Star Struck at 62

I have to admit it; I have always been rather nutty around people who have established a reputation for themselves. An example of my lack of finesse occurred in the early '90's when Kimberly, our daughter, was a student at the University of Southern California. After attending a screening with free tickets to an Oliver Stone produced film, I just happened to run into the man himself while trying to find a bathroom. All I could do was to sputter and stumble through a sentence, "I like your work." A similar incident occurred last Thursday night downtown in Little Rock.

The occasion was the appearance of poet Robert Morgan for a reading. I have liked Morgan's work for many years since I taught both Modern Southern Literature and Contemporary Literature. Many Southern writers and filmmakers feature some of my favorite images: drinking sweet tea on porches, feeling cool breezes blowing through one's hair, eating peaches and fried chicken, and admiring sturdy oak trees and magnolia blossoms. My favorite poem of his is one entitled "White Autumn," in which he speaks of a nearly 100 year-old woman who dies in her favorite chair surrounded by coffee, cookies, and her favorite books.

Since I arrived early for the event, as usual for me, I was startled to hear the librarian say to me, "This is Robert Morgan." I turned around to see him there beside me in person only to once again lose my composure. I began sweating profusely under what I perceived as extremely hot lights shining directly in my face (reminiscent of Albert Brooks in the film Broadcast News), my right eye began to twitch repeatedly, and my head kept bobbing up and down rapidly in ascent to everything he was saying. He was gracious, however, and did not seem to notice.

Later, he read my favorite poem.