter storms, and cattle futures.
Eventually, I moved on to bigger newspapers. A few stories won awards, though no Pulitzers. By the time I became a college professor, Milton White had died but not in my thoughts. I tried to emulate him in my classes, even sat in front of my desk to be closer to my students.
He had stuck by me when things looked bleakest. Here’s an excerpt from one of his letters, written when I, years after graduation, was just a lowly gas station attendant and construction site laborer:
“Sorry life is catching up with you. I never promised you a rose garden. … Find someone to love who loves you. Play it all by ear. But be happy.”
His own novels operated on quiet plots and sad moments. Reading his words now brings a lump to my throat.
For those of us students fortunate enough to sit in his classroom during the 1960s and ’70s (he died in 1996), Milton White demanded authentic characters in our weekly stories and brutal honesty in our critiques of those stories.
He would ask, “Does it ping for you?” Ping meant knock your socks o . If your story pinged, you felt rich. If it didn’t, there was always next week’s story that just might ping.
He had an annoying habit of chuckling whenever somebody said something foolish. It was his diplomatic way of saying, “You must be kidding.”
Stopping by his o ce one afternoon, I found him punching typewriter keys like Elton John on a Steinway. “What can I do for you, Sandstrom?” I’d come to argue that Erich Segal’s Love Story wasn’t as bad as he, Milton White, had said in our class. That famous chuckle erupted.
“Don’t you know schlock when you see it, Sandstrom?”
Another time, during my sophomore year, I mentioned my interest in transferring to a bigger school “to expand my horizons.” He listened and said, “Bloom where you’re planted, Sandstrom.”
So I stayed put. By the way, he called everybody by the last name, including young women, a gru ness belying his true nature. He was a softy at heart, and we all loved him. I certainly did without ever letting him know how much. I deeply regret that.
Long after they’re gone, truly great people never leave us. I gaze at my old bookshelf tonight where Milton White’s three novels gather dust. My heart nearly breaks.
