CYNTHIA’S FRENCH 101 COURSE

By Mark Reed

In December of 1969, I came home on leave from the Army, with orders to ship out for parts unknown for the next year. As I usually did, I drove over to UGA and visited my Sigma Pi fraternity brothers and saw my sister, Cynthia.

I went by and picked up Cyn at the Tri Delt house and took her to lunch. Finals were over and she was finished for the quarter, heading home for the Christmas holidays in a few days. While we were eating, she broke down crying. I was finally able to calm her down and learn why she was so upset. She had just received her final grade in French 101 – a D, which meant she would have to retake the course. She said that she had been very sick the two days prior to the final exam and had done terrible on it. She had gone to her professor and asked to be able to retake the final. He had turned her down. It was common practice among professors at UGA to have the latitude to allow a student to retake an exam. There was no hard and fast rule, but certainly in Cyn’s case, an exception was justified.

I told Cyn we would go visit the professor and I would reason with him and get him to allow her to retake the exam. She said it was hopeless because he was a real jerk. I said “Leave it to me.” We arrived at his office and walked straight in without knocking. As soon as we entered, he stood up, looked at Cyn and said, “I already told you I was not going to allow you to retake the exam. Leave my office now.” I smiled at him, showing all my teeth, all the while wearing my best “smile as you kill them” face, and took a step toward him. He took an alarmed step back. I introduced myself, “I’m Mark Reed, I’m a UGA grad, I’m in the Army getting ready to ship out overseas, and Cynthia is my sister. I can’t leave without this situation being resolved. I am asking you very nicely to allow my sister to retake her final exam.” He stammered and said, “Are you threatening me?” Still smiling, I said, “You are very perceptive, Mon Cher.” He said, with a catch in his voice, “Get out now.”

I took another step toward him, inches away, face to face, and said, “I’m not even going to ask you to allow her to retake the final. There is no reason for you to have to go to all the trouble of giving her the final again. We’re going to save you that trouble. I’m just asking you to pull out your little grade book and change Cynthia’s grade from a D to a B. Now get out your grade book and make the change right now. If you don’t, I’m going to beat your ass to a bloody pulp and boot stomp you into a puddle right here on your office floor.”

Cyn stood at the door with her mouth open, watching all this transpire.

He started to protest, but I stopped him right there. I said, “I have nothing to lose.” This time, there was no smile on my face. I said it calmly and quietly. He knew I was not kidding. He unsteadily walked to his desk, sat down, pulled out his grade book, with me looking over his shoulder, as I watched him change the grade to a B.

I smiled again, patted him on the shoulder and said, “Thanks, Mon Cher.” As we walked out, I gave him one last parting comment. “That grade better stand, or else.”

As we walked out of his office, Cyn was sorta hyperventilating. She looked at me with wide eyes and said, with a trembling voice, “Thanks, Mark.” I gave her my friendly smile, as we walked away. BTW, the grade stood.

One last postscript:  Some fifteen years later, Michelle and I accompanied Cyn to Paris. We went to a fancy French restaurant. The waiters spoke only French and the menu was in French. Cyn could not speak to the waiter or read the menu. We looked at each other and laughed, saying simultaneously, “Thanks, Mon Cher.”

ALICE’S WILL

By Mark Reed

Some of you will have known my aunt Alice Reed. She was an interesting woman for sure. She was one of the first women commercial real estate brokers to open her own real estate company in the Atlanta area in the early 60’s – Alamar Realty. She was successful. She and I talked real estate on many occasions. We would pick each other’s brains. My dad had warned me not to discuss real estate with her, because the conversation invariably crashed and burned, with Alice hanging up on you. I must admit that I experienced this more than once. But she and I always “kissed” and made up. She really loved me very much, and since she did not have any children of her own, she viewed me, and the other of her eighteen nieces and nephews as her children. I guess I was closer with her than most because she was just a year or so older than my dad Bill, the baby of the family, and of the eight Reed siblings, she was closest with him. She pretty much spent every Christmas and other special times with our family.

In her final years, especially after her stroke, which put her in a nursing home for the rest of her life, she and I had many conversations. My brother Bruce was the Executor of her Will. When she went into the nursing home, he and I were the ones to take care of her. We decided that Bruce would take care of the financial end of things, paying her bills and handling her finances. I, on the other hand, would be the visitor as often as possible. I visited her two or three times a week. While the visits were a blessing for she and I, it took a toll on me. It broke my heart to see this once vibrant woman waste away and finally die. The up side for me was the many stories and memories she shared with me. And most marvelous of all, I was able to share Christ with her and she accepted Him. The only time in my life I was a part of that.

A few months before she died, when I visited one day, she was crying when I walked into her room. I asked her what was wrong. She said she just wanted to die. She was so miserable lying in her bed. Then she told me, “Jesus came to see me last night. I told Him I wanted Him to take me with Him, that I was ready to die.” I asked her what He said. “No, Alice, it is not time yet.” She was heart broken. Some say it was a dream. I choose to believe it happened.

She finally got her wish, and went home with Jesus.

Bruce showed me her Will. I mentioned her eighteen nieces and nephews. They were her beneficiaries, listed in her Will. Well, they used to be. You see, obviously every time she had an argument with one of her nieces or nephews, she would take a pen and mark through their name. By the time she died, there were only five of us left. We got a big laugh out of that. Bruce and I, along with three other cousins, made the cut. The funny thing is that once she drew a line through the first name, the Will was void. It was not done properly. We decided that no one would contest her wishes. We were right. Everyone thought it was so like Alice and got a big laugh out of it.

Now we are not talking about a huge estate here. But there was a nice little chunk left. One of the things she told me she was most proud of was that no one ever had to support her financially. She had enough money to take care of herself until she died, with some left over.

We went through her personal items to determine what of value was left. After her condo was sold, I bought her old Buick sedan for my sons to drive. Neither one of my boys wanted anything to do with it. I drove it as my second car for years. After the cash was distributed to the five of us, there was a big jewelry box full of costume jewelry. There were several rings from Thailand I had given her. I took them back. The five heirs decided to have a jewelry party, where we drew numbers to see who picked first and in what order. Then we proceeded to take turns choosing a piece. I had Michelle choose for me.

I remember all this with a smile on my face. I miss those arguments about real estate.

POLITICAL SCIENCE 101

By Mark Reed

In the Fall Quarter of 1964 at UGA, I was a freshman. As an incoming freshman, along with the majority of my fellow classmates, I took English 101. English was always one of my best subjects in school, and I believed that I would make a good grade. I did very well in the course, making A’s and B’s on all tests and assignments.

At the end of that fall quarter taking finals, we were informed that our freshman class was going to be the first to ever take the new English exam, which consisted of “basic” English sentence structure, diagraming, proper tense, conjugation of verbs, etc., etc., etc. All the things in the test were items none of us had studied or thought about since grammar school, and none of which had been touched on during our English 101 class. In fact, we were told that our grade for the course would be determined solely on our test score on this final exam, and our grades over the quarter would have no bearing on our final grade. Say what? What could possibly go wrong with this idea?

As you have probably guessed from my lead up here, I flunked that test, along with 75% of the freshman class taking English 101 that quarter. It was a shock to everyone involved, including the English Department and school administration. But rather than throw out the obviously bogus exam results, we all received an F. Let that sink in. 75% of the freshman class in the fall quarter 1964 failed English 101.

What exactly did that mean? It meant that 75% of the freshman class found themselves on academic probation. That meant that the next quarter, winter 1965, all of us on probation had to successfully get off probation by passing all courses with a grade of C or higher. If you did not do so, you remained on probation and were kicked out of school. For those of us male students, this had dire consequences. Not only had our Draft Board been notified we were on probation, which was a red flag for keeping our student deferment from the draft, but if you did not get off probation that next quarter, you were out of school and the draft board was notified. Your 2-S student deferment automatically became 1-A, which meant you would be drafted into the Army.

Winter quarter 1965, I took a normal load of three courses of five hours each, one of which was Political Science 101. I have to confess that the prospect of being drafted was not motivation enough for me to bear down and actually apply myself to my courses. I had never really struggled in school, having always made pretty good grades without knocking myself out studying.

This quarter, I focused most of my energies and attention on this pretty little freshman sorority girl named Kay. To say I neglected my studies would be an understatement. I don’t remember what my other two courses were, but I do remember Political Science 101. The first day of class we were instructed to purchase a particular book on which our studies would be based. We were also told that there would be no exams during the quarter. The only exam would be the final. Our grade would be solely based upon our final exam result. Uh Oh. Where had I heard this before?  The book required for the course was exorbitantly expensive. I did not buy it. My attendance in class was sketchy at best. Lord knows where my mind was during this time, but it certainly was not on Political Science 101.

At the end of the quarter, it was finals. I had the other two courses under control, more or less, as I expected to make at least a C in each of them. That meant that all the cards were being played in Political Science 101. I had already prepared my girlfriend to the fact that this would likely be my last quarter in college, because I was probably going to fail Political Science 101 and be kicked out of school and be drafted into the Army.

I arrived at the final. I had my blue books. The final was to consist of one question, to which we were to write a narrative answer.

As I sat in the classroom, the professor came in and wrote on the chalk board the question that we were to answer.

The question was, “Explain French political philosopher Montesquieu’s principal work on political theory, The Spirit of Laws (1748 and 1750).”

As I read what he wrote, I knew I was dead meat. I had absolutely no idea who Montesquieu was or what The Spirit of Laws was about.

While I have never been a great student, I have pretty much always had an ability to, excuse the term, “bullshit” my way through anything. I cast fate to the wind. I picked up my pen, opened my Bluebook and commenced to write a masterpiece of concocted theories of  political thought based upon Montesquieu’s education and life experiences leading up to his publication of his masterpiece of political theory. Oh, how I went on. It was marvelous. The words flowed through my pen onto the pages of the Bluebook. I filled the entire Bluebook in thirty minutes. I ended my epistle by writing that Montesquieu’s theory was the basis for our form of government.

I stood up, carried my Bluebook to the front desk where the Professor looked up at me in great surprise. We had two hours for the exam. He asked me if I was sure I wanted to leave a hour and a half on the clock without spending more time on my exam question. I told him, with a confidence only a true bullshitter can muster, that I had aced the exam and was totally satisfied with my response, commenting, “Montesquieu is my hero.” I walked out with head held high that only the truly confident can carry off.

My girl and I went out that evening, convinced that it would be one of our last evenings together while we were both students.

Those of you who went to school during this time will remember that our final grades would be posted on the office door some several days after the final, and maybe it is still done that way today. My girl drove me to the Political Science building where my classroom was located. The grades were to be posted at noon. Sure enough, they were posted, and I had to join in the crowd pushing up to the door to finally run my finger down the alphabetical list to “Reed, William” and then across to the next column where there in bold highlights was an A. I ran my finger across the line several times to make sure I was looking at the correct grade. Sure enough, it was mine. There was a small notation to the side of my A…“Admiration” with the professor’s initials.

I walked out through the crowd of fellow students still trying to get to the door. I walked out of the Political Science building. Like a man who has just received a reprieve from his execution, I walked into a spring day, with the sun shining in a beautiful blue sky with birds singing and my girlfriend sitting in her convertible with the top down, waiting for me. I did not open the door. I jumped into the passenger seat, gave her my biggest smile and then kissed her. We drove off across campus. Life was good.