text: For though I am strong And though I am not sad Sometimes all must pause And leave their souls to cry \- Austin Zalewski I could see that Dr. Paul Ostrander was perfectly happy. He had been that way since Winnetka in the ‘80s, thrilled to be Watson or Samwise Gamgee when our enemies would march up the beach (yet he played Batman with equal passion). Now I could see that he was happy from small to large, from enjoying a gratifying existence to admiring the waves’ quiet murmur at low tide. He was only slightly above average in most aspects of his life, but in the aggregate, far superior: confidently humble; his jaw not quite chiseled enough to catch a wandering eye, but able to keep one there once it arrives of its own accord; outspoken so as to encourage others to speak out themselves; more money than that necessary to enjoy life, yet not enough to indulge; having traveled and knowing the world, while still finding equally captivating beauty in Beverly, Massachusetts. He found mirroring Toni Morrison’s attention to fundamental human emotion - ascertaining, articulating, applying - to bring his life a particular and diverse focus. Ostrander found joy in, and gave joy to, his work. Endicott College students found him exceptionally enlightening, yet struggled to express the cause; it seemed clear that their skills improved throughout the course, yet correspondingly unclear how he would guide them to this result. Just one passage from Beloved illuminated his teaching philosophy, however: “Sweet, crazy conversations full of half sentences, daydreams and misunderstandings more thrilling than understanding could ever be.” It delighted him to sit amongst his pupils, watching the sun bend through the water on his desk and alight on a puzzled expression. Like many he found joy in love, but his was twofold - the corporeal one premeditated by Sula and the one for the text itself. He relished hot summer afternoons on the porch, sitting quietly next to her and admiring the beads of delicate sweat on her upper lip. He loved expecting to love her, he loved growing to love her, and he especially loved loving her - the unusually rewarding journey marked by “pleasant anticipation, like when you know you are going to fall in love with someone and you wait for the happy signs.” It was impossible to distinguish his love for her from his love for how the words predicted his love for her - assessing whether he adored reality or the intangible was irrelevant because they were interchangeable. A dynamic equilibrium. He found augmented joy in friendship; every conversation, every touch, every tear struck his core just as did Nel’s reunion with Sula...“It had been the longest time since she had had a rib-scraping laugh. She had forgotten how deep and down it could be.” With such delicacy Morrison gave life to that inexpressible feeling! He likened Stephen’s deep baritone over the phone to the surf’s slow, persistent rolling at dusk; circling round and round his ear and with each turn quieting his mind until only he and Stephen remained. Even his friends’ most arbitrary gestures revealed to him their particular literary beauty - how lucky he was to experience dual realities! They would go down to Boston some weekends when the weather was warm. Anna would have been 8 or so at that time, I think. Around the age when you still experience dual realities from your own experience - direct sensory perception contrasting with imaginative interpretation. The three of them, Ostrander, Anna, and she savored the feeling of grass between their toes as they gazed at the sky, bordered by the trees, bordered by the buildings. How could he be so blissfully happy? Ostrander left them there to enjoy the view one of those afternoons to walk down the path to the harbor. The ships waited patiently in the murky water - the sky so clear that day that they probably didn’t mind stopping to admire it either. He watched some water drip down the side of the railing for a while, concurrently sustaining the color of the black iron and glinting in the sun, then matched it in size and shape with his own salty tear. He let more draw out of him to mingle with the languid breeze and the mist on his face. He gripped the metal beneath his palms and felt aware that the waves of his sadness started beyond the fishing boats on the horizon. Then he sobbed, a timbre like Nel’s yet lacking the notes of oppression and loss: “It was a fine cry -- loud and long -- but it had no bottom and no top, just circles and circles of sorrow.