Mr. Dean's Cherry Farm
In my high school comparative religion class my teacher was Mr. Dean. If I had lifted my head above the day-to-day stress of being a senior in high school, I might have seen that he would end up being one of the most influential people in my life. It’s eleven years later, I can’t remember any dances, games or even my graduation very clearly, but I remember that class vividly.
Making train motions, Mr. Dean would chug into the class at 8:05 AM. Already playing on his record player was either “Sgt. Pepper’s” or The Doors. In his hand, a cup of … tea? coffee? self-awareness? Smiling, but not over-committed to any feeling of happiness. I think he was content. That easiness spread to most of us soon. He made his way to the window. The blinds were usually closed. He stopped at the first window and began to twist the rod that opened the blinds. He would say: “I’m going to open these blinds just enough to let the light in, but keep the glare out.” He said that a couple more times as he continued to open the blinds.
He taught us many world religions. He spoke of each religion with the utmost respect. In fact, whatever religion we were covering, it seemed like that was his belief. The inevitable happened: someone asked, “what do you believe?” He was very good at not answering but not being annoying. He mentioned the Eight-fold Path more times than once, but I doubt he would have said he was Buddhist. I think he was Deanist.
I was thinking just now that it might be fun to call myself a Smithist. Even better, a Smith-tian. “I don’t want to be a part of any organization that would have me as a member.”
One morning, Mr. Dean chugged his train into the classroom. The music was playing, his cup was in hand. He was neither smiling nor frowning. “My cherry farms in Traverse City (MI) were ruined by the late frost this spring,” he said. “No cherries this season.” A devastating event financially for him. It was tempting to question bad things happening to good people. There’s a story where a farmer has a son who breaks his leg. The neighbors say “bad luck!” The farmer replies, “who is to say what’s good and what’s bad?” The next day the army comes through town and drafts all the boys, but the farmer’s son is spared due to his leg. “Good luck!” the neighbors say. The farmer has the same reply, and the story goes on. Mr. Dean seemed to have the same attitude/awareness as the farmer. After losing all of my artwork recently when my hard drive failed, I had an opportunity to have that same sort of awareness. I’m still working on it!
Mr. Dean did not say “yes” or “no.” He said “it is possible” or “it is difficult.”
Finally, the last thing I remember from his class was when he handed me a package of colored chalk and asked me to draw something on his chalkboard. I drew the biggest Buddha I could draw, complete with the robes, pillows, candles, a gong and whatever else we could think of. (”We” being the small group of friends I had who admired Mr. Dean and loved his class.) I think it was Hotai, the laughing Buddha with the big belly that I drew.
