Chesapeake
Meanderings (formerly The Fisherfolk Philosopher)
Vol. 1, No. 1 -- April 1, 2003
The uncanny stimulus of peanut butter
By Allan Roy Andrews
ANNAPOLIS, Md. -- It triggers my memory almost daily like nothing
I’ve experienced before. No scent of perfume, no strains of
golden
oldies, no touch of a soft, furry jacket or warm blanket have ever
brought
vividly to memory an experience of the past as does my chore of making
peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches for my children each weekday morning.
My memory is one of youth and promise and fragility and death.
At the time, I was teaching writing and literature at a college in
Vermont. Our first child was a year or two old and just beginning
to develop a taste for peanut butter.
Among other courses, I taught basic composition. The course
emphasized expository writing, requiring that students complete a
series of short essays. One essay demanded the giving of detailed
instructions: write an essay instructing the reader in the proper
performance of a task. Popular ideas included giving directions
on getting somewhere from the college,
teaching someone to use a word-processing program, and, the seeming
favorite
of all time, making a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.
Submitted papers included intricate details of what brand of peanut
butter should be purchased, what type of bread resulted in the most
tasteful and enduring sandwich, and a plethora of instructions on
exactly how to spread the two main ingredients on the slices of
bread. Arguments abounded over whether jam could substitute for
jelly, whether both pieces of bread should be overlaid with peanut
butter, whether butter should go on the bread first, etc. The
topic became so popular that I had to ban it after
a couple of years of teaching; frankly, I got tired of reading about
how
to make the silly morsels.
Austin McCormack wrote an elaborate and excellent essay on how to make
a peanut butter sandwich, complete with footnotes and anecdotal
references, as I recall. Somehow, the writing of that essay
became a symbol of
Austin’s coming-of-age as a collegian. A mediocre student from
neighboring
New Hampshire, who preferred jeans and engineers’ boots to the ski togs
that
most of our students wore, Austin seemed to have discovered in this
class
assignment that he could write, and it changed his attitude toward
school
and education in general. He was capable with computers, and he
matriculated
at a time the college was developing a computer-assisted writing
laboratory,
which I, as instructor in basic composition, had championed.
I became supervisor of the thirty or so stations we set up for a
writing lab, and Austin became the first student assistant of the
writing lab. His grades and his enthusiasm for writing and
academia grew as our progress with computer-writing instruction
progressed. He and I had begun what surely would be a lasting
mentor-student relationship. We often joked about the peanut
butter essay, and Austin loved instructing other students in outlining
and preparing such an essay. The summer of his sophomore year
arrived, and Austin returned to New Hampshire knowing that he’d be
the writing lab assistant again the following year. We’d
discussed
his plans to improve both the electronic options and the details of
teaching
writing on the computer.
On a rural, two-lane, New Hampshire highway that summer, heading for a
biker’s rally near Lake Winnepesaukee, Austin lost control of his
motorcycle
and hurtled into a roadside tree. He died on the spot.
I learned of his death as I reported to school the next morning for
some administrative duty. A day later, I drove four hours to
Austin’s hometown for a funeral at a local Methodist Church. I
was not surprised to
discover many students from the college there and a few of the staff,
most
of them in tears and shock. We embraced and shared our
grief.
I left without going to the cemetery, and during the ensuing year, with
the
exception of chatting briefly about Austin with students I’d seen at
his
funeral, I don’t think I talked about Austin or our relationship again.
My relationship to Austin had been educational. Our time together
had been in either the classroom, the writing lab or around the
campus. I knew very little about his home, his family or his
typical interests;
yet, we seemed to be locked together by our connection to the writing
lab
and by our wry laughter and hilarity at the writing of formal essays on
peanut
butter sandwiches. It had been a relationship that many might
describe
as “pedestrian” or “typical” for students and teachers.
Austin’s death occurred about 15 years ago. I left the college
shortly thereafter, became the father of three sons, adopted a
daughter, spent almost a decade working overseas, and returned to the
States about five years ago to find myself teaching high school English
and making lunches for the family. My youngest insists, without
variation, that he be given a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich each day.
That’s when memory works its mysterious stimulus-response effect.
Almost from the first day I began making luncheon sandwiches, I have
thought of Austin. I cannot put a knife into the peanut butter
jar and begin spreading it on a slice of bread without remembering
him. It is not an unpleasant memory related to Austin’s death;
instead, it makes me smile to think about how much serious thought and
energy Austin put into writing his essay and how that silly assignment
changed his college life. Tiny events often make such an enormous
impact.
It also reminds me of the fragility of life and alerts me to the day my
peanut-butter-and-jelly-loving son will ask questions about
motorcycles, and
I’ll have to tell him about Austin.