Corruption of our youth

Katie dropped by the other day to pick up her compost bin and she casually mentioned in between throws of the tennis ball to our beagle that she used one of my writings as an example for her class.  "Which writing," I said. 

"The one where you describe taking the dog to the pound.  The first part was factual and the second part was an example of writing."

I was kind of taken back.  I felt like that piece was something that'd be read on NPR, because it's so drawn out over a mundane task.  Whenever my mother's driving, she always has NPR on and they're always droning on about some famous orchestral piccaloist from the 1970's writing his memoirs of the Oregan Symphony.  Or something close to that.  I mean, I don't call it Narocelptic Public Radio for nothing.  Actually, I now have a new topic for my next writing.

But anyway, it's fine that she used it as an example of illustrative writing, because it does get the job done.  Then we started talking about her upcoming wedding and how she wants me to wear my full dress uniform, and also how her students are somehow fascinated with me.  "Wow! He writes really good stories! And he's going into the Navy? COOL!"

And now her students want me to come to her class to talk about the Navy. Weird.  It's strange to think that I might possibly have some sort of influence on impressionable, malleable minds, and I worry what our future would be like if I became a teacher in my later life.

I can just see it now: kids bragging about how much wool socks they got for Christmas, young men learning to wetshave and sharpen straight razors, children saying to each other, "I'll take none of that lip, McGuff unless you want the ol' 1-2!" and school dances filled with students doing the foxtrot.