by P.D. Lesko

I DON’T MISS teaching until September rolls around, when, at the least in Michigan, the air turns crisp and the sugar maple leaves look almost aflame against the bright blue sky. On days like that, I remember walking across campus, briefcase in hand, toward some room filled with students eager to begin the Fall semester. I remember the smell of the air, the sound of my shoes on the pavement as I walked and the feel of a pile of syllabi under my arm.

I also remember my literature students’ murmurs as they flipped through a syllabus that called for them to read eight novels and perhaps a dozen short stories. Inevitably, someone would ask the question: Did I really expect them to write six papers, take regular quizzes and complete essay examinations?

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